The Abbot 9781474433044

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T H E E D IN B U R G H E D ITIO N OF TH E W AVERLEY NOVELS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Professor David Hewitt

PATRONS

His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch : Dame Jean Maxwell-Scott T he Royal Society of Edinburgh : T he University of Edinburgh C H IE F F I N A N C I A L SP O N SO R

Bank of Scotland A D V IS O R Y BOARD

Sir Kenneth Alexander, Chairman Professor David Daiches, Vice-Chairman D r W. Е. K. Anderson : Thomas Crawford Professor Andrew Hook : Professor R . D. S. Jack Professor A. N . Jeffares : Professor D. N. MacCormick D r Douglas Mack : Allan Massie Professor Jane Millgate : Professor David Nordloh Sir Lewis Robertson Secretary to the Board

D r Archie T u rnbull G E N E R A L E D IT O RS

D r J. H. Alexander, University o f Aberdeen D r P. D. Garside, University o f Wales (C ardiff) Miss Claire Lamont, University o f Newcastle G. A. M. Wood, University o f Stirling Research Fellow

D r Alison Lumsden TypographicalAdviser

Ruari McLean

VOLUME TEN

THE ABBOT

ED IN B U R G H ED IT IO N OF T H E W AVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each volume will be published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the eew n volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. Where eew n editors have been appointed, their names are listed 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [18 1 5] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The T ale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [ 1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Iv an h o e [1820] G ra h a m T u llo c h The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J.H . Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein with Alison Lumsden The F ortunes of Nigel [1822] F rank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] G. A. M. Wood and J.H. Alexander Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander Storiesfrom The Keepsake [1828] Graham Tulloch Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

W ALTER

SCOTT

THE A BB OT

E d ited by Christopher Johnson

EDINBURGH

University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2000 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh P rinted and bound by C P I G roup (UK) L td, Croydon, C R 0 4YY ISBN 978 1 4744 3304 4 (ePDF) ISBN O

7486 0575 4

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FO R EW O R D

h e P u b l i c a t i o n of Waverley in 18 14 marked the emergence of the modem novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact o f this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accus­ tomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaint­ ness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’ . What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-state­ ments; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs o f new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of pro­ gress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment o f new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertain­ ments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of tran­ scription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected.

T

D

avid

D

aiches

EDI NBURGH

University Press

CO NTENTS

Acknowledgements

viii

General Introduction

xi

TH E ABBO T Volume I

............................................. i

Volume I I ......................................... 125 Volume I I I .........................................249

Essay on the T e x t ............................. 377 genesis......................................................... 377 co m p o sitio n ...............................................385 later e d itio n s...............................................395 the present t e x t .........................................400 Emendation L i s t ......................................... 4 17 End-of-line H y p h e n s.................................... 461 Historical N o t e ............................................... 463 Explanatory N o te s......................................... 470 G lo ssa ry ...........................................................533 M a p s ................................................................ 554

ACKNOW LEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors o f the Edinburgh Edition o f the Waverley N ovek wish to express their gratitude to The University Court o f the University o f Edinburgh fo r its vision in initiating and supporting the preparation o f the first critical edition o f Walter Scott's fiction. Those Uni­ versities which employ the editors have also contributed greatly in paying the editors' salaries, and awarding research leave and grantsfo r travel and mater­ ials andparticular thanks are due to the University o f Aberdeen. Although the edition is the work o f scholars employed by universities, the project could not have prospered without the help o f the sponsors cited below. Their generosity has met the direct costs o f the initial research and continues to support thepreparation o f the text o f the volumes appearing in this edition.

B A N K OF S C O T L A N D

The collapse o f the great Edinburgh publisherArchibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin o f S ir Walter Scott who found him selfresponsiblefo r his own private debts,fo r the debts o f the printing business o f Jam es Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and fo r the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott's largest creditors were S ir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank o f Scotland. On the advice o f S ir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation o f a trust to which he committed hisfuture literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts o f over £120,000 fo r which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights o f the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters o f M alachi Malagrowther' in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests o f the banks nor o f Scotland. The ‘Letters' were so successful that the Government wasforced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait o f S ir Walter appears on a ll current bank notes o f the Bank o f Scotland because Scott was a champion o f Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer notjust o f the Bank o f Scotland itself, but also o f three other banks now incorporated within it— the British Linen Bank which continues today as the merchant banking arm o f the Bank o f Scotland, S ir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Com­ pany. Bank of Scotland’s support o f the EE W N continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs o f Walter Scott. viii

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ix

THE BRI TISH A C A D E M Y

The assistance o f the British Academy and the Humanities Research Board in awarding a series o f M ajor Research Grants in support o f the Edition’s Research Fellows has been o f the greatest consequence fo r the success o f this edition and is acknowledged with gratitude. OTHER B E N E F A C T OR S

The Advisory Board and editors also wish to acknowledge the generous grants to the EEW N from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust o f the Fleming fam ily which founded and still has a controlling interest in the City firm o f Robert Fleming Holdings Limited; the Edinburgh Uni­ versity General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust, and the alumni who contributed to the Trust; Sir Gerald Elliott; the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland; and particularly the Robertson Trust whose help has been especially important in theproduction o f this volume. LI BRARIES

Without the generous assistance o f the two great repositories o f Scott manu­ scripts, the National Library of Scotland and the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, it would not have been possible to have undertaken the editing o f Scott’s novels, and the Board and editors cannot overstate the extent to which they are indebted to their Trustees and staffs. THE AB BOT

The bulk o f the manuscript of Thе Abbot is owned by John M urray (Pub­ lishers), and it would not have been possible to prepare this edition had it not beenfo r the help o f M rs Virginia M urray andfo r John M urray’sgenerosity in lending the manuscript both to the National Library o f Scotland and the Bodleian Library. Individual leaves are in the Robert H. Taylor collection, Princeton University Library, and the Sterling collection in London Uni­ versity Library; thanks are offered to these libraries as well as to D avid Law-Dixon, and Bernard Lloyd, private collectors who most kindly allowed access to the leaves in their possession. The surviving proofs o f the novel are in the National Library o f Scotland, as are most o f the relevant letters and papers. Most o f the material fo r the explanatory notes was found in the Bodleian and British Libraries. The editor expresses his thanks to a ll these libraries and their staff. Editing a Scott novel draws on a breadth o f knowledge and expertise beyond a single editor, and many people have helped the editor of The Abbot. In particular, this edition has benefited incalculably from the constant guidance, advice, and criticism o f the General Editor, J . H. Alexander. D avid Hewitt, the Editor-in-chief, has also provided invaluable help, especi­ ally with the emendations and the Essay on the Text. The Edinburgh Edition

X

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

o f the Waverley Novels has a range o f consultants, among whom the editor is especially grateful to the following fo r their advice: John Cairns (Law ), Thomas Craik (Shakespeare), Caroline Jackson-Houlston (popular song), Roy Pinkerton (Classical Literature), and D avid Stevenson (history). The EEW N's Research Fellow, Alison Lumsden, helped both with the notes and collation, while the reliability o f the text is due in no small part to the proof­ reading o f Ian Clark and Gillian Hughes. Other individuals have offered help on various points, and the editor would like to thank the following: M ark Dilworth, Penny Fielding, P. D. Garside, Brendan M cLaughlin, M ark Weinstein, and Hugh White. Editorial work is always time-consuming and sometimes exhausting. The editor would not have been able to undertake such a task had it not beenfo r the stability offered by a British Academy Post-doctoral Fellowship. He wishes finally therefore to offer his thanks to the Academy, and also to thefellows and staff o f S t Catherine's College, Oxford, and in particular to the former Masters Brian Smith and Lord Plant fo r their support during the years spent labouring on The Abbot. The General Editorfor this volume was J. H. Alexander.

G E N E R A L IN T R O D U C T IO N

What has the Edinburgh Edition o f the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version o f this General Introduction said that many hundreds o f readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’ . Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some o f these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits o f the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the recon­ struction o f the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery o f the description o f Clara Mowbray’s previous relation­ ship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well— each o f these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mis­ takes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full o f errors. The restoration o f Scott’s own shaping and punctuating o f speech has often enhanced the rhetor­ ical effectiveness o f dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has re­ vealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape o f his narratives seems to have been established before he com­ mitted his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control o f his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command o f enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ under­ standing and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition o f his quite extraordinary achievement. The text o f the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process o f xi

хii

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense o f the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation o f all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829-33). There may be authorial read­ ings in some o f the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition o f W averley, but not a single intermediate edition o f any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence o f sus­ tained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development o f the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts o f his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer o f later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis o f a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctu­ ation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications— no title page ever carried his name. T o maintain the pretence o f secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf o f these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set o f proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

G EN ERAL INTRODUCTION

x iii

which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names o f speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he cor­ rected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins o f the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly en­ joyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he tran­ scribed all the changes on to a clean set o f proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were pre­ pared. Some o f these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition o f the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style o f punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballan­ tyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption o f authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices o f his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors o f the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J . M cGann in his A Critique o f Modem Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

xiv

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thor­ oughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballan­ tyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement o f chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests o f equalising the size o f volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even M cGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course o f translating the manuscript text into print are a feature o f the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form o f the text. T he editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition o f a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination o f the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form o f his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings o f the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publica­ tion materials, and in the light o f their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing o f the Waverley Novels, they incorp­ orate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

xv

after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors o f fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waver­ ley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to re­ issue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’ . His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life o f the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works o f fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to any­ one who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the M ag­ num does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially pre­ pared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text o f the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edi­ tion of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales o f the Author o f Waverley. The printed text o f Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances o f the Author o f Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none o f which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text o f Guy Mannering and

xvi

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy M annering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version o f the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version o f his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. T o produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example o f W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions o f the text produced at different stages o f the author’s career. T o fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Inter­ leaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts o f Volume 25 o f the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition o f the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text o f Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range o f materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their en­ quiries fundamentally changing their appreciation o f Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding o f these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise. DAVID H E W I TT

January 1 999

THE

A B B O T . BY T H E AUTHOR OF " W A V ER LEY."

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

ED INBU RG H : PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, LONDON ; AND FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND COMPANY, AND JOHN BALLANTYNE, EDINBURGH.

1820 .

IN TR O D U C TO R Y

EPIST LE

FROM

THE

AUTHOR

OF

“W A V ER L EY ,”

TO

CA PTAIN OF H IS M A J E S T Y ’ S D

ear

C

a pta in

CLUTTERBUCK, —

R E G I M E N T OF I N F A N T R Y .

,

I am sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you disapprove o f the numerous retrenchments and alterations which I have been under the necessity o f making on the Manuscript o f your friend, the Benedict­ ine ; and I willingly make you the medium o f apology to many, who have honoured me more than I deserve. I admit that my retrenchments have been numerous, and leave gaps in the story, which, in your original manuscript, would have run well nigh to a fourth volume, as my printer assures me. I am sensible, besides, that, in consequence o f the liberty o f curtailment you have allowed me, some parts o f the story have been huddled up without the necessary details. But, after all, it is better that the traveller should have to step over a drain, than to wade through a morass— that the reader should have to suppose what may easily be inferred, than be obliged to creep through pages o f dull explanation. I have struck out, for example, the whole machinery o f the White Lady, and the poetry by which it is so ably supported, in the original manuscript. But you must allow that the public taste gives little encouragement to those legendary superstitions, which formed the delight alternately and the terror o f our predecessors. In like manner, much is omitted illustrative o f the impulse o f enthusiasm in favour o f the ancient religion in Mother Magdalen and the Abbot. But we do not feel deep sympathy at this period with what was once the most powerful and animating principle in Europe, with the exception o f that o f the Reformation, by which it was successfully opposed. You rightly observe, that these retrenchments have rendered the title no longer applicable to the subject, and that some other would 3

4

INTRO DU CTO RY EPISTLE

have been more suitable to the Work, in its present state, than that o f T h e A b b o t , who made so much greater figure in the original, and for whom your friend, the Benedictine, seems to have inspired you with a sympathetic respect. I must plead guilty to this accusation, observing, at the same time, in manner o f extenuation, that though the objection might have been easily removed, by giving a new title to the Work, yet, in doing so, I should have destroyed the necessary cohesion between the present history, and its predecessor T h e M o n a s t e r y , which I was unwilling to do, as the period, and several o f the person­ ages, were the same. After all, my good friend, it is o f little consequence what the work is called, or on what interest it turns, providing it catches the public attention; for the quality o f the wine, (could we but ensure it) may, according to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or o f little consequence. I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent with pru­ dence to establish your Tilbury, and approve o f the colour, and o f your boy’s livery, (subdued green and pink.)— As you talk o f completing your descriptive poem on the “ Ruins o f Kennaquhair, with notes by an Antiquary,” I hope you have procured a steady horse.— I remain, with compliments to all friends, dear Captain, very much Y o u r’s, Sec. See. Sec. T

he

A

u th o r

of

W

a v e r ley

.

THE ABBOT VOLUME I

Chapter One Domum mansit— lanam fecit. Ancient Roman Epitaph

She keepit close the hous, and birlit at the quhele. G

awain

D

ouglas

T h e t i m e which passes over our heads so imperceptibly, makes the same gradual change in habits, manners, and character, as in per­ sonal appearance. At the revolution o f every five years we find our­ selves another, and yet the same— there is a change o f views, and no less o f the light in which we regard them; a change o f motives as well as o f actions. Nearly twice that space had glided away over the head o f Halbert Glendinning and his lady, betwixt the conclusion o f that nar­ rative in which they played a distinguished part, and the commence­ ment o f the present. Tw o circumstances only had embittered their union, which was otherwise as happy as mutual affection could render it. T h e first o f these was indeed the common calamity o f Scotland, being the dis­ tracted state o f that unhappy country, where every man’s sword was directed against his neighbour’s bosom. Glendinning had proved what Moray expected o f him, a steady friend, strong in battle, and wise in counsel, adhering to him from motives o f gratitude, in situations where by his own unbiassed will he would either have stood neuter, or have joined the opposite party. Hence, when danger was near, and it was seldom far distant, Sir Halbert Glendinning, for he now bore the rank o f knighthood, was perpetually summoned to attend his patron on distant expeditions, or on perilous enterprizes, or to assist him with his counsel in the doubtful intrigues o f a half barbarous court. He was thus frequently, and for a long space, absent from his castle and from 5

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his lady ; and to this ground o f regret we must add, that their union had produced no children to occupy the attention o f the Lady o f Avenel, while she was thus deprived o f her husband’s domestic society. On such occasions she lived almost entirely secluded from the world, within the walls o f her paternal mansion. Visiting amongst neighbours was a matter entirely out o f the question, unless on occa­ sion o f solemn festival, and then it was chiefly confined to near kind­ red. O f these the Lady o f Avenel had none who survived, and the dames o f the neighbouring barons affected to regard her less as the heiress o f the House o f Avenel, than as the wife o f a peasant, the son o f a church-vassal, raised up to mushroom eminence by the capricious favour o f Moray. This pride o f ancestry, which rankled in the bosom o f the more ancient gentry, was more openly expressed by their ladies, and was, moreover, embittered not a little by the political feuds o f the time, for most o f the Southern chiefs were friends to the authority o f the Queen, and very jealous o f the power o f Moray. T h e Castle o f Avenel was, therefore, on all these accounts, as melancholy and solitary a residence for its lady as could well be imagined. Still it had the essen­ tial recommendation o f great security. Th e reader knows that the fortress was built upon an islet in a small lake, and was only accessible b y a c a u se w a y , in te r s e c te d b y a d o u b le d itc h d e f e n d e d b y tw o d ra w ­

bridges, so that without artillery, it might in these days be considered as impregnable. It was only necessary, therefore, to secure against surprise, and the service o f six able men within the castle was suffi­ cient for that purpose. I f more serious danger threatened, an ample garrison was supplied by the male inhabitants o f a little hamlet, which, under the auspices o f Halbert Glendinning, had arisen on a small piece o f level ground, betwixt the lake and the hill, nearly adjoining to the spot where the causeway joined the mainland. T h e Lord o f Avenel had found it an easy matter to get inhabitants, as he was not only a kind and beneficent overlord, but well qualified, both by his experience in arms, his high character for wisdom and integrity, and his favour with the powerful Earl o f Moray, to protect and defend those who dwelt under his banner. In leaving his castle for any length o f time, he had, therefore, the consolation to reflect, that this village afforded, on the slightest notice, a band o f thirty stout men, which was more than sufficient for its defence ; while the families o f the villagers, as was usual on such occasions, fled to the recesses o f the mountains, drove their catttle to the same places o f shelter, and left the enemy to work their will on their miserable cottages. One guest only resided generally, if not constantly, at the Castle o f Avenel. This was Henry Warden, who now felt him self less able

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to the stormy task imposed on the reforming clergy; and having by his zeal given personal offence to many o f the leading nobles and chiefs, did not consider himself as perfectly safe, unless when within the walls o f the strong mansion o f some assured friend. He ceased not, however, to serve his cause as eagerly with his pen, as he had formerly done with his tongue, and had engaged in a furious and acrimonious contest, concerning the sacrifice o f the mass, as it was termed, with the Abbot Eustatius, formerly the Sub-Prior o f Kennaquhair. Answers, replies, duplies, triplies, quadruplies, fol­ lowed thick upon each other, and displayed, as is not unusual in controversy, fully as much zeal as Christian charity. T h e disputation very soon became as celebrated as that o f John Knox and the Abbot o f Corseraguel, raged nearly as fiercely, and, for aught I know, the pieces to which it gave rise may be as precious in the eyes o f biblio­ graphers. But the engrossing nature o f his occupation rendered the theologian not the most interesting companion for a solitary female; and his grave, stern, and absorbed deportment, which seldom shewed any interest except in that which concerned his religious profession, made his presence rather add to than diminish the gloom which hung over the Castle o f Avenel. T o superintend the tasks o f her numerous female domestics, was the principal part o f the Lady’s daily employment; her spindle and distaff, her Bible, and a solitary walk upon the batdements o f the castle, or upon the causeway, or occasionally, but more seldom, upon the banks o f the little lake, con­ sumed the rest o f the day. But so great was the insecurity o f the period, that when she ventured to extend her walk beyond the ham­ let, the warder on the watch-tower was directed to keep a sharp out-look in every direction, and four or five men held themselves in readiness to mount and sally forth from the village at the slightest appearance o f alarm. Thus stood affairs at the Castle, when, after an absence o f several weeks, the Knight o f Avenel, which was now the title most frequently given to Sir Halbert Glendinning, was daily expected to return home. Day after day, however, passed away, and he returned not. Letters in those days were rarely written, and the knight must have resorted to a secretary to express his intentions in that m anner; besides, inter­ course o f all kinds was precarious and unsafe, and no man cared to give any public intimation o f the time and direction o f a journey, since it was always likely he might in that case meet with more enemies than friends upon the road. T h e precise day, therefore, o f Sir Halbert’s return was not fixed, but that which his lady’s fond expectation had calculated upon in her own mind was long since passed, and hope delayed began to make the heart sick.

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It was upon the evening o f a sultry summer’s day, when the sun was half sunk behind the distant western mountains o f Liddesdale, that the Lady took her solitary walk on the battlements o f a range o f buildings, which formed the front o f the castle, where a flat roof o f flag-stones presented a broad and convenient promenade. T h e level surface o f the lake, undisturbed unless by the occasional dipping o f a teal-duck, or coot, was gilded with the beams o f the setting luminary, and reflected, as if in a golden mirror, the hills amongst which it lay embosomed. Th e scene, otherwise so lonely, was occasionally enlivened by the voices o f the children in the village, which, softened by distance, reached the ear o f the Lady in her solitary walk, or by the distant call o f the herdsman, as he guided his cattle from the glen in which they had pastured all day, to place them in greater security for the night, in the immediate vicinity o f the village. T h e deep lowing o f the cows seemed to demand the attendance o f the milk-maidens, who, singing shrilly and merrily, strolled forth each with her pail on her head, to attend to the duty o f the evening. T h e Lady o f Avenel looked and listened; the sounds which she heard reminded her o f former days, when her most important employment, as well as her greatest delight, was to assist Dame Glendinning and Tibb Tacket in milking the cows at Glendearg. Th e thought was fraught with melancholy— “ Why was I not,” she said, “ the peasant girl which in all men’s eyes I seemed to be !— Halbert and I had then spent our life peacefully in his native glen, undisturbed by the phantoms either o f fear or o f ambition. His greatest pride had then been to shew the fairest herd in the Halidome; his greatest danger to repel some pilfering snatcher from the Border; and the utmost distance which had divided us, would have been the chase o f some out-lying deer. And alas ! what avails the blood which Halbert has shed, and the dangers which he encounters, to support a name and rank, dear to him because he has it from me, but which we shall never transmit to our posterity ! With me the name o f Avenel must expire.” She sighed as these reflections arose, and, looking towards the shore o f the lake, her eye was attracted by a groupe o f children o f various ages, assembled to see a little ship constructed by some village artist, perform its first voyage on the water. It was launched amid the shouts o f tiny voices and the clapping o f little hands, and shot bravely forth on its voyage with a favouring wind, which promised to carry it to the other side o f the lake. Some o f the bigger boys ran round to receive and secure it on the farther shore, trying their speed against each other as they sprang like young fawns along the shingly verge o f the lake. T h e rest, for whom such a journey seemed too arduous, remained watching the motions o f the fairy vessel from the spot where

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it had been launched. T h e sight o f their sports pressed on the mind o f the childless Lady o f Avenel. “Why are none o f these prattlers mine !” continued she, pursuing the tenor o f her melancholy reflections. “ Their parents can scarce find them in the coarsest food— and I, who could nurse them in plenty, I am doomed never to hear a child call me mother !” Th e thought sunk on her heart with a bitterness which resembled envy, so deeply is the desire o f offspring implanted in the female breast. She pressed her hands together as if she was wringing them in the extremity o f her desolate feeling, as one whom heaven had written childless. A large stag-hound o f the greyhound species, approached at this moment, and, attracted perhaps by her gesture, licked her hands and pressed his large head against them. He obtained the desired caress in return, but still the sad impression remained. “W olf,” she said, as if the animal could have understood her com­ plaints, “ thou art a noble and beautiful animal; but alas ! the love and affection that I long to bestow, is o f a quality higher than can fall to thy share, though I love thee much.” And as if she was apologizing to W olf for withholding from him any part o f her regard, she caressed his proud head and crest, while, looking in her eyes, he seemed to ask her what she wanted, or what he could do to shew his attachment. At this moment a shriek o f distress was heard on the shore, from the playful groupe which had been lately so jovial. T h e Lady looked, and saw the cause with great agony. T h e little ship, the object o f the children’s delighted attention, had stuck among some tufts o f the plant which bears the water-lily, that marked a little shoal in the lake about an arrow-flight from the shore. A hardy little boy, who had taken the lead in the race round the margin o f the lake, did not hesitate a moment to strip his wylie-coat, plunge into the water, and swim towards the object o f their common solicit­ ude. T h e first movement o f the Lady was to call for help; but she observed that the boy swam strongly and fearlessly, and as she saw that one or two villagers, who were distant spectators o f the incident, seemed to give themselves no uneasiness on his account, she sup­ posed that he was accustomed to the exercise, and that there was no danger. But whether, in swimming, the boy had struck his breast against a sunken rock, or whether he was suddenly taken with the cramp, or whether he had over-calculated his own strength, it so happened, that when he had disembarrassed the little plaything from the flags in which it was entangled, and sent it forward on its course, he had scarce swam a few yards in his way to the shore, than he raised him self suddenly from the water and screamed aloud, clapping his hands at the same time with an expression o f fear and pain.

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T h e Lady o f Avenel instantly taking the alarm, called hastily to the attendants to get the boat ready. But this was an affair o f some time. T h e only boat permitted to be used on the lake was moored within the second cut which intersected the canal, and it was several minutes ere it could be unmoored and manned. Meantime, the Lady o f Avenel, with agonizing anxiety, saw that the efforts which the poor boy made to keep him self afloat, were now exchanged for a faint struggling, which would soon have been over, but for aid equally prompt and unhoped for. Wolf, who, like some o f that large species o f greyhound, was a practised water-dog, had marked the object o f her anxiety, and, quit­ ting his mistress’s side, had sought the nearest point from which he could with safety plunge into the lake. With the wonderful instinct which these noble animals have so often displayed in the like circum­ stances, he swam straight to the spot where his assistance was so much wanted, and seizing the child’s under-dress in his mouth, he not only kept him afloat, but towed him towards the causeway. Th e boat having put o ff with a couple o f men, met the dog half-way, and relieved him o f his burthen. They landed on the causeway, close by the entrance to the castle, with their yet lifeless burthen, and were met at the entrance o f the gate by the Lady o f Avenel, attended by one or two o f her maidens, eagerly waiting to administer assistance to the sufferer. H e was borne into the castle, deposited upon a bed, and every mode o f recovery resorted to, which the knowledge o f the times, and the skill o f Henry Warden, who professed some medical knowledge, could dictate. For some time it was all in vain, and the Lady watched with unspeakable earnestness the pallid countenance o f the beautiful child. H e seemed about ten years old. His dress was o f the meanest sort, but his long curled hair, and the noble cast o f his features, partook not o f that poverty o f appearance. T h e proudest noble in Scotland might have been yet prouder could he have called that child his heir. While, with breathless anxiety, the Lady o f Avenel gazed on his well-formed and expressive features, a slight shade o f colour returned gradually to the cheek; suspended animation became restored by degrees, the child sighed deeply, opened his eyes, which to the human counten­ ance produces the effect o f light upon the natural landscape, stretched his arms towards the Lady, and muttered the word “ M other,” that epithet, o f all others, which is dearest to the female ear. “ God, madam,” said the preacher, “ has restored the child to your wishes ; it must be yours so to bring him up, that he may not one day wish that he had perished in his innocence.” “ It shall, it shall be my charge,” said the Lad y; and again throwing her arms around the boy, she overwhelmed him with kisses and caresses, so much was she agitated by terror arising from the danger in

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which he had been just placed, and by joy at his unexpected deliver­ ance. “ But you are not my mother,” said the boy, collecting his recol­ lection, and endeavouring, though faintly, to escape from the caresses o f the Lady o f Avenel; “you are not my mother— alas! I have no mother— only I have dreamed that I had one.” “ I will read the dream for you, my love,” answered the Lady o f Avenel; “ and I will be m yself your mother. Surely God has heard my wishes, and, in his own marvellous manner, hath sent me an object on which my affections may expand themselves?” She looked towards Warden as she spoke. T h e preacher hesitated what he should reply to a burst o f passionate feeling, which, perhaps, seemed to him more enthusiastic than the occasion demanded. In the meanwhile, the large stag-hound, Wolf, which, dropping wet as he was, had followed his mistress into the apartment, and had sate by the bed-side a patient and quiet spectator o f all the means used for resuscitation o f the being whom he had preserved, now became impatient o f remaining any longer unnoticed, and began to whine and fawn upon the Lady with his great rough paws. “ Y es,” she said, “ good Wolf, and you shall be remembered also for your day’s work; and I will think the more o f you for having preserved the life o f a creature so beautiful.” But W olf was not quite satisfied with the share o f attention which he thus attracted: he persisted in whining and pawing upon his mistress, his caresses rendered still more troublesome by his long shaggy hair being so much and thoroughly wetted, till she desired one o f the domestics, with whom he was familiar, to call the animal out o f the apartment. W olf resisted every invitation to this purpose, until his mistress positively commanded him to begone, in an angry tone; when, turning towards the bed on which the boy still lay, half awake to sensation, half drowned in the meanders o f a fluctuating delirium, he uttered a deep and savage growl, curled up his nose and lips, shewing his full range o f white and sharpened teeth, which might have matched those o f an actual wolf, and then, turning round, sul­ lenly followed the domestic out o f the apartment. “ It is singular,” said the Lady, addressing W arden; “ the animal is not only so good-natured to all, but so particularly fond o f children. What can ail him at the little fellow whose life he has saved ?” “ D ogs,” replied the preacher, “ are but too like the human race in their foibles, though their instinct be less erring than the reason o f poor mortal man when relying upon his own unassisted powers. Je a l­ ousy, my good lady, is a passion not unknown to them, and they often evince it, not only with respect to the preferences which they see given

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by their masters to individuals o f their own species, but even when their rivals are children. You have caressed that child much and eagerly, and the dog considers him self as a discarded favourite.” “ It is a strange instinct,” said the lady; “ and from the gravity with which you mention it, my reverend friend, I would almost say that you supposed this singular jealousy o f my favourite Wolf, was not only well-founded, but justifiable. But perhaps you speak in jest.” “ I seldom jest,” answered the preacher ; “ life was not lent to us to be expended in that idle mirth which resembles the crackling o f thorns under the pot. I would only have you derive, if it so please you, this lesson from what I have said, that the best o f our feelings, when indulged to excess, may give pain to others. There is but one in which we may indulge to the utmost limit o f vehemence o f which our bosom is capable, secure that excess cannot exist in the greatest intensity to which it can be excited— I mean the love o f our M aker.” “ Surely,” said the Lady o f Avenel, “ we are commanded by the same authority to love our Neighbour?” “ Ay, madam,” said Warden, “ but our love to God is to be unboun­ ded— we are to love him with our whole heart, our whole soul, and our whole strength— the love which the precept commands us to bear to our neighbour, has affixed to it a direct limit and qualification. We are to love our neighbour as ourself—As it is elsewhere explained by the great commandment, that we do unto him as we would that he did unto us— Here there is a limit, and a bound, even to the most praise­ worthy o f our affections, so far as they are turned upon sublunary and terrestrial objects. We are to render to our neighbour, whatever be his rank or degree, that corresponding portion o f affection with which we could rationally expect we should ourselves be regarded by those standing in the same degree o f relation to us. Hence, neither husband nor wife, neither son nor daughter, neither friend nor relation, are lawfully to be made the objects o f our idolatry. T h e Lord our G od is a jealous God, and will not endure that we lavish on the creature that extremity o f devotion which He who made us demands as his own share. I say to you, lady, that even in the fairest and purest, and most honourable feelings o f our nature, there is that original taint which ought to make us pause and hesitate ere we indulge them to excess” — “ I understand not this, reverend sir,” said the lady; “ nor do I guess what I can have now said or done, to draw down on me an admonition which has something a taste o f reproof.” “ Lady,” said Warden, “ I crave your pardon, if I have urged aught beyond the limits o f my duty. But consider, whether in the sacred promise to be not only a protectress, but a mother to this poor child,

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your purpose may meet the wishes o f the noble knight your husband. T h e fondness which you have lavished on the unfortunate, and, I own, most lovely child, has met something like a reproof in the bearing o f your household-dog— displease not your noble husband. M en, as well as animals, are jealous o f the affections o f those they love.” “ This is too much, reverend sir,” said the Lady o f Avenel, greatly offended. “ You have been long our guest, and have received from the Knight o f Avenel and m yself that honour and regard which your character and profession so justly demand. But I am yet to learn that I have at any time authorized your interference in our family arrange­ ments, or placed you as a judge o f our conduct towards each other. I pray this may be forborne in future.” “ Lady,” replied the preacher, with the boldness peculiar to the clergy o f his persuasion at that time, “when you weary o f my admoni­ tions— when I see that my services are no longer acceptable to you, and the noble knight your husband, I shall know that my M aster wills me no longer to abide here; and, praying for a continuance o f his best blessings on your family, I will then, were the season the depth o f winter, and the hour midnight, walk out on yonder waste, walk forth through these waste mountains, as lonely and unaided, and far more helpless, than when I first met your husband in the valley o f Glendearg. But while I remain here, I will not see you err from the true path, no, not an hair’s-breadth, without making the old man’s voice and remonstrance heard.” “ Nay, but,” said the lady, who both loved and respected the old man, though sometimes a little offended at what she conceived to be an exuberant degree o f zeal, “we will not part thus, my good friend. Women are quick and hasty in their feelings, but believe me, my wishes and my purposes towards this child are such as both my hus­ band and you will approve of.” T h e clergyman bowed, and retreated to his own apartment.

Chapter Two H ow steadfastly he fix’d his looks on m e— H is dark eyes shining through forgotten tears— T h e n stretch’d his little arm s and call’d m e m other ! W hat could I do? I took the bantling hom e— I could not tell the imp he had no m other. Count B a sil W h e n W a r d e n had left the apartment, the Lady o f Avenel gave way to the feelings o f tenderness which the sight o f the boy, his sudden danger, and his recent escape, had inspired; and no longer awed by

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the sternness, as she deemed it, o f the preacher, heaped with caresses the lovely and interesting child. He was now, in some measure, recov­ ered from the consequences o f his accident, and received passively, though not without wonder, the tokens o f kindness with which he was thus loaded. T h e face o f the lady was strange to him, and her dress different and far more sumptuous than any he remembered. But the boy was naturally o f an undaunted tem per; and indeed children are generally acute physiognomists, and not only pleased by that which is beautiful in itself, but peculiarly alert at distinguishing and replying to the attentions o f those who really love them. I f they see a person in company, though a perfect stranger, who is by nature fond o f children, the little imps seem to discover it by a sort o f free-masonry, while the awkward attempts o f those who make advances to them for the purpose o f recommending themselves to the parents, usually fail in attracting their reciprocal attention. T h e little boy, therefore, appeared in some degree sensible o f the lady’s caresses, and it was with difficulty she withdrew herself from his pillow, to afford him leisure for necessary repose. “ T o whom belongs our little rescued varlet ?” was the first question which the Lady o f Avenel put to her hand-maiden Lilias, when they had retired to the hall. “ T o an old woman in the hamlet,” said Lilias, “who is even now come so far as the porter’s lodge to enquire concerning his safety. Is it your pleasure that she be admitted ?” “ Is it my pleasure ?” said the Lady o f Avenel, echoing the question with a strong accent o f displeasure and surprise; “ can you make any doubt o f it? What woman but must pity the agony o f the mother, whose heart is throbbing for the safety o f a child so lovely !” “ Nay, but, madam,” said Lilias, “ this woman is too old to be the mother o f the child; I rather think she must be his nurse, or some more distant relation.” “ Be she who she will, Lilias,” replied the Lady, “ she must have a sore heart while the safety o f a creature so lovely is uncertain. G o instantly and bring her hither. Besides, I would willingly learn some­ thing concerning his birth.” Lilias left the hall, and presently afterwards returned, ushering in a tall female very poorly dressed, yet with more pretension to decency and cleanliness than was usually combined with such coarse gar­ ments. T h e Lady o f Avenel knew her figure the instant she presented herself. It was the fashion o f the family that upon every Sabbath, and on two evenings in the week besides, Henry Warden preached or lectured in the chapel o f the Castle. T h e extension o f the Protestant faith was upon principle, as well as in good policy, a primary object

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with the Knight o f Avenel. T h e inhabitants o f the village were there­ fore invited to attend upon the instructions o f Henry Warden, and many o f them were speedily won to the doctrine which their master and protector approved. These sermons, homilies, and lectures, had made a great impression on the mind o f the Abbot Eustace, or Eusta­ tius, and were a sufficient spur to the severity and sharpness o f his controversy with his old fellow-collegiate; and he more than once threatened to levy his vassals, and assail and level with the earth that strong-hold o f heresy the Castle o f Avenel. But notwithstanding his impotent resentment, and notwithstanding also the disinclination o f the country to meddle much with the new religion, Henry Warden proceeded without remission in his labours, and made weekly con­ verts from the faith o f Rome to that o f the reformed church. Amongst those who gave most earnest and constant attendance on his ministry, was the aged woman, whose form, too tall, and otherwise too remark­ able to be forgotten, the lady had o f late remarked frequently as being conspicuous amongst the little audience. She had indeed more than once desired to know who that tall stately-looking woman was, whose appearance was so much above the poverty o f her vestments. But the reply had always been, that she was an English woman, who was tarrying for a season at the hamlet, and that no one knew more con­ cerning her. She now asked her after her name and birth. “ Magdalen Græme is my name,” said the woman; “ I come o f the Græmes o f Heathergill, in Nicol-forest, a people o f ancient blood.” “ And what make you,” continued the lady, “ so far distant from your home?” “ I have no home,” said Magdalen Græme, “ it was burned by your Border-riders— my husband and my son were slain— there is not a drop’s blood left in the veins o f any one which is o f kin to mine.” “ That is no uncommon fate in these wild times, and in this unsettled land,” said the lady; “ the English hands have been as deeply dyed in our blood as ever those o f Scotsmen have been in yours.” “ You have right to say it, lady,” answered Magdalen Græme; “ for men tell o f a time when this Castle was not strong enough to save your father’s life, or to afford your mother and her infant a place o f refuge — And why ask ye me, then, wherefore I dwell not in mine own home, and with my own people ?” “ It was indeed an idle question, where misery so often makes wan­ derers; but wherefore take refuge in a hostile country?” “ M y neighbours were Popish and mass-mongers,” said the old woman; “ it has pleased Heaven to give me a clearer sight o f the gospel, and I have tarried here to enjoy the ministry o f that worthy man Henry Warden, who, to the praise and comfort o f many, teacheth

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the Evangel in truth and in sincerity.” “ Are you poor?” again demanded the Lady o f Avenel. “ You hear me ask alms o f no one,” answered the Englishwoman. Here there was a pause. T h e manner o f the woman was, if not disrespectful, at least much less than gracious; and she appeared to give no encouragement to farther communication. T h e Lady o f Avenel renewed the conversation on a different topic. “You have heard o f the danger in which your boy has been placed ?” “ I have, lady, and how by an especial providence he was rescued from death. M ay Heaven make him thankful, and me !” “ What relation do you bear to him ?” “ I am his grandmother, lady, if it so please you, the only relation he hath left upon earth to take charge o f him.” “ T h e burthen o f his maintenance must necessarily be grievous to you in your deserted situation,” persevered the lady. “ I have complained o f it to no one,” said Magdalen Græme, with the same unmoved, dry, and unconcerned tone o f voice in which she had answered all the former questions. “ If,” said the Lady o f Avenel, “your grand-child could be received into a noble family, would it not advantage both him and you ?” “ Received into a noble fam ily!” said the old woman, drawing her­ self up to her full height, and bending her brows until her forehead was wrinkled into a frown o f unusual severity; “ and for what purpose, I pray you ?— to be my lady’s page, or my lord’s jackman, to eat broken victuals and contend with other menials for the remnants o f the mas­ ter’s meal— Would you have him to fan the flies from my lady’s face while she sleeps, to carry her train when she walks, to hand her trencher when she feeds, to ride before her on horse-back, to walk after her on foot, to sing when she lists, and to be silent when she bids — a very weathercock, which, though furnished in appearance with wings and plumage, cannot soar into the air— cannot flit from the spot where it is perched, but receives all its impulses, and performs all its revolutions, obedient to the changeful breath o f a vain woman ? When the eagle o f Helvellyn perches on the tower o f Lanercost, and turns and changes to shew how the wind sits, Roland Græme shall be what you would make him.” T h e woman spoke with a rapidity and vehemence which seemed to have in it a touch o f insanity; and a sudden sense o f the danger to which the child must necessarily be exposed in the charge o f such a keeper, increased the lady’s desire to keep him in the castle if possible. “ You mistake me, dame,” said she, addressing the old woman in a soothing m anner; “ I do not wish your boy to be in attendance on myself, but upon the good knight, my husband. Were he him self the

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son o f a belted earl, he could not better be trained to arms, and all that befits a gentleman, than by the instructions and discipline o f Sir Halbert Glendinning.” “ Ay,” answered the old woman in the same style o f bitter irony, " I know the wages o f that service;— a curse when the corslet is not sufficiently brightened,— a blow when the girth is not tightly drawn,— to be beaten because the hounds are at fault,— to be reviled because the foray is unsuccessful,— to stain his hands, for the master’s bid­ ding, in the blood alike o f beast and o f man,— to be a butcher o f harmless deer, a murtherer and defacer o f G od’s own image, not at his own pleasure, but at that o f his lord; to live a brawling ruffian, and a common stabber,— exposed to heat, to cold, to want o f food, to all the privations o f an anchoret, not for the love o f God, but for the service o f Satan,— to die by the gibbet, or in some obscure skirmish,— to sleep out his life in carnal security, and to awake in the eternal fire, which is never quenched.” “ N ay,” said the Lady o f Avenel, “but to such unhallowed course o f life your grandson will not be here exposed. M y husband is just and kind to those who live under his banner; and you yourself well know, that youth have here a strict as well as a good preceptor in the person o f our chaplain.” T h e old woman appeared to pause. “ You have named,” she said, “ the only circumstance which can move me. I must soon onward— the vision has said it— I must not tarry in the same spot— I must on— I must on— it is my weird.— Swear, then, that you will protect the boy as if he were your own, until I return hither and claim him, and I will consent for a space to part with him. But especially swear, he shall not lack the instruction o f the godly man who hath placed the gospel-truth high above these idolatrous shave­ lings, the monks and friars.” “ Be satisfied, dame,” said the Lady o f Avenel; “ the boy shall have as much care as if he were bom o f my own blood. Will you see him now?” “ N o,” answered the old woman, sternly; “ to part is enough : I go forth on my own mission— I will not soften my heart by useless tears and wailings, as one that is not called to a duty.” “Will you not accept o f something to aid you on your pilgrimage ?” said the Lady o f Avenel, putting into her hand two crowns o f the sun. Th e old woman flung them down on the table. “ Am I o f the race o f Cain,” she said, “ proud lady, that you offer me gold in exchange for my own flesh and blood?” “ I had no such meaning,” said the lady, gently; “ nor am I the proud woman you term me. Alas ! my own fortunes might have taught me

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humility, even had it not been bom with m e.” T h e old woman seemed somewhat to relax her tone o f severity. “ You are o f gentle blood,” she said, “ else we had not parleyed thus long together.— You are o f gentle blood, and to such,” she added, drawing up her tall form as she spoke, “ pride is as graceful as is the plume upon the bonnet. But, for these pieces o f gold, lady, you must needs resume them. I need not money. I am ever provided; and I may not care for myself, nor think how, or by whom, I shall be sustained. Farewell, and keep your word. Cause your gates to be opened, and your bridges to be lowered. I will set forward this very night. When I come again, I will demand from you a strict account, for I have left with you the jewel o f my life ! Sleep will visit me but in snatches, food will not refresh me, rest will not restore my strength, until I see Roland Græme once more— Farewell.” “ Make your obeisance, dame,” said Lilias to Magdalen Græme, as she retired, “ make your obeisance to her ladyship, and thank her for her goodness, as is but fitting and right.” T h e old woman turned short round on the officious waiting-maid. “ L et her make her obeisance to me then, and I will return it. Why should I bend to her?— is it because her kirde is o f silk, and mine o f blue lockeram?— go to, my lady’s waiting-woman— know that the rank o f the man rates that o f the wife, and that she who marries a churl’s son, were she a king’s daughter, is but a peasant’s bride.” Lilias was about to reply in great indignation, but her mistress imposed silence on her, and commanded that the old woman should be safely conducted to the mainland. “ Conduct her safe !” exclaimed the incensed waiting-woman, while Magdalen Græme left the apartment; “ I say, duck her in the loch, and then we will see whether she is witch or not, as a’body in the village o f Lochside will say and swear. I marvel your ladyship could bear so long with her insolence.” But the commands o f the lady were obeyed, and the old dame, dismissed from the castle, was committed to her fortune. She kept her word, and did not long abide in that place, leaving the hamlet on the very night succeeding the interview, and wandering no one asked whither. T h e Lady o f Avenel enquired under what circumstances she had appeared amongst them, but could only learn that she was believed to be the widow o f some man o f con­ sequence amongst the Græmes who then inhabited the Debateable Land, a name given to a certain portion o f territory which was the frequent subject o f dispute betwixt Scotland and England— that she had suffered great wrong in some o f the frequent forays by which that unfortunate district was wasted, and had been driven from her dwell­ ing place. She had arrived in the hamlet no one knew for what pur-

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pose, and was held by some to be a witch, by others a Catholic devotee. H er language was mysterious, and her manners repulsive; and all that could be collected from her conversation seemed to imply that she was under the influence either o f a spell or o f a vow,— there was no saying which,— since she talked as one who acted under a powerful and external agency. Such were the particulars which the lady’s enquiries were able to collect concerning Magdalen Græme, being far too meagre to auth­ orise any satisfactory deduction. In truth, the miseries o f the time, and the various turns o f fate incidental to a frontier country, were perpetu­ ally chasing from their habitations those who had not the means o f defence or protection. These wanderers in the land were too often seen, to excite much attention or sympathy. They received the cold relief which was extorted by general feelings o f humanity; a little excited in some breasts, and perhaps rather chilled in others, by the recollection that they who gave the charity to-day might themselves want it to-morrow. Magdalen Græme, therefore, came and departed like a shadow from the neighbourhood o f Avenel Castle. T h e boy whom Providence, as she thought, had thus strangely placed under her care, became at once a favourite with the Lady o f the Castle. How could it be otherwise ? He became the object o f those affectionate feelings, which, finding formerly no object on which to expand themselves, had encreased the gloom o f the Castle, and embittered the solitude o f its mistress. T o teach him as far as her skill went, to attend to his childish comforts, to watch his boyish sports, became the lady’s favourite amusement. In her circumstances, where the ear only heard the lowing o f the cattle from the distant hills, or the heavy step o f the warder as he walked upon his post, or the half-envied laugh o f the maiden as she turned her wheel, the appearance o f the blooming and beautiful boy gave an interest which can hardly be conceived by those who live amid gayer or busier scenes. Young Roland was to the Lady o f Avenel what the flower, which occupies the window o f some solitary captive, is to the poor wight by whom it is nursed and cultivated,— something which at once excited and repaid her care; and in giving the boy her affection, she felt, as it were, grateful to him for releasing her from the state o f dull apathy in which she had usually found herself during the absence o f Sir Halbert Glendinning. But even the charms o f this blooming favourite were unable to chase the recurring apprehensions which arose from her husband’s delayed return. Soon after Roland Græme became a resident at the Castle, a groom, dispatched by Sir Halbert, brought tidings that busi­ ness o f importance still delayed the knight at the Court o f Holyrood.

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3

T h e more distant period which the messenger had assigned for his master’s arrival at length glided away, summer melted into autumn, and autumn was about to give place to winter, and yet he came not.

Chapter Three T h e w aning harvest-m oon shone broad and bright, T h e w arder’s horn w as h eard at dead o f night, A nd w hile th e folding portals w ide w ere flung, W ith tram pling hoofs th e rocky pavem ent rung. L eyden

“ A n d y o u t o o would be a soldier, Roland?” said the Lady o f Avenel to her young charge, while, seated on a stone chair at one end o f the battlements, she saw the boy attempt, with a long stick, to mimic the motions o f the warder, as he alternately shouldered and ported, or sloped, his pike. “ Yes, lady,” said the boy, for he was now familiar, and replied to her questions with readiness and alacrity, “ a soldier will I be; for there ne’er was gendeman but what belted him with the brand.” “ Thou a gendeman !” said Lilias, who, as usual, was in attendance on her mistress; “ such a gendeman as I would make o f a bean-cod w ith a r u s ty k n ife .”

“ Nay, chide him not, Lilias,” said the Lady o f Avenel, “ for, beshrew me, but I think he comes o f gende blood— see how it musters in his face at your injurious reproof.” “ Had I my will, madam,” answered Lilias, “ a good birchen wand should get his colour muster to better purpose still.” “ On my word, Lilias,” said the lady, “ one would think you had received harm from the poor boy— or is he so far on the frosty side o f your favour because he enjoys the sunny side o f mine ?” “ Over heavens forbode, my lady,” answered Lilias; “ I have lived too long with gendes, I praise my stars for it, to fight with either follies or fantasies, whether they relate to beast, bird, or boy.” Lilias was a favourite in her own class, a spoiled domestic, who was often accustomed to take more license than her mistress was at all times willing to encourage. But what did not please the Lady o f Avenel, she did not chuse to hear, and thus it was on the present occasion. She resolved to look more close and sharply after the boy, who had hitherto been committed chiefly to the management o f Lilias. H e must, she thought, be born o f gende blood; it were shame to think otherwise o f a form so noble, and features so fair. T h e very wildness in which he occasionally indulged, his contempt o f danger, and impa­ tience o f restraint, had in it something noble. Assuredly the child was

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bom o f higher rank; such was her conclusion, and she acted upon it accordingly. Th e domestics around her, less jealous, or less scrupu­ lous than Lilias, acted as servants usually do, following the bias, and flattering, for their own purposes, the humour o f the lady ; and the boy soon took on him those airs o f superiority, which the sight o f habitual deference seldom fails to inspire. It seemed, in truth, as if to command were his natural sphere, so easily did he use him self to exact and receive compliance with his humours. T h e chaplain, indeed, might have interposed to check the air o f superiority which Roland Græme so readily indulged, and most probably would have willingly rendered him that favour ; but the necessity o f adjusting with his brethren some disputed points o f church discipline had withdrawn him for some time from the Castle, and detained him in a distant part o f the kingdom. Matters stood thus in the Castle o f Avenel, when a winded bugle sent its shrill and prolonged notes from the shore o f the lake, and was replied to cheerily by the signal o f the warder. T h e Lady o f Avenel knew the sounds o f her husband, and rushed to the window o f the apartment in which she was sitting. A band o f about thirty spearmen, with a pennon displayed before them, winded along the indented shores o f the lake, and approached the causeway. A single horseman rode at the head o f the party, his bright arms catching a glance o f the October sun as he moved slowly along. Even at that distance, the lady recognized the lofty plume, bearing the mingled colours o f her own liveries and those o f Glendonwyne, blended with the holly-branch; and the firm seat and steady demeanour o f the rider, joined to the stately motion o f the dark-brown steed, sufficiently announced H al­ bert Glendinning. T h e lady’s first thought was that o f rapturous joy at her husband’s return— her second was connected with a fear which had sometimes intruded itself, that he might not altogether approve the peculiar distinction with which she had treated her orphan ward. In this fear there was implied a consciousness, that the favour she had shewn him was excessive; for Halbert Glendinning was at least as gentle and indulgent, as he was firm and rational in the intercourse o f his house­ hold ; and to her, in particular, his conduct had ever been most affec­ tionately tender. Yet she did fear, that, on the present occasion, her conduct might incur Sir Halbert’s censure ; and, hastily resolving that she would not mention the anecdote o f the boy until the next day, she ordered him to be withdrawn from the apartment by Lilias. “ I will not go with Lilias, madam,” answered the spoiled child, who had more than once carried his point by perseverance, and who, like his betters, delighted in the exercise o f such authority,— “ I will not go

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to Lilias’s gousty room— I will stay and see that brave warrior who comes riding so gallantly along the drawbridge.” “ You must not stay, Roland,” said the lady, more positively than she usually spoke to her little favourite. “ I will,” reiterated the boy, who had already felt his consequence, and the probable chance o f success. “ You will? Roland !” answered the lady, “what manner o f word is that? I tell you, you must go.” “W ill” answered the forward boy, “ is a word for a man, and must is no word for a lady.” “ You are saucy, sirrah,” said the lady— “ Lilias, take him with you instantly.” “ I always thought,” said Lilias, smiling, as she seized the reluctant boy by the arm, “ that my young master must give place to my old one.” “ And you, too, are malapert, mistress,” said the lady; “ hath the moon changed, that ye all o f you thus forget yourselves ?” Lilias made no reply, but led o ff the boy, who, too proud to offer unavailing resistance, darted at his benefactress a glance, which intimated plainly how willingly he would have defied her authority had he possessed the power to make good his point. T h e Lady o f Avenel was vexed to find how much this trifling cir­ cumstance had discomposed her, at the moment when she ought naturally to have been entirely engrossed by her husband’s return. But we do not recover composure by the mere feeling that agitation is mistimed. T h e glow o f displeasure had not left the lady’s cheek, her ruffled deportment was not yet entirely composed, when her husband, unhelmeted, but still wearing the rest o f his arms, entered the apart­ ment. His appearance banished the thoughts o f every thing else; she rushed to him, clasped his iron-sheathed frame in her arms, and kissed his martial and manly face with an affection which was at once evident and sincere. T h e warrior returned her embrace and her caress with the same fondness; for the time which had passed since their union had diminished its romantic ardour, perhaps, but had rather increased its rational tenderness, and Sir Halbert Glendinning’s long and frequent absences from his castle had prevented affection from degenerating into indifference. When the first eager greetings were paid and received, the lady gazed fondly on her husband’s face as she remarked, “ You are altered, Halbert—you have ridden hard and far to-day, or you have been ill.” “ I have been well, M ary,” answered the knight, “ passing well have I been; and a long ride is to me, thou well knowest, but a thing o f constant custom. Those who are bom noble may slumber out their lives within the walls o f their castles and manor-houses; but he who

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hath achieved nobility by his own deeds must ever be in the saddle, to shew that he merits his advancement.” While he spoke thus, the lady gazed fondly on him, as if endeavour­ ing to read his inmost soul; for the tone in which he spoke was that o f melancholy depression. Our Halbert Glendinning was the same, yet a different person from what he had appeared in his early years. T h e fiery freedom o f the aspiring youth had given place to the steady and stem composure o f the approved soldier and skilful politician. There were deep traces o f care on those noble features, over which each emotion used formerly to pass, like light clouds across a summer sky. That sky was now, not perhaps clouded, but still and grave like that o f the sober autumn evening. T h e forehead was higher and more bare than in early youth, and the locks which still clustered thick and dark on the warrior’s head, were worn away at the temples, not by age, but by the constant pressure o f the steel cap, or helmet. His beard, according to the fashion o f the times, grew short and thick, and was trimmed into moustaches on the upper lip, and peaked at the extremity. T h e cheek, weather-beaten and embrowned, had lost the glow o f youth, but shewed the vigorous complexion o f active and confirmed manhood. Halbert Glendinning was, in a word, a knight to ride at a king’s right hand, to bear his banner in war, and to be his councillor in time o f peace; for his looks expressed the considerate firmness which can resolve wisely and dare boldly. Still, over these noble features, there now spread an air o f dejection, o f which, perhaps, the owner was not c o n s c io u s , b u t w h ic h did n o t e s c a p e th e o b s e rv a tio n o f h is a n x io u s and affectionate partner. “ Something has happened, or is about to happen,” said the Lady o f Avenel; “ this sadness sits not on your brow without cause— misfor­ tune, national or particular, must needs be at hand.” “ There is nothing new that I wot of,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning; “but there is little o f evil which can befall a kingdom which may not be apprehended in this unhappy and divided realm.” “ Nay then,” said the lady, “ I see there hath really been some fatal work on foot. M y Lord o f Moray has not so long detained you at Holyrood, save that he wanted your help in some weighty purpose.” “ I have not been at Holyrood, M ary,” answered the knight; “ I have been for several weeks abroad.” “ Abroad? and sent me no word?” replied the lady. “What would the knowledge have availed, but to have rendered you unhappy, my love?” replied the knight; “your thoughts would have converted the slightest breeze that curled your own lake, into a tem­ pest raging in the German ocean.”

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“ And have you then really crossed the sea?” said the lady, to whom that idea conveyed notions o f terror and o f wonder; “ really left your own native land, and trodden distant shores, where the Scottish tongue is unheard and unknown?” “ Really, and really,” said the knight, taking her hand in affectionate playfulness, “ I have done this marvellous deed— have rolled on the ocean for three days and three nights, with the deep green waves dashing by the side o f my pillow, and but a thin plank to divide me from it.” “ Indeed, my Halbert,” said the lady, “ that was a tempting o f Divine Providence. I never bade you unbuckle the sword from your side, or lay the lance from your hand— I never bade you sit when your honour called ‘rise’ ; but are not blade and spear dangerous enough to one man’s life, and why would you trust rough waves and raging seas ?” “ We have in Germany, and in the Low Countries, as they are called,” answered Glendinning, “ men who are united with us in faith, and with whom it is fitting we should unite in alliance. T o some o f these I was dispatched on business as important as it was secret. I went in safety, and I returned in security : there is more danger to a man’s life betwixt this and Holyrood, than are in all the seas that wash the lowlands o f Holland.” “ And the country, my Halbert, and the people ?” said the lady; “ Are they like our kindly Scots, or what bearing have they to strangers ?” “ Th ey are a people, M ary, strong in their wealth, which renders all other nations weak, and weak in those arts o f war by which other nations are strong.” “ I do not understand you,” said the lady. “ T h e Hollander and the Fleming, M ary, pour forth their spirit in trade, and not in war; their wealth purchases them the arms o f foreign soldiers, by whose aid they defend it. They erect dykes on the sea­ shore to protect the land which they have won, and they levy regiments o f the stubborn Switzers and hardy Germans to protect the treasures which they have amassed. And thus they are strong in their weakness; for the very wealth which tempts their masters to despoil them, arms strangers in their behalf.” “ T h e slothful hinds !” exclaimed M ary, thinking and feeling like a Scotswoman o f the period; “ have they hands, and fight not for the land which bore them? T hey should be notched o ff at the elbow.” “ Nay, that were but hard justice,” answered her husband; “ for their hands serve their country, though not in battle, like ours. Look at those barren hills, M ary, and at that deep winding vale by which the cattle are even now returning from their scanty browse. T h e hand o f the industrious would cover these mountains with wood, and raise

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corn where we now see a starved and scanty sward o f heath and ling. It grieves me, M ary, when I look on that land, and think what benefit it might receive from such men as I have lately seen— men who sought not the idle fame derived from dead ancestors, or the bloody renown won in modern broils, but trod along the land as preservers and improvers, not as tyrants and destroyers.” “ These amendments would be but a vain fancy, my Halbert,” answered the Lady o f Avenel; “ the trees would be burned by the English foemen, ere they ceased to be shrubs, and the grain which you raised would be gathered in by the first neighbour that possessed more riders than follow your train. Why should you repine at this? T h e fate that made you Scotsman by birth, gave you head, and hand, and heart, to uphold the name as it must needs be upheld.” “ It gave me no name to uphold,” said Halbert, pacing the floor slowly. “ M y arm has been foremost in every strife— my voice has been heard in every council, nor have the wisest rebuked me. T h e crafty Lethington, the deep and dark Morton have held secret council with me, and Grange and Lindesay have owned, that in the field I did the devoir o f a gallant knight—but be the emergence passed when they need my head and hand, and they only know me as son o f the obscure portioner o f Glendearg.” This was a theme which the lady always dreaded; for the rank conferred on her husband, the favour in which he was held by the powerful Earl o f Moray, and the high talents by which he vindicated his right to that rank and that favour, were qualities which rather encreased than diminished the envy which was harboured against Sir Halbert Glendinning, as a person originally o f inferior and obscure birth, who had risen to his present eminence solely by his personal merit. T h e natural firmness o f his mind did not enable him to despise the ideal advantages o f a high pedigree, which were held in such universal esteem by all with whom he conversed; and so open are the noblest minds to jealous inconsistencies, there were moments in which he felt mortified that his lady should possess those advant­ ages o f birth and high descent which he him self did not enjoy, and that his importance as the proprietor o f Avenel was qualified by his pos­ sessing it only as the husband o f the heiress. He was not so unjust as to permit such unworthy feelings to retain any permanent possession o f his mind, but yet they recurred from time to time, and did not escape his lady’s anxious observation. “ Had we been blessed with children,” she was wont on such occa­ sions to say to herself, “ had our blood been united in a son who might have joined my advantages o f descent with my husband’s personal worth, these painful and irksome reflections had not disturbed our

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union even for a moment. But the existence o f such an heir, in whom our affections, as well as our pretensions, might have centered, has been denied to us.” With such mutual feelings, it cannot be wondered at that the lady heard her husband with pain verging towards this topic o f mutual discontent. On the present, as on other similar occasions, she endeav­ oured to divert her husband’s thoughts from this painful channel. “ How can you,” she said, “ suffer yourself to dwell upon thoughts which profit nothing? Have you indeed no name to uphold— you, the good and the brave, the wise in counsel and the strong in battle, have you not to support the reputation your own deeds have won, a reputa­ tion more honourable than mere ancestry can supply? Good men love and honour you, the wicked fear, and the turbulent obey you; and is it not necessary you should exert yourself to ensure the endurance o f that love, that honour, that wholesome fear, that necessary obedi­ ence?” As she thus spoke, the eye o f her husband caught from her’s cour­ age and comfort, and it lightened as he took her hand and replied, “ It is most true, my M ary, and I deserve thy rebuke, who forget what I am, in repining because I am not what I cannot be. I am now what their most boasted ancestors were— the mean man raised into eminence by his own exertion; and sure it is a boast as honourable to have those capacities, which are necessary to the foundation o f a family, as to be descended from one who possessed them some centuries hence. The Hay o f Loncarty, who bequeathed his bloody yoke to his lineage,— the ‘Dark grey man,’ who first founded the house o f Douglas, had yet less o f ancestry to boast than what is mine. For thou knowest, M ary, that my name derives itself from a line o f ancient warriors, although my immediate forefathers preferred the humble station in which thou didst first find them; and war and counsel are not less proper to the house o f Glendonwyne, even in its most remote descendants, than to the proudest o f their baronage.” H e strode across the hall as he spoke, and the lady smiled internally to observe how much his mind dwelt upon the prerogatives o f birth, and endeavoured to establish his claim, however remote, to a share in them, at the very moment when he affected to hold them in contempt. It will easily be guessed, however, that she permitted no symptom to escape her that could shew she was sensible o f the weakness o f her husband, a perspicacity which perhaps his proud spirit could not very easily have brooked. As he returned from the extremity o f the hall, to which he had stalked while in the act o f vindicating the title o f the House o f G len­ donwyne in its most remote branches to the full privileges o f aristo-

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cracy, “ W here,” he said, “ is Wolf? I have not seen him since my return, and he was usually the first to welcome my home-coming.” “W olf,” said the lady, with a slight degree o f embarrassment, for which, perhaps, she would have found it difficult to assign any reason even to herself, “ W olf is chained up for the present. He hath been surly to my page.” “ W olf chained up— and W olf surly to your p age !” answered Sir Halbert Glendinning; “W olf never was surly to any on e; and the chain will either break his spirit or render him savage. So ho, there— set W olf free directly.” He was obeyed, and the huge dog rushed into the hall, disturbing, by his unwieldy and boisterous gambols, the whole economy o f reels, rocks, and distaffs, and extracting from Lilias, who was summoned to put them again into order, the natural observation, “ That the laird’s pet was as troublesome as the lady’s page.” “ And who is this page, M ary?” said the knight, his attention again called to the subject by the observation o f the waiting-woman— “Who is this page whom every one seems to weigh in the balance with my old friend and favourite, Wolf?— When did you aspire to the dignity o f a page, or who is the boy?” “ I trust, my Halbert,” said the lady, not without a blush, “you will not think your wife entitled to less attendance than other ladies o f her quality.” “ Nay, Dame M ary,” answered the knight, “ it is enough you desire such an attendant— Yet I have never loved to nurse such useless menials— a lady’s page— it may well suit the proud English dames to have a slender youth to bear their trains from bower to hall, fan them when they slumber, and touch the lute for them when they please to listen; but our Scottish matrons were wont to be above such vanities, and our Scottish youth ought to be bred to the spear and the stirrup.” “ Nay, but, my husband,” said the lady, “ I did but jest when I called this boy my page; he is in sooth a little orphan whom we saved from perishing in the lake, and whom I have since kept in the Castle out o f charity.— Lilias, bring little Roland hither.” Roland entered accordingly, and, flying to the lady’s side, took hold o f the plaits o f her gown, and then turned round, and gazed with an attention, not unmingled with fear, upon the stately form o f the knight.— “ Roland,” said the lady, “ go kiss the hand o f the noble knight, and ask him to be thy protector.”— But Roland obeyed not, and, keeping his station, continued to gaze fixedly and timidly on Sir Halbert Glendinning.— “ G o to the knight, boy,” said the lady; “ what dost thou fear, child?— go kiss Sir Halbert’s hand.” “ I will kiss no hand save yours, lady,” answered the boy.

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“ Nay, but do as you are commanded, child,” replied the lady.— “ He is dashed by your presence,” she added, apologizing to her husband ; “ but is he not a handsome boy?” “ And so is W olf,” said Sir Halbert, as he patted his huge fourfooted favourite, “ a handsome dog; but he has this double advantage over your new favourite, that he does what he is commanded, and hears not when he is praised.” “ Nay, now you are displeased with m e,” replied his lady; “ and yet why should you be so? There is nothing wrong in relieving the dis­ tressed orphan, or in loving that which is in itself lovely and deserving o f affection. But you have seen M r Warden at Edinburgh, and he has set you against the poor boy.” “ M y dear M ary,” answered her husband, “ M r Warden better knows his place than to presume to interfere either in your affairs or in mine. I neither blame your relieving this boy, or your kindness for him. But I think, considering his birth and prospects, you ought not to treat him with injudicious fondness, which can only end in rendering him unfit for the humble situation to which Heaven has designed him.” “ Nay, but my Halbert, do but look at the boy,” said the lady, “ and see whether he has not the air o f being designed by Heaven for something nobler than a mere peasant. M ay he not be designed, as others have been, to rise out o f a humble situation into honour and eminence— ” Thus far had she proceeded, when the consciousness that she was treading upon delicate ground at once occurred to her, and induced her to take the most natural, but the worst o f all courses on such occasions, that o f stopping suddenly short in the illustration which she had commenced. H er brow crimsoned, and that o f Sir Halbert Glendinning was slightly overcast. But it was only for an instant; for he was incapable o f mistaking his lady’s meaning, or supposing that she meant intentional disrespect to him. “ Be it as you please, my love,” he replied ; “ I owe you too much, to contradict you in aught which may render your solitary mode o f life more endurable. Make o f this youth what you will, and you have my full authority for doing so. But remember he is your charge, not mine — remember he hath limbs to do man service, a soul and a tongue to worship G od ; breed him, therefore, to be true to his master, and to Heaven; and for the rest, dispose o f him as you list— it is, and shall rest, your own matter.” Th is conversation decided the fate o f Roland Græme, who from thenceforward was little noticed by the master, but indulged and favoured by the mistress o f the mansion o f Avenel. Th is situation led to many important consequences, and, in truth,

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tended to bring forth the character o f the youth in all its broad lights and deep shadows. As the Knight himself seemed tacitly to disclaim alike interest and controul over the immediate favourite o f his lady, young Roland was, by circumstances, exempted from the strict discip­ line to which, as the retainer o f a Scottish man o f rank, he would otherwise have been subjected, according to all the rigour o f the age. But the Master o f the Household, such was the proud title assumed by the head domestic o f each petty baron, deemed it not advisable to interfere with the favourite o f the lady, and especially since she had brought the estate into the present family. M aster Jasper Wingate was a man experienced, as he often boasted, in the ways o f great families, and knew how to keep the steerage even when wind and tide chanced to be in contradiction. This prudent personage winked at much, and avoided giving opportunity for further offence, by requesting little o f Roland Græme beyond the degree o f attention which he was him self disposed to pay; rightly conjecturing, that however lowly the place which the youth might hold in the favour o f the Knight o f Avenel, still to make an evil report o f him would make an enemy o f the lady, without securing the favour o f her husband. With these prudential considerations, and doubtless not without an eye to his own ease and convenience, he taught the boy as much, and only as much, as he chose to learn, readily admitting whatever apology it pleased his pupil to allege in excuse for idleness or negligence. As the other persons in the Castle, on whom such tasks were delegated, readily imitated the prudential conduct o f the major-domo, there was little controul used towards Roland Græme, who, o f course, learned no more than what a very active mind, and a total impatience o f absolute idleness, led him to acquire upon his own account, and by dint o f his own exertions. It followed also from his quality as my lady’s favourite, that Roland was viewed with no peculiar good will by the followers o f the Knight, many o f whom, o f the same age, and similar origin with the fortunate page, were subjected to severe observance o f the ancient and rigorous discipline o f a feudal retainer. T o these, Roland Græme was o f course an object o f envy, and in consequence o f dislike and detrac­ tion; but the youth possessed qualities which it was impossible to depreciate. Pride, and a sense o f early ambition, did for him what severity and constant instruction did for others. In truth, the youthful Roland displayed that early flexibility both o f body and mind, which renders exercises, either mental or corporeal, rather matter o f sport than o f study; and it seemed as if he acquired accidentally, and by starts, those accomplishments, which earnest and constant instruc­ tion, enforced by frequent reproof and occasional chastisement, had

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taught to others. Such military exercises, such lessons o f the period as he found it agreeable or convenient to apply to, he learned so per­ fectly, as to confound those who were ignorant how often the place o f constant application is filled up by ardent enthusiasm. T h e lads, therefore, who were more regularly trained to arms, to horsemanship, and to other necessary exercises o f the period, while they envied Roland Græme the indulgence or negligence with which he seemed to be treated, had little reason to boast o f their own superior advant­ ages; a few hours, with the powerful exertion o f a most energetic will, seemed to do for him more than the regular instruction o f weeks could accomplish for others. Under these advantages, if, indeed, they were to be termed such, the character o f young Roland began to develope itself. It was bold, peremptory, decisive, and overbearing; generous, if neither withstood nor contradicted; vehement and passionate, if censured or opposed. He seemed to consider himself as attached to no one, and responsible to no one, except his mistress, and even over her mind he had gradu­ ally acquired that species o f ascendancy which indulgence is so apt to occasion. And although the immediate followers and dependents o f Sir Halbert Glendinning saw his ascendancy with jealousy, and often took occasion to mortify his vanity, there wanted not those who were willing to acquire the favour o f the Lady o f Avenel by humouring and siding with the youth whom she protected; for although a favourite, as the poet assures us, has no friend, he seldom fails to have both fol­ lowers and flatterers. These partizans o f Roland Græme were chiefly to be found amongst the inhabitants o f the little hamlet on the shore o f the lake. These villagers, who were sometimes tempted to compare their own situation with that o f the immediate and constant followers o f the Knight, who attended him on his frequent journies to Edin­ burgh and elsewhere, delighted in considering and representing themselves as more properly the subjects o f the Lady o f Avenel than o f her husband. It is true, her wisdom and affection on all occasions discountenanced the distinction which was here implied; but the villagers persisted in thinking it must be agreeable to her to enjoy their peculiar and undivided homage, or at least in acting as if they thought so; and one chief mode by which they evinced their sentiments, was by the respect they paid to young Roland Græme, the favourite attend­ ant o f the descendant o f their ancient lords. This was a mode o f flattery too pleasing to encounter rebuke or censure; and the oppor­ tunity which it afforded the youth to form, as it were, a party o f his own within the limits o f the ancient barony o f Avenel, added not a little to the audacity and decisive tone o f a character, which was by nature bold, impetuous, and uncontroulable.

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O f two members o f the household who had manifested an early jealousy o f Roland Græme, the prejudices o f W olf were easily over­ come; and in process o f time the dog slept with Bran, Luath, and the celebrated hounds o f ancient days. But M r Warden, the chaplain, lived, and retained his dislike to the youth. That good man, singleminded and benevolent as he really was, entertained rather more than a reasonable idea o f the respect due to him as a minister, and exacted from the inhabitants o f the Castle more deference than the haughty young page, proud o f his mistress’s favour, and petulant from youth and situation, was at all times willing to pay. His bold and free demeanour, his attachment to rich dress and decoration, his inapti­ tude to receive instruction, and his hardening himself against rebuke, were circumstances which induced the good old man, with more haste than charity, to set the forward page down as a vessel o f wrath, and to presage that the youth nursed that pride and haughtiness o f spirit which goes before ruin and destruction. M ost o f the attendants and followers o f Sir Halbert Glendinning entertained the same charitable thoughts; but while Roland was favoured by the lady, and endured by their lord, they saw no policy in making their opinions public. Roland Græme was sufficiently sensible o f the unpleasant situ­ ation in which he stood; but in the haughtiness o f his heart he retorted upon the other domestics the distant, cold, and sarcastic manner in which they treated him, assumed an air o f superiority which com­ pelled the most obstinate to obedience, and had the satisfaction to be dreaded at least, if he was heartily hated. T h e chaplain’s marked dislike had the effect o f recommending him to the attention o f Sir Halbert’s brother Edward, who now, under the conventual appellation o f Father Ambrose, continued to be one o f the few Monks who, with the Abbot Eustatius, were still permitted to linger in the cloisters at Kennaquhair. Respect to Sir Halbert had prevented their being altogether driven out o f the Abbey, though their order was now in a great measure suppressed, and they were inter­ dicted the public exercise o f their ritual, and only allowed for their support a small pension out o f their once splendid revenues. Father Ambrose, thus situated, was an occasional, though very rare visitant, at the Castle o f Avenel, and was at such times observed to pay particu­ lar attention to Roland Græme, who seemed to return it with more depth o f feeling than consisted with his usual habits. Thus situated, years glided on, during which the Knight o f Avenel continued to act a frequent and important part in the convulsions o f his distracted country; while young Græme anticipated, both in wishes and in personal accomplishments, the age which should enable him to emerge from the obscurity o f his present situation.

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ChapterFour Amid their cups that freely flow’d, T h e ir revelry and m irth, A youthful lord taxed Valentine W ith base and doubtful birth. Valentine and Orson W hen R oland G ræme was a youth about seventeen years o f age, he chanced one summer morning to descend to the mew in which Sir Halbert Glendinning kept his hawks, in order to superin­ tend the training o f an eyass, or young hawk, which he himself, at the imminent risk o f neck and limbs, had taken from a celebrated eyrie in the neighbourhood, called Gledscraig. As he was by no means satis­ fied with the attention which had been bestowed on his favourite bird, he was not slack in testifying his displeasure to the falconer’s lad, whose duty it was to have attended upon it. “What, ho ! sir knave,” exclaimed Roland, “ is it thus you feed the eyasse with unwashed meat, as i f ye were gorging the foul brancher o f a worthless hoodie-crow?— by the mass, and thou has neglected its castings also for these two days. Thinkst thou I ventured my neck to bring the bird down from the crag that thou shouldst spoil her by thy neglect?” And to add force to his remonstrances, he conferred a cu ff or two on the negligent attendant o f the hawks, who, shouting rather louder than was necessary under all the circumstances, brought the master falconer to his assistance. Adam Woodcock, the falconer o f Avenel, was an Englishman by birth, but so long in the service o f Glendinning, that he had lost his national attachment in that which he had formed to his master. H e was a favourite in his department, jealous and conceited o f his skill, as masters o f the game usually are; for the rest o f his character, he was a jester and parcel poet, (qualities which by no means abated his natural conceit) a jolly fellow, who loved a flagon o f ale better than a long sermon, a stout man o f his hands when need required, true to his master, and a little presuming on his interest with him. Adam Woodcock, such as we have described him, by no means relished the freedom used by young Græme, in chastising his assist­ ant. “ Hey hey, my lady’s page,” said he, stepping between his own boy and Roland, “ fair and softly, an it like your gilt jacket— hands o ff is fair play— if my boy has done amiss, I can beat him myself, and then you may keep your hands soft.” “ I will beat him and thee too,” answered Roland, without hesita­ tion, “ an you look not better after your business. See you, the bird is

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cast away between you, and I found the careless lurdane feeding her with unwashed flesh, and she an eyass.” * “ G o to,” said the falconer, “ thou art but an eyass thyself, Child Roland— What knowest thou o f feeding? I say that the eyass should have her meat unwashed, until she becomes a brancher— ’twere the ready way to give her the frounce, to wash her meat sooner, and so knows every one who knows a gled from a falcon.” “ It is thine own laziness, thou false English blood, that doest noth­ ing but drink and sleep,” retorted the page, “ and leaves that lither lad to do thy work, that he minds as little as thou.” “ And am I so idle then,” said the falconer, “ that have three cast o f hawks to look after, at perch and mew, and to fly them in the field to boot? and is my lady’s page so busy a man that he must take me up short?— And am I a false English blood?— I marvel what blood thou art— neither Englander nor Scot— fish nor flesh— a bastard from the Debateable Land, without either kith, kin, or ally !— Marry, out upon the foul kite, that would fain be a tercel gentle.” T h e reply to this sarcasm was a box on the ear, so well applied, that it overthrew the falconer into the cistern in which water was kept for the benefit o f the hawks. Up started Adam Woodcock, and seizing on a truncheon which stood by, would have soon requited the injury he had received, had not Roland laid his hand on his poniard, and sworn by all that was sacred, that if he minted a stroke towards him, he would sheath it in his bowels. T h e noise was now so great, that more than one o f the household came in, and amongst others the major-domo, a grave personage, already mentioned, whose gold chain and white wand intimated his authority. At the appearance o f this dignitary, the strife was for the present appeased. He embraced, however, so favourable an opportunity, to read Roland Græme a shrewd lecture on the impropriety o f his deportment to his fellow-menials, and to assure him, that, should he communicate this fray to his master, (who, though now on one o f his frequent expeditions, was speedily expected to return,) which but for respect to his lady he would most certainly do, the residence o f the culprit in the Castle o f Avenel would be but o f brief duration. “ But, however,” added the prudent master o f the household, “ I will report the matter first to my lady.” “Very just, very right, M aster Wingate,” exclaimed several voices together; “ my lady will consider if daggers are to be drawn on us for every idle word, and whether we are to live in a well-ordered house­ hold, where there is the fear o f God, or amongst drawn dirks and sharp knives.” *There is a difference amongst authorities how long the nestling hawk should be fed with flesh which has previously been washed.

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T h e object o f this general resentment darted an angry glance around him, and suppressing with difficulty the desire which urged him to reply, in furious or in contemptuous language, returned his dagger into the scabbard, looked disdainfully around upon the assem­ bled menials, turned short upon his heel, and pushing aside those who stood betwixt him and the door, left the apartment. “ This will be no tree for my nest,” said the falconer, “ if this cocksparrow is to crow over us as he seems to do.” “ He struck me with his switch yesterday,” said one o f the grooms, “because the tail o f his worship’s gelding was not trimmed altogether so square as suited his humour.” “ And I promise you,” said the laundress, “ my young master will stick nothing to call you slut and quean, if there be but a speck o f soot upon his band-collar.” “ I f M aster Wingate do not his errand to my lady,” was the general result, “ there will be no tarrying in the same house with Roland Græ m e.” T h e master o f the household heard them all for some time, and then, motioning for universal silence, he addressed them with all the dignity o f Malvolio himself.— “ M y masters,— not forgetting you, my mistresses,— do not think the worse o f me that I proceed with as much care as haste in this matter. Our master is a gallant knight, and will have his way at home and abroad, in wood and fi eld, in hall and bower, as the saying is. Our lady, my benison upon her, is also a noble person, o f long descent, and rightful heir o f this place and barony, and she also loves her w ill; as for that matter, shew me the woman who doth not. Now, she hath favoured, doth favour, and will favour, this jack-an-ape,— for what good part about him I know not, save that as one noble lady will love a messan dog, and another a screaming popinjay, and a third a Barbary ape, so doth it please our noble dame to set her affections upon this stray elf o f a page, for nought I can think of, but that she was the cause o f his being saved (the more’s the pity) from drowning.” “ I would have been his caution for a grey groat against salt water or fresh,” said his adversary, the falconer; “ marry, if he crack not a rope for stabbing or for snatching, I will be content never to hood hawk again.” “ Peace, Adam Woodcock,” said Wingate, waving his hand; “ I pri­ thee peace, man— Now, my lady liking this springald, as aforesaid, differs therein from my lord, who likes never a bone in his skin. Now, is it for me to stir up strife betwixt them, and put as ’twere my finger betwixt the bark and the tree, on account o f a pragmatical youngster, whom, nevertheless, I would willingly see whipped forth o f the bar-

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ony ? Have patience, and this boil will break without our meddling. I have been in service since I wore a beard on my chin, till now that that beard is turned grey, and I have seldom known any one better them­ selves, even by taking the lady’s part against the lord’s; but never one who did not durk himself, if he took the lord’s against the lady’s.” “ And so,” said Lilias, “we are to be crowed over, every one o f us, men and women, cock and hen, by this little upstart— I will try titles with him first, I promise you.— I fancy, M aster Wingate, for as wise as you look, you will be pleased to tell what you have seen to-day, if my lady commands you.” “ T o speak the truth when my lady commands me,” answered the prudential major-domo, “ is in some measure my duty, Mistress L ilias; always providing for and excepting those cases in which it cannot be spoken without breeding mischief and inconvenience to m yself or my fellow-servants; for tongue o f a tale-bearer breaketh bones as well as a Jeddart staff.” “ But this imp o f Satan is none o f your friends or fellow-servants,” said Lilias; “ and I trust you mean not to stand up for him against the whole family besides ?” “ Credit me, M rs Lilias,” replied the senior, “ that should I see the time fitting, I would with right good will give him a lick with the rough side o f my tongue.” “ Enough said, M aster Wingate,” answered L ilias; “ then trust me his song shall soon be laid— if my mistress does not ask me what is the matter below stairs before she be ten minutes o f time older, she is no bom woman, and my name is not Lilias Bradbourne.” In pursuance o f her plan, Mistress Lilias failed not to present herself before her mistress with all the exterior o f one who is pos­ sessed o f an important secret,— that is, she had the corners o f her mouth turned down, her eyes raised up, her lips pressed as fast together as if they had been sewed up, to prevent her blabbing, and an air o f prim mystical-importance diffused over her whole person and demeanour, which seemed to intimate, “ I know something which I am resolved not to tell you.” Lilias had rightly read her mistress’s temper, who, wise and good as she was, was yet a daughter o f grandame Eve, and could not witness this mysterious bearing on the part o f her waiting-woman without longing to ascertain the secret cause. For a space, M rs Lilias was obdurate to all enquiries, sighed, turned her eyes up higher yet to heaven, hoped for the best, but had nothing particular to communic­ ate. All this, as was most natural and proper, only stimulated the lady’s curiosity; neither was her importunity to be parried with,— “ Thank God I am no makebate— no tale-bearer,— thank God I never envied

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any one’s favour, or was anxious to propale their misdemeanours— only thank God there has been no bloodshed and murder in the house — that is all.” “ Bloodshed and m urder!” exclaimed the lady, “ what does the quean mean?— i f you speak not plain out, you shall have something you will scarce be thankful”— “ Nay, my lady,” answered Lilias, eager to disburthen her mind, or, in Chaucer’s phrase, to ‘unbuckle her mail,’ “ if you bid me speak out the truth, you must not be moved with what might displease you— Roland Græme has dirked Adam Woodcock— that is all.” “ Good heaven,” said the lady, turning pale as ashes, “ is the man slain?” “ No, madam,” replied Lilias, “ but slain he would have been, if there had not been ready help— but may be it is your ladyship’s pleas­ ure that this young esquire shall poniard the servants, as well as switch and batton them.” “ G o to, minion,” said the lady, “you are saucy— tell the master o f the household to attend me instantly.” Lilias hastened to seek out M r Wingate, and hurry him to his lady’s presence, speaking as a word in season to him on the way, “ I have set the stone a-trowling, look that you do not let it stand still.” T h e steward, too prudential a person to commit him self otherwise, answered by a sly look and a nod o f intelligence, and presently after stood in the presence o f the Lady o f Avenel, with a look o f great respect for his lady, partly real, partly affected, and an air o f great sagacity, which inferred no ordinary conceit o f himself. “ How is this, Wingate,” said the lady, “ and what rule do you keep in the castle, that the domestics o f Sir Halbert Glendinning draw the dagger on each other, as in a cavern o f thieves and murtherers?— is the wounded man much hurt?— and what— what hath become o f the unhappy boy?” “ There is no one wounded as yet, madam,” replied He o f the golden chain; “ it passes my poor skill to say how many may be wounded before Pasche,* if some rule be not taken with this youth— not but the youth is a fair youth,” he added, correcting himself, “ and able at his exercise; but somewhat too ready with the ends o f his fingers, the butt o f his riding-switch, and the point o f his dagger.” “ And whose fault is that,” said the lady, “ but yours, who should have taught him better discipline, than to brawl or to draw his dag­ ger?” “ I f it please your ladyship so to impose the blame on me,” answered the steward, “ it is my part, doubtless, to bear it— only I submit to your * Easter.

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consideration, that unless I nailed his weapon to the scabbard, I could no more keep it still, than I could fix quicksilver, which defied even the skill o f Raymond Lullius.” “ T ell me not o f Raymond Lullius,” said the lady, losing patience, “ but send me the chaplain hither—ye grow all o f you too wise for me, during your lord’s long absences— I would to God his affairs would permit him to remain at home and rule his own household, for it passes my wit and skill !” “ God forbid, my lady,” said the old domestic, “ that you should sincerely think what you are now pleased to say. Your old servants might well hope, that after so many years duty, you would do their service more justice than to distrust their grey hairs, because they cannot rule the peevish humours o f a green head, which the owner carries, it may be, a brace o f inches higher than becomes him.” “ Leave me,” said the lady; “ Sir Halbert’s return must now be expected daily, and he will look into these matters himself— leave me I say, Wingate, without saying more o f it. I know you are honest, and I believe the boy is petulant; and yet I think it is my favour which hath set all o f you against him.” T h e steward bowed and retired, after having been silenced in a second attempt to explain the motives on which he acted. Th e chaplain arrived; but neither from him did the lady receive much comfort. On the contrary, she found him disposed, in plain terms, to lay to the door o f her indulgence all the disturbances which the fiery temper o f Roland Græme had already occasioned, or might hereafter occasion, in the family. “ I would,” he said, “ honoured lady, that you had deigned to be ruled by me in the outset o f this matter, sith it is easy to stem evil in the fountain, but hard to struggle against it in the stream. You, honoured madam, (a word which I do not use according to the vain forms o f this world, but because I have ever loved and honoured you as an honourable and an elect lady,)— you, I say, madam, have been pleased, contrary to my poor but earnest counsel, to raise this boy from his station, into one approaching to your own.” “What mean you, reverend sir?” said the lady; “ I have made this youth a page— is there aught in my doing so that does not become my character and quality?” “ I dispute not, madam,” said the pertinacious preacher, “your benevolent purpose in taking charge o f this youth, or your title to give him this idle character o f page, if such was your pleasure; though what the education o f a boy in the train o f a female can tend to, save to engraft foppery and effeminacy on conceit and arrogance, it passes my knowledge to discover. But I blame you more directly for having taken little care to guard him against the perils o f his condition, to tame and

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humble a spirit naturally haughty, overbearing, and impatient. You have brought into your bower a lion’s cub, delighted with the beauty o f his fur, and the grace o f his gambols; you have bound him with no fetters befitting the fierceness o f his disposition— you have let him grow up as unawed as if he had been still a tenant o f the forest, and now you are surprised, and call out for assistance, when he begins to ramp, rend, and tear, according to his proper nature.” “ M r Warden,” said the lady, considerably offended, “you are my husband’s ancient friend, and I believe your love sincere to him and to his household. Yet let me say, that when I asked you for counsel, I expected not this asperity o f rebuke. I f I have done wrong in loving this poor orphan lad more than others o f his class, I scarce think the error merited such severe censure; and if stricter discipline were required to keep his fiery temper in order, it ought, I think, to be considered, that I am a woman, and that if I have erred in this matter, it becomes a friend’s part rather to aid than to rebuke me. I would these evils were taken order with before my lord’s return. He loves not domestic discord or domestic brawls; and I would not willingly that he thought such could arise from one whom I have favoured— What do you counsel me t o do?” “ Dismiss this youth from your service, madam,” replied the preacher. “ You cannot bid me do so,” said the lady; “you cannot, as a Chris­ tian and a man o f humanity, bid me turn away an unprotected crea­ ture, against whom my favour, my injudicious favour if you will, has reared up so many enemies.” “ It is not necessary you should altogether abandon him, though you dismiss him to another service, or to a calling better suiting his station and character,” said the preacher; “ elsewhere he may be an useful and profitable member o f the commonweal— here he is but a makebate, and a stumbling-block o f offence. T he youth has snatches o f sense and o f intelligence, though he lacks industry. I will m yself give him letters commendatory to Olearius Schinderhausen, a learned professor at Leyden, where they lack an under-janitor— where, besides gratis instruction, if God give him the grace to seek it, he will enjoy five marks by the year, and the professor’s cast-off suit, which he disparts with biennially.” “ This will never do, good M r Warden,” said the lady, scarce able to suppress a smile; “we will think more at large upon this matter. In the meanwhile, I trust to your remonstrances with the family for restrain­ ing these violent and unseemly jealousies and bursts o f passion; and I entreat you to press on them their duty in this respect towards God, and towards their master.”

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“ You shall be obeyed, madam,” said Warden. “ On the next Th urs­ day I exhort the family, and will, with G od’s blessing, so wrestle with the dæmon o f wrath and violence, which hath entered into my little flock, that I trust to hound the w olf out o f the fold, as if he were chased away with ban-dogs.” This was the part o f the conference from which M r Warden derived the greatest pleasure. T he pulpit was at that time the same powerful engine for affecting popular feeling which the press has since become, and he had been no unsuccessful preacher, as we have already seen. It followed as a natural consequence, that he rather over-estimated the powers o f his own oratory, and, like some o f his brethren about the period, was glad o f an opportunity to handle any matters o f importance, whether public or private, the discussion o f which could be dragged into his discourse. In that rude age the delicacy was unknown which prescribed time and place to personal exhortations; and as the court-preacher often addressed the K ing personally, and dictated to him the conduct he ought to observe in matters o f state, so the nobleman himself, or any o f his retainers, were, in the chapel o f the feudal castle, often incensed or appalled, as the case might be, by the discussion o f their private faults, and by spiritual censures directed against them, specifically, personally, and by name. T h e sermon, by means o f which Henry Warden proposed to restore concord and good order to the Castle o f Avenel, bore for text the wellknown words, “He who striketh with the sword shall perish by the sw ord,” and was a singular mixture o f good sense and powerful oratory with pedantry and bad taste. He enlarged a good deal on the word striketh, which he assured his hearers comprehended blows given with the point as well as with the edge, and, more generally, shooting with hand-gun, cross-bow, or long-bow, thrusting with a lance, or doing any thing whatsoever by which death might be occasioned to the adversary. In the same manner, he proved satisfactorily, that the word sword comprehended all descriptions o f the weapon, whether back­ sword or basket-hilt, cut-and-thrust or rapier, falchion or scymitar. “ But if,” he continued, with still greater animation, “ the text includeth in its anathema those who strike with any o f those weapons which man hath devised for the exercise o f his open hostility, still more doth it comprehend such as from their form and size are devised rather for the gratification o f privy malice by treachery, than for the destruction o f an enemy prepared and standing upon his defence. Such,” he continued, looking sternly at the place where the page was seated on a cushion at the feet o f his mistress, and wearing in his crimson belt a gay dagger with a gilded hilt,— “ such, I hold more especially to be those implements o f death, which, in our modem and fantastic times,

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are worn not only by thieves and cut-throats, to whom they most properly belong, but even by those who attend upon women, and wait in the chambers o f honourable ladies. Yes, my friends,— this unhappy weapon, framed for all evil and for no good, is comprehended under this deadly denunciation, whether it be a stilet, which we have bor­ rowed from the treacherous Italian, or a dirk, which is borne by the savage Highlandmen, or a whinger, which is carried by our own Border-thieves and cut-throats, or a dudgeon-dagger, which is invented by the devil himself, for a ready implement o f deadly wrath, sudden to execute, and difficult to be parried. Even the common sword-and-buckler brawler despises the use o f such a treacherous and malignant instrument, which is therefore fit to be used, not by men or soldiers, but by those who, trained under female discipline, become themselves effeminate hermaphrodites, having female spite and female cowardice added to the infirmities and evil passions o f their masculine natures.” T h e effect which this oration produced upon the assembled con­ gregation o f Avenel cannot very easily be described. T h e lady seemed at once embarrassed and offended; the menials could hardly contain, under an affectation o f deep attention, the joy with which they heard the chaplain launch his thunders at the head o f the unpopular favour­ ite; M rs Lilias crested and drew up her head with all the deep-felt pride o f gratified resentment; while the steward, observing a strict neutrality o f aspect, fixed his eyes upon an old scutcheon on the opposite wall, which he seemed to examine with the most minute accuracy, more willing, perhaps, to incur the censure o f being inat­ tentive to the sermon, than that o f seeming to listen with marked approbation to what appeared so distasteful to his mistress. T h e unfortunate subject o f the harangue, whom nature had endowed with passions which had hitherto found no effectual restraint, could not disguise the resentment which he felt at being thus directly held up to the scorn, as well as the censure, o f the assembled inhabitants o f the little world in which he lived. His brow grew red, his lip grew pale; he set his teeth, he clenched his hand, and then with mechanical readiness grasped the weapon o f which the clergyman had given so hideous a character; and at length, as the preacher height­ ened the colouring o f his invective, he felt his rage become so ungov­ ernable, that, fearful o f being hurried into some deed o f desperate violence, he rose up, traversed the chapel with hasty steps, and left the congregation. T h e preacher was surprised into a sudden pause, while the fiery youth shot across him like a flash o f lightning, eyeing him as he passed, as i f he had wished to dart from his eyes the same power o f blighting

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and o f consuming. But no sooner had he crossed the chapel, and shut with violence behind him the door o f the vaulted entrance by which it communicated with the Castle, than the impropriety o f his conduct supplied Warden with one o f those happier subjects for eloquence, o f which he knew how to take advantage for making a suitable impres­ sion on his hearers. He paused for an instant, and then pronounced in a slow and solemn voice, the deep anathema : “ H e hath gone out from us because he was not o f us— the sick man hath been offended at the wholesome bitter o f the medicine— the wounded patient hath flinched from the friendly knife o f the surgeon— the sheep hath fled from the sheepfold and delivered him self to the wolf, because he could not assume the quiet and humble conduct demanded o f us by the great Shepherd.— Ah ! my brethren, beware o f wrath— beware o f pride— beware o f the deadly and destroying sin which so often shews itself to our frail eyes in the garments o f light. What is our earthly honour? Pride, and pride only— What our earthly gifts and graces? Pride and vanity.— Voyagers speak o f Indian men who deck them­ selves with shells, and anoint themselves with pigments, and boast o f their attire as we do o f our miserable carnal advantages— Pride could draw down the M orning Star from Heaven even to the verge o f the pit — Pride and self-opinion kindled the flaming sword which waves us o ff from Paradise— Pride made Adam mortal, and a weary wanderer on the face o f the earth which he had else been lord o f—Pride brought amongst us sin, and doubles every sin it has brought. It is the outpost which the devil and the flesh most stubbornly maintain against the assaults o f grace ; and until it be subdued, and its barriers levelled with the very earth, there is more hope o f a fool than o f the sinner. Rend, then, from your bosoms this accursed shoot o f the fatal apple ; tear it up by the roots, though it be twisted with the cords o f your life. Profit by the example o f the miserable sinner that has passed from us, and embrace the means o f grace while it is called to-day— ere your con­ science is seared as with a fire-brand, and your ears deafened like those o f the adder, and your heart hardened like the nether mill­ stone. Up, then, and be doing—wrestle and overcome ; resist, and the enemy shall flee from you— Watch and pray, lest ye fall into tempta­ tions, and let the stumbling o f others be your warning and your example. Above all, rely not on yourselves, for such self-confidence is even the worst symptom o f the disorder itself. T h e Pharisee perhaps deemed him self humble while he stooped in the Tem ple, and thanked God that he was not as other men, and even as the publican. But while his knees touched the marble pavement, his heart was as high as the topmost pinnacle o f the Tem ple. D o not, therefore, deceive your­ selves, or offer false coin, where the purest you can present is but as

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dross— think not that such will pass the assay o f omnipotent wisdom. Yet shrink not from the task, because, as is my bounden duty, I do not disguise from you its difficulties. Self-searching can do much— medi­ tation can do much— Grace can do all.” And he concluded with a touching and animating exhortation to his hearers to seek Divine Grace, which is perfected in human weakness. T h e audience did not listen to this address without being consider­ ably affected; though it might be doubted whether the feelings o f triumph, received from the disgraceful retreat o f the favourite page, did not greatly qualify in the minds o f many the exhortations o f the preacher to charity and to humility. And, in fact, the expression o f their countenances much resembled the satisfied triumphant air o f a set o f children, who, having just seen a companion punished for a fault in which they have had no share, con their task with double glee, both because they themselves are out o f the scrape, and because the culprit is in it. With very different feelings did the Lady o f Avenel seek her own apartment. She felt angry at Warden having made a domestic matter, in which she took a personal interest, the subject o f such public discussion. But this she knew the good man claimed as a branch o f his Christian liberty as a preacher, and also that it was vindicated by the universal custom o f his brethren. But the self-willed conduct o f her protegé afforded her yet deeper concern. That he had broken through in so remarkable a degree, not only the respect due to her presence, but that which was paid to religious admonition in those days with such peculiar reverence, argued a spirit as untameable as his enemies had represented him to possess. And yet, so far as he had been under her own eye, she had seen no more o f that fiery spirit than appeared to her to become his years and his vivacity. This opinion might be founded in some degree on partiality; in some degree, too, it might be owing to the kindness and indulgence which she had always extended to him ; but still she thought it impossible that she could be totally mistaken in the estimate she had formed o f his character. T he extreme o f violence is scarce consistent with a course o f continued hypocrisy, (although Lilias charitably hinted, that in some instances they were happily united,) and therefore she could not exactly trust the report o f others against her own experience and observation. T h e thoughts o f this orphan boy clung to her heartstrings with a fondness for which she herself was unable to account. He seemed to have been sent to her by heaven, to fill up those intervals o f languor and vacuity which deprived her o f so much enjoyment. Perhaps he was not less dear to her, because she well saw that he was a favourite with no one else, and because she felt, that to give him up was to afford the

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judgment o f her husband and others a triumph over her ow n; a circumstance not quite indifferent to the best o f spouses o f either sex. In short, the Lady o f Avenel formed the internal resolution, that she would not desert her page while her page could be rationally pro­ tected; and, with the view o f ascertaining how far this might be done, she caused him to be summoned to her presence.

ChapterFive — In the wild storm, T h e seam an hews his m ast down, and the m erchant Heaves to the billows w ares he once deem ’d precious : So prince and peer, ’m id popular contentions, C ast off their favourites. O ld Play w a s some time ere Roland Græme appeared. T he messenger (his old friend Lilias) had at first attempted to open the door o f his little apartment with the charitable purpose, doubtless, o f enjoying the confusion, and marking the demeanour o f the culprit. But a square bit o f iron, ycleped a bolt, was passed across the door on the inside, and prevented her charitable purpose. Lilias knocked, and called at intervals, “ Roland— Roland Græme—M aster Roland Græme, (an emphasis on the word M aster), will you be pleased to do up the door ? — What ails you ?— are you at your prayers in private, to complete the devotion which you left unfinished in public ?— surely we must have a screened seat for you in the chapel, that your gentility may be free from the eyes o f common folks !” Still no whisper was heard in reply. “Well, M aster Roland,” said the waiting-maid, “ I must tell my mis­ tress, that if she would have an answer, she must send those on errand to you who can beat the door down.” “What says your lady?” answered the page from within. “ Marry, open the door, and you shall hear,” answered the waitingmaid. “ I trow it becomes her message to be listened to face to face; and I will not, for your idle pleasure, whistle it through a key-hole.” “ Your mistress’s name,” said the page, opening the door, “ is too fair a cover for your impertinence— What says my lady?” “ That you will be pleased to come to her directly, in the withdraw­ ing-room,” answered Lilias. “ I presume she has some directions to give concerning the forms to be observed in leaving chapel in future.” “ Say to my lady, that I will directly wait on her,” answered the page; and, returning into his own apartment, he once more locked the door in the face o f the waiting-maid. “ Rare courtesy!” muttered L ilias; and, returning to her mistress,

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acquainted her that Roland Græme would wait on her when it suited his convenience. “Was that his addition, or your own phrase, Lilias?” said her lady coolly. “ Nay, madam,” replied the attendant, not directly answering the question, “ he looked as if he could have said much more impertinent things than that, i f I had been willing to hear them.— But here he comes to answer for himself.” Roland Græme entered the apartment with a loftier mien, and somewhat a higher colour than his wont; there was embarrassment in his manner, but it was neither that o f fear or o f penitence. “ Young man,” said the lady, “ what trow you am I to think o f your conduct this day?” “ I f it has offended you, madam, I am deeply grieved,” replied the youth. “ T o have offended me alone,” replied the lady, “were but little— You have been guilty o f conduct which will highly offend your master — o f violence to your fellow-servants, and o f disrespect to God him­ self, in the person o f his ambassador.” “ Permit me again to reply,” said the page, “ that if I have offended my only mistress, friend, and benefactress, it includes the sum o f my guilt, and deserves the sum o f my penitence.— Sir Halbert Glendin­ ning calls me not servant, nor do I call him master— he is not entitled to blame me for chastising an insolent groom— nor do I fear the wrath o f heaven for treating with scorn the unauthorized interference o f a meddling preacher.” T h e Lady o f Avenel had before this seen symptoms in her favourite o f boyish petulance, and o f impatience o f censure or reproof. But his present demeanour was o f a graver and more determined character, and she was for a moment at a loss how she should treat the youth, who seemed to have at once assumed the character not only o f a man, but o f a bold and determined one. She paused an instant, and then assum­ ing the dignity which was natural to her, she said, “ Is it to me, Roland, that you hold this language ? Is it for the purpose o f making me repent the favour I have shewn you, that you declare yourself independent, both o f an earthly and a heavenly master? Have you forgotten what you were, and to what the loss o f my protection would speedily again reduce you?” “ Lady,” said the page, “ I have forgot nothing— I remember but too much— I know, that but for you, I should have perished in yon blue waves,” pointing as he spoke to the lake, which was seen through the window, agitated by the western wind. “ Your goodness has gone farther, madam— you have protected me against the malice o f others,

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and against my own folly. You are free, when you will, to abandon the orphan you have reared. You have left nothing undone by him— and he complains o f nothing. And yet, lady, do not think I have been ungrateful— I have endured something on my part, which I would have borne for the sake o f no one but my benefactress.” “ For my sake !” said the lady; “ and what is it then that I can have subjected you to endure, which can be remembered with other feel­ ings than those o f thanks and gratitude?” “ You are too just, madam, to require me to be thankful for the cold neglect with which your husband has uniformly treated me— neglect not unmingled with fixed aversion. You are too just, madam, to require me to be grateful for the constant and unceasing marks of scorn and malevolence with which I have been treated by others, or for such a homily as that with which your reverend chaplain has, at my expence, this very day regaled the assembled household.” “ Heard mortal ears the like o f this?” said the waiting-maid, with her hands expanded, and her eyes turned up to heaven; “ he speaks as i f he were son o f an earl, or a belted knight the least penny.” T h e page glanced on her a look o f supreme contempt, but vouch­ safed no other answer. His mistress, who began to feel herself ser­ iously offended, and yet sorry for the youth’s folly, took up the same tone. “ Indeed, Roland, you forget yourself so strangely,” said she, “ that you will tempt me to take serious measures to lower you in your own opinion, by reducing you to your proper stage in society.” “ And that,” added Lilias, “ would be best done by turning him out the same beggar’s brat that your ladyship took him in.” “ Lilias speaks too rudely,” continued the lady, “ but she has spoken the truth, young man; nor do I think I ought to spare that pride which hath so completely turned your head. You have been tricked up with fine garments and treated like the son o f a gentleman, until you have forgot the fountain o f your churlish blood.” “ Craving your pardon most dutifully, madam, Lilias hath not spoken truth, nor does your ladyship know aught o f my descent, which should entitle you to treat it with such decided scorn. I am no beggar’s brat— my grandmother begged from no one, here or elsewhere— she would have perished sooner on the bare moor. We were harried out and driven from our home— a chance which has happed elsewhere, and to others. Avenel Castle, with its lake and its towers, was not at all times able to protect its inhabitants from want and desolation.” “ H ear but his assurance !” said Lilias. “ H e upbraids my lady with the distresses o f her family ! ” “ It had indeed been a theme more gratefully spared,” said the lady,

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affected nevertheless with the allusion. “ It was necessary, madam, for my vindication,” said the page, “ or I had not even hinted at a word that might give you pain. But believe, honoured lady, I am o f no churl’s blood— my proper descent I know not; but my only relation has said, and my heart has echoed it back and attested the truth, that I am sprung o f gentle blood, and deserve gentle usage.” “ And upon an assurance so vague as this,” said the lady, “ do you propose to obtain all the respect, all the privileges, due to high rank and to distinguished birth, and become a contender for privileges which are only due to the noble. G o to, sir, know yourself, or the master o f the household shall make you know you are liable to the scourge as a malapert boy. You have tasted too little the discipline fit for your age and station.” “ T he master o f the household shall taste o f my dagger, ere I taste o f his discipline,” said the page, giving way to his restrained passion. “ Lady, I have been too long the vassal o f a pantoufle, and the slave o f a silver whistle— You must find some other to answer your call; and let him be o f birth and spirit mean enough to brook the scorn o f your menials, and to call a church vassal his master.” “ I have deserved the insult,” said the lady, colouring deeply, “ for so long enduring and fostering your petulance. Begone, sir— leave this castle to-night— I will send you the means o f subsisting yourself till you find some honest mode o f support, though I fear your imaginary grandeur will be above all others, save that o f rapine and violence. Begone, sir, and see my face no more.” T h e page threw him self at her feet in an agony o f sorrow. “ M y dear and honoured mistress— — ” he said, but was unable to bring out another syllable. “ Arise, sir,” said the lady, “ and let go my mantle— hypocrisy is a poor cloak for ingratitude.” “ I am incapable o f either, madam,” said the page, springing up with the exchange o f passion which belonged to his rapid and impetuous temper. “ Think not I meant to implore permission to reside here— it has been long my determination to leave Avenel, and I will never forgive m yself for having permitted you to say the word begone, ere I said, ' I leave you’— I did but kneel to ask your forgiveness for an ill-considered word used in the height o f displeasure, but which ill became my mouth, as addressed to you. Other grace I asked not— you have done much for me— but I repeat, that you better know what you yourself have done, than what I have suffered.” “ Roland,” said the lady, somewhat appeased and relenting towards her favourite, “you had me to appeal to when you were aggrieved—

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you were neither called upon to suffer wrong, nor entitled to resent it, where you were under my protection.” “ And what,” said the youth, “ if I sustained wrong from those you loved and favoured, was I to disturb your peace with idle tale-bearings and eternal complaints ? No, madam; I have borne my own burthen in silence, and without disturbing you with murmurs; and the respect which you accuse me o f wanting, furnishes the only reason why I have neither appealed to you, nor taken vengeance at my own hand in a manner far more effectual. It is well, however, that we part. I was not bom to be a stipendiary, favoured by his mistress, until ruined by the calumnies o f others. M ay Heaven multiply its choicest blessings on your honoured head; and, for your sake, upon all that are dear to you !” He was about to leave the apartment, when the lady called on him to return. He stood still, while she thus addressed him : “ It was not my intention, nor would it be just, even in the height o f my displeasure, to dismiss you without the means o f support— take this purse o f gold.” “ Forgive me, lady,” said the boy, “ and let me go hence with the consciousness that I have not been degraded to the point o f accepting alms. I f my poor services can be placed against the expense o f my apparel and my maintenance, I shall only remain debtor to you for my life, and that alone is a debt which I can never repay; put up then that purse, and only say, instead, that you do not part from me in anger.” “ No, not in anger,” said the lady, “ in sorrow rather for your wilful­ ness— but take the gold— you cannot but need it.” “ M ay God evermore bless you for the kind tone and the kind word; but the gold I cannot take. I am able o f body, and do not lack friends so wholly as you may think; for the time may come that I may yet shew m yself more thankful than by mere words.” He threw him self on his knees, kissed the hand which she did not withdraw, and then hastily left the apartment. Lilias, for a moment or two, kept her eye fixed on her mistress, who looked so unusually pale, that she seemed about to faint. But the lady instantly recovered herself, and declining the assistance which her attendant offered her, walked to her own apartment.

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ChapterSix T h o u hast each secret o f the household— Francis, I dare be sworn thou hast been in the buttery Steeping thy curious h um our in fat ale, A nd in th e butler’s tatde— ay, or chatting W ith the glib w aiting-woman o’er h e r comfits— T h ese b ear the key to each dom estic mystery. O ld P lay p o n t h e m o r r o w succeeding the scene we have described, the disgraced favourite left the Castle; and at breakfast-time the cautious old steward and M rs Lilias sate in the apartment o f the latter personage, holding grave converse on the important event o f the day, sweetened by a small treat o f sweetmeats, to which the providence o f M r Wingate had added a little flask o f racy canary. “ H e is gone at last,” said the abigail, sipping her glass; “ and here is to his good journey.” “Am en,” answered the steward, gravely; “ I wish the poor deserted lad no ill.” “ And he is gone like a wild-duck, as he came,” continued M rs Lilias; “ no lowering o f drawbridges, or pacing along causeways for him. M y master has pushed o ff in the boat which they call the little Herod, (more shame to them, to give the name o f a Christian to wood and iron,) and has rowed him self by him self to the further side o f the loch, and o ff and away with himself—And left all his finery strewed about his room. I wonder who is to clean his trumpery out after him— though the things are worth lifting too.” “ Doubtless, Mistress Lilias,” answered the master o f the house­ hold; “ in the which case, I am free to think, they will not long cumber the floor.” “ And now tell me, M r Wingate,” continued the damsel, “ do not the very cockles o f your heart rejoice at the house being rid o f this upstart whelp, that flung us all into shadow?” “ Why, Mistress Lilias,” replied Wingate, “ as to rejoice— those who have lived as long in great families as has been my lot, will be in no hurry to rejoice at any thing. And for Roland Græme, although he may be a good riddance in the main, yet what says the very sooth proverb, ‘Seldom comes a better.’ ” “ Seldom comes a better, indeed !” echoed M rs Lilias. “ I say, never can come a worse, or one half so bad. H e might have been the ruin o f our poor dear mistress, (here she used her kerchief,) body and soul, and estate too; for she spent more coin on his apparel than on

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any four servants about the house.” “ Mistress Lilias,” said the sage steward, “ I do opine that our mis­ tress requireth not this pity at our hands, being in all respects compet­ ent to take care o f her own body, soul, and estate into the bargain.” “ You would not mayhap have said so,” answered the waitingwoman, “ had you seen how like Lot’s wife she looked when young master took his leave. M y mistress is a good lady, and a virtuous and a well-doing lady, and a well-spoken of— but I would not Sir Halbert had seen her last evening, for two and a plack.” “ Oh, foy! foy! foy!” reiterated the steward; “ servants should hear and see and say nothing. Besides that my lady is utterly devoted to Sir Halbert, as well she may, being, as he is, the most renowned knight in these parts.” “Well, well,” said the abigail, “ I mean no harm; but they that seek least renown abroad, are most apt to find quiet at home, that’s all ; and my lady’s lonesome situation is to be considered, that made her fain to take up with the first beggar’s brat that a dog brought her out o f the loch.” “ And therefore,” said the steward, “ I say, rejoice not too much, or too hastily, M rs Lilias; for if your lady wished a favourite to pass away the time, depend upon it, the time will not pass lighter now that he is gone, and so she will have another favourite to chuse for herself” — “ And where should she chuse one, but among her own tried and faithful servants,” said M rs Lilias, “who have broken her bread, and drunk her drink for so many years ? I have known many a lady as high as she, that never thought either o f friend or favourite beyond their own waiting-woman— always having a proper respect, at the same time, for their old and faithful master o f the household, M r Wingate.” “ Truly, M rs Lilias,” replied the steward, “ I do partly see the mark at which you shoot, but I doubt your bolt will fall short. Matters being with our lady as it like you to suppose, it will neither be your crimped pinners, M rs Lilias, (speaking o f them with due respect,) nor my silver hair, or golden chain, that will fill up the void which Roland Græme must needs leave in our lady’s leisure. There will be a learned young divine with some new doctrine— a learned leech with some new drug— a bold cavalier who will not be refused the favour o f wearing her colours at a running at the ring— a cunning harper that could harp the heart out o f woman’s breast, as they say Seignior David Rizzio did to our poor Queen— These are the sort o f folks who supply the loss o f a well-favoured favourite, and not an old steward, or a middle-aged waiting-woman.” “ W ell,” said Lilias, “you have experience, M aster Wingate— and truly I would my master would leave o ff his pricking hither and thither,

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and look better after the affairs o f his household— there will be papistrie amongst us next, for what should I see among master’s clothes but a string o f gold beads— I promise you, aves and credos both !— I seized on them like a falcon.” “ I doubt it not, I doubt it not,” said the steward, sagaciously nod­ ding his head; “ I have often noticed that the boy had strange observ­ ances which savoured o f popery, and that he was very jealous to conceal them. But you will find the Catholic under the Presbyterian cloak as often as the knave under the friar’s hood— what then ? we are all mortal— Right proper beads they are,” he added, looking attent­ ively at them, “ and may weigh four ounces o f fine gold.” “ And I will have them melted down presently,” she said, “before they be the misguiding o f some poor blinded soul.” “Very cautious, indeed, Mistress Lilias,” said the steward, nodding his head in assent. “ I will have them made,” said M rs Lilias, “into a pair o f shoebuckles; I would not wear the Pope’s trinkets, or whatever has once borne the shape o f them, one inch above my in-step, were they dia­ monds, instead o f gold— But this is what has come o f Father Ambrose coming about the C astle, as demure as a cat that is about to steal cream.” “ Father Ambrose is our master’s brother,” said the steward gravely. “Very true, M aster Wingate,” answered the dam e; “ but is that a good reason why he should pervert the king’s liege subjects to papistrie ?” “ Heaven forbid, Mistress Lilias,” answered the sententious majordomo; “but yet there are worse folks than the papists.” “ I wonder where they are to be found,” said the waiting-woman, with some asperity; “ but I believe, M r Wingate, if one were to speak to you about the devil himself, you would say there were worse people than Satan.” “ Assuredly I might say so,” replied the steward, “ supposing that I saw Satan standing at my elbow.” T h e waiting-woman started, and having exclaimed “ God bless us !” added, “ I wonder, M r Wingate, you can take pleasure in frightening one thus.” “ Nay, M rs Lilias, I had no such purpose,” was the reply; “but look you here— the papists are but put down for the present, but who knows how long this word present will last ? Here are two great Popish earls in the North o f England, that abominate the very word reforma­ tion; I mean the Northumberland and Westmoreland Earls, men o f power enough to shake any throne in Christendom. Then, though our Scottish king be, G od bless him, a true Protestant, yet here is his

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mother that was our queen— I trust there is no harm to say God bless her too— and she is a Catholic— and many begin to think she has had but hard measure, such as the Hamiltons in the west, and some o f our Border clans here, and the Gordons in the north, who are all wishing to see a new world— And if such a new world should chance to come up, it is like that the Queen will take back her own crown, and that the mass and the cross will come up, and then down go pulpits, Genevagowns, and black silk scull-caps.” “ And have you, M r Jasper Wingate, who have heard the word, and listened unto pure and precious M r Henry Warden, have you, I say, the patience to speak, or but to think, o f popery coming down on us like a storm, or o f the woman M ary again making the royal seat o f Scotland a throne o f abomination? No marvel that you are so civil to the cowled monk, Father Ambrose, when he comes hither with his downcast eyes that he never raises to my lady’s face, and with his low sweet-toned voice, and his benedicites, and his bennisons; and who so ready to take them kindly as M r Wingate ?” “ M rs Lilias,” replied the butler, with an air which was intended to close the debate, “ there are reasons for all things. I f I received Father Ambrose debonairly, and suffered him to steal a word now and then with this same Roland Græme, it was not that I cared a brass bodle for his bennison or malison either, but only because I respected my mas­ ter’s blood. And who can answer, if M ary come in again, whether he may not be as stout a tree to lean to as ever his brother hath proved to us? For down goes the Earl o f M oray when the Queen comes by her o w n a g a in , a n d good is h is lu c k if he c a n k e e p th e h e a d o n h is s h o u l­ ders— and down goes our Knight, with the Earl, his patron, and who so like to mount into his empty saddle as this same Father Ambrose? T h e Pope o f Rome can soon dispense with his vows, and then we should have Sir Edward the soldier, instead o f Ambrose the priest.” Resentment and astonishment kept M rs Lilias silent, while her old friend, in his self-complacent manner, was making known to her his political speculations. At length her resentment found utterance in words o f great ire and scorn. “What, M aster Wingate ? have you eaten my mistress’s bread, to say nothing o f my master’s, so many years, that you could live to think o f her being dispossessed o f her own Castle o f Avenel, by a wretched monk who is not a drop’s blood to her in the way o f relation ? I, that am but a woman, would try first whether my rock or his cowl were the better metal. Shame on you, M aster Wingate ! I f I had not held you as so old an acquaintance, this should have gone to my lady’s ears, though I had been called pick-thank and tale-pyot for my pains, as when I told o f Roland Græme shooting the wild swan.” M aster Wingate was somewhat dismayed at perceiving, that the

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detail which he had given o f his far-sighted political views had pro­ duced in his hearer rather suspicion o f his fidelity, than admiration o f his wisdom, and endeavoured, as hastily as possible, to apologize and to explain, although internally extremely offended at the unreasonable view, as he deemed it, which it had pleased Mistress Lilias Bradbourne to take o f his expressions; and mentally convinced that her disapprobation o f his sentiments arose solely out o f the consideration, that though Father Ambrose, supposing him to become the master o f the Castle, would certainly require the services o f a steward, yet those o f a waiting-woman would, in the supposed circumstances, be alto­ gether superfluous. After his explanation had been received as explanations usually are, the two friends separated; Lilias to attend the silver whistle which called her to her mistress’s chamber, and the sapient major-domo to the duties o f his own department. Th ey parted with less than their usual degree o f reverence and regard; for the steward felt that his worldly wisdom was rebuked by the more disinterested attachment o f the waiting-woman, and Mistress Lilias Bradbourne was compelled to consider her old friend as something little better than a mere time­ server.

Chapter Seven W hen I h a ’e a saxpence u n d er my thum b, T h e n I get credit in ilka town; B ut w hen I am poor, they bid m e gae bye, O poverty parts good company. O ld Song W h i l e t h e d e p a r t u r e o f the page afforded subject for the con­ versation which we have detailed in our last chapter, the late favourite was far advanced on his solitary journey, without well knowing what was its object, or what was likely to be his end. H e had rowed the skiff in which he left the Castle, to the side o f the lake most distant from the village, with the desire o f escaping the notice o f the inhabitants. His pride whispered, that he would be, in his discarded state, only the subject o f their wonder and compassion; and his generosity told him, that any marks o f sympathy which his situation should excite, might be unfavourably reported at the Castle. A trifling incident convinced him he had little to fear for his friends on the latter score. H e was met by a young man some years older than himself, who had on former occa­ sions been but too happy to be permitted to share in his sports in the subordinate character o f his assistant. Ralph Fisher approached to greet him with all the alacrity o f an humble friend.

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“ What, M aster Roland— abroad on this side, and without either hawk or hound?” “ Hawk or hound,” said Roland, “ I will never perhaps hollo to again. I have been dismissed— that is, I have left the Castle.” Ralph was surprised. “What, you are to pass into the knight’s ser­ vice, and take the black-jack and the lance ?” “ Indeed,” replied Roland Græme, “ I am not— I am now leaving the service o f Avenel for ever.” “ And whither are you going then?” said the young peasant. “ Nay, that is a question which it craves time to answer— I have that matter to determine yet,” replied the disgraced favourite. “ Nay, nay,” said Ralph, “ I warrant you it is the same to you which way you go— my lady would not dismiss you till she had put some lining into the pouches o f your doublet.” “ Sordid slave!” said Roland Græme, “ doest thou think I would have accepted a boon from one who was giving me over a prey to detraction and to ruin, at the instigation o f a canting priest and a meddling serving-woman? T h e bread that I had bought with such an alms would have choked me at the first mouthful.” Ralph looked at his quondam friend with an air o f wonder not unmixed with contempt. “ W ell,” he replied, at length, “ no occasion for passion— each man knows his own stomach best— but were I on a black moor at this time o f day, not knowing whither I was going, I would be glad to have a broad piece or two in my pouch, come by them as I could.— But perhaps you will go with me to my father’s— that is, for a night, for to-morrow we expect my uncle Menelaws and all his folk— but as I said— for one night ” T h e cold-blooded limitation o f the offered shelter to one night only, and that tendered most unwillingly, offended the pride o f the discarded favourite. “ I would rather sleep on the fresh heather, as I have done many a night on less occasion,” said Roland Græme, “ than in that smoky garret o f your father’s, that smells o f peat-smoke and usquebaugh like a Highlander’s plaid.” “ You may chuse, my master, if you are so nice,” replied Ralph F ish er; “you may be glad to smell a peat-fire, and usquebaugh too, if you journey long in the fashion you propose. You might have said God-a-m ercy for your proffer though— it is not every one will put themselves in the way o f ill-will by harbouring a discarded servingman.” “ Ralph,” said Roland Græme, “ I would pray you to remember that I have switched you before now, and this is the same riding-wand which you have tasted.”

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Ralph, who was a thickset clownish figure, arrived at his full strength, and conscious o f the most complete personal superiority, laughed contemptuously at the threats o f the slight-made stripling. “ It may be the same wand,” he said, “but not the same hand; and that is as good rhyme as i f it were in a ballad. Look you, my lady’s page that was, when your switch was up, it was no fear o f you, but o f your betters, that kept mine down— and I wot not what hinders me from clearing our scores with this hazel rung, and shewing you it was your lady’s livery-coat which I spared, and not your flesh and blood, M aster Roland.” In the midst o f his rage, Roland Græm e was just wise enough to see, that by continuing this altercation, he would subject himself to very rude treatment from the boor, who was so much older and stronger than him self; and while his antagonist, with a sort o f jeering laugh o f defiance, seemed to provoke the contest, he felt the full bitterness o f his own degraded condition, and burst into a passion o f tears, which he in vain endeavoured to conceal with both his hands. Even the rough churl was moved with the distress o f his quondam companion. “ Nay, M aster Roland,” he said, “ I did but as ’twere jest with thee— I would not harm thee, man, were it but for old acquaintance sake. But ever look to a man’s inches ere you talk o f switching— why, thine arm, man, is but like a spindle compared to mine. But hark, I hear old Adam Woodcock hollowing to his hawk— Come along, man, we will have a merry afternoon, and go jollily to my father’s, in spite o f the peatsmoke and usquebaugh to boot. Maybe we may put you into some honest way o f winning your bread— though it’s hard to come by in these broken times.” T h e unfortunate page made no answer, nor did he withdraw his hands from his face, and Fisher continued in what he imagined a suitable tone o f comfort. “ Why, man, when you were my lady’s minion, men held you proud, and some thought you a papist, and I wot not what; and so, now that you have no one to bear you out, you must be companionable and hearty, and wait on the minister’s examinations, and put these things out o f folk’s head— And if he says you are in fault, you must jouk your head to the stream; and if a gentleman, or a gentleman’s gentleman, gives you a rough word or a light blow, why, you must only say, thank you for dusting my doublet, or the like, as I have done by you.— But hark to Woodcock’s whistle again— come, and I will teach you all the trick on’t as we go on.” “ I thank you,” said Roland Græme, endeavouring to assume an air o f indifference and o f superiority; “ but I have another path before me,

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and, were it otherwise, I could not tread in yours.” “Very true, M aster Roland,” replied the clown; “ and every man knows his own matters best, and so I will not keep you from the path, as you say. Give us a grip o f your hand, man, for auld lang syne— what! not clap palms ere we part?— well, so be it— A wilful man will have his way, and so farewell, and the blessing o f the morning to you.” “ Good-morrow, good-morrow,” said Roland, hastily; and the clown walked lightly off, whistling as he went, and glad, apparently, to be rid o f an acquaintance, whose claims might be troublesome, and who had no longer the means to be serviceable to him. Roland Græme compelled him self to walk on while they were within sight o f each other, that his former intimate might not augur any vacillation o f purpose, or uncertainty o f object, from his remaining on the same spot; but the effort was a painful one. He felt stunned, as it were, and giddy ; the earth on which he stood felt as if unsound, and quaking under his feet like the surface o f a bog; and he had once or twice nearly fallen, though the path he trod was o f firm green-sward. He kept resolutely moving forwards, in spite o f the internal agitation to which these symptoms belonged, until the distant form o f his acquaintance disappeared behind the slope o f a hill, and then his heart gave way at once ; and, sitting down on the turf, remote from human ken, he gave way to the natural expressions o f wounded pride, grief, and fear, and wept with unrestrained profusion and unqualified bit­ terness. When the first violent paroxysm o f his feelings had subsided, the deserted and friendless youth felt that mental relief which usually follows such discharges o f sorrow. T h e tears continued to chase each other down his cheeks, but they were no longer accompanied by the same sense o f desolation; an afflicting yet milder sentiment was awakened in his mind, by the recollection o f his benefactress, o f the unwearied kindness which had attached her to him, in spite o f many acts o f provoking petulance, now recollected as offences o f a deep dye, which had protected him against the machinations o f others, as well as against the consequences o f his own folly, and would have continued to do so, had not the excess o f his presumption compelled her to withdraw her protection. “ Whatever indignity I have borne,” he said, “ has been the just reward o f my own ingratitude. And have I done well to accept the hospitality, the more than maternal kindness o f my protectress, yet to detain from her the knowledge o f my religion?—bu t she shall know that a Catholic has as much gratitude as a puritan— that I have been thoughtless, but not wicked— that in my wildest moments I have

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loved, respected, and honoured her— and that the orphan boy might indeed be heedless, but was never ungrateful.” He turned, as these thoughts passed through his mind, and began hastily to retread his footsteps towards the castle. But he checked the first eagerness o f his repentant haste, when he reflected on the scorn and contempt with which the family were likely to see the return o f the fugitive, humbled, as they must necessarily suppose him, into a sup­ plicant, who requested pardon for his fault, and permission to return to his service. He slackened his pace, but he stood not still. “ I care not,” he resolutely determined; “ let them wink, point, nod, sneer, speak o f the conceit which is humbled, o f the pride which has had a fall— I care not; it is a penance due to my folly, and I will endure it with patience. But if she also, my benefactress, if she also should think me sordid and weak-spirited enough to beg, not for her pardon alone, but for a renewal o f the advantages which I derived from her favour— her suspicion o f my meanness I cannot— I will not brook.” He stood still, and his pride, rallying with constitutional obstinacy against his more just feeling, urged that he would incur the scorn o f the Lady o f Avenel, rather than obtain her favour, by following the course which the first ardour o f his repentant feelings had dictated to him. “ I f I had but some plausible pretext,” he thought, “ some ostensible reason for my return, some reason to allege which might shew I came not as a degraded supplicant, or a discarded menial, I might go thither — but as I am, I cannot— my heart would leap from its place and burst.” As these thoughts passed through his mind, something passed in the air so near him as to dazzle his eyes, and almost to brush the plume in his cap. He looked up— it was the favourite falcon o f Sir Halbert, which, flying around his head, seemed to claim his attention, as that o f a well-known friend. Roland extended his arm, and gave the wellknown whoop, and the falcon instantly settled on his wrist, and began to prune itself, glancing at the youth from time to time an acute and brilliant glance o f its hazel eye, which seemed to ask why he caressed it not with his usual fondness. “ Ah, Diamond !” he said, as if the bird understood him, “ thou and I must be strangers henceforward. M any a gallant stoop have I seen thee make, and many a brave heron strike down; but that is all over, and there is no hawking more for m e.” “ And why not, Master Roland,” said Adam Woodcock the falconer, who came at that instant from behind a few alder bushes which had concealed him from view, “why should there be no more hawking for

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you ? Why, man, what were our life without our sports— thou know’st the jolly old song— A nd rather would Allan in dungeon lie, T h a n live at large w here the falcon cannot fly; A nd Allan would rather lie in Sexton’s pound, T h a n live w here he follow’d not the m erry hawk and h o und.”

T h e voice o f the honest falconer was hearty and friendly, and the tone in which he half sung half recited his rude ballad, implied honest frankness and cordiality. But remembrance o f their quarrel, and its consequences, embarrassed Roland, and prevented his reply. T h e falconer saw his hesitation, and guessed the cause. “What now,” said he, “ M aster Roland? do you, who are half an Englishman, think that I, who am a whole one, would keep up anger at you, and you in distress? That were like some o f the Scots, (my master’s reverence always excepted,) who can be fair and false, and wait their time, and keep their mind, as they say, to themselves, and touch pot and flagon with you, and hunt and hawk with you, and, after all, when time serves, pay o ff some old feud with the point o f the dagger. Canny Yorkshire has no memory for such old sores. Why, man, an you had hit me a rough blow, maybe I would rather have taken it from you, than a rough word from another; for you have a good notion o f falconry, though you stand up for washing the meat for the eyasses. So give us your hand, man, and bear no malice.” Roland, though he felt his proud blood rebel at the familiarity o f honest Adam’s address, could not resist its downright frankness. Covering his face with the one hand, he held out the other to the falconer, and returned with readiness his friendly grasp. “Why, this is hearty now,” said Woodcock; “ I always said you had a kind heart, though you have a spice o f the devil in your disposition, that is certain. I came this way with the falcon on purpose to find you, and yon half-bred lubbard told me which way you took flight. You ever thought too much o f that kestril-kite, Master Roland, and he knows nought o f sport after all, but what he caught from you. I saw how it had been betwixt you, and I sent him out o f my company with a wanion— I would rather have a rifler on my perch than a false knave at my elbow — And now, M aster Roland, tell me what way wing ye?” “ That is as God pleases,” replied the page, with a sigh which he could not suppress. “ Nay, man, never droop a feather for being cast off,” said the falconer; “ who knows but you may soar the better and fairer flight for all this yet— Look at Diamond there, ’tis a noble bird, and shews gallantly with his hood and bells and jesses; but there is many a wild falcon in Norway that would not change properties with him— And

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that is what I would say o f you. You are no longer my lady’s page, and you will not clothe so fair, or feed so well, or sleep so soft, or shew so gallant—What o f all that? if you are not her page, you are your own man, and may go where you will, without minding whoop or whistle. T h e worst is the loss o f the sport, but who knows what you may come to? They say that Sir Halbert himself, I speak with reverence, was once glad to be the Abbot’s forester, and now he has hounds and hawks o f his own, and Adam Woodcock for a falconer to the boot.” “You are right, and say well, Adam,” answered the youth, the blood mantling in his cheeks, “ the falcon will soar higher without his bells than with them, though the bells be made o f silver.” “ That is cheerily spoken,” answered the falconer; “ and whither now?” “ I thought o f going to the Abbey o f Kennaquhair,” answered Roland Græme, “ to ask the counsel o f Father Ambrose.” “ And joy go with you,” said the falconer, “ though it is like you may find the old monks in some sorrow; they say the commons are threat­ ening to turn them out o f their cells, and make a devil’s mass o f it in the old church, thinking they have forborne that sport too long; and troth I am clear o f the same opinion.” “ Then will Father Ambrose be the better o f having a friend beside him !” said the page manfully. “ Ay, but, my young fearnought,” replied the falconer, “ the friend will scarce be the better o f being beside Father Ambrose— he may come by the redder’s lick, and that is ever the worst o f the batde.” “ I care not for that,” said the page, “ the dread o f a lick should not hold me back; but I fear I may bring trouble between the brothers by visiting Father Ambrose. I will tarry to-night at Saint Cuthbert’s cell, where the old priest will give me a night’s shelter; and I will send to Father Ambrose to ask his advice before I go down to the convent.” “ B y our lady,” said the falconer, “ and that is a likely plan— and now,” he continued, exchanging his frankness o f manner for a sort o f awkward embarrassment, as if he had somewhat to say that he had no ready means to bring out— “ and now, you wot well that I wear a pouch for my hawks’ meat, and so forth; but wot you what it is lined with, M aster Roland?” “ With leather, to be sure,” replied Roland, somewhat surprised at the hesitation with which Adam Woodcock asked a question so simple. “ With leather, lad ?” said Woodcock; “ ay, and with silver to the boot o f that. See here,” he said, shewing a secret slit in the lining o f his bag o f office— “ here they are, thirty good Harry groats as ever were struck in bluff old Hall’s time, and ten o f them are right heartily at your

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service; and now the murder is out.” Roland’s first idea was to refuse this assistance; but he recollected the vows o f humility which he had just taken upon him, and it occurred that this was the opportunity to put his new-formed resolu­ tion to the test. Assuming a strong command o f himself, he answered Adam Woodcock with as much frankness as his nature permitted him to wear, in doing what was so contrary to his inclinations, that he accepted thankfully o f his kind offer, while, to sooth his own reviving pride, he could not help adding, “ he hoped soon to requite the obliga­ tion.” “ That as you list— that as you list, young man,” said the falconer, with glee, counting out and delivering to his young friend the supply he had so generously offered, and then adding, with great chearful­ ness,— “ Now you may go through the world; for he that can back a horse, wind a horn, hollow a greyhound, fly a hawk, and play at sword and buckler, with a whole pair o f shoes, a green jacket, and ten lilywhite groats in his pouch, may bid Father Care hang himself in his own jesses. Farewell, and God be with you.” So saying, and as if desirous to avoid the thanks o f his companion, he turned hastily round, and left Roland Græme to pursue his jour­ ney alone.

Chapter Eight T h e sacred tapers’ lights are gone, G rey moss has clad m e altar stone, T h e holy image is o ’erthrown, T h e bell has ceased to toll. T h e long ribb’d aisles are bu rst and sunk, T h e holy shrines to ruin sunk, D eparted is the pious monk, G o d ’s blessing on his soul.

Rediviva T h e C e l l o f Saint Cuthbert, as it was called, marked, or was sup­

posed to mark, one o f those resting-places, which that venerable saint was pleased to assign to his monks, when his convent, being driven from Lindisfern by the Danes, became a peripatetic society o f reli­ gionists; and bearing their patron’s body on their shoulders, trans­ ported him from place to place through Scotland and the borders o f England, until he was pleased at length to spare them the pain o f bearing him farther, and to chuse his ultimate place o f rest in the lordly towers o f Durham. T h e odour o f his sanctity remained behind him at each place where he had granted the monks a transient respite from their labours; and proud were those who could assign, as his

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temporary resting-place, any spot within their vicinity. F ew were more celebrated and honoured than the well-known Cell o f Saint Cuthbert, to which Roland Græme now bent his way, situated considerably to the north-west o f the great Abbey o f Kennaquhair, on which it was dependent. In the neighbourhood were some o f those recommenda­ tions which weighed with the experienced priesthood o f Rome, in chusing their sites for places o f religion. There was a well, possessed o f some medicinal qualities, which, o f course, claimed the saint for its guardian and patron, and occasionally produced some advantage to the recluse who inhabited his cell, since none could reasonably be expected to be benefited by the fountain who did not extend their bounty to the saint’s chaplain. A few roods o f fertile land afforded the monk his plot o f garden ground; an eminence well clothed with trees rose behind the cell, and sheltered it from the north and the east, while the front, opening to the south-west, looked up a wild, but pleasant valley, down which wandered a lively brook, which battled with every stone that interrupted its passage. T h e cell itself was rather plainly than rudely built— a low Gothic building with two small apartments, one o f which served the priest for his dwelling-place, the other for his chapel. As there were few o f the secular clergy who durst venture to reside so near the Border, the assistance o f this monk in spiritual affairs had not been useless to the community, while the Catholic religion retained the ascendancy; as he could marry, christen, and administer the other sacraments o f the Roman church. O f late, however, as the Protestant doctrines gained ground, he had found it convenient to live in close retirement, and to avoid, as much as possible, drawing upon him self observation or animadversion. T h e appearance o f his habitation, however, when Roland Græme came before it in the close o f the evening, plainly shewed that his caution had been finally ineffectual. T h e page’s first movement was to knock at the door, when he observed, to his surprise, that it was open, not from being left unlatched, but because, beat o ff its upper hinge, it was only fastened to the door-post by the lower, and could therefore no longer perform its functions. Somewhat alarmed at this, and receiving no answer when he knocked and called, Roland began to look more at leisure upon the exterior o f the little dwelling, before he ventured to enter it. T h e flowers, which had been trained with care against the walls, seemed to have been recently tom down, and trailed their dishonoured garlands on the earth; the latticed window was broken and dashed in. The garden, which the monk had maintained by his constant labour in the highest order and beauty, bore marks o f having been lately trod down and destroyed by the hoofs o f animals and the feet o f men.

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T h e sainted spring had not escaped. It was wont to arise beneath a canopy o f ribbed arches, with which the devotion o f elder times had secured and protected its healing waters. These arches were now almost entirely demolished, and the stones o f which they were built were tumbled into the well, as if with the purpose o f choking up and destroying the fountain, which, as it had shared in other days the honour o f the saint, was, in the present, doomed to partake his unpopularity. Part o f the roof had been pulled down from the house itself, and an attempt had been made with crows and levers upon one o f the angles, by which several large corner-stones had been forced out o f their place ; but the solidity o f ancient mason-work had proved too great for the time or patience o f the assailants, and they had relinquished their task o f destruction. Such dilapidated buildings, after the lapse o f years during which nature has gradually covered the effects o f violence with creeping plants, and with weather stains, exhibit, amid their decay, a melancholy beauty. But when the visible effects o f violence appear raw and recent, there is no feeling to mitig­ ate the sense o f devastation with which they impress the spectators; and such was now the scene on which the youthful page gazed, with the painful feelings it was qualified to excite. When his first momentary surprise was over, Roland Græme was at no loss to conjecture the cause o f these ravages. T h e destruction o f the Popish edifices did not take place at once throughout Scotland, but at different times, and according to the spirit which actuated the reformed clergy; some o f whom instigated their hearers to these acts o f demolition; and others, with better taste and feeling, endeavoured to protect the ancient shrines, while they desired to see them purified from the objects which had attracted idolatrous devotion. From time to time, therefore, the populace o f the Scottish towns and villages, when instigated either by their own feelings o f abhorrence for Popish superstition, or by the zealous doctrines o f the more zealous preachers, resumed the work o f destruction, and exercised it upon some sequestered church, chapel, or cell, which had escaped the first burst o f their indignation against the religion o f Rome. In many places, the vices o f the Catholic clergy, arising out o f the wealth and the corruption o f that tremendous hierarchy, furnished too good an apology for wreaking vengeance upon the splendid edifices which they inhabited ; and o f this an old Scottish historian gives a remarkable instance. “Why mourn y e !” said an aged matron, seeing the discontent o f some o f the citizens, while a stately convent was burned by the multi­ tude, “ why mourn ye for its destruction ? I f you knew half the flagitious wickedness which has been perpetrated within that house, you would

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ra th e r b le s s th e d iv in e ju d g m e n t, w h ic h p e rm its n o t e v e n th e s e n s e le s s w a lls w h ic h s c r e e n e d s u c h p ro flig a c y , a n y lo n g e r to c u m b e r C h ristian g r o u n d .”

But although, in many instances, the destruction o f the Roman Catholic buildings might be, in the matron’s way o f judging, an act o f justice, and in others an act o f policy, there is no doubt that the humour o f demolishing monuments o f ancient piety and munificence, and that in a poor country like Scotland, where there was no chance o f their being replaced, was both useless, mischievous, and barbarous. In the present instance, the unpretending and quiet seclusion o f the monk o f Saint Cuthbert’s had hitherto saved him from the general wreck; but it would seem ruin had now at length reached him. Anxious to discover if he had at least escaped personal harm, Roland Græme now entered the half-ruined cell. T h e interior o f the building was in a state which fully justified the opinion he had formed from its external injuries. T h e few rude uten­ sils o f the solitary’s hut were broken down and lay scattered on the floor, where it seemed as if a fire had been made with some o f the fragments to destroy the rest o f his property, and to consume, in particular, the rude old image o f Saint Cuthbert, in its episcopal habit, which lay on the hearth like Dagon o f yore, shattered with the axe and scorched with the flames, but only partially destroyed. In the little apartment which served as a chapel, the altar was overthrown, and the four huge stones o f which it had been once composed lay scattered around the floor. T h e large stone crucifix which occupied the niche behind the altar, and fronted the supplicant while he paid his devotion there, had been pulled down, and dashed by its own weight into three fragments. There were marks o f sledge-hammers on each o f these; yet the image had been saved from utter demolition by the size and strength o f the remaining fragments, which, though much injured, retained enough o f the original sculpture to shew what it had been intended to represent. Roland Græme, secretly nursed in the tenets o f Rome, saw with horror the profanation o f the most sacred emblem, according to his creed, o f our holy religion. “ It is the badge o f our redemption,” he said, “ which the felons have dared to violate— would to God my weak strength were able to replace it— my humble strength to atone for the sacrilege !” He stooped to the task he first meditated, and with a sudden, and to himself almost an incredible exertion o f power, he lifted up the one extremity o f the lower shaft o f the cross, and rested it upon the edge o f the large stone which served for its pedestal. Encouraged by this success, he applied his force to the other extremity, and, to his own

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astonishment, succeeded so far as to erect the lower end o f the limb into the socket, out o f which it had been forced, and to place this fragment o f the image upright. While he was employed in this labour, or rather at the very moment when he had accomplished the elevation o f the fragment, a voice, in thrilling and well-known accents, spoke behind him these words :— “Well done, thou good and faithful servant ! Thus would I again meet the child o f my love— the hope o f my aged eyes.” Roland turned round in astonishment, and the tall commanding form o f Magdalen Græme stood beside him. She was arrayed in a sort o f loose habit, in form like that worn by penitents in Catholic coun­ tries, but black in colour, and approaching as near to a pilgrim’s cloak as it was safe to wear in a country where the suspicion o f Catholic devotion in many places endangered the safety o f those who were suspected o f attachment to the ancient faith. Roland Græme threw himself at her feet. She raised and embraced him with affection indeed, but not unmixed with a gravity which amounted almost to sternness. “ Thou hast kept well,” she said, “ the bird in thy bosom. As a boy, as a youth, thou hast held fast thy faith amongst heretics— thou hast kept thy secret and mine own amongst thine enemies. I wept when I parted from you— I, who seldom weep, then shed tears, less for thy death than for thy spiritual danger— I dared not even see thee to bid thee a last farewell— my grief, my swelling grief had betrayed me to these heretics. But thou hast been faithful— down, down on thy knees before the holy sign, which ill men injure and blaspheme; down, and praise saints and angels for the grace they have done thee, in preserv­ ing thee from the leprous plague which cleaves to the house in which thou wert nurtured.” “ If, my mother— so I must ever call you,” replied Græme,— “ if I am returned such as thou wouldst wish me, thou must thank the care o f the pious father Ambrose, whose instructions confirmed your early precepts, and taught me at once to be faithful and to be silent.” “ Be he blessed for it !” said she, “ blessed in the cell and in the field, in the pulpit and at the altar— the saints rain blessings on him !— they are just, and employ his pious care to counteract the evils which his detested brother works against the realm and the church,— but he knew not o f thy lineage ?” “ I could not tell him that myself,” answered Roland. “ I knew but darkly from your words, that Sir Halbert Glendinning holds mine inheritance, and that I am o f blood as noble as runs in the veins o f any Scottish Baron— these are things not to be forgotten, but for the explanation I must now look to you.”

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“ And when time suits thou shalt not ask for it in vain. But men say, my son, that thou art bold and sudden; and those who bear such tempers are not lightly to be trusted with what will strongly move them.” “ Say rather, my mother,” returned Roland Græme, “ that I am laggard and cold-blooded— what patience or endurance can you require o f which he is not capable, who for years has heard his religion ridiculed and insulted, yet failed to plunge his dagger in the blas­ phemer’s bosom !” “ Be contented, my child,” replied Magdalen Græ m e; “ the time, which then and even now demands patience, will soon ripen to that o f effort and action— great events are on the wing, and thou— thou shalt have thy share in advancing them. Thou hast relinquished the service o f the Lady o f Avenel?” “ I have been dismissed from it, my mother— I have lived to be dismissed, as if I were the meanest o f the train.” “ It is the better, my child,” replied she; “ thy mind will be the more hardened to undertake that which must be performed.” “ L et it be nothing, then, against the Lady o f Avenel,” said the page, “ as thy look and words seem to imply. I have eaten her bread— I have experienced her favour— I will neither injure nor betray her.” “ O f that hereafter, my son,” said she ; “ but learn this, that it is not for thee to capitulate in thy duty, and to say this will I do, and that will I leave undone— No, Roland ! God and man will no longer abide the wickedness o f this generation.— Seest thou these fragments— knowest thou what they represent?— and canst thou think it is for thee to make distinctions amongst a race so accursed by heaven, that they renounce, violate, blaspheme, and destroy whatsoever we are com­ manded to believe in, whatsoever we are commanded to reverence ?” As she spoke, she bent her head towards the broken image, with a countenance in which strong resentment and zeal were mingled with an expression o f ecstatic devotion; she raised her left hand aloft as in the act o f making a vow, and thus proceeded : “ Bear witness for me, holy saint, within whose violated temple we stand, that as it is not for vengeance o f my own that my hate pursues these people, so neither for any favour or earthly affection towards any amongst them, will I with­ draw my hand from the plough, when it shall pass over the devoted furrow ! Bear witness, holy saint, once thyself a wanderer and fugitive as we are now— bear witness, Mother o f Mercy, Queen o f Heaven— bear witness, saints and angels !” In this high strain o f enthusiasm, she stood, raising her eyes through the fractured roof o f the vault, to the stars which now began to twinkle through the pale twilight, while the long grey tresses which

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hung down over her shoulders waved in the night-breeze, which the chasm and fractured windows admitted freely. Roland Græme was too much awed by early habits, as well as by the mysterious import o f her words, to ask for further explanation o f the purpose she obscurely hinted at. N or did she farther press him on the subject; for, having concluded her prayer or obtestation, by clasping her hands together with solemnity, and then signing herself with the cross, she again addressed her grandson, in a tone more adapted to the ordinary business o f life. “ Thou must hence,” she said, “ Roland, thou must hence, but not till morning— And now, how wilt thou shift for thy night’s quarters?— thou hast been more softly bred than when we were companions in the misty hills o f Cumberland and Liddesdale.” “ I have at least preserved, my good mother, the habits which I then learned— can lie hard, and think it no hardship. Since I have been a wanderer I have been a hunter, and fisher, and fowler; and each o f these is accustomed to sleep freely in a worse shelter than sacrilege has left us here.” “ Than sacrilege has left us h ere!” said the matron, repeating his words, and pausing on them. “ M ost true, my son; and G od’s faithful children are now worst sheltered, when they lodge in G od’s own house and the demesne o f his blessed saints. We shall sleep cold here, under the night-wind, which whistles through the breaches which heresy has made. They shall lie warmer who made them— ay, and through a long hereafter.” Notwithstanding the wild and singular expressions o f this female, she seemed to retain towards Roland Græme, in a strong degree, that affectionate and sedulous love which women bear to their nurslings and the children dependent on their care. It seemed as if she would not permit him to do aught for himself which in former days her attention had been used to do for him, and that she considered the tall stripling before her as being equally dependent on her careful atten­ tion as when he was the orphan child, who had owed all to her affec­ tionate solicitude. “What hast thou to eat now?” she said, as, leaving the Chapel, they went into the deserted habitation o f the priest; “ or what means o f kindling a fire, to defend thee from this raw and inclement air? Poor child! thou hast made slight provision for a long journey; nor hast thou skill to help thyself by wit, when means are scanty. But Our Lady has placed by thy side one to whom want, in all its forms, is as familiar as plenty and splendour have formerly been. And with want, Roland, come the arts o f which she is the inventor.” With an active and officious diligence, which strangely contrasted

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with her late abstracted and high tone o f Catholic devotion, she set about her domestic arrangements for the evening. A pouch, which was hidden under her garment, produced a flint and steel, and from the scattered fragments around (those pertaining to the image o f Saint Cuthbert scrupulously excepted) she obtained splinters sufficient to raise a sparkling and cheerful fire on the hearth o f the deserted cell. “ And now,” she said, “ for needful food.” “ Think not o f it, mother,” said Roland, “ unless you yourself feel hunger. It is a little thing for me to endure a night’s abstinence, and a small atonement for the necessary transgression o f the rules o f the Church, upon which I was compelled during my stay in the castle.” “ Hunger for m yself!” answered the matron— “ Know, youth, that a mother knows not hunger till that o f her child is satisfied.” And with affectionate inconsistence, totally different from her usual manner, she added, “ Roland, you must not fast; you have dispensation; you are young, and to youth food and sleep are necessaries not to be dispensed with. Husband your strength, my child,— your sovereign, your reli­ gion, your country, require it. Let age macerate by fast and vigil a body which can only suffer; let youth, in these active times, nourish the limbs and the strength which action requires.” While she thus spoke, the scrip, which had produced the means o f striking fire, furnished provision for a meal; o f which she herself scarce partook, but anxiously watched her charge, taking a pleasure, resembling that o f an epicure, in each morsel which he swallowed, with a youthful appetite which abstinence had rendered unusually sharp. Roland readily obeyed her recommendations, and eat the food which she so affectionately and earnestly placed before him. But she shook her head when invited by him in return to partake o f the refreshment her own cares had furnished; and when his solicitude became more pressing, she refused him in a loftier tone o f rejection. “ Young man,” she said, “you know not to whom, or o f what, you speak. Th ey to whom Heaven declares its purpose must merit its communication by mortifying the senses; they have that within which requires not the superfluity o f earthly nutriment, which is necessary to those who are without the sphere o f the Vision. T o them the watch spent in prayer is a refreshing slumber, and the sense o f doing the will o f Heaven is a richer banquet than the tables o f monarchs can spread before them!— But do thou sleep soft, my son,” she said, relapsing from the tone o f fanaticism into that o f maternal affection and tender­ ness ;— “ do thou sleep sound while life is but young with thee, and the cares o f the day can be drowned in the slumbers o f the evening. Different is thy duty and mine, and as different the means by which we must qualify and strengthen ourselves to perform it— from thee is

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demanded strength o f body, from me strength o f soul.” When she thus spoke, she prepared with ready address a palletcouch, composed partly o f the dried leaves which had once furnished a bed to the solitary, and the guests who occasionally received his hospitality, and which, neglected by the destroyers o f his humble cell, had remained little disturbed in the com er allotted for them. T o these her care added some o f the vestures which lay tom and scattered on the floor. With a jealous hand she selected all such as appeared to have made any part o f the sacerdotal vestments, laying them aside as sacred from ordinary purposes, and with the rest she made, with dexterous promptness, such a bed as a weary man might willingly stretch himself on; and during the time she was preparing it, rejected, even with acrimony, any attempt which the youth made to assist her, or any entreaty which he urged that she would accept o f the place o f rest for her own use. “ Sleep thou,” said she, “ Roland Græme— sleep thou — the persecuted, the disinherited, orphan— the son o f an ill-fated mother— sleep thou— I go to pray in the Chapel beside thee.” H er manner was too enthusiastically earnest, too obstinately firm, to permit Roland Græme to dispute her will any further. Yet he felt some shame in giving way to it. It seemed as if she had forgotten the years that had passed away since their parting; and expected to meet in the tall, indulged, and wilful youth, whom she had recovered, the passive obedience o f the child whom she had left in the Castle o f Avenel. This did not fail to hurt her grandson’s characteristic and constitutional pride. He obeyed indeed, awed into submission by the sudden recurrence o f former subordination, and by feelings o f affec­ tion and gratitude. Still, however, he felt the yoke. “ Have I relinquished the hawk and the hound,” he said, “ to become the pupil o f her pleasure, as if I were still a child? I, whom even my envious mates allowed to be superior in those exercises which they took most pains to acquire, and which came to me as if a knowledge o f them had been my birthright? This may not, and must not be— I will be no reclaimed sparrow-hawk, who is carried hooded on a woman’s wrist, and has his quarry only shewn to him when his eyes are uncovered for his flight. I will know her purpose ere it is proposed to me to aid it.” These, and other thoughts, streamed through the mind o f Roland Græme; and although wearied with the fatigues o f the day, it was long ere he could compose him self to rest.

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Chapter n ine K neel with m e— swear it— ’tis not in w ords I trust, Save w hen they’re fenced with an appeal to H eaven. O ld P lay f t e r p a s s i n g the night in that sound sleep for which agitation and fatigue had prepared him, Roland was awakened by the fresh morning air, and by the beams o f the rising sun. His first feeling was that o f surprise; for, instead o f looking forth from a turret window on the waters o f the Lake o f Avenel, which was the prospect his former apartment afforded, an unlatticed aperture gave him the view o f the demolished garden o f the banished anchorite. He sate up on his couch o f leaves, and arranged in his memory, not without surprise, the singular events o f the preceding day, which appeared the more sur­ prising the more he considered them. He had lost the protectress o f his youth, and, in the same day, he had recovered the guide and guardian o f his childhood. T h e former deprivation he felt ought to be matter o f unceasing regret, and it seemed as if the latter could hardly be the subject o f unmixed self-congratulation. He remembered this person who had stood to him in the relation o f a mother, as equally affectionate in her attention, and absolute in her authority. A singular mixture o f love and fear attended upon his early remembrances as they were connected with h er; and the fear that she might desire to resume the same absolute controul over his motions— a fear which her conduct o f yesterday did not tend much to dissipate, weighed heavily against the joy o f this second meeting. She cannot mean, said his rising pride, to lead and direct me as a pupil, when I am at the age o f judging o f my own actions?— this she cannot mean, or, meaning it, will feel herself strangely deceived. A sense o f gratitude towards the person against whom his heart thus rebelled, checked his course o f feeling. He resisted the thoughts which involuntarily arose in his mind, as he would have resisted an actual instigation o f the foul fiend; and, to aid him in his struggle, he felt for his beads. But, in his hasty departure from the Castle o f Avenel, he had forgotten and left them behind him. This is yet worse, he said; but two things I learned o f her under the most deadly charge o f secrecy— to tell my beads, and to conceal that I did so; and I have kept my word till now, and when she shall ask me for the rosary, I must say I have forgotten it. D o I deserve she should believe me when I say I have kept the secret o f my faith, when I set so light by its symbol?

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He paced the floor in anxious agitation. In fact, his attachment to his faith was o f a nature very different from that which animated the enthusiastic matron, but which, notwithstanding, it would have been his last thought to relinquish. T h e early charges impressed on him by his grandmother, had been instilled into a mind and memory o f a character peculiarly tenacious. Child as he was, he was proud o f the confidence reposed in his discretion, and resolved to shew that it had not been rashly entrusted to him. At the same time, his resolution was no more than that o f a child, and must, necessarily, have gradually faded away under the operation both o f precept and example, during his residence at the Castle o f Avenel, but for the exhortations o f Father Ambrose, who, in his lay state, had been called Edward Glendinning. This zealous monk had been apprized, by an unsigned letter placed in his hand by a pilgrim, that a child educated in the Catholic faith was now in the Castle o f Avenel, perilously situated, (so was the scroll expressed,) as ever the three children who were cast into the fiery furnace o f perse­ cution. T h e letter threw upon Father Ambrose the fault, should this solitary lamb, unwillingly left within the demesnes o f the prowling wolf, become his final prey. There needed no farther exhortation to the monk than the idea that a soul might be endangered, and that a Catholic might become an apostate; and he made his visits more frequent than usual to the Castle o f Avenel, lest, through want o f the private encouragement and instruction which he always found some opportunity o f dispensing, the church should lose a proselyte, and, according to the Romish creed, the devil acquire a soul. Still these interviews were rare; and though they encouraged the solitary boy to keep his secret and hold fast his religion, they were neither frequent nor long enough to inspire him with any thing bey­ ond a blind attachment to the observances which the priest recom­ mended. He adhered to the forms o f his religion rather because he felt it would be dishonourable to change that o f his fathers, than from any rational or sincere belief o f its mysterious doctrines. It was a principal part o f the distinction which, in his own opinion, singled him out from those with whom he lived, and gave him an additional, though an internal and concealed reason, for contemning those o f the household who shewed an undisguised dislike o f him, and for hardening himself against the instructions o f the chaplain, Henry Warden. T h e fanatic preacher, he thought within himself, during some one o f the chaplain’s frequent discourses against the Church o f Rome, he little knows whose ears are receiving his profane doctrine, and with what contempt and abhorrence they hear his blasphemies against the

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holy religion by which kings have been crowned, and for which mar­ tyrs have died. But in such proud feelings o f defiance o f heresy, as it was termed, and o f its professors, which associated the Catholic religion with a sense o f generous independence, and that o f the Protestants with the subjugation o f his mind and temper to the direction o f M r Warden, began and ended the faith o f Roland Græme, who, independently o f the pride o f singularity, sought not to understand, and had no one to expound to him, the peculiarities o f the tenets which he professed. His regret, therefore, at missing the rosary which had been conveyed to him through the hands o f Father Ambrose, was rather the shame o f a soldier who has dropped his cockade, or badge o f service, than that o f a religionist who had forgotten a visible symbol o f his religion. His thoughts on the subject, however, were mortifying, and the more so from apprehension that his negligence must reach the ears o f his relative. He felt it could be no one but her who had secretly transmitted these beads to Father Ambrose for his use, and that his carelessness was but an indifferent requital o f her kindness. Nor will she omit to ask me about them, said he to him self; for her’s is a zeal which age cannot quell; and if she has not quitted her wont, my answer will not fail to incense her. While he thus communed with himself, Magdalen Græme entered the apartment. “ T h e blessing o f the morning on your youthful head, my son,” she said, with a solemnity o f expression which thrilled the youth to the heart, so sad and earnest did the benediction flow from her lips, in a tone where devotion was blended with affection. “ And thou hast started thus early from thy couch to catch the first breath o f the dawn? But it is not well, my Roland. Enjoy slumber while thou canst; the time is not far behind when the waking eye must be thy portion, as well as mine.” She uttered these words with an affectionate and anxious tone, which shewed, that devotional as were the habitual exercises o f her mind, the thoughts o f her nursling yet bound her to earth with the cords o f human affection and passion. But she abode not long in a mood which she probably regarded as a momentary dereliction o f her imaginary high calling— “ Com e,” she said, “youth, up and be doing— It is time that we leave this place.” “ And whither do we go ?” said the young man; “ or what is the object o f our journey?” T h e matron stepped back, and gazed on him with surprise, not unmingled with displeasure. “ T o what purpose such a question ?” she said; “ is it not enough that I lead the way? Hast thou lived with heretics till thou hast learned to

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instal the vanity o f thine own private judgment in place o f due honour and obedience?” T h e time, thought Roland Græme within himself, is already come, when I must establish my freedom, or be a willing thrall for ever— I feel that I must speedily look to it. She instantly fulfilled his foreboding, by recurring to the theme by which her thoughts seemed most constantly engrossed, although, when she pleased, no one could so perfectly disguise her religion. “ T h y beads, my son— hast thou told thy beads ?” Roland Græme coloured high; he felt the storm was approaching, but scorned to avert it by a falsehood. “ I have forgot my rosary at the Castle o f Avenel.” “ Forgot thy rosary!” exclaimed sh e; “ false both to religion and to natural duty, hast thou lost what was sent so far, and at such risk, a token o f the truest affection, that should have been, every bead o f it, as dear to thee as thine eye-balls?” “ I am grieved it should have so chanced, mother,” said the youth, “ and much did I value the token, as coming from you— for what remains, I trust to win gold enough, when I push my way in the world; and till then, beads o f black oak, or a rosary o f nuts, must serve the turn.” “ Hear him !” said his grandmother; “young as he is, he hath learned already the lessons o f the devil’s school ! T h e rosary, consec­ rated by the Holy Father himself, and sanctified by his blessings, is but a few knobs o f gold, whose value may be replaced by the wages o f his profane labour, and whose virtue may be supplied by a string o f hazel nuts !— This is heresy— So Henry Warden, the w olf who ravages the flock o f the Shepherd, hath taught thee to speak and to think.” “ M other,” said Roland Græme, “ I am no heretic; I believe and I pray according to the rules o f our church— This misfortune I regret, but I cannot amend it.” “ Thou canst repent it though,” replied his spiritual directress, “ repent it in dust and ashes, atone for it by fasting, prayer, and pen­ ance, instead o f looking on me with a countenance as light as if thou hadst lost but a button from thy cap.” “ M other,” said Roland, “ be appeased; I will remember my fault in the next confession which I have space and opportunity to make, and will do whatsoever the priest requires o f me in atonement. For the heaviest fault I can do no more— But, mother,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “ let me not incur your farther displeasure, if I ask whither our journey is bound, and what is its object. I am no longer a child, but a man, and at my own disposal, with down upon my chin, and a sword by my side— I will go to the end o f the world with you to

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do your pleasure; but I owe it to myself to enquire the purpose and direction o f our travels.” “ You owe it to yourself, ungrateful boy?” replied his relative, pas­ sion rapidly supplying the colour which age had long chased from her features,— “ to yourself you owe nothing—you can owe nothing— to me you owe every thing—your life when an infant—your support while a child— the means o f instruction, and the hopes o f honour— and, sooner than thou shouldst abandon the noble cause to which I have devoted thee, would I see thee lie a corpse at my feet.” Roland was alarmed at the vehement agitation with which she spoke, and which threatened to overpower her aged frame; and he hastened to reply,— “ I forget nothing o f what I owe to you, my dearest mother— shew me how my blood can testify my gratitude, and you shall judge if I spare it. But blindfold obedience has in it as little merit as reason.” “ Saints and angels !” replied Magdalen, “ and do I hear these words from the child o f my hopes, the nursling by whose bed I have kneeled, and for whose weal I have wearied every saint in heaven with prayers ? Roland, by obedience only canst thou shew thy affection and thy gratitude. What avails it that you might perchance adopt the course I propose to thee, were it to be fully explained? Thou wouldst not then follow my command, but thine own judgment; thou wouldst not do the will o f Heaven, communicated through thy best friend, to whom thou owest thine all; but thou wouldst observe the blinded dictates o f thine own imperfect reason. Hear me, Roland! a lot calls thee— solicits thee—demands thee— the proudest to which man can be des­ tined, and it uses the voice o f thine earliest, thy best, thy only friend— Wilt thou resist it? Then go thy way— leave me here— my hopes on earth are gone and withered— I will kneel me down before yonder profaned altar, and when the raging heretics return, they shall dye it with the blood o f a martyr.” “ But, my dearest mother,” said Roland Græme, whose early recol­ lections o f her violence were formidably renewed by these wild expressions o f reckless passion, “ I will not forsake you— I will abide with you— worlds shall not force me from your side— I will protect— I will defend you— I will live with you, and die for you.” “ One word, my son, were worth all these— say only I will obey you.” “ Doubt it not, mother,” replied the youth, “ I will, and that with all my heart; only”— “ Nay, I receive no qualifications o f thy promise,” said Magdalen Græme, catching at the word, “ the obedience which I require is absolute; and blessing on thee, thou darling memory o f my beloved child, that thou hast power to make a promise so hard to human pride.

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Trust me well, that in the design in which thou doest embark, thou hast for thy partners the mighty and the valiant, the power o f the church, and the pride o f the noble. Succeed or fail, live or die, thy name shall be among those with whom success or failure is alike glorious, death or life alike desirous. Forward, then, forward! life is short, and our plan is laborious— Angels, saints, and the whole blessed host o f heaven, have their eyes even now on this barren and blighted land o f Scotland— What say I ? on Scotland ?— their eye is on us, Roland— on the frail woman, on the inexperienced youth, who, amidst the ruins which sacrilege hath made in the holy place, devote themselves to G od ’s cause, and that o f their lawful Sovereign. Amen, so be it! T h e blessed eyes o f saints and martyrs, which see our resolve, shall witness the execution; or their ears, which hear our vow, shall hear our death-groan drawn in the sacred cause.” While thus speaking, she held Roland Græme firmly with one hand, while she pointed upward with the other, to leave him, as it were, no means o f protest against the obtestation to which he was thus made a party. When she had finished her appeal to Heaven, she left him no leisure for farther hesitation, or for asking any explanation o f her purpose; but passing with the same ready transition as formerly, to the solicitous attentions o f an anxious parent, overwhelmed him with questions concerning his residence in the Castle o f Avenel, and the qualities and accomplishments he had acquired. “ It is well,” she said, when she had exhausted her enquiries, “ my gay goss-hawk hath been well trained, and will soar high; but those who bred him will have cause to fear as well as to wonder at his flight. L et us now,” she said, “ to our morning meal, and care not though it be a scanty one. A few hours walk will bring us to more friendly quar­ ters.” They broke their fast accordingly, on such fragments as remained o f their yesterday’s provision, and immediately set out on their farther journey. Magdalen Græme led the way, with a firm and active step much beyond her years, and Roland Græme followed, pensive and anxious, and far from satisfied with the state o f dependence to which he seemed again to be reduced. Am I for ever, he said to himself, to be devoured with the desire o f independence and free agency, and yet to be for ever led on, by circumstances, to follow the will o f others?

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Chapter Ten She dwelt unnoticed and alone, Beside the springs o f D o v e; A maid w hom there w ere none to praise, A nd very few to love. W ordsw orth

I n t h e c o u r s e o f their journey the travellers spoke little to each other. Magdalen Græme chaunted, from time to time, in a low voice, a part o f some one o f those beautiful old Latin hymns which belong to the Catholic service, muttered an Ave or a Credo, and so passed on, lost in devotional contemplation. T h e meditations o f her grandson were more bent on mundane matters; and many a time, as a moorfowl arose from the heath, and shot along the moor, uttering his bold crow o f defiance, he thought o f the jolly Adam Woodcock, and his trusty goss-hawk; or, as they passed a thicket where the low trees and bushes were intermingled with tall fern, furze, and broom, so as to form a thick and intricate cover, his dreams were o f a roe-buck and a brace o f gaze-hounds. But frequently his mind returned to the bene­ volent and kind mistress whom he had left behind him, offended justly, and unreconciled by any effort o f his. M y step would be lighter, he thought, and so would my heart, could I but have returned to see her for one instant, and to say, Lady, the orphan-boy was wild, but not ungrateful. Travelling in these divers moods, about the hour o f noon they reached a small straggling village, in which, as usual, were seen one or two o f those predominating towers, or peel-houses, which, for reasons o f defence elsewhere detailed, were at that time to be found in every Border hamlet. A brook flowed beside the village, and watered the valley in which it stood. There was also a mansion at the end o f the village, and a little way separated from it, much dilapid­ ated, and in very bad order, but appearing to have been the abode o f persons o f some consideration. T h e situation was agreeable, being an angle formed by the stream, bearing three or four large sycamore trees, which, being in full leaf, served to relieve the dark appearance o f the mansion, which was built o f a deep red stone. T h e house itself had been a large one, but was now obviously too big for the inmates; several windows were built up, especially those which opened from the lower storey; others were blockaded in a less substantial manner. T h e court before the door, which had once been defended with a species o f low outer-wall, now ruinous, was paved, but the stones were completely covered with long grey nettles, thistles, and other

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weeds, which, shooting up betwixt the flags, had displaced many o f them from their level. Even matters demanding more peremptory attention had been left neglected, in a manner which argued sloth or poverty in the extreme. The stream, undermining a part o f the bank near an angle o f the ruinous wall, had brought it down, with a com er turret, the ruins o f which lay in the bed o f the river. T h e current, interrupted by the ruins which it had overthrown, and turned yet nearer to the site o f the tower, had greatly enlarged the breach it had made, and was in the process o f undermining the ground on which the house itself stood, unless it were speedily protected by sufficient bulwarks. All this attracted Roland Græm e’s observation as they approached the dwelling by a winding path, which gave them, at intervals, a view o f it from different points. “ I f we go to yonder house,” he said to his grandmother, “ I trust it is but for a short visit. It looks as if two rainy days from the north-west would send the whole into the brook.” “ You see but with the eyes o f the body,” said the old woman; “ God will defend his own, though it be forsaken and despised o f men. Better to dwell on the sand, under his law, than fly to the rock o f human trust.” As she thus spoke, they entered the court before the old mansion, and Roland could observe that the front o f it had formerly been considerably ornamented with carved work, in the same dark-col­ oured freestone o f which it was built. But all these ornaments had been broken down and destroyed, and only the shattered vestiges o f niches and entablatures now strewed the place which they had once occupied. T h e larger entrance in front was walled up, but a little foot­ path, which, from its appearance, seemed to be rarely trodden, led to a small wicket, defended by a door well clenched with iron-headed nails, at which Magdalen Græme knocked three times, pausing betwixt each knock, until she heard an answering tap from within. At the last knock, the wicket was opened by a pale thin female, who said, “Benedicti qui veniunt in nomine Domini.” They entered, and the port­ ress hastily shut behind them the wicket, and made fast the massive fastenings by which it was secured. Th e female led the way through a narrow entrance, into a vestibule o f some extent, paved with stone, and having benches o f the same solid material ranged around. At the upper end was an oriel window, but part o f the intervals formed by the stone shafts and mullions was blocked up, so that the apartment was very gloomy. Here they stopped, and the mistress o f the mansion, for such she was, embraced Magdalen Græme, and greeting her by the title o f

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sister, kissed her, with much solemnity, on either side o f the face. “ T h e blessing o f Our Lady be upon you, my sister,” were her next words; and they left no doubt upon Roland’s mind respecting the religion o f their hostess, even if he could have suspected his venerable and zealous guide o f resting elsewhere than in the habitation o f an orthodox Catholic. T h ey spoke together a few words in private, during which he had leisure to remark more particularly the appearance o f his grandmother’s friend. H er age might be betwixt fifty and sixty; her looks had a mixture o f melancholy and unhappiness, that bordered on discontent, and obscured the remains o f beauty which age had still left on her features. H er dress was o f the plainest and most ordinary sort, o f a dark colour, and, like Magdalen G ræme’s, something approaching to a religious habit. Strict neatness, and cleanliness o f person, seemed to intimate, that if poor, she was not reduced to squalid or heart-broken distress, and that she was still sufficiently attached to life to retain a taste for its decencies, if not its elegancies. H er manner, as well as her features and appearance, argued an original condition and education far above the meanness o f her present appearance. In short, the whole figure was such as to excite the idea, “ That female must have had a history worth knowing.” While Roland Græme was making this very reflec­ tion, the whispers o f the two females ceased, and the mistress o f the mansion approaching him, looked on his face and person with much attention, and, as it seemed, some interest. “ This, then,” she said, addressing his relative, “ is the child o f thine unhappy daughter, M agdalen; and him, the only shoot from your ancient tree, you are willing to devote to the Good Cause.” “ Yes, by the rood,” answered Magdalen Græme in her usual tone o f resolved determination, “ to the good cause I devote him, flesh and fell, sinew and limb, body and soul.” “ Thou art a happy woman, sister M agdalen,” answered her com­ panion, “ that, lifted so high above human affection and human feel­ ing, thou canst bind such a victim to the horns o f the altar. Had I been called to make such sacrifice— to plunge a youth so young and fair into the plots and blood-thirsty dealings o f the time, not the patriarch Abraham, when he led Isaac up the mountain, would have rendered more melancholy obedience.” She then continued to look at Roland with a mournful aspect o f compassion, until the intentness o f her gaze occasioned his colour to rise, and he was about to move out o f its influence, when he was stopped by his grandmother with one hand, while with the other she divided the hair upon his forehead, which was now crimson with bashfulness, while she added, with a mixture o f proud affection and

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firm resolution,— “ Ay, look at him well, my sister, for on a fairer face thine eye never rested. I too, when first I saw him, felt as the worldly feel, and was half shaken in my purpose. But no wind can tear a leaf from the withered tree which has long been stripped o f its foliage, and no mere human casualty can awaken the mortal feelings which have long slept in the calm o f devotion.” While the old woman thus spoke, her manner gave the lie to her assertions, for the tears rose to her eyes while she added, “ But the fairer and the more spotless the victim, is it not, my sister, the more worthy o f acceptance?” She seemed glad to escape from the sensa­ tions which agitated her, and instantly added, “ He will escape, my sister— there will be a ram caught in the thicket, and the hand o f our revolted brethren shall not be on the youthful Joseph. Heaven can defend its own rights, even by means o f babes and sucklings, o f women and beardless boys.” “ Heaven hath left us,” said the other female ; “ for our sins and our fathers’ the succours o f the blessed saints have abandoned this accur­ sed land. We may win the crown o f martyrdom, but not that o f earthly triumph. One, too, whose prudence was at this deep crisis so indis­ pensible, has been called to a better world. T h e Abbot Eustatius is no more.” “ M ay his soul have mercy,” said Magdalen Graeme, “ and may Heaven, too, have mercy upon us, who linger behind in this bloody land! His loss is indeed a perilous blow to our enterprize; for who remains behind possessing his far-fetched experience, his selfdevoted zeal, his consummate wisdom, and his undaunted courage ! H e hath fallen with the church’s standard in his hand, but God will raise up another to lift the blessed banner. Whom have the Chapter elected in his room?” “ It is rumoured no one o f the few remaining brethren dare accept the office. T h e heretics have sworn that they will permit no future election, and will heavily punish any attempt to create a new Abbot o f Saint M ary’s. Conjuraverunt inter se principes, dicentes, Projiciamus laqueos ejus.” “Quo usque Domine— ” answered M agdalen; “ this, my sister, were indeed a perilous and fatal breach in our band; but I am firm in my belief, that another will arise in the place o f him so untimely removed. Where is thy daughter Catherine?” “ In the parlour,” answered the matron, “ but— — ” She looked at Roland Græme, and muttered something in the ear o f her friend. “ Fear it not,” answered Magdalen Græme, “ it is both lawful and necessary— fear nothing from him— I would he were as well grounded in the faith by which alone comes safety, as he is free from

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thought, deed, or speech o f villainy— therein is the heretics’ discipline to be commended, my sister, that they train up their youth in strong morality, and choak up every inlet to youthful folly.” “ It is but a cleansing o f the outside o f the cup,” answered her friend, “ a whitening o f the sepulchre; but he shall see Catherine, since you, sister, judge it safe and meet.— Follow us, youth,” she added, and led the way from the apartment with her friend. These were the only words which the matron had addressed to Roland Græme, who obeyed them in silence. As they paced through several winding pas­ sages and waste apartments with a very slow step, the young page had leisure to make some reflections on his situation,— reflections o f a nature which his ardent temper considered as specially disagreeable. It seemed he had now got two mistresses, or tutoresses, instead o f one, both elderly women, and both, it would seem, in league to direct his motions according to their own pleasure, and for the accomplishment o f plans to which he was no party. This, he thought, was too m uch; arguing reasonably enough, that whatever right his grandmother and benefactress had to guide his motions, she was neither entitled to transfer her authority, or to divide it with another, who seemed to assume, without ceremony, the same tone o f absolute command over him. But it shall not long continue thus, thought Roland; I will not be all my life the slave o f a woman’s whistle, to live upon her exhibition, go when she bids, and come when she calls. No, by Saint Andrew! the hand that can hold the lance is above the controul o f the distaff. I will leave them the slip’d collar in their hands on the first opportunity, and let them execute their own devices by their own proper force. It may save them both from a peril, for I guess what they meditate is not like to prove either safe or easy— the Earl o f Moray and his heresy are too well rooted to be grubbed up by two old women. As he thought thus, they entered a low room, in which a third female was seated. This apartment was the first he had observed in the mansion which was furnished with moveable seats, and with a wooden table, over which was laid a piece o f tapestry. A carpet was spread on the floor, there was a fire-grate in the chimney, and, in brief, the apartment had the air o f being habitable and inhabited. But Roland’s eyes found better employment than to make observa­ tions on the accommodations o f the cham ber; for this second female inhabitant o f the mansion seemed something very different from any thing he had yet seen there. At his first entry, she had greeted with a silent and low obeisance the two aged matrons, then glancing her eyes towards Roland, she adjusted a veil which hung back over her shoul­ ders, so as to bring it over her face; an operation which she performed

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with much modesty, but without either affected haste or embarrassed timidity. During this manœuvre Roland had time to observe, that the face was that o f a girl not much past sixteen apparently, and that the eyes were at once soft and brilliant. T o these very favourable observations was added the certainty, that the fair object to whom they referred possessed an excellent shape, bordering perhaps on embonpoint, and therefore rather that o f a Hebe than o f a Sylph, but beautifully formed, and shewn to great advantage by the close jacket and petti­ coat, which she wore after a foreign fashion, the last not quite long enough absolutely to conceal a very pretty foot, which rested on a bar o f the table at which she sate; her round arms and taper fingers very busily employed in repairing the piece o f tapestry which was strewed on it and exhibited several deplorable fissures, enough to demand the utmost skill o f the most expert seamstress. It is to be remarked, that it was by stolen glances that Roland Græme contrived to ascertain these interesting particulars; and he thought he could once or twice, notwithstanding the texture o f the veil, detect the damsel in the act o f taking similar cognizance o f his own person. T h e matrons in the meanwhile continued their separate conversation, eyeing from time to time the young people, in a manner which left Roland in no doubt that they were the subject o f their conversation. At length he distinctly heard Magdalen Græme say these words; “ Nay, my sister, we must give them opportunity to speak together, and to become acquainted; they must be personally known to each other, or how shall they be able to execute what they are entrusted with?” It seemed as if the matron, not fully satisfied with her friend’s reasoning, continued to offer some objections; but they were borne down by her more dictatorial friend. “ It must be so,” she said, “ my dear sister; let us therefore go forth on the balcony, to finish our conversation— And do you,” she said, addressing Roland and the girl, “ become acquainted with each other.” With this she stepped up to the young woman, and, raising her veil, discovered features which, whatever might be their ordinary complex­ ion, were now covered with a universal blush. “Liritum s it ” said Magdalen, looking at the other matron. “Vix licitum ” replied the other, with reluctant and hesitating acqui­ escence; and again adjusting the veil o f the blushing girl, she dropped it so as to shade, though not to conceal her countenance, and whis­ pered to her, in a tone loud enough for the page to hear, “ Remember, Catherine, who thou art, and for what destined.”

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T h e matron then retreated with Magdalen Græme through one o f the casements o f the apartment, that opened on a large broad balcony, which, with its ponderous balustrade, had once run along the whole south front o f the building which faced to the brook, and formed a pleasant and commodious walk in the open air. It was now in some places deprived o f the balustrade, in others broken and narrowed; but, ruinous as it was, could still be used as a pleasant promenade. Here then walked the two ancient dames, busied in their private conversation ; yet not so much so, but what Roland could observe the matron, as their thin forms darkened the casement in passing or repassing before it, dart a glance into the apartment, to see how matters were going on there.

Chapter Eleven Life hath its May, and all is m irthful th en : T h e woods are vocal and the flowers all o d o u r; Its very blast has m irth in’t,— and the m aidens, T h e while they don their cloaks to skreen their kirtles, L augh at the rain that wets them . O ld P lay C a t h e r i n e was at the happy age o f innocence and buoyancy o f spirit, when, after the first moment o f embarrassment was over, a situation o f awkwardness like that in which she was suddenly left to make acquaintance with a handsome youth, not even known to her by name, struck her, in spite o f herself, in a ludicrous point o f view. She bent her beautiful eyes upon the work with which she was busied, and with infinite gravity sate out the two first turns o f the matrons upon the balcony; but then glancing her deep blue eye a little towards Roland, and observing the embarrassment under which he laboured, now shifting on his chair, and now dangling his cap, the whole man evin­ cing that he was perfectly at a loss how to open the conversation, she could keep her composure no longer, but after a vain struggle broke out into a sincere, though a very involuntary fit o f laughing, so richly accompanied by the laughter o f her merry eyes, which actually glanced through the tears which the effort filled them with, and by the waving o f her rich tresses, that the goddess o f smiles herself never looked more lovely than Catherine at that moment. A court page would not have left her long alone in her mirth; but Roland was country-bred, and, besides, having some conceit, as well as bashful­ ness, he took it into his head that he was him self the object o f her inextinguishable laughter. His endeavours to sympathize with Cath­ erine, therefore, could carry him no further than into a forced giggle,

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which had more o f displeasure than o f mirth in it, and which so much enhanced that o f the girl, that it seemed to render it impossible for her ever to bring her laughter to an end, with whatever anxious pains she laboured to do so. For every one has felt that when a paroxysm o f laughter has seized him, at a misbecoming time and place, the efforts which he makes to suppress it, nay, the very sense o f the impropriety o f giving way to it, tend only to augment and prolong the irresistible impulse. It was undoubtedly lucky for Catherine, as well as for Roland, that the latter did not share in the excessive mirth o f the former. For seated as she was, with her back to the casement, Catherine could easily escape the observation o f the two matrons during the course o f their promenade; whereas Græme was so placed, with his side to the window, that his mirth, had he shared that o f his companion, would have been instantly visible, and could not have failed to give offence to the personages in question. H e sate, however, with some impatience, until Catherine had exhausted either her power or her desire o f laughing, and was returning with good grace to the exercise o f her needle, and then he observed with some dryness, that “ there seemed no great occasion to recommend to them to improve their acquaint­ ance, it seemed that they were already tolerably familiar.” Catherine had an extreme desire to set o ff upon a fresh score, but she repressed it strongly, and fixing her eyes on her work, replied by asking his pardon, and promising to avoid future offence. Roland had sense enough to feel, that an air o f offended dignity was very much misplaced, and that it was with a very different bearing he ought to meet the deep blue eyes which had borne such a hearty burthen in the laughing scene. H e tried, therefore, to extricate himself as well as he could from his blunder, by assuming a tone o f corres­ pondent gaiety, and requesting to know o f the nymph, “ how it was her pleasure that they should proceed in improving the acquaintance which had commenced so merrily.” “ That,” she said, “you must yourself discover ; perhaps I have gone a step too far in opening our interview.” “ Suppose,” said Roland Græme, “we should begin as in a talebook, by asking each other’s names and histories.” “ It is right well imagined,” said Catherine, “ and shews an argute judgment. D o you begin, and I will listen, and only put in a question or two at the dark parts o f the story. Come, unfold then your name and history, my new acquaintance.” “ I am called Roland Græme, and that tall old woman is my grand­ mother.” “ And your tutoress— good— who are your parents?”

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“ They are both dead,” replied Roland. “ Ay, but who were they? you had parents, I presume ?” “ I suppose so,” said Roland, “ but I have never been able to learn much o f their history. M y father was a Scottish knight, who died gallantly in his stirrups— my mother was a Græme o f Heathergill, in the Debateable Land— most o f her family were killed when the Debateable country was burned by Lord Maxwell and Herries o f Caerlaverock.” “ Is it long ago ?” said the damsel. “ Before I was born,” answered the page. “ That must be a terrible while since,” said she, shaking her head gravely; “ look you, I cannot weep for them.” “ It needs not,” said the youth, “ they fell with honour.” “ So much for your lineage, fair sir,” replied his companion, “ o f whom I like the living specimen (a glance at the casement) far less than those that are dead. Your much honoured grandmother looks as i f she could make one weep in sad earnest. And now, fair sir, for your own person— i f you tell not the tale faster, it will be cut short in the m iddle; Mother Bridget pauses longer and longer every time she passes the window, and with her there is as little mirth as in the grave o f your ancestors.” “ M y tale is soon told— I was introduced into the Castle o f Avenel to be page to the lady o f the mansion.” “ She is a strict Huguenot, is she not?” said the little maiden. “ As strict as Calvin himself. But my grandmother can play the puritan when it suits her purpose, and she had some plan o f her own, for quartering me in the Castle— it would have failed, however, after we had remained several weeks at the hamlet, but for an unexpected master o f ceremonies” “ And who was that?” said the girl. “ A large black dog, W olf by name, who brought me into the Castle one day in his mouth, like a hurt wild-duck, and presented me to the lady.” “ A most respectable introduction truly,” said Catherine, “ and what might you learn at this same castle? I love dearly to know what my acquaintances can do at need.” “ T o fly a hawk, hollow to a hound, back a horse, and wield lance, bow, and brand.” “ And to boast o f all this when you have learned it,” said Catherine, “which, in France at least, is the surest accomplishment o f a page. But proceed, fair sir; how came your Huguenot lord and your no less Huguenot lady to receive and keep in the family so perilous a person as a Catholic page?”

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“ Because they knew not that part o f my history, which from a child I had been taught to keep secret— and because my grand-dame’s for­ mer zealous attendance on their heretic chaplain, had laid all this suspicion to sleep, most fair Callipolis,” said the page; and in so saying edged his chair towards the seat o f the fair querist. “ Nay, but keep your distance, most gallant sir,” answered the blue­ eyed maiden, “ for, unless I greatly mistake, these reverend ladies will soon interrupt our amicable conference, if the acquaintance they recommend shall seem to proceed beyond a certain point— so, fair sir, be pleased to abide by your station, and reply to my questions. B y what achievements did you prove the qualities o f a page, which you had thus happily acquired ?” Roland, who began to enter into the tone and spirit o f the damsel’s conversation, replied to her with becoming spirit. “ In no feat, fair gentlewoman, was I found inexpert, wherein there was mischief implied. I shot swans, hunted cats, frightened servingwomen, chased the deer, and robbed the orchard. I say nothing o f tormenting the chaplain in various ways, for that was my duty as a good Catholic.” “ Now, as I am a gentlewoman,” said Catherine, “ I think these heretics have done Catholic penance in entertaining so all-accomp­ lished a serving-man. And what, fair sir, might have been the unhappy event which deprived them o f an inmate so altogether estimable?” “ Truly, fair gendewoman,” answered the youth, “your real proverb says that the longest lane will have a turning, and mine was more— it was, in fine, a turning off.” “ Good !” said the merry young maiden, “ it is an apt play on the word — and what occasion was taken for so important a catastrophe ?— Nay start not for my learning, I do know the schools— in plain phrase, why were you sent from service ?” T h e page shrugged his shoulders while he replied, “ A short tale is soon told— and a short horse soon curried.— I made the falconer’s boy taste o f my switch— the falconer threatened to make me brook his cudgel— he is a kindly clown as well as a stout, and I would rather have been cudgelled by him than any man in Christendom to chuse— but I knew not his qualities as then— so I threatened to make him brook the stab, and my lady made me brook the “ Begone;” so adieu to the page’s office and the fair Castle o f Avenel.— I had not travelled far before I met my venerable parent— And so tell your tale, fair gentle­ woman, for mine is done.” “ A happy grandmother,” said the maiden, “who had the luck to find the stray page just when his mistress had slipped his leash, and a most

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lucky page that has jumped at once from a page to a gendemanusher.” “ All this is nothing o f your history,” answered Roland Græme, who began to be much interested in the congenial vivacity o f this facetious young gentlewoman,— “ tale for tale is fellow-traveller’s justice.” “ Wait till we are fellow-travellers then,” replied Catherine. “ Nay, you escape me not so,” said the page; “ if you deal not justly by me, I will call out to Dame Bridget, or whatever your dame be called, and proclaim you for a cheat.” “ You shall not need,” answered the maiden— “ my history is the counterpart o f your own; the same words might almost serve, change but dress and name. I am called Catherine Seyton, and I am an orphan.” “ Have your parents been long dead?” “ That is the only question,” said she, throwing down her fine eyes with a sudden expression o f sorrow, “ that is the only question I cannot laugh at.” “ And Dame Bridget is your grandmother?” T h e sudden cloud passed away like that which crosses for an instant the summer sun, and she answered, with her usual lively expression, “ Worse by twenty degrees— Dame Bridget is my maiden aunt.” “ Over gods forbode!” said Roland— “ Alas! that you have such a tale to tell ! and what horror comes next?” “ Your own history exactly. I was taken upon trial for service”— “ And turned o ff for pinching the duenna, or affronting my lady’s waiting-woman ?” “ Nay, our history varies there,” said the damsel— “ Our mistress broke up house, or had her house broke up, which is the same thing, and I am a free woman o f the forest.” “ And I am as glad o f it as if any one had lined my doublet with cloth o f gold,” said the youth. “ I thank you for your mirth,” said she, “ but the matter is not like to concern you.” “ Nay, but say on,” said the page, “ for you will be presently inter­ rupted; the two good dames have been soaring yonder on the balcony, like two old hooded crows, and their croak grows hoarser as night comes on; they will wing to roost presently.— This mistress o f yours, fair gentlewoman, who was she, in G od’s name ?” “ O, she has a fair name in the world,” replied Catherine Seyton. “ Few ladies kept a fairer house, or held more gentlewomen in her household; my aunt Bridget was one o f her house-keepers. We never saw her blessed face to be sure, but we heard enough o f her; were up early and down late, and were kept to long prayers and light food.”

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“ Out upon the penurious beldame !” said the page. “ For Heaven’s sake, blaspheme not,” said the girl, with an expres­ sion of fear.— “ God pardon us both ! I meant no harm. I speak of our blessed Saint Catherine of Sienna!—May God forgive me that I spoke so lightly, and made you do a great sin and a great blasphemy. This was her nunnery, in which there were twelve nuns and an abbess. My aunt was the abbess till the heretics turned all adrift.” “And where are your companions?” asked the youth. “With the last year’s snow,” answered the maiden; “ east, north, south, and west—some to France, some to Flanders, some, I fear, into the world and its pleasures. We have got permission to remain, or rather our remaining has been connived at, for my aunt has great relations among the Kerrs, and they have threatened a death-feud if any one touches us ; and bow and spear are the best warrant in these times.” “Nay, then, you sit under a sure shadow,” said the youth; “and I suppose you wept yourself blind when Saint Catherine broke up housekeeping, before you had taken arles in her service ?” “ Hush ! for Heaven’s sake,” said the damsel, crossing herself, “no more of that ; but I have not quite cried my eyes out,” said she, turning them upon him, and instantly again bending them upon her work. It was one of those glances which would require the threefold plate of brass around the heart, more than it is needed by the mariners, to whom Horace recommends it. Our youthful page had no defence whatever to offer. “What say you, Catherine,” he said, “if we two, thus strangely turned out of service at the same time, should give our two most venerable duennas the torch to hold, while we walk a merry measure with each other over the floor of this weary world ?” “A goodly proposal, truly,” said Catherine, “ and worthy the mad­ cap brain of a discarded page !—And what shifts does your worship propose we should live by?—by singing ballads, cutting purses, or swaggering on the highway? for there, I think, you would find your most productive exchequer.” “ Chuse, you proud peat,” said the page, drawing off in huge disdain at the calm and unembarrassed ridicule with which his wild proposal was received. And as he spoke the words, the casement was again darkened by the forms of the matrons—it opened, and admitted Mag­ dalen Græme and the Mother Abbess, so we must now style her, into the apartment.

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Chapter T w e lve N ay, hear m e, brother— I am elder, wiser, And holier than thou— A nd age, and wisdom, And holiness, have perem ptory claims, And will be listened to.

Old Play W h e n t h e m a t r o n s re-entered, and put an end to the conversa­

tion which we have detailed in the last chapter, Dame Magdalen Græme thus addressed her grandson and his pretty companion: “ Have you spoke together, my children?— Have you become known to each other as fellow-travellers on the same dark and dubious road, whom chance hath brought together, and who study to learn the tempers and dispositions of those by whom their perils are to be shared?” It was seldom the light-hearted Catherine could suppress a jest, so that she often spoke when she would have acted more wisely in hold­ ing her peace. “Your grandson admires the journey which you propose so very greatly, that he was even now preparing for setting out upon it in s ta n tly .”

“This is to be too forward, Roland,” said the dame, addressing him, “ as yesterday you were over slack: the just mean lies in obedience, which both waits for the signal to start, and obeys it when given.— But once again, my children, have you so perused each other’s counten­ ance, that when you meet, in whatever disguise the times may impose upon you, you may recognize each in the other the secret agent of the mighty work in which you are to be leagued?— Look on each other, know each line and lineament of each other’s countenance. Learn to distinguish by the step, by the sound o f the voice, by the motion of the hand, by the glance of the eye, the partner whom Heaven hath sent to aid in working its will.—Wilt thou know that maiden, whensoever or wheresoever you shall again meet her, my Roland Græme ?” As readily as truly did Roland answer in the affirmative. “And thou, my daughter, wilt thou again remember the features of this youth?” “ Truly, mother,” replied Catherine Seyton, “ I have not seen so many men of late, that I should immediately forget your grandson, though I mark not much about him that is deserving of special remem­ brance.” “Join hands then, my children,” said Magdalen Græme; but, in saying so, was interrupted by her companion, whose conventual pre­ judices had been gradually giving her more and more uneasiness, and

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who could remain acquiescent no longer. “ Nay, my good sister, you forget,” said she to Magdalen, “ Cather­ ine is the betrothed bride of Heaven—these intimacies cannot be.” “ It is in the cause of Heaven that I command them to embrace,” said Magdalen, with the full force of her powerful voice ; “the end, sister, sanctifies the means we must use.” “ They call me Lady Abbess, or Mother at the least, who address me,” said Dame Bridget, drawing herself up, as if offended at her friend’s authoritative manner— “ the Lady o f Heathergill forgets that she speaks to the Abbess of Saint Catherine.” “When I was what you call me,” said Magdalen, “you indeed were the Abbess of Saint Catherine, but both names are now gone, with all the rank that the world and that the church gave to them; and we are now, to the eye of human judgment, two poor, despised, oppressed women, dragging our dishonoured old age to a humble grave. But what are we in the eye of Heaven?—Ministers, sent forth to work His will,— in whose weakness the strength of the church shall be mani­ fested—before whom shall be humbled the wisdom of Moray, and the dark strength of Morton.— And to such wouldst thou apply the narrow rules o f thy cloistered seclusion?— or, hast thou forgotten the order which I shewed thee from thy Superior, subjecting thee to me in these matters?” “ On thy head, then, be the scandal and the sin,” said the Abbess sullenly. “ On mine be they both,” said Magdalen. “ I say, embrace each o th e r, m y c h ild r e n .”

But Catherine, aware, perhaps, how the dispute was likely to ter­ minate, had escaped from the apartment, and so disappointed the grandson, as least as much as the old matron. “ She is gone,” said the Abbess, “to provide some little refreshment. But it will have little savour to those who dwell in the world ; for I, at least, cannot dispense with the rules to which I am vowed, because it is the will of wicked men to break down the sanctuary in which they wont to be observed.” “ It is well, my sister,” replied Magdalen, “ to pay each even the smallest tythes of mint and cummin which the church demands, and I blame not thy scrupulous observance of the rules o f thine order. But they were established by the church, and for the church’s benefit; and reason it is that they should give way when the salvation o f the church herself is at stake.” The Abbess made no reply. One more acquainted with human nature than the inexperienced page, might have found amusement in comparing the different kinds

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of fanaticism which these two females exhibited. The Abbess— timid, narrow-minded, and discontented, clung to ancient usages and pre­ tensions which were ended by the Reformation; and was in adversity, as she had been in prosperity, scrupulous, weak-spirited, and bigotted ; while the fiery and more lofty spirit o f her companion suggested a wider field o f effort, and would not be limited by ordinary rules in the extraordinary schemes which were suggested by her bold and irregu­ lar imagination. But Roland Græme, instead o f tracing these peculi­ arities of character in the two old dames, only waited with great anxiety for the return of Catherine, expecting probably that the proposal of the fraternal embrace would be renewed, as his grandmother seemed disposed to carry matters with a high hand. His expectations, or hopes, if we may call them so, were, however, disappointed ; for, when Catherine re-entered on the summons o f the Abbess, and placed on the table an earthen pitcher o f water, and four wooden platters, with cups of the same materials, the Dame of Heathergill, satisfied with the arbitrary mode in which she had borne down the opposition of the Abbess, pursued her victory no farther—a moderation for which her grandson, in his heart, returned her but slender thanks. In the meanwhile, Catherine continued to place upon the table the slender preparations for the meal of a recluse, which consisted almost entirely o f cole-wort, boiled and served up in an earthen platter, having no better seasoning than a little salt, and no better accompani­ ment than some coarse barley-bread, in very moderate quantity. The water-pitcher, already mentioned, furnished the only beverage. After a Latin grace, delivered by the Abbess, the guests sat down to their spare entertainment. The simplicity of the fare appeared to produce no distaste in the females, who ate o f it moderately, but with the usual appearance of appetite. But Roland Græme had been used to better cheer. Sir Halbert Glendinning, who affected even an unusual degree o f nobleness in his house-keeping, maintained it in a style o f genial hospitality, which rivalled that o f the Northern Barons of England. He might think, perhaps, that by doing so, he acted yet more completely the part for which he was not bom—that of a great Baron and a leader. Two bullocks, and six sheep, weekly, were the allowance when the Baron was at home, and did not greatly diminish during his absence. A boll o f malt was weekly brewed into ale, which was used by the house­ hold at discretion. Bread was baked in proportion for the consumption of his domestics and retainers, and in this scene of plenty had Roland Græme now lived for several years. It formed a bad introduction to luke-warm greens and spring water; and probably his countenance indicated some sense o f the difference, for the Abbess observed, “ It

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would seem, my son, that the tables of the heretic Baron, whom you have so long followed, are more daintily furnished than those o f the suffering daughters of the church ; and yet, not upon the most solemn nights of festival, when the nuns were permitted to eat their portion at mine own table, did I consider the cates, which were then served up, as half so delicious as these vegetables and this water on which I prefer to feed, rather than do aught which may derogate from the strictness of my vow. It shall never be said that the mistress of this house made it a house of feasting, when days o f darkness and o f affliction were hanging over the Holy Church, o f which I am an unworthy member. ” “Well hast thou said, my sister,” replied Magdalen Græme; “but now it is not only time to suffer in the good cause, but to act in it. And since our pilgrim’s meal is finished, let us go apart to prepare for our journey of to-morrow, and to advise on the manner in which these children shall be employed, and what measures we can adopt to supply their thoughtlessness and lack of discretion.” Notwithstanding his indifferent cheer, the heart of Roland Græme bounded high at this proposal, which he doubted not would lead to another tete-a-tete betwixt him and the pretty novice. But he was mistaken. Catherine, it would seem, had no mind so far to indulge him ; for, moved either by delicacy or caprice, or some of those indes­ cribable shades betwixt the one and the other, with which women love to teaze, and at the same time to captivate the ruder sex, she reminded the Abbess that it was necessary she should retire for an hour before vespers ; and, receiving the ready and approving nod of her Superior, she arose to withdraw. But, before leaving the apartment, she made obeisance to the matrons, bending herself till her hands touched her knees, and then made a slighter reverence to Roland, which consisted in a slight bend of the body, and gentle depression o f the head. This she performed very demurely; but the party on whom the salutation was conferred, thought he could discern in her manner an arch and mischievous exultation over his secret disappointment.—The devil take the saucy girl, he thought in his heart, though the presence o f the Abbess should have repressed all such profane imaginations,— she is as hard-hearted as the laughing hyæna that the story-books tell of— she has a mind that I shall not forget her this night at least. The matrons now retired also, giving the page to understand that he was on no account to stir from the convent, or to shew himself at the windows, the Abbess expressing as a reason, the readiness with which the rude heretics caught at every occasion of scandalizing the religious orders. This is worse than the rigour o f M r Henry Warden himself, said the page, when he was left alone ; for, to do him justice, however strict in

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requiring the most rigid attention during the time o f his homilies, he left us to the freedom of our own wills afterwards— ay, and would take a share in our pastimes too, if he thought them entirely innocent. But these old women are utterly wrapt up in gloom, mystery, and selfdenial.—Well then—if I must neither stir out o f the gate nor look out at window, I will at least see what the inside o f the house contains that may help to pass away one’s time—peradventure, I may light on that blue-eyed laugher in some comer or other. Going, therefore, out of the chamber by the entrance opposite to that through which the two matrons had departed, for it may be readily supposed he had no desire to intrude on their privacy, he wandered from one chamber to another, through the deserted edifice, seeking, with boyish eagerness, some source of interest or amusement. Here he passed through a long gallery, opening on either hand into the little cells o f the nuns, all deserted, and deprived o f the few trifling articles of furniture which the rules o f the order admitted. The birds are flown, thought the page; but whether they will find themselves worse off in the open air than in these damp narrow cages, I leave my Lady Abbess and my venerable relative to settle betwixt them. I think the lark which they have left behind them, would like best to sing under God’s free sky. A winding stair, strait and narrow, as if to remind the nuns o f their duties of fast and maceration, led down to a lower suite of apartments, which occupied the ground story of the house. These rooms were even more ruinous than those which he had left; for, having encoun­ tered the first fury o f the assailants by whom the nunnery had been wasted, the windows had been dashed in, the doors broken down, and even the partitions betwixt the apartments, in some places, destroyed. As he thus stalked from desolation to desolation, and began to think of returning from so uninteresting a research to the chamber which he had left, he was surprised to hear the low o f a cow very close to him. The sound was so unexpected at the time and place, that Roland Græme started as if it had been the voice of a lion, and laid his hand on his dagger, while at the same moment the light and lovely form o f Catherine Seyton presented itself at the door o f the apartment from which the sound had issued. “ Good even to you, valiant champion !” said she ; “ since the days of Guy o f Warwick, never was one more worthy to encounter a dun cow.” “ Cow?” said Roland Græme, “by my faith, I thought it had been the devil that roared so near me—who ever heard o f a convent con­ taining a cow-house ?” “ Cow and calf may come hither now,” answered Catherine, “ for we

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have no means to keep out either. But I advise you, kind sir, to return to the place from whence you came.” “Not till I see your charge, fair sister,” answered Roland, and made his way into the apartment in spite of the half serious half laughing remonstrances o f the girl. The poor solitary cow, now the only severe recluse within the nunnery, was quartered in a spacious chamber, which had once been the refectory of the convent. The roof was graced with groin’d arches, and the wall with niches, from which the images had been pulled down. These remnants of architectural ornaments were strangely contrasted with the rude crib and manger constructed for the cow in one comer of the apartment, and the stack of fodder which was piled beside them for her food. “ By my faith,” said the page, “ Crombie is more lordly lodged than any one here.” “You had best remain with her,” said Catherine, “ and supply by your filial attentions the offspring she has had the ill luck to lose.” “ I will remain, at least, to help you to prepare her night’s lair, pretty Catherine,” said Roland, seizing upon a pitch-fork. “ By no means,” said Catherine, “ for, besides that you know not in the least to do her that service, you will bring a chiding my way, and I get enough of that in the regular course of things.” “What! for accepting my assistance?” said the page,— “ for accept­ ing my assistance, who am to be your confederate in some deep matter of import? That were altogether unreasonable— and, now I think on it, tell me if you can, what is this mighty emprize to which I am destined?” “ Robbing a bird’s nest, I should suppose,” said Catherine, “ consid­ ering the champion whom they have selected.” “ By my faith,” said the youth, “ and he that has taken a falcon’s nest in the Scaurs of Polmoodie, has done something to brag of, my fair sister.— But that is all over now—a murrain on the nest, and the eyasses and their food, washed or unwashed, for it was all anon of cramming these worthless kites that I was sent upon my present travels. Save that I have met with you, pretty sister, I could eat my dagger-hilt for vexation at my own folly. But, as we are to be fellowtravellers”— “ Fellow-labourers! not fellow-travellers!” answered the girl; “ for to your comfort be it known, that the Lady Abbess and I set out earlier than you and your respected relative to-morrow, and that I partly endure your company at present, because it may be long ere we meet again.” “ By Saint Andrew, but it shall not though,” answered Roland; “ I

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will not hunt at all unless we are to hunt in couples.” “ I suspect, in that and in other points, we must do as we are bid.— But hark! I hear my aunt’s voice.” The old lady entered in good earnest, and darted a severe glance at her niece, while Roland had the ready wit to busy himself about the halter of the cow. “The young gentleman,” said Catherine, gravely, “is helping me to tie the cow up faster to her stake, for I find that last night when she put her head out of window and lowed, she alarmed the whole village ; and we will be suspected of sorcery among the heretics if they do not discover the cause o f the apparition, or lose our cow if they do.” “ Relieve yourself of that fear,” said the Abbess, somewhat ironic­ ally; “ the person to whom she is now sold, comes for the animal presently.” “ Good night then, my poor companion,” said Catherine, patting the animal’s shoulder ; “ I hope thou hast fallen into kind hands, for my happiest hours of late have been spent in tending thee— I would I had been bom to no better task.” “Now, out upon thee, mean-spirited wench !” said the Abbess ; “is that a speech worthy of the name o f Seyton, or of the mouth of a sister o f this house, treading the path o f election— and to be spoken before a s tr a n g e r y o u th t o o !— G o to m y o ra to ry , m in io n — th e re r e a d y o u r

Hours till I come thither, when I will read you such a lecture as shall make you prize the blessings which you possess.” Catherine was about to withdraw in silence, casting a half sorrowful half comic glance at Roland Græme, which seemed to say— “You see to what your untimely visit has exposed me,” when, suddenly chan­ ging her mind, she came forwards to the page, and extended her hand as she bid him good evening. Their palms had pressed each other ere the astonished matron could interfere, and Catherine had time to say — “ Forgive me, mother; it is long since we have seen a face that looked with kindness on us. Since these disorders have broke up our peaceful retreat, all has been gloom and malignity. I bid this youth kindly farewell, because he has come hither in kindness, and because the odds are great, that we never again meet in this world. I guess better than he, that the schemes on which you are rushing are too mighty for your management, and that you are now setting the stone arolling which must surely crush you in its descent. I bid farewell,” she added, “to my fellow-victim!” This was spoken with a tone of deep and serious feeling, altogether different from the usual levity o f Catherine’s manner, and plainly shewed, that beneath the giddiness o f extreme youth and total inex­ perience, there lurked in her bosom a deeper power of sense and

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feeling, than her conduct had hitherto expressed. The Abbess remained a moment silent after she had left the room. The proposed rebuke died on her tongue, and she appeared struck with the deep and foreboding tone in which her niece had spoken her good-even. She led the way in silence to the apartment which they had formerly occupied, and where there was prepared a small refec­ tion, as the Abbess termed it, consisting of milk and barley-bread. Magdalen Græme, summoned to take share in this collation, appeared from an adjoining apartment, but Catherine was seen no more. There was little said during the hasty meal, and after it was finished, Roland Græme was dismissed to the nearest cell, where some preparation had been made for his repose. The strange circumstances in which he found himself, had their usual effect in preventing slumber from hastily descending on him, and he could distinctly hear, by a low but earnest murmuring in the apartment which he had left, that the matrons continued in deep consultation to a late hour. As they separated, he heard the Abbess distinctly express herself thus : “ In a word, my sister, I venerate your character and the authority with which my Superiors have invested you; yet it seems to me, that ere entering on this perilous course, we should consult some of the Fathers of the Church.” “And how or where are we to find a faithful Bishop or Abbot at whom to ask counsel? The faithful Eustatius is no more—he is with­ drawn from a world of evil, and from the tyranny o f heretics. May Heaven and our Lady assoilyie him of his sins, and abridge the pen­ a n c e o f h is m o rta l in firm itie s !— W h e r e s h a ll w e fin d a n o th e r , w ith

whom to take counsel?” “ Heaven will provide for the Church,” said the Abbess; “ and the faithful fathers who yet are suffered to remain in the house of Kennaquhair, will proceed to elect an Abbot. They will not suffer the staff to fall down, or the mitre to be unfilled, for the threats of heresy.” “ That will I learn to-morrow,” said Magdalen Græme; “yet who now takes the office on him, save to partake with the spoilers in their work of plunder—to-morrow will tell us if one o f the thousand saints who once sprung from the House o f Saint Mary’s continue to look down on it in its misery.— Farewell, my sister, we meet at Edinburgh.” “ Benedicite !” answered the Abbess, and they parted. “T o Kennaquhair and to Edinburgh we bend our way,” thought Roland Græme. “ That information have I purchased by a sleepless hour—it suits well with my purpose. At Kennaquhair I shall see Father Ambrose—At Edinburgh I will find the means o f shaping my own course through this bustling world, without burthening my affec­ tionate relation—At Edinburgh, too, I shall see again this witching

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novice, with her blue eyes and her provoking smile asleep, and it was to dream of Catherine Seyton.

” He fell

Chapter Thirteen What, D agon up again !— I thought we had hurl’d him D ow n on the threshold, never more to rise. B ring wedge and axe; and, neighbours, lend your hands T o rive the idol into winter faggots.

Athelstane; or the Converted Dane R o l a n d G r æ m e slept long and sound, and the sun was high over the horizon, when the voice of his companion summoned him to resume their pilgrimage ; and when, hastily arranging his dress, he went to attend her call, the enthusiastic matron stood already at the threshold, prepared for her journey. There was in all the deportment of this remarkable woman, a promptitude of execution, and a stern­ ness of perseverance, founded on the fanaticism which she nursed so deeply, and which seemed to absorb all the ordinary purposes and feelings of mortality. One human affection only gleamed through her enthusiastic energies, like the broken glimpses of the sun through the rising clouds of a storm. It was her maternal fondness for her grand­ s o n — a fo n d n e s s c a r r ie d a lm o s t to the verge of dotage, in circum­ stances where the Catholic religion was not concerned, but which gave way instantly when it chanced either to thwart or come in contact with the more settled purpose of her soul, and the more devoted duty of her life. Her life she would willingly have laid down to save the earthly object of her affection; but that object itself she was ready to hazard, and would have been willing to sacrifice, could the restoration of the Church of Rome have been purchased with his blood. Her dis­ course by the way, excepting the few occasions in which her extreme love of her grandson found opportunity to display itself in anxiety for his health and accommodation, turned entirely on the duty o f raising up the fallen honours of the Church, and replacing a Catholic sover­ eign on the throne. There were times at which she hinted, though very obscurely and distantly, that she herself was foredoomed by Heaven to perform a part in this important task ; and that she had more than mere human warranty for the zeal with which she engaged in it. But on this subject she expressed herself in such general language, that it was not easy to decide whether she made any actual pretensions to a direct and supernatural call, like the celebrated Elizabeth Barton, commonly called the Nun of Kent; or whether she only dwelt upon the general duty which was incumbent on all Catholics of the time, and the pres­ sure of which she chanced to feel in an extraordinary degree.

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Yet, though Magdalen Græme gave no direct intimation o f her pretensions to be considered as something beyond the ordinary class of mortals, the demeanour of one or two persons amongst the travel­ lers whom they occasionally met, as they entered the more fertile and populous part of the valley, seemed to indicate their belief in her superior attributes. It is true, that two clowns, who drove before them a herd of catde— one or two village wenches, who seemed bound for some merry-making—a strolling soldier, and a wandering student, as his thread-bare black cloak and his satchel o f books proclaimed him— passed our travellers without observation, or with a look o f contempt; and, moreover, that two or three children, attracted by the appearance of a dress so nearly resembling that of a pilgrim, joined in hooting and calling “ out upon the old mass-monger.” But one or two, who nour­ ished in their bosoms respect for the downfallen hierarchy—casting first a timorous glance around, to see that no one observed them— hastily crossed themselves—bent their knee to sister Magdalen, by which name they saluted her—kissed her hand, or even the hem of her dalmatique— received with humility the Benedicite with which she repaid their obeisance ; and then starting up, and again looking timidly round to see that they had been unobserved, hastily resumed their journey. Even while within sight of persons of the prevailing faith, there were individuals bold enough, by folding their arms and bending their head, to give distant and silent intimation that they recognized sister Magdalen, and honoured alike her person and her purpose. She failed not to notice to her grandson these marks of honour and respect which from time to time she received. “You see,” she said, “my son, that the enemies have been unable altogether to suppress the good spirit, or to root out the true seed. Amid heretics and schis­ matics, spoilers o f the church’s lands, and scoffers at saints and sacra­ ments, there remains a remnant.” “ It is true, my mother,” said Roland Græme; “but methinks they are of a quality which can help us but little. See you not all those who wear steel at their side, and bear marks of better quality, ruffle past us as they would past the meanest beggars ; for those who give us any marks of sympathy, are the poorest of the poor, and most outcast o f the needy, who have neither bread to share with us, nor swords to defend us, nor skill to use them if they had. That poor wretch that last kneeled to you with such deep devotion, and who seemed emaciated by the touch of some wasting disease within, and the grasp of poverty without —that pale, shivering, miserable caitiff, how can he aid the great schemes you meditate ?” “Much, my son,” said the matron, with more mildness than the page perhaps expected. “When that pious son of the church returns

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from the shrine of Saint Ringan, whither he now travels by my coun­ sel, and by the aid of good Catholics,—when he returns, healed o f his wasting malady, high in health, and strong in limb, will not the glory of his faithfulness, and its miraculous reward, speak louder in the ears of this besotted people of Scotland, than the din which is weekly made in a thousand heretical pulpits ?” “ Ay, but, mother, I fear the Saint’s hand is out. It is long since we have heard of a miracle performed at Saint Ringan’s.” The matron made a dead pause, and, with a voice tremulous with emotion, asked, “ Art thou so unhappy as to doubt the power of the blessed Saint?” “Nay, mother,” the youth hastened to reply, “ I believe as the Holy Church commands, and doubt not Saint Ringan’s power of healing; but, be it said with reverence, he hath not of late shewed the inclina­ tion.” “And has this land deserved it?” said the Catholic matron, advan­ cing hastily while she spoke, until she attained the summit of a rising ground, over which the path led, and then standing again still. “ Here,” she said, “ stood the Cross, the limits of the Halidome of Saint Mary’s — here— on this eminence— from which the eye of the holy pilgrim might first catch a view o f that ancient Monastery, the light of the land, the abode of saints, and the grave of monarchs—Where is now that emblem o f our faith? It lies low on the earth— a shapeless block, from which the broken fragments have been carried off, for the meanest uses, till now no semblance of its original form remains. Look towards the east, my son, where the sun was wont to glitter on stately spires— from which crosses and bells have now been hurled, as if the land had been invaded once more by barbarous heathens— Look at yonder batdements, of which we can, even at this distance, descry the partial demolition; and ask if this land can expect from the blessed saints, whose shrines and whose images have been profaned, any other mir­ acles but those o f vengeance? How long,” she exclaimed, looking upward, “ How long shall it be delayed?” She paused, and then resumed with enthusiastic rapidity, “Yes, my son, all on earth is but for a period—joy and grief, triumph and desolation, succeed each other like cloud and sunshine;—the vineyard shall not be forever trodden down, the gaps shall be amended, and the fruitful branches once more dressed and trimmed. Even this day—ay, even this hour, I trust to hear news o f importance. Dally not—let us on—time is brief, and judgment is certain.” She resumed the path which led to the Abbey—a path which, in ancient times, was carefully marked out by posts and rails, to assist the pilgrim in his journey—these were now tom up and destroyed. An

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half hour’s walk placed them in front of the splendid Monastery, which, although the church was as yet entire, had not escaped the fury of the times. The long range of cells and of apartments for the use of the brethren, which occupied two sides of the great square, were almost entirely ruinous, the interior having been consumed by fire, which only the massive architecture of the outward walls had enabled them to resist. The Abbot’s house, which formed the third side of the square, was, though injured, still inhabited, and afforded refuge to the few brethren who yet, rather by connivance than by actual authority, were permitted to remain at Kennaquhair. Their stately offices —their pleasant gardens—the magnificent cloisters constructed for their recreation, were all dilapidated and ruinous; and some of the building materials had apparently been put into requisition by persons in the village and in the vicinity, who, formerly vassals of the Monas­ tery, had not hesitated to appropriate to themselves a part of the spoils. Roland saw fragments of Gothic pillars richly carved, occupying the place of door-posts to the meanest huts ; and here and there a mutil­ ated statue, inverted or laid on its side, made the lintel, or threshold of a wretched cow-house. The church itself was less injured than the other buildings of the monastery. But the images which had been placed in the numerous niches of its columns and buttresses, having all fallen under the charge of idolatry, to which the superstitious devotion of the papists had justly exposed them, had been broken and thrown down, without much regard to the preservation of the rich and airy canopies and pedestals on which they were placed ; nor, if the d e v a sta tio n had s to p p e d s h o rt at this point, c o u ld we have considered the preservation o f diese monuments of antiquity as an object to be put in the balance with the introduction of the reformed worship. Our pilgrims saw the demolition of these sacred and venerable representations of saints and angels— for as sacred and venerable they had been taught to consider them,—with very different feelings. The antiquary may be permitted to regret the necessity of the action, but to Magdalen Græme it seemed a deed of impiety, deserving the instant vengeance of heaven—a sentiment in which her relative joined for the moment as cordially as herself. Neither, however, gave vent to their feelings in words, and uplifted hands and eyes formed their only mode of expressing them. The page was about to approach the great western gate of the church, but was prevented by his guide. “ That gate,” she said, “ has long been blockaded, that the heretical rabble may not know there still exist among the brethren o f Saint Mary’s, men who dare worship where their predecessors prayed while alive, and were interred when dead— follow me this way, my son.” Roland Græme followed accordingly ; and Magdalen, casting a

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hasty glance to see whether they were observed, for she had learned caution from the danger o f the times, commanded her grandson to knock at a little wicket which she pointed out to him. “ But knock gently,” she added, with a motion expressive o f caution. After a little space, during which no answer was returned, she signed to Roland to repeat his summons for admission; and the door at length partially opening, discovered a glimpse of the thin and timid porter, by whom the duty was performed, skulking from the observation o f those who stood without, but endeavouring at the same time to gain a sight o f them without being himself seen. How different from the proud and dignified consciousness with which the porter of ancient days offered his important brow, and his goodly person, to the pilgrims who repaired to Kennaquhair! His solemn “Intrate mi filii,” was exchanged for a tremulous “You cannot enter now—the brethren are in their chambers.” But, when Magdalen Græme asked, in an under tone of voice, “ Hast thou forgotten me, my father?” he changed his apologetic refusal to “Enter, my honoured sister, enter speedily, for evil eyes are upon us.” They entered accordingly, and having waited until the porter had, with jealous haste, barred and bolted the wicket, were conducted by him through several dark and winding passages. As they walked slowly on, he spoke to the matron in a subdued voice, as if he feared to trust the very walls with the avowal which he communicated. “ Our Fathers are assembled in the Chapter-house, worthy sister— yes, in the Chapter-house— for the election o f an Abbot.— Ah, B ene­ dicite ! there must be no ringing o f bells—no high mass— no opening of the great gates now, that the people might see and venerate their spiritual Father. Our Fathers must hide themselves rather like rob­ bers who chuse a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred Abbot. ” “ Regard not that, my brother,” answered Magdalen Graeme ; “ the first successors o f Saint Peter himself, were elected not in sunshine but in tempests— not in the halls o f the Vatican, but in the subterra­ nean vaults and dungeons o f Heathen Rome— they were not gratulated with shouts and salvos of cannon-shot and o f musquetry, and the display o f artificial fire— no, my brother—but by the hoarse summons o f Lictors and Praetors, who came to drag the Fathers of the Church to martyrdom. From such adversity was the Church once raised, and by such will it now be purified. And mark me, brother! not in the proudest days of the mitred Abbey, was a Superior ever chosen, whom his office shall so much honour, as he shall be honoured, who now takes it upon him in these days o f tribulation. On whom, my brother, will the choice fall ?” “ On whom can it fall— or, alas ! who would dare to reply to the call,

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save the worthy pupil o f the sainted Eustatius— the good and valiant Father Ambrose ?” “ I knew it,” said Magdalen ; “my heart told it me, long ere your lips had uttered his name. Stand forth, courageous champion, and man the fatal breach!— Rise, bold and experienced pilot, and seize the helm while the tempest rages !— Turn back the batde, brave raiser of the fallen standard!—Wield crook and sling, noble shepherd o f a scattered flock!” “ I pray you, hush, my sister !” said the porter, opening a door which led into the great church, “the brethren will be presently here to celebrate their election with a solemn mass— I must marshal them the way to the high altar—all the offices of this venerable house have now devolved on one poor decrepit old man.” He left the church, and Magdalen and Roland remained alone in that great vaulted space, whose style of rich, yet chaste architecture, referred its origin to the early part of the fourteenth century, the best period of Gothic building. But the niches were stripped of their images in the inside as well as the outside of the church; and in the pell-mell havoc, the tombs of warriors and o f princes had been included in the demolition of the idolatrous shrines. Lances and swords of antique size, which had hung over the tombs of mighty warriors of former days, lay now strewed amongst reliques, with which the devotion of pilgrims had graced those of their peculiar saints ; and the fragments of the knights and dames, which had once lain recum­ bent, or kneeled in an attitude of devotion, where their mortal reliques were reposed, were mingled with those of the saints and angels of the Gothic chisel, which the hand of violence had sent headlong from their niches. The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared to be, that, though this violence had been now committed for many months, the Fathers had lost so totally all heart and resolution, that they had not adven­ tured even upon clearing away the rubbish, or restoring the church to some decent degree of order. This might have been done without much labour. But terror had overpowered the scanty remains of a body once so powerful, and sensible they were only suffered to remain in their ancient seat by connivance and from compassion, they did not venture upon taking any step which might be construed into an asser­ tion of their ancient rights, contenting themselves with the secret and obscure exercise of their religious ceremonial, in as unostentatious a manner as was possible. Two or three of the more aged brethren had sunk under the pres­ sure of the times, and the ruins had been partly cleared away to permit their interment. One stone had been laid over Father Nicolas, which

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recorded of him in special, that he had taken the vows during the incumbency of Abbot Ingelram, the period to which his memory so frequently recurred. Another flag-stone, yet more recently deposited, covered the body of Philip the Sacristan, eminent for his aquatic excursion with the phantom of Avenel ; and a third, the most recent of all, bore the outline of a mitre, and the words Hicjacet EustatiusAbbas; for no one had dared to add a word of commendation in favour of his learning, and strenuous zeal for the Roman Catholic faith. Magdalen Græme looked at and perused the brief records o f these monuments successively, and paused over that of Father Eustace. “ In a good hour for thyself,” she said, “but oh! in an evil hour for the Church, wert thou called from us. Let thy spirit be with us, holy man — encourage thy successor to tread in thy footsteps— give him thy bold and inventive capacity, thy zeal and thy discretion— Even thy piety exceeds not his.” As she spoke, a side door, which closed a passage from the Abbot’s house into the church, was thrown open, that the Fathers might enter the choir, and conduct to the high altar the Superior whom they had elected. In former times, this was one of the most splendid of the many pageants which the hierarchy of Rome had devised to attract the veneration of the faithful. The period during which the Abbacy remained vacant, was a state of mourning, or, as their emblematical phrase expressed it, o f widowhood ; a melancholy term, which was changed into rejoicing and triumph when a new Superior was chosen. When the folding-doors were on such solemn occasions thrown open, and the new Abbot appeared on the threshold in full-blown dignity, with ring and mitre, and dalmatique and cope and crosier, his hoary cross-bearers and his juvenile censer-bearers, the venerable train of monks behind him, to the supreme authority over whom he was now raised, his appearance was a signal for the magnificent Jubilate to burst from the organ and music-loft, and to be joined by the corres­ ponding bursts o f Alleluiah from the whole assembled congregation. Now all was changed. In the midst of rubbish and desolation, seven or eight old men, bent and shaken as much by grief and fear as by age, shrouded hastily in the proscribed dress of their order, wandered like a procession of spectres, from the door which had been thrown open, up through the encumbered passage, to the high altar, there to instal their elected Superior a chief of ruins. It was like a band of bewildered travellers chusing a chief in the wilderness of Arabia; or a ship­ wrecked crew electing a captain upon the barren island on which fate has thrown them. They who, in peaceful times, are most ambitious of authority among others, shrink from the competition at such eventful periods,

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when neither ease nor parade attend the possession o f it, and when it gives only a painful pre-eminence both in danger and in labour, and exposes the ill-fated chieftain to the murmurs of his discontented associates, as well as to the first assault of the common enemy. But he on whom the office of the Abbot of Saint Mary’s was now conferred, had a mind fitted for the situation to which he was called. Bold and enthusiastic, yet generous and forgiving—wise and skilful, yet zealous and prompt—he wanted but a better cause than the support of a decaying superstition, to have raised him to the rank of a truly great man. But as the end crowns the work, it also forms the rule by which it must be ultimately judged ; and those who, with sincerity and generos­ ity, fight and fall in an evil cause, posterity can only compassionate as victims of a generous but fatal error. Amongst these, we must rank Ambrosius, the last Abbot of Kennaquhair, whose designs must be condemned, as their success would have rivetted on Scotland the chains of antiquated superstition and spiritual tyranny; but whose talents in themselves commanded respect, and whose virtues, even from the enemies of his faith, extorted esteem. The bearing of the new Abbot served of itself to dignify a ceremo­ nial which was deprived of all other attributes of grandeur. Conscious of the peril in which they stood, and recalling, doubtless, the better days they had seen, there hung over his brethren an appearance of mingled terror, and grief, and shame, which induced them to hurry over the office in which they were engaged, as something at once degrading and dangerous. But not so Father Ambrose. His features, indeed, expressed a deep melancholy, as he walked up the centre aisle, amid the ruins of things which he considered as holy, but his brow was undejected, and his step firm and solemn. He seemed to think that the dominion which he was about to receive, depended in no sort upon the external circum­ stances under which it was conferred; and if a mind so firm, was accessible to sorrow or fear, it was not on his own account, but on that of the Church for which he had devoted himself. At length he stood on the broken steps of the high altar, bare­ footed, as was the rule, and holding in his hand his pastoral staff, for the gemmed ring and jewelled mitre had become secular spoils. No obedient vassals came, man after man, to make their homage, and to offer the tribute which should provide their spiritual Superior with palfrey and trappings. No Bishop assisted at the solemnity, to receive into the higher ranks o f the Church nobility a dignitary, whose voice in the legislature was as potential as his own. With hasty and maimed rites, the few remaining brethren stepped forward alternately to give their new Abbot the kiss of peace, in token of fraternal affection and

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spiritual homage. Mass was then hastily performed, but in such pre­ cipitation as if it had been hurried over rather to satisfy the scruples of a few youths, who were impatient to set out on a hunting party, than as if it made the most solemn part of a solemn ordination. The officiating priest faultered as he spoke the service, and often looked around, as if he expected to be interrupted in the midst of his office ; and the brethren listened as to that which, short as it was, they wished yet more abridged. These symptoms of alarm increased as the ceremony proceeded, and, as it seemed, were not caused by mere apprehension alone ; for, amid the pauses of the hymn, there were heard without sounds of a very different sort, beginning faintly and at a distance, but at length approaching close to the exterior of the church, and stunning with dissonant clamour those engaged in the service. The winding of horns, blown with no regard to harmony or consort—the jangling of bells, the thumping of drums, the squeaking of bagpipes, and the clash of cymbals—the shouts of a multitude, now as in laughter, now as in anger—the shrill tones of female voices, and o f those of children, mingling with the deeper clamours of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary in te rr u p tio n , w ill b e e x p la in e d in th e n e x t c h a p te r.

Chapter fourteen N ot the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier— N ot the wild wind, escaping from its cavern— N ot the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, C an match the wild freaks o f this mirthful meeting— C om ic, yet fearful— droll, and yet destructive.

The Conspiracy T h e m o n k s ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of con­ sternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair rather than hope, huddled them­ selves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undis­ mayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which the danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection.

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Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Græme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatsoever that might be. Both bowed rever­ ently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear : “Peace, my sister,” he said, in a low tone, but which being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;— “ Peace,” he said, “my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary’s himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation. And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon—if it is the pleasure of our protectress that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge you, happen through the deed of a catholic son of the church.” The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder, and voices were heard impatiently demanding admit­ tance. The Abbot moved with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faultering nor precipitate, towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired ? There was a moment’s silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, “We desire entrance into the church, and when the door is open, you will soon see who we are.” “ By whose authority do you require entrance ?” said the Father. “By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot,” replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh which followed, it seemed as if there were something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. “ I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning,” replied the Abbot, “ since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here.” “ Open the door,” said another rude voice, “ and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and shew you a Superior we must all obey.” “ Break open the doors if he dallies any longer,” said a third. “And down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege.” A general shout followed. “Ay—Ay—Our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition.” The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great hammers,

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which the doors, strong as they were, must have soon given way to. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. “My children,” said he, “ I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate—he is gone to fetch the keys—meantime, I pray you to consider if you are in a state of mind to cross this holy threshold.” “Tillyvalley for your papistry,” was answered from without ; “we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lantern-kail. So if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.— Said I well, comrades?” “ Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done,” said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter, in hasty terror, performed his office, and thrown open the great door, the populace without would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled like one who has drawn the bolts o f a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station about three yards from the entrance, shewing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren— partly encouraged by his composure, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty—remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened ; but, much contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd o f enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry o f “A hall !— a hall— to order, my masters ! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them.” The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groupes equally diversified and ludicrous. Here one fellow with a horse’s head painted before, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part o f the hobbie-horse, so often alluded to in our ancient drama, and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes’s tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced, in the formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and

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devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabra, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him ; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use o f their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a groupe o f outlaws, with Robin Hood and Little John at their head— the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, o f a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men— children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads— while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest o f their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbands furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged such saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand; and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged, by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation o f the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred : they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of a labourer’s horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare

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intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But when times changed, when doubt o f the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice o f games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit o f sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance o f rude and incontroulable spirits. They there­ fore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal o f these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most o f the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many o f these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome, and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated ;— the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes; and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic—the rochet of the reformed bishop— and the cloak and band o f the Calvinistic divine—were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason.* It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door o f the Church of Saint Mary’s, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricatura, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants o f the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day o f his installation, in the presence o f his clergy, and in the chancel o f his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grot­ esque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre o f leather, with the front like a grenadier’s cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets o f tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose o f which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope o f canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure o f an owl ; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which * From the interesting novel, entitled Anastatius, it seems the same burlesque cere­ monies were practiced in the Greek Church.

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may still be procured in black letter, for about one pound per leaf. The attendants o f this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing thus the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,— “A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason!” And the discordant minstrelsy o f every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and halloed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopp’d and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, clashing his hob-nailed shoes against the pave­ ment, till it sparkled with the marks o f his energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene o f ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator ; whilst personal apprehension, and a conscious­ ness that much o f the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being addressed against them, dismayed the monks, who were, moreover, little comforted by the reflection, that, bold in their disguise, the mummers who whooped and capered around them, might, on slight provocation, turn their jest into earnest, or at least proceed to those practical pleasantries, which at all times arise so naturally out of the frolicsome and mischievous disposition o f the populace.— They looked to their Abbot amid the tumult, with such looks as landsmen cast upon the pilot when the storm is at the highest—looks which express that they are devoid o f all hope arising from their own exer­ tions, and not very confident in any success likely to attend those o f their Palinurus. The Abbot himself seemed at a stand; he felt no fear, but he was sensible of the danger o f expressing his rising indignation, which he was scarcely able to suppress. He made a gesture with his hand as if commanding silence, which was at first only replied to by redoubled shouts, and peals o f wild laughter. When, however, the same motion, and as nearly in the same manner, had been made by Howleglas, it was immediately obeyed by the riotous companions, who expected fresh food for mirth in the conversation betwixt the real and mock Abbot, having no small confidence in the vulgar wit and impudence of their leader. Accordingly they began to shout, “T o it, fathers— to it.”— “ Fight monk, fight madcap.”— “Abbot against Abbot is fair play, and so is reason against unreason, and malice against monkery!” “ Silence, my mates!” said Howleglas; “ Cannot two learned Fathers o f the Church hold communing together, but you must come

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here with your bear-garden whoop and hollow, as if you were hound­ ing forth a mastiff upon a mad bull? I say silence ! and let this learned Father and I confer, touching matters affecting our mutual state and authority.” “M y children”____ said Father Ambrose. “And happy children they are!” said his burlesque counterpart; “many a wise child knows not its own father, and they have two to chuse betwixt.” “ If thou hast aught in thee, save scoffing and ribaldry,” said the real Abbot, “permit me, for thine own soul’s sake, to speak a few words to these misguided men.” “Aught in me but scoffing, sayest thou?” retorted the Abbot of Unreason; “Why, reverend brother, I have all that becomes mine office at this time a-day—I have beef, ale, and brandy-wine, with other condiments not worth mentioning—And for speaking, man— why, speak away, and we will have turn about, like honest fellows.” During this discussion the wrath o f Magdalen Græme had risen to the uttermost. She approached the Abbot, and placing herself by his side, said in a low and yet a distinct tone— “Wake and arouse thee, Father—the sword of Saint Peter is in thy hand— strike and avenge Saint Peter’s patrimony !— Bind them in the chains which, rivetted on earth, are rivetted in Heaven” “ Peace, sister!” said the Abbot; “ let not their madness destroy our discretion— I pray thee peace, and let me do mine office. It is the first, peradventure it may be the last time I am called on to discharge it.” “Nay, nay, holy brother !” said Howleglas, “ I read you, take the holy sister’s advice—never throve convent without woman’s counsel.” “ Peace, vain man !” said the Abbot; “ and you, my brethren” “Nay, nay, reverend brother!” said the Abbot of Unreason, “no speaking to the lay people, until you have conferred with your brother of the cowl.— I swear by bell, book, and candle, that not one of my congregation shall listen to one word you have to say, so you had as well address yourself to me who will.” To escape a conference so ludicrous, the Abbot again attempted an appeal to what respectful feelings might yet remain amongst a crowd consisting chiefly of the inhabitants of the Halidome, once so devoted to their spiritual Superiors. Alas ! the Abbot of Unreason had only to flourish his mock crosier, and the whooping, the hallooing, and the dancing, were renewed with a vehemence which would have defied the lungs of Stentor. “And now, my mates,” said the Abbot o f Unreason once again, “ dight your gabs and be hushed—let us see if the Cock of Kennaquhair will fight or flee the pit.”

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There was again a dead silence of expectation, of which Father Ambrose availed himself to address his antagonist, seeing plainly that he would win an audience on no other terms. “Wretched man!” said he, “ hast thou no better employment for thy carnal wit, than to employ it in leading these blind and helpless creatures into the pit of utter darkness ?” “Truly, my brother,” replied Howleglas, “ I can see little difference betwixt your employment and mine, save that you make a sermon of a jest, and I make a jest of a sermon.” “ Unhappy being,” said the Abbot, “who hast no better subject of pleasantry than that which should make thee tremble— no sounder jest than thine own sins, and no better objects for laughter than those who can absolve thee from the guilt of them !” “Verily, my reverend brother,” said the mock Abbot, “what you say might be true, if, in laughing at hypocrites, I meant to laugh at reli­ gious.— O, it is a precious thing to wear a long dress, with a girdle and a cowl—we become a holy pillar of Mother Church, and a boy must not play at ball against the walls for fear of breaking a painted win­ dow.” “And will you, my friends,” said the Abbot, looking round and speaking with a vehemence which secured him a tranquil audience for some time,— “will you suffer a profane buffoon, within the very church of God, to insult his ministers? Many o f you— all o f you, perhaps, have lived under my holy predecessors, who were called upon to rule, as I am called upon to suffer. If you have worldly goods, they are their gift; and, when you scorned not to accept better gifts— the mercy and forgiveness of the Church—were they not ever at your command?— did we not pray when you were jovial, wake while you slept?” “ Some of the good wives o f the Halidome were wont to say so,” said the Abbot of Unreason; but his jest met in this instance but slight applause, and Father Ambrose having gained a moment’s attention, hastened to improve it. “What !” said he ; “ and is this grateful— is it seemly—is it honest— to assail with scorn a few old men, from whose predecessors you hold all, and whose only wish is to die in peace among these fragments of what was once the Light of the Land, and whose daily prayer, that they may be removed ere that hour comes when the last spark shall be extinguished, and the land left in the darkness which it has chosen, rather than light. We have not turned against you the edge of the spir­ itual sword, to revenge our temporal persecution ; the tempest of your wrath has despoiled us of land, and deprived us almost of our daily food, but we have not repaid it with the thunders of excommunication

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—we only pray your leave to live and die within the church which is our own, invoking God and our Lady, and holy saints, to pardon your sins, and our own, undisturbed by scurril buffoonery and blasphemy.” This speech, so different in tone and termination from that which the crowd had expected, produced an effect upon their feelings unfavourable to the prosecution of their frolic. The morrice-dancers stood still—the hobby-horse surceased his capering—pipe and tabor were mute, and “silence, like a heavy cloud,” seemed to descend on the once noisy rabble. Several of the beasts were obviously moved to compunction ; the bear could not restrain his sobs, and a huge fox was observed to wipe his eyes with his tail. But in especial the dragon, lately so formidably rampant, now relaxed the terror of his claws, uncoiled his tremendous rings, and grumbled out o f his fiery throat in a repentant tone, “ By the mass, I thought no harm in exercising our old pastime, but an I had thought the good Father would have taken it so to heart, I would as soon have played your devil as your dragon.” In this momentary pause, the Abbot stood amongst the miscellan­ eous and grotesque forms by which he was surrounded, triumphant as Saint Anthony, in Callot’s Temptations ; but Howleglas would not so resign his purpose. “And how now, my masters !” said he ; “Is this fair play or no ? Have you not chosen me Abbot o f Unreason, and is it lawful for any of you to listen to common sense to-day? was I not formally elected by you in solemn chapter, held in Luckie Martin’s change-house, and will you now desert me, and give up your old pastime and privilege ?— Play out the play—and he that speaks the next word of sense or reason, or bids us think or consider, or the like of that, which befits not the day, I will have him solemnly ducked in the mill-dam !” The rabble, mutable as usual, huzza’d, the pipe and tabor struck up, the hobby-horse pranced, the beasts roared, and even the repent­ ant dragon began again to coil up his spires and prepare himself for fresh gambols. But the Abbot might have still overcome by his elo­ quence and his entreaties, the malicious designs of the revellers, had not Dame Magdalen Græme given loose to the indignation which she had long suppressed. “ Scoffers,” she said, “ and men of Belial— Blasphemous heretics, and truculent tyrants” “Your patience, my sister, I entreat and I command you !” said the Abbot; “let me do my duty— disturb me not in mine own office !” But Dame Magdalen continued to thunder forth her threats in the name o f Popes and Councils, and in the name of every Saint, from Saint Michael downward. “M y comrades !” said the Abbot of Unreason, “this good dame hath

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not spoke a single word of reason, and therein may esteem herself free from the law. But what she spoke was meant for reason, and, there­ fore, unless she confesses and avouches all which she has said to be nonsense, it shall pass for such, so far as to incur the penalty o f our statutes.—Wherefore, holy dame, pilgrim, abbess, or whatever thou art, be mute with thy mummery, or beware the mill-dam—we will have neither spiritual nor temporal scolds in our Diocese of Unreason !” As he spoke thus, he extended his hand towards the old woman, while his followers shouted “ A doom—a doom!” and prepared to second his purpose—When lo ! it was suddenly frustrated. Roland Græme had witnessed with indignation the insults offered to his old spiritual preceptor, but yet had wit enough to reflect he could render him no assistance, but might well, by ineffective interference, make matters worse. But when he saw his aged relative in danger o f personal violence, he gave way to the natural impetuosity of his temper, and, stepping forward, struck his poniard into the body o f the Abbot of Unreason, whom the blow instantly prostrated on die pavement.

Chapterfifteen A s when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd, M ad are their motions, and their tongues are loud, And stones and brands in rattling vollies fly, And all the rustic arms which fury can supply— T h e n i f some grave and pious man appear, T h e y hush their noise, and lend a listening ear.

D r y d e n ’ s V irgil

A d r e a d f u l s h o u t o f vengeance was raised by the revellers, whose sport was thus so fearfully interrupted ; but, for an instant, the want o f weapons amongst the multitude, as well as the inflamed fea­ tures and brandished poniard of Roland Græme, kept them at bay, while the Abbot, horror-struck at the violence, implored, with uplifted hands, pardon for blood-shed committed within the holy sanctuary. Magdalen Græme alone expressed triumph in the blow her descend­ ant had dealt to the scoffer, mixed, however, with a wild and anxious expression of terror for her grandson’s safety. “ Let him perish,” she said, “in his blasphemy—let him die on the holy pavement which he has insulted.” But the rage of the multitude, the grief of the Abbot, the exultation of the enthusiastic Magdalen, were all mistimed and unnecessary. The mortally wounded Howleglas, as he was supposed, sprung alertly up from the floor, calling aloud, “A miracle, a miracle, my masters ! as

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brave a miracle as ever was wrought in the Kirk of Kennaquhair.— And I charge you, my masters, as your lawfully chosen Abbot, that you touch no one without my command—You, wolf and bear, will guard this pragmatic youth, but without hurting him—And you, reverend brother, will, with your comrades, withdraw to your cells; for our conference has ended like all conferences, leaving each of our own mind ; and if we fight, both you, and your brethren, and the Kirk, will have the worst on’t—Wherefore, pack up your pipes and begone.” The hubbub was beginning again to awaken, but still Father Ambrose hesitated, as uncertain to what path his duty called him, whether to face out the present storm, or to reserve himself for a better moment. His brother of Unreason observed his difficulty, and said, in a tone more natural and less affected than that with which he had hitherto sustained his character, “We come hither, my good sir, more in mirth than in mischief—our bark is worse than our bite— and, especially, we mean you no personal harm—wherefore, draw off while the play is good ; for it is ill whistling for a hawk when she is once on the soar, and worse to snatch the quarry from the ban-dog—Let these fellows once begin their brawl, and they will be too much for madness itself, let alone the Abbot of Unreason, to bring back to the lure.” The brethren crowded around Father Ambrosius, and joined in urging him to give place to the torrent. The present revel was, they said, an ancient custom which his predecessors had permitted, and old Father Nicolas himself had played the dragon in the days of the Abbot Ingelram. “And we now reap the fruit of the seed which they have so unadvisedly sown,” said Ambrosius; “ they taught men to make a mock o f what is holy, what wonder that the descendants of scoffers become robbers and plunderers ? But be it as you list, my brethren— move towards the dortour—And you, dame— I command you, by the authority which I have over you, and by your respect for that youth’s safety, that you go with us without farther speech—Yet stay—What are your intentions towards that youth whom you detain prisoner?— Wot ye,” he continued, addressing Howleglas in a stem tone o f voice, “that he bears the livery o f the house o f Avenel?—they who fear not the anger o f Heaven, may at least dread the wrath of man.” “ Cumber not yourself concerning him,” answered Howleglas, “we know right well who and what he is.” “ Let me pray,” said the Abbot, in a tone of entreaty, “that you do him no wrong for the rash deed which he attempted in his imprudent zeal.” “ I say, cumber not yourself about it, Father,” answered Howleglas, “but move off with your train, male and female, or I will not undertake

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to save yonder she-saint from the ducking-stool—And as for bearing of malice, my stomach has no room for it ; it is,” he added, clapping his hand on his portly belly, “ too well bumbasted out with straw and buckram—gramercy to them both—they kept out that madcap’s dag­ ger as well as a Milan corslet could have done.” In fact, the home-driven poniard of Roland Græme had lighted upon the stuffing o f the factitious paunch, which the Abbot of Unreason wore as a part of his characteristic dress, and it was only the force o f the blow which had prostrated that reverend person on the ground for a moment. Satisfied in some degree by this man’s assurances, and compelled to give way to superior force, the Abbot Ambrosius retired from the Church at the head o f his monks, and left the coast free for the revellers to work their will. But, wild and wilful as these rioters were, they accompanied the retreat of the religioners with none of those shouts of contempt and derision with which they had at first hailed them. The Abbot’s discourse had affected some of them with remorse, others with shame, and all with a transient degree of respect. They remained silent until the last monk had disappeared through the side-door which communicated with their dwelling-place, and even then it cost some exhortations on the part o f Howleglas, some capri­ oles o f the hobby-horse, and some wallops of the dragon, to rouse once more the rebuked spirit of revelry. “And how now, my masters?” said the Abbot of Unreason; “ and wherefore look on me with such blank Jack-a-Lent visages ? Will you lose your old pastime for an old wife’s tale o f saints and purgatory? Why, I thought you would have made all split long since— Come, strike up, tabor and harp, strike up, fiddle and rebeck—dance and be merry to-day, and let care come to-morrow. Bear and wolf, look to your prisoner—prance, hobby—hiss, dragon, and hollow, boys—we grow older every moment we stand idle, and life is too short to be spent in playing mumchance.” This pithy exhortation was attended with the effect desired. The revellers resumed their parts, shouted, whooped, hollowed, and soon wrought themselves into as merry and mischievous a disposition as their leader could have desired. They fumigated the Church with burned wool and feathers instead of incense, put foul water into the holy-water basins, and celebrated a parody on the Church-service, the mock Abbot officiating at the altar; they sang ludicrous and inde­ cent parodies, to the tune o f church hymns; they violated whatever vestments or vessels belonging to the Abbey they could lay their hand upon; and, playing every freak which the whim o f the moment could suggest to their wild caprice, at length they fell to more lasting deeds

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of demolition, pulled down and destroyed some carved wood-work, dashed out the painted windows which had escaped former violences, and in their rigorous search after sculpture dedicated to idolatry, began to destroy what ornaments yet remained entire upon the tombs, and around the cornices of the pillars. The spirit of demolition, like other tastes, increases by indulgence ; from these lighter attempts at mischief, the more tumultuous part of the meeting began to meditate destruction on a more extended scale — “ Let us have it down altogether, the old crow’s nest,” became a general cry amongst them; “it has served the Pope and his rooks too long and up they struck a ballad which was then popular among the lower classes. “ T h e Paip, that pagan full o f pride, H ath blinded us ower lang, F o r where the blind the blind doth lead, N o marvel baith gae wrang. L ik e prince and king, H e led the ring O f all iniquity. S in g hay trix, trim go trix, U nder the greenwood tree. “ T h e bishop rich, he could not preach F o r sporting with the lasses, T h e silly friar behoved to fleech F o r awmous as he passes. T h e curate his creed H e could not read, Sham e fa’ the company. Sin g hay trix, trim go trix, U nder the greenwood tree.”

Thundering out this chorus of a notable hunting song, which had been pressed into the service of some polemical poet, the followers of the Abbot of Unreason were turning every moment more tumultuous, and getting beyond the management even o f that reverend prelate himself, when a knight in full armour, followed by two or three menat-arms, entered the church, and in a stem voice commanded them to forbear their riotous mummery. His visor was up, but if it had been lowered, the cognizance o f the holly-branch sufficiently distinguished Sir Halbert Glendinning, who, on his homeward road, was passing through the village of Kennaquhair ; and moved, perhaps, by anxiety for his brother’s safety, had come directly to the church on hearing o f the uproar. “What is the meaning of this,” he said, “my masters ! are ye Chris­ tian men, and the king’s subjects, and yet waste and destroy church and chancel, like so many heathens?”

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All stood silent, though doubtless there were several disappointed and surprised at receiving chiding instead of thanks from so zealous a protestant. The dragon, indeed, did at length take upon him to be spokesman, and growled from the depth of his painted maw, “that they did but sweep Popery out of the church with the besom of destruction.” “What! my masters,” replied Sir Halbert Glendinning, “think you this mumming and masking has not more of Popery in it than have these stone-walls?—take the leprosy out of your flesh, before you speak of purifying stone-walls— Abate your insolent license, which leads but to idle vanity and sinful excess, and know, that what you now practise, is one of the profane and unseemly sports introduced by the priests of Rome themselves, to amuse and to brutify the souls which fell into their net.” “Marry come up— are you there with your bears?” muttered the dragon, with a draconic sullenness, which was in good keeping with his character, “we had as good have been Romans still, if we are to have no freedom of our pastimes !” “ Doest thou reply to me so?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning; “ or is there any pastime in grovelling on the ground there like a gigantic kailworm ?— Get out o f thy painted case, or, by my knighthood, I will treat you like the beast and reptile you have made yourself.” “ Beast and reptile?” retorted the offended dragon, “ setting aside your knighthood, I hold me as well a bom man as thyself.” The Knight made no answer in words, but bestowed two such blows with the butt o f his lance on the petulant dragon, that had not the hoops which constituted the ribs of the machine been pretty strong, they would hardly have saved those of the actor from being broken. In all haste the masquer crept out of his disguise, unwilling to abide a third buffet from the lance of the enraged Knight. And when the ex-dragon stood on the floor of the church, he presented to Halbert Glendinning the well-known countenance of Dan o f the Howlet-hirst, an ancient comrade of his own, ere fate had raised him so high above the rank to which he was bom. The clown loured sulkily upon the Knight, as if to upbraid him for his violence towards an old acquaintance, and Glendinning’s own good nature reproached him for the violence he had acted upon him. “ I did wrong, to strike thee,” he said, “Dan; but in truth, I knew thee not—thou wert ever a mad fellow—come to Avenel Castle, and we will see how my hawks fly.” “And if we shew him not falcons that will mount as merrily as rockets,” said the Abbot of Unreason, “ I would your honour laid as hard on my bones as you did on his even now.”

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“ How now, Sir Knave,” said the Knight, “ and what has brought you hither?” The Abbot, hastily ridding himself of the false nose which mystified his physiognomy, and the supplementary belly which made up his disguise, stood before his master in his real character, o f Adam Woodcock the falconer of Avenel. “ How, varlet,” said the Knight, “hast thou dared to come here and disturb the very house my brother was dwelling in?” “And it was even for that reason, craving your honour’s pardon, that I came hither—For I heard the country was to be up to chuse an Abbot of Unreason, and sure, thought I, I that can sing, dance, leap back­ ward over a broad-sword, and am as good a fool as ever sought promotion, have all chance of carrying the office; and if I gain my election, I may stand his honour’s brother in some stead, supposing things fall roughly out at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s.” “Thou art but a cogging knave,” said Sir Halbert, “ and well I wot, that love o f ale and brandy, besides thy humour of riot and frolic, would draw thee a mile, when love of my house would not bring thee a yard. But go to— carry thy roisterers elsewhere—to the alehouse if they list, and there are crowns to pay your charges—make out the day’s madness without doing more mischief, and be wise men to­ morrow— A n d h e r e a ft e r le a r n to s e rv e a good c a u s e b e tte r th a n by acting like madmen.” Obedient to his master’s mandate, the falconer was collecting his discouraged followers, and whispering into their ears— “Away, away —tace is Latin for a candle— never mind the good Knight’s puritanism —we will play the frolic out over a stand of double ale in Dame Martin the Browster’s barn-yard—Draw off, harp and tabor—bagpipe and drum—mum till you are out o f the church-yard, then let the welkin ring again—Move on, wolf and bear—keep the hind legs till you cross the kirk-style, and then shew yourselves beasts o f mettle—What devil sent him here to spoil our holiday !—but anger him not, my hearts, his lance is no goose-feather, as Dan’s ribs can tell.” “ By my soul,” said Dan, “had it been another than my ancient comrade, I would have made my father’s old fox fly about his ears.” “ Hush! hush! man,” replied Adam Woodcock, “not a word that way, as you value the safety of your bones—what, man ! we must take a clink as it passes, so it is not bestowed in downright ill-will.” “ But I will take no such thing,” said Dan of the Howlet-hirst, sullenly resisting the efforts of Woodcock, who was dragging him out o f the church; when, the quick military eye o f Sir Halbert Glendinning detecting Roland Græme betwixt his two guards, the Knight exclaimed, “ So ho! falconer,—Woodcock,— knave, hast thou

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brought my Lady’s page in mine own livery, to assist at this hopeful revel o f thine, with your wolves and bears? since you were at such mummings, you might, if you would, have at least saved the credit o f my household, by dressing him up as a jack-an-apes— Bring him hither, fellows !” Adam Woodcock was too honest and downright, to permit blame to light upon the youth, when it was undeserved. “ I swear,” he said, “by Saint Martin of Bullions” “And what hast thou to do with Saint Martin?” “Nay, little enough, sir, unless when he sends us such rainy days that we cannot fly a hawk—but I say to your worshipful knighthood, that as I am a true man” “As you are a false varlet, had been the better obtestation.” “ Nay, if your knighthood allows me not to speak, I can hold my tongue—but the boy came not hither by my bidding for all that.” “ But to gratify his own malapert pleasure, I warrant me,” said Sir Halbert Glendinning.— “ Come hither, young springald, and tell me whether you have your mistress’s license to be so far absent from the Castle, or to dishonour my livery by mingling in such a May-game ?” “ Sir Halbert Glendinning,” answered Roland Græme, with steadiness, “ I have obtained the permission, or rather the commands, o f your lady, to dispose of my time hereafter according to my own pleasure. I have been a most unwilling spectator of this May-game, since it is your pleasure so to call it ; and I only wear your livery until I can obtain clothes which bear no such badge of servitude.” “ How am I to understand this, young man ?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning; “ speak plainly, for I am no reader of riddles.— That my lady favoured thee I know. What hast thou done to disoblige her, and occasion thy dismissal?” “Nothing to speak of,” said Adam Woodcock, answering for the boy— “ a foolish quarrel with me, which was more foolishly told over again to my honoured lady, cost the poor boy his place. For my part, I will say freely, that I was wrong from beginning to end, except about the washing of the eyass’s meat. There I stand to it that I was right.” With that, the good-natured falconer repeated to his master the whole history o f the squabble which had brought Roland Græme into disgrace with his mistress, but in a manner so favourable for the page, that Sir Halbert could not but suspect his generous motive. “Thou art a good-natured fellow,” he said, “Adam Woodcock.” “ As ever had falcon upon fist,” said Adam ; “ and, for that matter, so is Master Roland ; but, being half a gentleman by his office, his blood is soon up, and so is mine.”

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“Well,” said Sir Halbert, “be it as it will, my lady has acted hastily, for this was no great matter of offence to discard the lad whom she had trained up for years ; but he, I doubt not, made it worse by his prating —it jumps well with a purpose, however, which I had in my mind. Draw off these people, Woodcock, and you, Roland Graeme, attend me. The page followed him in silence into the Abbot’s house, where, stepping into the first apartment which he found open, he com­ manded one of his attendants to let his brother, Master Edward Glendinning, know that he desired to speak with him. He then dismissed his other followers, telling them to be ready when he should wind his horn to take to horse, which might be in the space of an hour. The men-at-arms went gladly off to join their comrade, Adam Woodcock, and the jolly crew whom he had assembled at Dame Martin the ostlerwife’s, and the page and Knight were left alone in the apartment. Sir Halbert Glendinning paced the floor for a moment in silence, and then thus addressed his attendant— “Thou mayest have remarked, stripling, that I have but seldom distinguished thee by much notice—I see thy colour rises, but do not speak till thou hearest me out—I say, I have never much distinguished thee, not because I did not see that in thee which I might well have p r a is e d , b u t b e c a u s e I s a w so m e th in g s b la m e a b le , w h ic h s u c h p r a is e s might have made worse. Thy mistress dealing according to her pleas­ ure in her own household, as no one hath better reason or title, hath picked thee from the rest, and treated thee more like a relative than a domestic ; and if thou hast shewn some vanity and petulance under such distinction, it were injustice not to say that thou hast profited both in thy exercises and in thy breeding, and hast shown many sparkles o f a gentle and manly spirit. Moreover, it were injustice, having bred thee up freakish and fiery, to dismiss thee to want or wandering, for shewing that very peevishness and impatience of dis­ cipline which arose from thy too delicate nurture. Therefore, and for the credit of my own household, I am determined to retain thee in my train, until I can honourably dispose of thee elsewhere, with a fair prospect of thy going through the world with credit to the house that brought thee up.” If there was something in Sir Halbert Glendinning’s speech which flattered Roland’s pride, there was also much that, according to his mode of thinking, was an alloy to the compliment. And yet his con­ science instantly told him that he ought to accept, with grateful defer­ ence, the offer which was made him by the husband of his kind protectress ; and his prudence, however slender, could not but admit, he would enter the world under very different auspices as a retainer of

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Sir Halbert Glendinning, so famed for wisdom, courage, and influ­ ence, from those under which he might partake the wanderings, and become an agent in the visionary schemes, for such they appeared to him, of Magdalen, his relative. Still, a strong reluctance to re-enter a service from which he had been dismissed with contempt, almost counterbalanced these considerations. Sir Halbert looked on the youth with surprise, and resumed— “You seem to hesitate, young man. Are your own prospects so inviting, that you should pause ere you accept those which I offer to you ? Or must I remind you that, although you have offended your benefactress, even to the point of her dismissing you, yet I am convinced, the knowledge that you have gone unguided on your own wild way, into a world so disturbed as ours of Scotland, cannot, in the upshot, but give her sorrow and pain; from which it is, in gratitude, your duty to preserve her, no less than it is in common wisdom your duty to accept my offered protection, for your own sake, where body and soul are alike endangered, should you refuse it.” Roland Græme replied in a respectful tone, but at the same time with some spirit. “ I am not ungrateful for such countenance as has been afforded me by the Lord of Avenel, and I am glad to learn, for the first time, that I have not had the misfortune to be so utterly beneath his observation as I had thought—And it is only needful to shew me how I can testify my duty and my gratitude towards my early and constant benefactress with my life’s hazard, and I will gladly peril it____ ” he stopped. “ These are but words, young man,” answered Glendinning; “ large protestations are often used to supply the place o f effectual service. I know nothing in which the peril of your life can serve the Lady of Avenel; I can only say, she will be pleased to learn you have adopted some course which may ensure the safety of your person, and the weal of your soul—What ails you, that you accept not that safety when it is offered?” “My only relative who is alive,” answered Roland, “ at least the only relative whom I have ever seen, has rejoined me since I was dismissed from the Castle o f Avenel, and I must consult with her whether I can adopt the line to which you now call me, or whether her encreasing infirmities, or the authority which she is entitled to exercise over me, may not require me to abide with her.” “Where is this relation?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning. “ In this house,” answered the page. “ Go, then, and seek her out,” said the Knight of Avenel; “more than meet it is that thou shouldst have her approbation, yet worse than foolish would she shew herself in denying it.”

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Roland left the apartment to seek for his grandmother; and, as he retreated, the Abbot entered. The two brothers met as brothers who love each other fondly, yet meet rarely together. Such indeed was the case. Their mutual affection attached them to each other; but in every pursuit, habit, or sentiment connected with the discords of the times, the friend and counsellor of Moray stood opposed to the Roman Catholic priest; nor, indeed, could they have held very much society together, without giving cause of offence and suspicion to their confederates on each side. After a close embrace on the part o f both, and a welcome on that of the Abbot, Sir Halbert Glendinning expressed his satisfaction that he had come in time to appease the riot raised by Howleglas and his tumultuous followers. “And yet,” he said, “when I look on your garments, brother Edward, I cannot help thinking there remains an Abbot o f Unreason within the bounds o f the Monastery.” “And wherefore carp at my garments, brother Halbert?” said the Abbot; “it is the spiritual armour of my calling, and beseems me as well as breastplate and baldric become your own bosom.” “Ay, but there were small wisdom, methinks, in putting on armour when we have no power to fight ; it is but a dangerous temerity to defy th e fo e w h o m w e c a n n o t r e s is t .”

“ For that, my brother, no one can answer,” said the Abbot, “until the batde be fought; and were it even as you say, methinks a brave man, though desperate o f victory, would radier desire to fight and fall, than to resign sword and shield on some mean and dishonourable composition with his insulting antagonist. But let not you and I make discord o f a theme on which we cannot agree, but rather stay and partake, though a heretic, of my admission feast. You need not fear, my brother, that your zeal for restoring the primitive discipline o f the church will, on this occasion, be offended with the rich profusion o f a conventual banquet. The days of our old friend Abbot Boniface are over, and the Superior o f Saint Mary’s has neither forests nor fish­ ings, woods or pastures or corn-fields—neither flocks nor herds, bucks nor wild-fowl— granaries of wheat, nor storehouses of oil and of wine, of ale and o f mead. The refectioner’s office is ended, and such a meal as a hermit in romance can offer to a wandering knight, is all we have to set before you. But, if you will share it with us, we will eat it with a cheerful heart, and thank you, my brother, for your timely protection against these rude scoffers.” “My dearest brother,” said the Knight, “ it grieves me deeply I cannot abide with you ; but it would sound ill for us both were one of the Congregation to sit down at your admission feast; and, if I can ever

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have the satisfaction of affording you effectual protection, it will be much owing to my remaining unsuspected of countenancing or approving your religious rites and ceremonies. It will require whatever consideration I can preserve among my own friends, to shelter the bold man, who, contrary to law and the edicts of parliament, has dared to take up the office of Abbot of Saint Mary’s.” “ Trouble not yourself with the task, my brother,” replied Father Ambrose. “ I would lay down my dearest blood to know that you defended the church for the church’s sake; but, while you remain unhappily her enemy, I would not that you endangered your own safety, or diminished your own comforts, for the sake of mine.— But who comes hither to disturb the few minutes of fraternal communica­ tion which our evil fate allows us ?” The door of the apartment opened as the Abbot spoke, and Dame Magdalen Græme entered. “Who is this woman?” said Sir Halbert Glendinning, somewhat sternly, “ and what does she want?” “That you know me not,” said the matron, “ signifies little ; I come by your own order, to give my free consent that the stripling, Roland Græme, return to your service; and, having said so, I cumber you no longer with my presence— Peace be with you.” She turned to go away, but was stopped by the enquiries of Sir Halbert Glendinning. “Who are you?—what are you?— and why do you not await my answer?” “I was,” she replied, “while yet I belonged to the world, a matron of no vulgar name ; now I am Magdalen, a poor pilgrimer for the sake of Holy Kirk.” “Yea,” said Sir Halbert, “ art thou a Catholic? I thought my dame said that Roland Græme came of reformed kin.” “ His father,” said the matron, “was a heretic, or rather one who regarded neither orthodoxy or heresy—neither the temple of the church or of Antichrist. I too, for the sins of the times make sinners, have seemed to conform to your unhallowed rites—but I had my dispensation and my absolution.” “You see, brother,” said Sir Halbert, with a smile of meaning towards his brother, “that we accuse you not altogether without ground o f mental equivocation.” “M y brother, you do us injustice,” replied the Abbot ; “ this woman, as her bearing may of itself warrant you, is not in her perfect mind—thanks, I must needs say, to the persecution of your maraud­ ing barons, and of your latitudinarian clergy.” “ I will not dispute the point,” said Sir Halbert ; “the evils of the time are unhappily so numerous, that both churches may divide them, and

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have enow to spare.” So saying, he leaned from the window of the apartment, and winded his bugle. “Why do you sound your horn, my brother?” said the Abbot; “we have spent but few minutes together.” “ Alas!” said his elder brother, “ and even these few have been sullied by dissention. I sound to horse, my brother—the rather that, to avert the consequences of this day’s rashness on your part, requires hasty efforts on mine.— Dame, you will oblige me by letting your young relative know that we mount instantly. I intend not that he shall return to Avenel with me— it would lead to new quarrels betwixt him and my household ; at least, to taunts which his proud heart could ill brook, and my wish is to do him kindness. He shall, therefore, go forward to Edinburgh with one of my retinue, whom I shall send back to say what has chanced here. You seem rejoiced at this?” he added, fixing his eyes keenly on Magdalen Græme, who returned his gaze with calm indifference. “ I would rather,” she said, “that Roland, a poor and friendless orphan, were the jest of the world at large, than o f the menials at Avenel.” “ Fear not, dame—he shall be scorned by neither,” answered the Knight. “ It m a y be,” she replied— “ it m a y well be—but I will trust more to his own bearing than to your countenance.” She left the room as she spoke. The Knight looked after her as she departed, but turned instantly to his brother, and expressing, in the most affectionate terms, his wishes for his welfare and happiness, craved his leave to depart. “M y knaves,” he said, “are too busy at the ale-stand, to leave their revelry for the empty breath o f a bugle horn.” “You have freed them from higher restraint, Halbert,” answered the Abbot, “and therein taught them to rebel against your own.” “Fear not that, Edward,” exclaimed Halbert, who never gave his brother his monastic name of Ambrosius; “none obey the command o f real duty so well as those who are free from the observance of slavish bondage.” He was turning to depart, when the Abbot said,— “ Let us not yet part, brother—here comes some light refreshment—leave not the house which I must now call mine, till force expel me from it, until you have at least broken bread with me.” The poor lay brother, the same who acted as porter, now entered the apartment, bearing some simple refreshment, and a flask of wine. “ He had found it,” he said with officious humility, “by rummaging through every nook of the cellar.”

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The Knight filled a small silver cup, and, quaffing it off, asked his brother to pledge him, observing, the wine was Bacharac, of the first vintage, and great age. “Ay,” said the poor lay brother, “it came out of the nook which old Brother Nicolas, (may his soul be happy,) was wont to call Abbot Ingelram’s corner; and Abbot Ingelram was bred at the Convent of Wurtzburg, which I understand to be near where that choice wine grows.” “ True, my reverend sir,” said Sir Halbert; “ and therefore I entreat my brother and you to pledge me in a cup of this orthodox vintage.” The thin old porter looked with a wishful glance towards the Abbot. “ Do veniam,” said his Superior; and the old man seized, with trem­ bling hand, a beverage to which he had been long unaccustomed, drained the cup with protracted delight, as if dwelling on the flavour and perfume, and set it down with a melancholy smile and shake o f the head, as if bidding adieu in future to such delicious potations. The brothers smiled. But when Sir Halbert motioned to the Abbot to take up his cup and do him reason in turn, the Abbot shook his head, and replied— “This is no day for the Abbot of Saint Mary’s to eat the fat and drink the sweet. In water from our Lady’s well,” he added, filling a cup with the limpid element, “I wish you, my brother, all happiness, and above all, a true sight of your spiritual errors.” “And to you, my beloved Edward,” replied Glendinning, “ I wish the free exercise of your own free reason, and the discharge of more important duties than are connected with the idle name which you have so rashly assumed.” The brothers parted with deep regret; and yet each, confident in his own opinion, felt somewhat relieved by the absence of one whom he respected so much, and with whom he could agree so little. Soon afterwards the sound of the Knight of Avenel’s trumpets was heard, and the Abbot went to the top of a tower, from whose dis­ mantled battlements he could soon see the horsemen ascending the rising ground in the direction of the drawbridge. As he gazed, Magda­ len Græme came to his side. “ Thou art come,” he said, “to catch the last glance of thy grandson, my sister. Yonder he wends, under the charge of the best knight in Scotland, his faith ever excepted.” “Thou canst bear witness, my father, that it was no wish either of mine or of Roland’s,” replied the matron, “which inclined the Knight of Avenel, as he is called, again to entertain my grandson in his household— Heaven, which confounds the wise with their own wis­ dom, and the wicked with their own policy, hath placed him where, for the service of the Church, I would most wish him to be.”

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“ I know not what you mean, my sister,” said the Abbot. “ Reverend father,” replied Magdalen, “hast thou never heard that there are spirits powerful to rend the walls of a castle asunder when once admitted, which yet cannot enter the house unless they are invited, nay, dragged over the threshold? Twice hath Roland Græme been thus drawn into the household of Avenel by those who now hold the title. Let them look to the issue____ ” So saying, she left the turret; and the Abbot, after pausing a moment on her words, which he imputed to the unsettled state o f her mind, followed down the winding stair to celebrate his admission to his high office by fast and prayer, instead of revelling and thanks­ giving. E N D OF V O L U M E F I R S T

THE ABBOT V O L U M E II

Chapter One Youth ! thou w ear’st to manhood now, D arker lip and darker brow, Statelier step, more pensive mien In thy face and gait are seen : T h o u must now brook midnight watches, T ak e thy food and sport by snatches ; F o r the gambol and the jest, T h o u wert wont to love the best, G raver follies must thou follow, B ut as senseless, false, and hollow.

Life, a Poem R o l a n d G r æ m e now trotted gaily forward in the train of Sir Halbert Glendinning. He was relieved from his most galling apprehension,— the encounter of the scorn and taunt which might possibly hail his immediate return to the Castle of Avenel. “There will be a change ere they see me again,” he thought to himself ; “ I shall wear the coat of plate instead of the green jerkin, and the steel morion for the bonnet and feather. They will be bold that will venture to break a gibe on the man-at-arms for the follies o f the page ; and I trust, that ere we return I shall have done something more worthy of note, than hallowing a hound after a deer, or scrambling up a crag for a kite’s nest.” He could not, indeed, help marvelling that his grand­ mother, with all her religious prejudices leaning it would seem to the other side, had consented so readily to his re-entering the service of the House of Avenel ; and yet more, at the mysterious joy with which she took leave of him at the Abbey. “ Heaven,” said the dame, as she kissed her young relation, and bade him farewell, “works its own work, even by the hands o f those of our enemies who think themselves the strongest and the wisest. Thou,

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my child, be ready to act upon the call o f thy religion and country; and remember, each earthly bond which thou canst form is, compared to the ties which bind thee to them, like the loose flax to the twisted cable. Thou hast not forgot the face or form o f the damsel, Catherine Seyton?” Roland would have replied in the negative, but the word seemed to stick in his throat, and Magdalen continued her exhortation. “Thou must not forget her, my son; and here I entrust thee with a token, which I trust thou wilt speedily find an opportunity of deliver­ ing with care and secrecy into her own hand.” She put here into Roland’s hand a very small packet, of which she again enjoined him to take the strictest care, and to suffer it to be seen by no one save Catherine Seyton, who, she again (unnecessarily) reminded him, was the young maiden he had met on the preceding day. She then bestowed on him her solemn benediction, and bade God speed him. There was something in her manner and her conduct which implied mystery; but Roland Græme was not of an age or temper to waste much time in endeavouring to decypher her meaning. All that was obvious to his perception in the present journey, promised pleas­ ure and novelty. He rejoiced that he was travelling towards Edin­ burgh, in order to assume the character of a man, and lay aside that of a boy. He was delighted to think that he would have an opportunity of seeing Catherine Seyton, whose bright eyes and lively manners had made so favourable an impression on his imagination. And, as an inexperienced, yet high-spirited youth, entering for the first time upon active life, his heart bounded at the thought, that he was about to see all those scenes o f courtly splendour and warlike adventure, of which the followers of Sir Halbert used to boast on their occasional visits to Avenel, to the wonderment and envy of those who, like Roland, knew courts and camps only by hearsay, and were con­ demned to the solitary sports and almost monastic seclusion of Avenel, surrounded by its lonely lake, and embosomed amongst its pathless mountains. They shall mention my name, he said to himself, if the risk of my life can purchase me opportunities of distinction, and Catherine Seyton’s saucy eye shall rest with more respect on the distinguished soldier, than that with which she laughed to scorn the raw and inexperienced page.— There was wanting but one accessary to complete his sense of rapturous excitation, and he possessed it by being once more mounted on the back of a fiery and active horse, instead o f plodding along on foot, as had been die case during the preceding days. Impelled by the liveliness of his own spirits, which so many circum-

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stances tended naturally to exalt, Roland Graeme’s voice and his laughter were soon distinguished amid the trampling of the horses of the retinue, and more than once attracted the attention of their leader, who remarked with satisfaction, that the youth replied with goodhumoured raillery to such of the train as jested with him on his dismissal and return to the service of the House of Avenel. “ I thought the holly branch in your bonnet had been blighted, Master Roland,” said one of the men-at-arms. “ Only pinched with half an hour’s frost; you see it flourishes as green as ever.” “ It is too grave a plant to flourish on so hot a soil as that head-piece of thine, Master Roland Græme,” retorted the other, who was an old equerry o f Sir Halbert Glendinning. “ If it will not flourish alone,” said Roland, “ I will mix it with the laurel and the myrtle— and I will carry them so near the sky, that it shall make amends for their stinted growth.” Thus speaking, he dashed his spurs into his horse’s sides, and, checking him at the same time, compelled him to execute a lofty caracole. Sir Halbert Glendinning looked at the demeanour of his new attendant with that sort of melancholy pleasure with which those who have long followed the pursuits of life, and are sensible of their vanity, regard the gay, young, and buoyant spirits, to whom life, as yet, is only hope and promise. In the meanwhile, Adam Woodcock, the falconer, stripped of his masquing habit, and attired, according to his rank and calling, in a green jerkin, with a bag on the one side, and a short hanger on the other, a glove on his left hand which reached half way up his arm, and a bonnet and feather upon his head, came after the party as fast as his active little galloway-nag could trot, and immediately entered into parley with Roland Græme. “ So, my youngster, you are once more under shadow of the holly branch?” “And in case to repay you, my good friend,” answered Roland, “your ten groats of silver.” “Which, but an hour since,” said the falconer, “you had nearly paid me with ten inches of steel. On my faith, it is written in the book of our destiny, that I must brook your dagger, after all.” “Nay, speak not of that, my good friend,” said the youth, “ I would rather have broached my own bosom than yours ; but who could have known you in the mumming dress you wore ?” “Yes,” the falconer resumed,— for both as a poet and actor he had his own professional share of self-conceit,— “ I think I was as good an Howleglas as ever played part at a Shrovetide revelry, and not a much

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worse Abbot of Unreason. I defy the Old Enemy to unmask me when I chuse to keep my vizard on. What a devil brought the Knight on us before we had the game out? you would have heard me hollo my own new ballad with a voice should have reached to Berwick. But, I pray you, Master Roland, be less free of cold steel on slight occasions ; for, but for the stuffing of my reverend doublet, I had only left the kirk to take my place in the kirk-yard.” “Nay, spare me that feud,” said Roland Græme, “we shall have no time to fight it out; for, by our lord’s command, I am bound for Edinburgh.” “ I know it,” said Adam Woodcock, “and even therefore we shall have all time to solder up this rent by the way, for Sir Halbert has appointed me your companion and guide.” “Ay, and with what purpose ?” said the page. “ That,” said the falconer, “ is a question I cannot answer; but I know, that be the food of the eyasses washed or unwashed, and, indeed, whatsoever becomes o f perch and mew, I am to go with you to Edinburgh, and see you safely delivered to the Regent at Holyrood.” “How, to the Regent?” said Roland, in surprise. “ Ay, by my faith, to the Regent,” replied Woodcock; “ I promise you, that if you are not to enter his service, at least you are to wait upon h im in th e n a tu re of a v a s s a l of our K n ig h t of A v e n e l ' s .” “ I know no right,” said the youth, “which the Knight of Avenel hath to transfer my service, supposing that I owe it to himself.” “ Hush, hush !” said the falconer ; “that is a question I advise no one to stir in, until he has the mountain or the lake, or the march o f another kingdom, which is better than either, betwixt him and his feudal superior.” “ But Sir Halbert Glendinning,” said the youth, “ is not my feudal superior; nor has he aught of authority” “ I pray you, my son, to rein your tongue,” answered Adam Wood­ cock; “my lord’s displeasure, if you provoke it, will be worse to appease than my lady’s. The touch o f his least finger were heavier than her hardest blow. And, by my faith, he is a man o f steel— as true and as pure—but as hard and as pitiless. You remember the Cock of Capperlaw, whom he hanged over his gate— for a mere mistake— a poor yoke of oxen taken in Scotland, when he thought he was taking them in English land. I loved the Cock of Capperlaw; the Kerrs had not an honester man in their clan, and they have had men that might have been a pattern to the Border—men that would not have lifted under twenty cows at once, and would have held themselves dishonoured if they had taken a drift of sheep, or the like, but always managed their raids in full credit and honour.— But see, his worship halts, and we are

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close by the bridge— ride up—ride up—we must have his last instruc­ tions.” It was as Adam Woodcock said. In the hollow way descending towards the bridge, which was still in the guardianship o f Peter Bridgeward, as he was called, though he was now very old, Sir Halbert Glendinning halted his retinue, and beckoned to Woodcock and Græme to advance to the head of the train. “Woodcock,” said he, “thou knowest to whom thou art to conduct this youth. And thou, young man, obey discreetly, and with diligence, the orders that shall be given thee— curb thy vain and peevish temper, be just, true, and faithful, and there is in thee that which may raise thee many a degree above thy present station. Neither shalt thou—always supposing thine efforts to be fair and honest—want the protection and countenance of Avenel.” Leaving them in front of the bridge, whose centre tower now began to cast a prolonged shade upon the river, the Knight of Avenel turned to the left, without crossing the river, and pursued his way towards the chain of hills within whose recesses are situated the Lake and Castle of Avenel. There remained behind, the falconer, Roland Græme, and a domestic of the Knight, of inferior rank, who was left with them to look after their horses while on the road, to carry their baggage, and to attend to their convenience. So soon as the more numerous body of riders had turned off to pursue their journey westward, those whose route lay across the river, and was directed towards the North, summoned the Bridgeward, and demanded a free passage. “ I will not lower the bridge,” answered Peter, in a voice querulous with age and habitual ill-humour. “ Come Papist, come Protestant, ye are all the same. The Papist threatened us with purgatory, and fleeched us with pardons ;—the Protestant mints at us with the sword, and cuitdes us with the liberty of conscience ; but the never a one of either says, ‘Peter, there is your penny.’ I am well tired o f all this, and for no man shall the bridge fall that pays me not ready money; and I would have you know I care as little for Geneva as for Rome, as little for homilies as for pardons, and the silver pennies are the only pass­ port I will hear of.” “ Here is a proper old chuff,” said Woodcock to his companion; and then raising his voice, he exclaimed, “ Hark thee, dog, bridgeward, villain, doest thou think we have refused Peter’s pence to Rome, to pay thine at the Bridge of Kennaquhair? Let thy bridge down instantly to the followers of the house of Avenel, or, by the hand of my father, and that handled many a bridle rein, for he was a bluff Yorkshire-man— I say, by my father’s hand, our Knight will blow

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thee out of thy solan-goose’s nest there in the middle of the water, with the light falconet which we are bringing southward from Edin­ burgh to-morrow.” The Bridgeward heard, and muttered, "A plague on falcon and falconet, on cannon and demi-cannon, and all the barking bull-dogs whom they halloo against stone and lime in these our days !—it was a merry time when there was little besides handy blows, and may be a flight of arrows that harmed an ashler wall as little as so many hail­ stones. But we must jowk, and let the jaw gang by.” Comforting himself in his state of diminished consequence with this pithy old proverb, Peter Bridgeward lowered the drawbridge, and permitted them to pass over. At the sight of his white hair, albeit it covered a visage equally peevish through age and misfortune, Roland was inclined to give him an alms, but Adam Woodcock withheld him. “ E ’en let him pay the penalty of his former churlishness and greed,” he said; “the wolf, when he has lost his teeth, should be treated no better than a cur.” Leaving the Bridgeward to lament the alteration of times, which sent domineering soldiers, and feudal retainers, to his place of pas­ sage, instead o f peaceful pilgrims, and reduced him to become the oppressed, instead o f playing the extortioner, the travellers turned them n o r th w a rd ; a n d A d a m W o o d c o c k , well acquainted w ith that p a r t o f the country, proposed to cut short a considerable portion o f the road, by traversing the little vale of Glendearg, so famous for the adventures which befel therein during the earlier part of the Bene­ dictine’s manuscript. With these, and with the thousand comment­ aries, representations, and misrepresentations, to which they had given rise, Roland Græme was, o f course, well acquainted ; for in the Castle of Avenel, as well as in other great establishments, the inmates talked of nothing so often, or with such pleasure, as of the private affairs o f their lord and lady. But while Roland was viewing with interest these haunted scenes, in which things were said to have passed beyond the ordinary laws of nature, Adam Woodcock was still regretting in his secret soul the unfinished revel and the unsung ballad, and kept every now and then breaking out with some such verses as these :— “ T h e Friars o f F ail drank berry-brown ale, T h e best that ere was tasted ; T h e M onks o f M elrose made gude kale O n Fridays, when they fasted. Saint M onance’ sister, T h e grey priest kist her— Fien d save the company ! Sin g hay trix,

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T rim go trix, U nder the greenwood tree.”

“ By my hand, friend Woodcock,” said the page, “though I know you for a hardy gospeller, that fear neither saint nor devil, yet, if I were you, I would not sing your profane songs in this valley of Glendearg, considering what has happened here before our time.” “A straw for your wandering spirits,” said Adam Woodcock; “ I mind them no more than an earn cares for a string of wild geese— they have all fled since the pulpits were filled with honest men, and the people’s ears with sound doctrine. Nay, I touch at them in my ballad, and I had but had the good luck to have it sung to end ;” and again he set off in the same key. “ From haunted spring and grassy ring, T ro op goblin, elf, and fairy; And the kelpie must flit from the black bog-pit, And the brownie must not tarry; T o Lim bo-lake, T h e ir way they take, W ith scarce the pith to flee. Sin g hay trix, T rim go trix, U nder the greenwood tree.

I think,” he added, “that could Sir Halbert’s patience have stretched till we came that length, he would have had a hearty laugh, and that is what he seldom enjoys.” “ If it be all true that men tell of his early life,” said Roland, “he has less right to laugh at goblins than most men.” “Ay—if it be all true,” answered Adam Woodcock; “but who can insure us of that? Moreover, these were but tales the monks used to gull us simple laymen withal; they knew that fairies and hobgoblins brought aves and paternosters into repute ; but now we have given up worship o f images in wood and stone, methinks it were no time to be afraid of bubbles in the water, or shadows in the air.” “ But,” said Roland Græme, “ as the Catholics say they do not worship wood or stone, but only as emblems of the holy saints, and not as things holy in themselves”____ “ Pshaw! pshaw!” answered the falconer; “a rush for their prating. They told us another story when these baptized idols of theirs brought pike-staves and sandalled shoon from all the four winds, and whillied the old women out of their com and their candle-ends, their butter, bacon, wool, and cheese, and when not sp much as a grey groat escaped tything.” Roland Græme had been long taught, by necessity, to consider his religion as a profound secret, and to say nothing whatsoever in its defence when assailed, lest he should draw on himself the suspicion of

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belonging to the unpopular and exploded church. He therefore suf­ fered Adam Woodcock to triumph without farther opposition, mar­ velling in his own mind whether any o f the goblins, formerly such active agents, would avenge his rude raillery before they left the valley of Glendearg. But no such consequences followed. They passed the night quietly in a cottage in the glen, and on the next day resumed their route to Edinburgh.

Chapter Two Edina ! Scotia’s darling seat, A ll hail thy palaces and towers, W here once, beneath a m onarch’s feet, Sate Legislation’s sovereign powers.

B urns “ T h i s t h e n , is Edinburgh,” said the youth, as the fellow-travellers arrived at one of the heights to the southward, which command a view o f the great northern capital— “ This is that Edinburgh of whom we have heard so much.” “ Even so,” said the falconer; “yonder stands Auld Reekie—you may see the smoke hover over her at twenty miles distance, as the goss-hawk hangs over a plump o f young wild-duck. Ay—yonder is the heart of Scotland, and each throb that she gives is felt from the edge o f Solway to Duncan’s-bay-head. See, yonder is the old Castle. And see to the right, on yon rising ground— that is the castle of Craigmillar, which I have known a merry place in my time.” “Was it not there,” said the page, but in a low voice, “that the Queen held her court?” “Ay, ay,” replied the falconer, “ Queen she was then, though you must not call her so now—well— they may say what they will—many a true heart will be sad for Mary Stuart, e’en if all be true men say of her; for look you, Master Roland— she was the loveliest creature to look upon that I ever saw with eye, and no lady in the land liked better the fair flight o f a falcon. I was at the great match on Roslin-moor betwixt Bothwell—he was a black sight to her that Bothwell—and the Baron of Roslin, who could judge a hawk’s flight as well as any man in Scodand— a butt of Rhenish and a ring of gold was the wager, and it was flown as fairly for as ever was red gold and bright wine. And to see her there on her white palfrey, that flew as if it scorned to touch more than the heather blossom, and to hear her voice, as clear and sweet as the mavis’s whistle, mix among our jolly whooping and whistling— And all the nobles dashing round her, happiest he who got a word or a

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look—tearing through moss and hagg, and venturing neck and limb to gain the praise o f a bold rider, and the blink of a bonnie Queen’s bright eye— She will see little hawking where she lies now—ay, ay— pomp and pleasure pass away as speedily as the wap of a falcon’s wing.” “And where is this poor Queen now confined?” said Roland Græme, interested in the fate of a woman, whose beauty and grace had made so strong an impression even on the blunt and careless character of Adam Woodcock. “Where is she now imprisoned?” said Adam Woodcock; “why, in some castle in the north, they say—I know not for my share, nor is it worth while to vex one’s self anent what cannot be mended—An she had guided her power well whilst she had it, she had not come to so evil a pass. Men say she must resign her crown to this little baby of a prince, for that they will trust her with it no longer. Our master has been as busy as his neighbours in all this work. If the Queen should come to her own again, Avenel Castle is like to smoke for it, unless he makes his bargain all the better.” “ In a castle in the north Queen Mary is confined?” said the page. “Why, ay—they say so at least—In a castle beyond that great river which comes down yonder, and looks like a river, but it is a branch of the sea, and as bitter as brine.” “And amongst all her subjects,” said the page, with some emotion, “is there none that will adventure any thing for her relief?” “That is a kittl e question,” said the falconer; “ and if you ask it often, Master Roland, I am fain to tell you that you will be mewed up yourself in some of these castles, if they do not prefer twisting your head off, to save further trouble with you—Adventure any thing? Lord, why, Moray has the wind in his poop now, man, and flies so high and strong, that the devil a wing of them can match him—No, no, there she is, and there she must lie, till Heaven send her deliverance, or till her son has the management of all— But Moray will never let her loose again, he knows her too well.— And hark thee, we are now bound for Holyrood, where thou wilt find plenty of news and of courtiers to tell it—But, take my counsel, and keep a calm sough, as the Scots say—hear every man’s counsel, and keep your own. And if you hear any news you like, leap not up as if you were to put on armour direct in the cause— Our old M r Wingate says— and he knows courtcattle well—that if you are told Old King Coul is come alive again, you should turn it off with ‘Ay, is he in truth?— I heard not of it,’ and should seem no more moved, than if one told you, by way of novelty, that Old King Coul was dead and buried. Wherefore, look well to your bearing, Master Roland, for I promise, you come among a generation

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that are as keen as a hungry hawk—And never be dagger out of sheath at every wry word you hear spoken; for you will find as hot blades as yourself, and then will be letting of blood without advice either of leech or almanack.” “You will see how staid I will be, and how cautious, my good friend,” said Græme ; “but, blessed Lady, what goodly house is that which is lying all in ruins so close to the city ? Have they been playing at the Abbot of Unreason here, and ended the gambol by burning the church?” “ There again now,” replied his companion, “you go down the wind like a wild haggard, that minds neither lure nor beck—that is a ques­ tion you should have asked in as low a tone as I shall answer it.” “ If I stay here long,” said Roland Græme, “it is like I shall lose the natural use of my voice—but what are the ruins then?” “The Kirk of Field,” said the falconer, in a low and impressive whisper, laying at the same time his finger on his lip; “ ask no more about it—somebody got foul play, and somebody got the blame of it; and the game began there which perhaps may not be played out in our time.— Poor Henry Darnley! to be an ass, he understood somewhat of a hawk; but they sent him on the wing through the air himself one bright moonlight night.” The memory of this catastrophe was so recent, that the page averted his eyes with horror from the scathed ruins in which it had taken place ; and the accusations against the Queen, to which it had given rise, came over his mind with such strength as to balance the compas­ sion he had begun to entertain for her present forlorn situation. It was, indeed, with that agitating state o f mind which arises partly from horror, but more from eager interest and curiosity, that young Græme found himself actually traversing the scene of those tremend­ ous events, the report of which had disturbed the most distant solit­ udes in Scotland, like the echoes o f distant thunder rolling among the mountains. Now, he thought, now or never shall I become a man, and bear my part in those deeds which the simple inhabitants of our hamlets re­ peat to each other as if they were wrought by beings of a superior race to their own. I will know now, wherefore the Knight of Avenel carries his crest so much above those of the neighbouring baronage, and how it is that men, by valour and wisdom, work their way from the hoddin gray coat to the cloak o f scarlet and gold. Men say I have not much wisdom to recommend me; and if that be true, courage must do it, for I will be a man amongst living men, or a dead corpse amongst the dead. From these plans of ambition he turned his thoughts to those of

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pleasure, and began to form many conjectures when and where he should see Catherine Seyton, and in what manner their acquaintance was to be renewed. With such conjectures he was amusing himself, when he found that they had entered the city, and all other feelings were suspended in the sensation of giddy astonishment with which the inhabitant of a solitary country is affected, when, for the first time, he finds himself in the streets of a large and populous city, a unit in the midst of thousands. The principal street of Edinburgh was then, as now, one of the most spacious in Europe. The extreme height of the houses, and the variety o f Gothic gables and battlements, and balconies, by which the sky-line on each side was crowned and terminated, together with the width of the street itself, might have struck with surprise a more practised eye than that o f young Græme. The population, close packed within the walls of the city, and at this time increased by the number of the lords o f the King’s party who had thronged to Edinburgh to wait upon the Regent Moray, absolutely swarmed like bees on the wide and stately street. Instead of the shop-windows, which are now calculated for the display of goods, the traders had their open booths projecting on the street, in which, as in the fashion of the modem bazaars, all was exposed which they had upon sale. And though the commodities were not o f the richest kinds, yet Græme seemed to see the wealth of the whole world in the various bales of Flanders cloths, and the specimens of tapestry; and, at other places, the display of domestic utensils, and pieces of silver-plate, struck him with wonder. The sight of cutlers’ b o o th s , fu r n is h e d w ith s w o rd s a n d p o n ia rd s , w h ic h w e r e manufac­ tured in Scotland, and with pieces of defensive armour, imported from Flanders, added to his surprise; and, at every step, he found so much to admire and to gaze upon, that Adam Woodcock had no little difficulty in prevailing on him to advance through such a scene of enchantment. The sight of the crowds which filled the streets was equally a subject of wonder. Here a gay lady, in her muffler, or silken veil, traced her way delicately, a gentleman usher making way for her, a page bearing up her train, and a waiting gentlewoman carrying her Bible, and intimating that her purpose was towards the church— There he might see a groupe of citizens bending the same way, with their short Flemish cloaks, wide trowsers, and high-caped doublets, a fashion to which, as well as to their bonnet and feather, the Scots were long faithful. Then, again, came the clergyman himself, in his black Geneva cloak and band, lending a grave and attentive ear to the discourse of several persons who accompanied him, and who were doubtless holding serious converse on the religious subject he was

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about to treat of. Nor did there lack passengers of a different class and appearance. At every turn, Roland Græme might see a gallant ruffle along in the newer or French mode, his doublet slashed, and his points of the same colours with the lining, his long sword on one side, and his poniard on the other, behind him a body of stout serving-men, proportioned to his estate and quality, all o f whom walked with the air of military retainers, and were armed with sword and buckler, the latter being a small round shield, not unlike the Highland target, having a steel spike in the centre. Two o f these parties, each headed by a person of importance, chanced to meet in the very centre of the street, or, as it was called, “ the crown of the causeway,” a post of honour as ten­ aciously asserted in Scotland, as that of giving or taking the wall used to be in the more southern part of the island. The two leaders being of equal rank, and, most probably, either animated by political dislike, or by recollection o f some feudal enmity, marched close up to each other, without yielding an inch to the right or the left; and neither shewing the least purpose of giving way, they stopped for an instant, and then drew their swords. Their followers imitated their example ; about a score of weapons at once flashed in the sun, and there was an immedi­ ate clatter of swords and bucklers, while the followers on either side cried their master’s name ; the one shouting “ Help, a Leslie ! a Les­ lie !” while the others answered with shouts of “ Seyton ! Seyton !” with the additional punning slogan, “ Set on, set on—bear the knaves to the ground.” If the falconer found difficulty in getting the page to go forward before, it was now perfectly impossible. He reined up his horse, clapped his hands, and, delighted with the fray, cried and shouted as fast as any o f those that were actually engaged in it. The noise and cries thus arising on the High Gait, as it was called, drew into the quarrel two or three other parties o f gentlemen and their servants, besides some single passengers, who, hearing a fray betwixt these two distinguished names, took part in it, either for love or hatred. The combat became now very sharp, and although the sword-andbuckler-men made more clatter and noise than they did real damage, yet several good cuts were dealt among them; and those who wore rapiers, a more formidable weapon than the ordinary Scottish sword, gave and received dangerous wounds. Two men were already stretched on the causeway, and the party o f Seyton began to give ground, being much inferior in number to the other, with which several of the citizens had united themselves, when young Roland Græme, beholding their leader, a noble gentleman, fighting bravely,

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and hard pressed with numbers, could withhold no longer. “ Adam Woodcock,” he said, “ an you be a man, draw, and let us take part with the Seyton.” And, without waiting a reply, or listening to the falconer’s earnest entreaty, that he would leave alone a strife in which he had no concern, the fiery youth sprung from his horse, drew his short sword, and shouting like the rest, “A Seyton! a Seyton! Set on! Set on!” thrust forward into the throng, and struck down one of those who was pressing hardest upon the gentleman whose cause he espoused. This sudden reinforcement gave spirit to the weaker party, who began to renew the combat with much spirit, when four of the magistrates of the city, distinguished by their velvet cloaks and gold chains, came up with a guard of halberdiers and citizens, armed with long weapons, who, well accustomed to such service, thrust boldly forward, and compelled the swordsmen to separate, who immediately retreated in different directions, leaving such of the wounded on both sides, as had been disabled in the fray, lying on the street. The falconer, who had been tearing his beard for anger at his comrade’s rashness, now rode up to him with the horse which he had caught by the bridle, and accosted him with “Master Roland— master goose— master madcap—will it please you to get on horse and budge? or will you remain here to be carried to prison, and made to answer for this pretty day’s work?” The page, who had begun his retreat along with the Seytons, just as if he had been one of their natural allies, was by this unceremonious application made sensible that he was acting a foolish part; and, o b e y in g Adam Woodcock, with s o m e s e n s e o f s h a m e , he s p r u n g act­ ively on horseback, and upsetting with the shoulder of the animal a city-officer, who was making towards him, he began to ride smartly down the street, along with his companion, and was quickly out of the reach of the hue and cry. In fact, rencounters of the kind were so common in Edinburgh at this period, that the disturbance seldom excited much attention after the affray was over, unless some person of consequence chanced to have fallen, an accident which imposed on his friends the duty of avenging his death upon the first convenient opportunity. So feeble, indeed, was the arm of the police, that it was not unusual for such skirmishes to last for hours, where the parties were numerous and well matched. But at this time the Regent, a man of great strength of character, aware of the mischief which usually arose from such acts of violence, had prevailed with the magistrates to keep a constant guard on foot, for preventing or separating such affrays as had happened in the present case. The falconer and his young companion were now riding down the Canongate, and had slackened their pace to avoid attracting attention,

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the rather that there seemed to be no appearance of pursuit. Roland hung his head as one who was conscious his conduct had been none of the wisest, while his companion thus addressed him. “Will you be pleased to tell me one thing, Master Roland Græme, and that is, whether there be a devil incarnate in you or no ?” “Truly, Master Adam Woodcock,” answered the page, “ I would fain hope there is not.” “ Then,” said Adam, “ I would fain know by what other influence or instigation you are perpetually at one end or the other of some bloody brawl ? What, I pray, had you to do with these Seytons and Leslies, that you never heard the names o f in your life before ?” “You are out there, my friend,” said Roland Græme, “ I have my own reasons for being a friend to the Seytons.” “ They must have been very secret reasons then,” answered Adam Woodcock, “ for I think I could have wagered, you had never known one o f the name; and I am apt to believe still, that it was rather your unhallowed passion for that clashing of cold iron, which has as much charm for you as the clatter of a brass pan hath for a hive of bees, more than any care either for Seyton or for Leslie, that persuaded you to thrust your fool’s head into a quarrel that no ways concerned you. But take this for a warning, my young master, that if you are to draw sword with every man who draws sword on the High-gait here, it will be scarce worth your while to sheathe bilbo again for the rest of your life, since, if I guess rightly, it will scarce endure on such terms for many hours— all which I leave to your serious consideration.” “ By my word, Adam, I honour your advice ; and I promise you, that I will practise by it as faithfully as if I were sworn apprentice to you, to the trade and mystery of bearing myself with all wisdom and safety through the new paths of life that I am about to be engaged in.” “And therein you will do well,” said the falconer; “ and I do not quarrel with you, Master Roland, for having a grain over much spirit, because I know one may bring to the hand a wild hawk which one never can a dunghill hen— and so betwixt two faults you have the best side on’t. But besides your peculiar genius for quarrelling and lugging out your side companion, my dear Master Roland, you have also the gift of peering under every woman’s muffler and screen, as if you expected to find an old acquaintance. Though were you to spy one, I should be as much surprised at it, well wotting how few you have seen of these same wild-fowl, as I was at your taking so deep an interest even now in the Seyton.” “ Tush, man! nonsense and folly,” answered Roland Græme, “ I but sought to see what eyes these gentle hawks have got under their hood.”

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“Ay, but it’s a dangerous subject of inquiry,” said the falconer ; “you had better hold out your bare wrist for an eagle to perch upon.— Look you, Master Roland, these pretty wild-geese cannot be hawked at without risk—they have as many divings, boltings, and volleyings, as the most gamesome quarry that falcon ever flew at—And besides, every woman of them is manned with her husband, or her kind friend, or her brother, or her cousin, or her sworn servant at the least—But you heed me not, Master Roland, though I know the game so well— your eye is all on that pretty damsel who trips down the gait before us —by my certes, I will warrant her a blithe dancer either in reel or revel — a pair of silver morisco bells would become these pretty ancles as well as the jesses would suit the fairest Norway hawk.” “ Thou art a fool, Adam,” said the page, “ and I care not a button about the girl or her ancles— But what the foul fiend, one must look at something!” “Very true, Master Roland Græme,” said his guide, “but let me pray you to chuse your objects better. Look you, there is scarce a woman walks this High-gait with a silk screen or a pearlin muffler, but, as I said before, she has either gentleman-usher before her, or kinsman, or lover, or husband at her elbow, or it may be a brace of stout fellows with sword and buckler, not so far behind but what they can follow close— But you heed me no more than a goss-hawk minds a yellow yoldring.” “ O yes, I do— I do mind you indeed,” said Roland Græme; “but hold my nag a bit—I will be with you in the exchange of a whistle.” So saying, and ere Adam Woodcock could finish the sermon which was dying on his tongue, Roland Græme, to the falconer’s utter astonish­ ment, threw him the bridle o f his jennet, jumped off horseback, and pursued down one of the closes or narrow lanes, which, opening under a vault, terminate upon the main-street, the very maiden to whom his friend had accused him of shewing so much attention, and who had turned down the pass in question. “ Saint Mary, Saint Magdalen, Saint Benedict, Saint Barnabas!” said the poor falconer, when he found himself thus suddenly brought to a pause in the midst of the Canongate, and saw his young charge start off like a madman in quest o f a damsel whom he had never, as Adam supposed, seen in his life before,— “ Saint Satan and Saint Beelzebub— for this would make one swear Saint and devil—what can have come over the lad, with a wanion !—And what shall I do the whilst—he will have his throat cut, the poor lad, as sure as I was bom at the foot o f Roseberry-Topping. Could I find some one to hold the horses ! but they are as sharp here northaway as in canny Yorkshire herself, and quit bridle, quit titt, as we say. An’ I could but see one of

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our folks now, a holly sprig were worth a gold tassel ; or could I but see one o f the Regent’s men—but to leave the horses to a stranger, that I cannot—and to leave the place while the lad is in jeopardy, that I wonot.” We must leave the falconer, however, in the midst of his distress, and follow the hot-headed youth who was the cause o f his perplexity. The latter part of Adam Woodcock’s sage remonstrance had been in a great measure lost upon Roland, for whose benefit it was inten­ ded; because, in one of the female forms which tripped along the street, muffled in a veil of striped silk, like the women o f Brussels at this day, his eye had discerned something which closely resembled the exquisite shape and spirited bearing of Catherine Seyton. During all the grave advice which the falconer was dinning into his ear, his eye continued intent upon so interesting an object o f observation; and, at length, as the damsel, just about to dive under one o f the arched passages which afford outlet to the Canongate from the houses beneath, (a passage, graced by a projecting shield of arms, supported by two huge foxes o f stone,) had lifted her veil, for the purpose perhaps of descrying who the horseman was who for some time had eyed her so closely, young Roland saw, under the shadow o f the silken plaid, enough of die bright azure eyes, fair locks, and blithe features, to induce him, like an inexperienced and rash madcap, whose wilful ways had never been traversed by contradiction, nor much subjected to consideration, to throw the bridle of his horse into Adam Wood­ cock’s hand, and leave him to play the waiting gentleman, while he dashed down the paved court after Catherine Seyton—all as afore­ said. Women’s wits are proverbially quick, but apparendy those of Catherine suggested no better expedient than fairly to betake herself to speed of foot, in hopes of baffling the page’s vivacity, by getting safely lodged before he could discover where. But a youth o f eighteen, in pursuit of a mistress, is not so easily outstripped. Catherine fled across a paved court, decorated with large formal vases o f stone, in which yews, cypresses, and other evergreens, vegetated in sombre sullenness, and gave a correspondent degree o f solemnity to the high and heavy building in front of which they were placed as ornaments, aspiring towards a square portion of the blue hemisphere, corres­ ponding exacdy in extent to the quadrangle in which they were stationed, and all around which rose huge black walls, exhibiting windows in rows o f five stories, with heavy architraves over each, bearing armorial and religious devices. Through this court Catherine Seyton flashed like a hunted doe, making the best use of those pretty legs which had attracted the

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commendation even of the reflective and cautious Adam Woodcock. She hastened towards a large door in the centre of the lower front of the court, pulled the bobbin till the latch flew up, and ensconced herself in the ancient mansion. But, if she fled like a doe, Roland Græme followed with the speed and ardour of a youthful stag-hound, loosed, for the first time, on his prey. He kept her in view, in spite of her efforts ; for it is remarkable, what an advantage in such a race the gallant who desires to see, possesses over the maiden who wishes not to be seen—an advantage which I have known counterbalance a great start in point of distance. In short, he saw the waving of her screen, or veil, at one comer, heard the tap of her foot, light as that was, as it crossed the court, and caught a glimpse of her figure just as she entered the door of the mansion. Roland Græme, inconsiderate and headlong as we have described him, having no knowledge o f real life but from the romances which he had read, and not an idea of checking himself in the midst of any eager impulse; possessed, besides, of much courage and readiness, never hesitated for a moment to approach the door through which the object of his search had disappeared. He, too, pulled the bobbin, and the latch, though heavy and massive, answered to the summons, and arose. The page entered with the same precipitation which had marked his whole proceeding, and found himself in a large gloomy hall, or vestibule, dimly enlightened by latticed casements of painted glass, and rendered yet dimmer through the exclusion of the sun­ beams, owing to the height of the walls o f those buildings by which the court-yard was enclosed. The walls o f the hall were surrounded with suits of ancient and rusted armour, interchanged with huge and mas­ sive stone scutcheons, bearing double tressures fleured and counterfleured, wheat-sheaves, coronets, and so forth, things to which Roland Græme gave not a moment’s attention. In fact, he only deigned to observe the figure of Catherine Seyton, who, deeming herself safe in the hall, had stopped to take breath after her course, and was reposing herself for a moment on a large oaken settle which stood at the upper end o f the hall. The noise of Roland’s entrance at once disturbed her; she started up with a faint scream of surprise, and escaped through one of the several folding-doors which opened into this apartment as a common centre. This door, which Roland Græme instantly approached, opened on a large and welllighted gallery, at the upper end of which he could hear several voices, and the noise of hasty steps approaching toward the hall or vestibule. A little recalled to sober thought by an appearance of serious danger, he was deliberating whether he should stand fast or retire, when Catherine Seyton re-entered from a side-door, running towards him

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with as much speed as a few minutes since she had fled from him. “ O, what mischief brought you hither?” she said; “ fly—fly, or you are a dead man,— or, stay—they come— flight is impossible— say you came to ask after Lord Seyton.” She sprung from him, and disappeared through the door by which she had made her second appearance ; and, at the same instant, a pair o f large folding-doors at the upper end o f the gallery flew open with vehemence, and six or seven young gentlemen, richly dressed, pressed forward into the apartment, having, for the greater part, their swords drawn. “Who is it,” said one, “ dare intrude on us in our own mansion?” “ Cut him to pieces,” said another; “let him pay for this day’s insol­ ence and violence— he is some follower o f the Rothes.” “ No, by Saint Mary,” said another, “ he is a follower of the arch­ heretic and ennobled clown Halbert Glendinning, who takes the style of Avenel— once a church-vassal, now a pillager o f the church.” “ It is so,” said a fourth; “ I know him by the holly-sprig, which is their cognisance. Secure the door, he must answer for this insolence.” Two of the gallants, hastily drawing their weapons, past on to the door by which Roland had entered the hall, and stationed themselves there as if to prevent his escape. The others advanced on Græme, who had just sense enough to p e r c e iv e th a t a n y a tte m p t a t re s is ta n c e would be alike fruitless and imprudent. At once, and by various voices, none o f which sounded amicably, the page was required to say who he was, whence he came, his name, his errand, and who sent him hither. The number of the questions demanded of him at once, pro­ vided a momentary apology for his remaining silent, and ere that brief truce had elapsed, a personage entered the hall, at whose appearance those who had gathered fiercely around Roland, fell back with respect. This was a tall man, whose dark hair was already grizzled, though his eye and haughty features retained all the animation o f youth. The upper part o f his person was undressed to his Holland shirt, whose ample folds were stained with blood. But he wore a mantle o f crimson lined with rich fur cast around him, which supplied the deficiency of his dress. On his head he had a crimson velvet bonnet, looped up on one side with a small golden chain of many links, which, going thrice round the hat, was fastened by a medal agreeable to the fashion amongst the grandees o f the time. “Whom have you here, sons and kinsmen,” said he, “ around whom you crowd thus roughly?— Know you not that the shelter o f this roof should secure every one fair treatment, who shall come hither either in fair peace, or in open and manly hostility?”

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“ But here, my lord,” answered one of the youths, “is a knave who comes on treacherous espial !” “ I deny the charge!” said Roland Græme boldly, “ I came to inquire after my Lord Seyton.” “A likely tale,” answered his accusers, “ in the mouth of a follower of Glendinning.” “ Stay, young men,” said the Lord Seyton, for it was that nobleman himself, “ let me look at this youth—by heaven, it is the very same who came so boldly to my side not very many minutes since, when some of my own knaves bare them with more respect to their own worshipful safety than to mine ! Stand back from him, for he well deserves honour and a friendly welcome at your hands, instead of this rough treat­ ment.” They fell back on all sides, obedient to Lord Seyton’s commands, who, taking Roland Græme by the hand, thanked him for his prompt and gallant assistance, adding, that he nothing doubted, “the same interest which he had taken in his cause in the affray, had brought him hither to inquire after his hurt.” Roland bowed low in acquiescence. “ Or is there any thing in which I can serve you, to shew my sense of your ready gallantry.” But the page, thinking it best to abide by the apology for his visit which the Lord Seyton had so aptly himself suggested, replied, “that to be assured o f his lordship’s safety, had been the only cause of his intrusion. He judged,” he added, “he had seen him receive some hurt in the affray.” “A trifle,” said Lord Seyton; “ I had but stripped my doublet, that the chirurgeon might put some dressing on the paltry scratch, when these rash boys interrupted him with their clamour.” Roland Græme, making a low obeisance, was now about to depart, for, relieved from the danger of being treated as a spy, he began next to fear, that his companion Adam Woodcock, whom he had so uncere­ moniously quitted, would either bring him into some further dilemma, by venturing into the hotel in quest of him, or ride off and leave him behind altogether. But Lord Seyton did not permit him to escape so easily.— “Tarry,” he said, “young man, and let me know thy rank and name. The Seyton has of late been more wont to see friends and followers shrink from his side, than to receive aid from strangers —but a new world may come round, in which he may have the chance of rewarding his well-wishers.” “My name is Roland Græme, my lord,” answered the youth, “ a page, who, for the present, is in the service of Sir Halbert Glendinning.”

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“ I said so from the first,” said one of the young men ; “ my life I will wager, that this is a shaft out of the heretic’s quiver—a stratagem from first to last, to injeer into your confidence some espial o f his own. They know how to teach both boys and women to play the intelligencers.” “ That is false, if it be spoken of me,” said Roland; “ no man in Scotland should teach me such a foul part!” “ I believe thee, boy,” said Seyton, “ for thy strokes were too fair to be dealt upon an understanding with those that were to receive them. Credit me, however, I little expected to have help at need from one of your master’s household ; and I would I knew what moved thee to mix in my quarrel, to thine own endangering?” “ So please you, my lord,” said Roland, “I think my master himself would not have stood by, and seen an honourable man borne to earth by odds, if his single arm could help him. Such, at least, is the lesson we were taught in chivalry, at the Castle of Avenel.” “The good seed hath fallen into good ground, young man,” said Seyton; “but alas! if thou practise such honourable war in these dishonourable days, when right is every where borne down by mas­ tery, thy life, my poor boy, will be but a short one.” “ Let it be short, so it be honourable,” said Roland Græme; “ and permit me now, my lord, to commend me to your grace, and to take my leave. A comrade waits with my horse in the street.” “Take this, however, young man,” said Lord Seyton, undoing from his bonnet the golden chain and medal, “and wear it for my sake.” With no litde pride Roland Græme accepted the gift, which he hastily fastened around his bonnet, as he had seen gallants wear such an ornament, and renewing his obeisance to the Baron, left the hall, traversed the court, and appeared on the street, just as Adam Wood­ cock, vexed and anxious at his delay, had determined to leave the horses to their fate, and go in quest o f his youthful comrade. “Whose bam has thou broken next?” he exclaimed, greatly relieved by his appearance, although his countenance indicated that he had passed through an agitating scene. “ Ask me no questions,” said Roland, leaping gaily on his horse; “but see how short time it takes to win a chain of gold,” pointing to that which he now wore. “Now, God forbid that thou hast either stolen it, or reft it by viol­ ence,” said the falconer; “ for, otherwise, I wot not how the devil thou couldst compass it. I have been often here, ay, for months at an end, and no one gave me either chain or medal.” “ Thou seest I have got one on shorter acquaintance with the city,” answered the page, “ and set thine honest heart at rest; that which is fairly won and freely given, is neither reft nor stolen.”

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“ Marry, hang thee, with thy fanfarona* about thy neck!” said the falconer ; “ I think water will not drown, nor hemp strangle thee— thou hast been discarded as my lady’s page, to come in again as my lord’s squire— and for following a noble young damsel into some great household, thou getst a chain and a medal, where another would have had the baton across his shoulders, if he missed having the dirk in his body.— But here we come in front o f the old Abbey. Bear thy good luck with you when you cross these paved stones, and, by our Lady, you may brag Scotland.” As he spoke, they checked their horses, where the huge old vaulted entrance to the Abbey or Palace o f Holyrood, crossed the termination o f the street down which they had proceeded. The court-yard o f the palace opened within this gloomy porch, shewing the front of an irregular pile of monastic buildings, one wing of which is still extant, forming a part of the modem palace, erected in the days o f Charles I. At the gate of the porch the falconer and page resigned their horses to the serving-man in attendance ; the falconer commanding him, with an air of authority, to carry them safely to the stables. “We follow,” he said, “the Knight o f Avenel.—We must bear ourselves for what we are here,” said he, in a whisper to Roland, “ for every one here is looked on as they demean themselves, and he that is too modest must to the wall, as the proverb says ; therefore cock thy bonnet, man, and let us brook the causeway bravely.” Assuming, therefore, an air of consequence, corresponding to what he supposed to be his master’s importance and quality, Adam Wood­ cock led the way into the court-yard o f the Palace of Holyrood.

Chapter Three ____ T h e sky is clouded, Gaspard, And the vex’d ocean sleeps a troubled sleep, Beneath a lurid gleam o f parting sunshine. Su ch slum ber hangs o’er discontented lands, W hile factions doubt, as yet, i f they have strength T o front the open battle.

Albion—A Poem h e y o u t h f u l p a g e paused on the entrance o f the court-yard, and implored his guide to give him a moment’s breathing space. “ Let me but look around me, man,” said he ; “you consider not I have never seen such a scene as this before.— And this is Holyrood— the resort of

T

* A name given to the gold chains worn by the military men of the period. It is of Spanish origin ; for the fashion of wearing those costly ornaments was much followed amongst the conquerors of the New World.

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the gallant and gay, and the fair and the wise, and the powerful !” “Ay, marry, is it !” said Woodcock; “but I wish I could hood thee as they do the hawks, for thou starest as wildly around as if you sought another fray or another fanfarona. I would I had thee safely housed, for thou lookest wild as a goss-hawk.” It was indeed no common sight to Roland, the vestibule of a palace, traversed by its various groupes,— some radiant with gaiety—some pensive, and apparently weighed down by affairs concerning the state, or concerning themselves. Here the hoary statesman, with his cau­ tious yet commanding look, his long beard, furred cloak and sable pantoufles; there the soldier in buff and steel, his long sword jarring against the pavement, and his whiskered upper lip and frowning brow; there again passed my lord’s serving-man, high o f heart, and bloody of hand, humble to his master and his master’s equals, insolent to all others. T o these might be added, the poor suitor, with his anxious look and depressed mien—the officer, full of his brief author­ ity, elbowing his betters, and possibly his benefactors, out of his road — the proud priest, who sought a better benefice— the proud baron, who sought a grant o f church lands—the robber chief, who came to solicit a pardon for the injuries he had inflicted on his neighbours— the plundered franklin, who came to seek vengeance for that which he had himself received. Besides, there was the mustering and dispersion of guards and of soldiers—the dispatching of messengers, and the receiving them—the trampling and neighing o f horses without the gate— the flashing o f arms, and rustling o f plumes, and jingling of spurs within it. In short, it was that gay and splendid confusion, in which the eye of youth sees all that is brave and brilliant, and that o f experience much that is doubtful, deceitful, false, and hollow—hopes that will never be gratified—promises which will never be fulfilled— pride in the disguise o f humility—and insolence in that o f frank and generous bounty. As, tired of the eager and enraptured attention which the page gave to a scene so new to him, Adam Woodcock endeavoured to get him to move forward, before his exuberance o f astonishment should attract the observation of the sharp-witted denizens of the court, the falconer himself became an object of attention to a gay menial in a dark-green bonnet and feather, with a cloak to correspond, laid down, as the phrase then went, by six broad bars o f silver lace, and welted with violet and silver. The words of recognition burst from both at once. “What! Adam Woodcock at court,” and “What! Michael Wing-thewind— and how runs the hackit greyhound bitch now?” “ The waur for the wear, like ourselves, Adam— eight years this grass— no four legs will carry a dog for ever ; but we keep her for the

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breed, and so she ’scapes your Border-doom.— But why stand you gazing there ? I promise you my lord has wished for you, and asked for you.” “My Lord o f Moray asked for me, and he Regent of the kingdom too !” said Adam. “ I hunger and thirst to pay my duty to my good lord ; —but I fancy his worthy lordship remembers the day’s sport on Cam warth-moor; and my Drummelzier falcon, that beat the hawks from the Isle of Man, and won his lordship a hundred crowns from the Southern baron whom they called Stanley.” “Nay, not to flatter thee, Adam,” said his court-friend, “he remem­ bers nought o f thee, or of the falcon either. He hath flown many a high flight since that, and struck his quarry too. But come, come hither away; I trust we are to be good comrades on the old score.” “What !” said Adam, “you would have me crush a pot with you ? but I must first dispose o f my eyass, where he will neither have girl to chase, or lad to draw sword upon.” “ Is the youngster such a one ?” said Michael. “Ay, by my hood— he flies at all game,” replied Woodcock. “ Then had he better come with us,” said Michael Wing-the-wind ; “ for we cannot have a proper carouse just now. Only I would wet my lips, and so must you. I want to hear the news from Saint Mary’s before you see my lord, and I will let you know how the wind sits up yonder.” While he thus spoke, he led the way to a side door which opened into the court; and threading several dark passages with the air of one who knew the most secret recesses of the palace, conducted them to a small matted chamber, where he placed bread and cheese, and a foaming flagon of ale before the falconer, who immediately did justice to the latter in a hearty draught, which nearly emptied the measure. Having drawn his breath, and dashed the froth from his whiskers, he observed, that his anxiety for the boy had made him deadly dry. “Mend your draught,” said his hospitable friend, again supplying the flagon from a pitcher which stood beside. “ I know the way to the buttery-bar. And now, mind what I say—this morning the Earl of Morton came to my lord in a mighty chafe.” “What! they keep the old friendship then?” said Woodcock. “Ay, ay, man, what else ?” said Michael ; “ one hand must scratch the other. But in a mighty chafe was my Lord of Morton, who, to say truth, looketh on such occasions altogether uncanny, and, as it were, fiend­ ish; and he says to my lord, for I was in the chamber taking orders about a cast of hawks that are to be fetched from T arnoway—they match your long-winged falcons, friend Adam.” “ I will believe that when I see them fly as high a pitch,” replied

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Woodcock, these professional observations forming a sort of paren­ thesis. “ However,” said Michael, pursuing his tale, “my Lord o f Morton, in a mighty chafe, asked my Lord Regent whether he was well dealt with— ‘for my brother,’ said he, ‘should have had a gift to be Com­ mendator of Kennaquhair, and to have all the temporalities erected into a lordship of regality for his benefit; and here,’ said he, ‘the false monks have had the insolence to chuse a new Abbot to put his claims in my brother’s way; and moreover, the rascality o f the neighbour­ hood have burned and plundered all that was left in the Abbey, so that my brother will not have a house to dwell in, when he hath outed the lazy hounds of priests.’ And my lord seeing him chafed, said mildly to him, ‘These are shrewd tidings, Douglas, but I trust they be not true ; for Halbert Glendinning went southward yesterday, with a band o f spears, and assuredly had either o f these chances happened, that the monks had presumed to chuse an Abbot, or that the Abbey had been burned, as you say, he had taken order on the spot for the punishment of such insolence, and had dispatched us a messenger.’ And the Earl o f Morton replied—Now I pray you, Adam, to notice that I say this out of love to you and your lord, and also for old comradeship, and also because Sir Halbert hath done me good, and may again, and also because I love not the Earl of Morton, as indeed more fear than like him—so it were a foul deed in you to betray me. — But said the Earl to the Regent, ‘Take heed, my lord, you trust not this Glendinning too far—he comes o f churl’s blood, which was never true to the nobles’—by Saint Andrew these were his very words— ‘And besides,’ he said, ‘he hath a brother a monk in Saint Mary’s, and walks all by his guidance, and is making friends on the Border with Buccleuch and with Fernieherst, and will join hand with them, were there likelihood o f a new world.’ And my lord answered, like a free noble lord as he is : ‘Tush ! my Lord o f Morton, I will be warrant for Glendinning’s faith; and for his brother, he is a dreamer, that thinks of nought but book and breviary —and if such hap have chanced as you tell of, I look to receive from Glendinning the cowl of a hanged monk, and the head o f a riotous churl, by way o f sharp and sudden justice.’—And my Lord o f Morton left the presence, as it seemed to me, somewhat malcontent, as I thought. But since that time, my lord has asked me more than once whether there has arrived no messenger from the Knight of Avenel, and all this I have told you, that you may frame your discourse to the best purpose— for it seems to me that my lord will not be well pleased, if aught has happened like what my Lord of Morton said, and if your Knight hath not ta’en strict order with it.”

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There was something in this communication which fairly blanked the bold visage of Adam Woodcock, in spite of the reinforcement which his natural hardihood had received from the berry-brown ale of Holyrood. “What was it he said, about a churl’s head, that grim Lord of Morton?” said the disconcerted falconer to his friend. “ Nay, it was my Lord Regent, who said that, if the Abbey was injured, he expected your Knight would send him the head o f the ringleader among the rioters.” “Nay, but is this done like a good Protestant,” said Adam Wood­ cock, “ or a true lord of the Congregation ? We used to be their whiteboys and darlings when we pulled down the convents in Fife and Perth shires.” “ Ay, but that,” said Michael, “was when old mother Rome held her own, and our great folks were determined she should have no shelter for her head in Scotland. But now that the priests are fled in all quarters, and their houses and lands are given to our grandees, they cannot see that we are working the work of reformation in destroying the palaces of zealous Protestants.” “ But I tell you Saint Mary’s is not destroyed !” said Woodcock, in increasing agitation; “ some trash of painted windows there were broken—things that no nobleman could have brooked in his house, some stone saints, were brought on their marrow-bones, like old Widdrington at Chevy-Chace ; but as for fire-raising, there was not so much as a lighted lunt amongst us, save the match which the dragon had to light the burning tow withal, which he was to spit against Saint George ; nay, I had caution o f that.” “ How ! Adam Woodcock,” said his comrade, “ I trust thou hadst no hand in such a fair work. Look you, Adam, I were loth to terrify you, and you just come from a journey; but I promise you, Earl Morton hath brought you down a maiden from Halifax, you never saw the like o f her—and she clip you round the neck once, your head will remain in her arms.” “Pshaw !” answered Adam, “ I am too old to have my head turned by any maiden of them all. I know my Lord of Morton will go as far for a buxom lass as any one, but what the devil took him to Halifax all the way? and if he have got a gamester there, what hath she to do with my head?” “Much, much!” answered Michael. “ Herod’s daughter, who did such execution with her foot and ancle, danced not men’s heads off more cleanly than this Maiden o f Morton. ’Tis an axe, man,— an axe which falls o f itself like a sash window, and never gives the headsman the trouble to wield it.”

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“By my faith, a shrewd device,” said Woodcock; “heaven keep us free on’t!” The page, seeing no end to the conversation between these two old comrades, and anxious, from what he had heard, concerning the fate of the Abbot, now interrupted their conference. “Methinks,” he said, “ Adam Woodcock, thou hadst better deliver thy master’s letter to the Regent: questionless he hath therein stated what has chanced at Kennaquhair, in the way most advantageous for all concerned.” “ The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “ my lord will be very impatient.” “ The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag his lord’s letter, addressed to the Earl of Moray, “ and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will e’en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent ; his presence will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.” “Well said, canny Yorkshire !” replied his friend ; “ and but now you were so earnest to see our good Lord !—Why, wouldst thou put the lad into the noose that thou mayst slip tether thyself?— or doest thou think the Maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old sun-burned weasand?” “ Go to,” answered the falconer; “thy wit towers high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has nought to fear—he had nothing to do with the gambol—A rare gambol it was, Michael, as madcaps ever played, and I had made as rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get sung to an end. But mum for that— tace, as I said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and I will remain here, with bridle in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowelheads, in case the hawk flies my way.— I will soon put Soltra-edge, I trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.” “ Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “ since thou must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through winding passages, closely followed by Roland Græme, until they arrived at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended about the height o f one storey, the guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door o f a dark and gloomy anti-chamber; so dark indeed, that his youthful compan­ ion stumbled, and nearly fell down upon a low step, which was awk­ wardly placed on the very threshold. “ Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened

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l> /u
l> those who fall on these boards u < seldom arise again— Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot through a small aperture, and traversing the general gloom o f the apartment, fell with mottled radiance— “ Seest thou that, youth ?< /li> li> < —walk warily, for men have fallen here before you.”< /li>

“What mean you?” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce knew why; “ Is it blood ?” “Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm— “ Blood it is, but this is no time to question, or even to look at it—blood it is, foully and fearfully shed— as foully and fearfully avenged— the blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, “ of Seignior David.” Roland Graeme’s heart throbbed when he found himself so unex­ pectedly in the scene of Rizzio’s slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forwards, permitting no further question, and with the manner of one who has already tampered too much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a low door at one end o f the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher, who, opening it cautiously, received Michael’s intimation that a page waited the Regent’s leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel. “ The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet. His grace the Regent will presently see the messenger.” “ The packet,” replied the page, “must be delivered into the Regent’s own hands ; such were the orders of my master.” The usher looked at him from head to foot, as if surprised at his boldness, and then replied, with some asperity, “ Say you, my young master? Thou crowest loudly to be but a chicken, and from a country barn-yard too.” “Were it time or place,” said Roland, “thou shouldst see I can do more than crow ; but do you your duty, and let the Regent know I wait his pleasure.” “ Thou art but a pert knave to tell me of my duty,” said the courtier in office; “but I will find a time to shew you you are out o f yours;

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hopeful young springald,” said he, “ and I see right well old Yorkshire had reason in his caution. Thou hast been five minutes in the court, and hast employed thy time so well, as to make a powerful and a mortal enemy out o f the usher o f the council-chamber. Why, man, you might almost as well have offended the deputy-butler.” “ I care not what he is,” said Roland Græme ; “ I will teach whomso­ ever I speak with, to speak civilly to me in return. I did not come from Avenel to be brow-beaten in Holyrood.” “ Bravo, my lad !” said Michael ; “ it is a fine spirit if you can but hold it—but see, the door opens.” The usher appeared, and, in a more civil tone of voice and manner, said, that his Grace the Regent would receive the Knight o f Avenel's message; and accordingly marshalled Roland Græme the way into the apartment, from which the Council had been just dismissed, after finishing their consultations. There was in the room a long oaken table, surrounded by stools o f the same wood, with a large elbow chair, covered with crimson velvet, at the head. Writing materials and papers were lying there in apparent disorder; and one or two o f the privy counsellors who had lingered behind, assuming their cloaks, bonnets, and swords, and bidding farewell to the Lord Regent, were departing slowly by a large door, on the opposite side to that through which the page entered. Apparently the Earl o f Moray had made some jest, for the laughing countenances o f the statesmen expressed that sort of cordial reception which is paid by courtiers to the condescending pleasantries o f a prince. The Regent himself was laughing heartily as he said, “ Farewell, my lords, and hold me remembered to the Cock of the North.” He then turned slowly round towards Roland Græme, and the marks of gaiety, real or assumed, disappeared from his countenance, as completely as the passing bubbles leave the dark mirror o f a still and profound lake into which a traveller has cast a stone : in the course o f a minute his noble features had assumed their natural expression of deep and even melancholy gravity. This distinguished statesman, for as such his worst enenties acknowledged him, possessed all the external dignity, as well as almost all the noble qualities, which could grace the power that he enjoyed ; and had he succeeded to the throne as his legitimate inherit­ ance, it is probable he would have been recorded as one of Scotland’s wisest and greatest kings. But that he held his authority by the depos­ ition and imprisonment o f his sister and benefactress, was a crime which those only can excuse who think ambition an apology for ingrat­ itude. He was dressed plainly in black velvet, after the Flemish fash­ ion, and wore in his high-crowned hat a jewelled clasp, which looped

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it up on one side, and formed the only ornament of his apparel. He had his poniard by his side, and his sword lay on the council table. Such was the personage before whom Roland Græme now pre­ sented himself, with a feeling of breathless awe, very different from the usual boldness and vivacity of his temper. In fact, he was, from education and nature, forward but not impudent, and was much more easily controuled by the moral superiority, arising from the elevated talents and renown o f those with whom he conversed, than by preten­ sions founded only on rank or external shew. He might have braved with indifference the presence of an earl, merely distinguished by his belt and coronet; but he felt overawed in that of the eminent soldier and statesman, the wielder o f a nation’s power, and the leader of her armies. The greatest and wisest are flattered by the deference of youth — so graceful and becoming in itself; and Moray took, with much courtesy, the letter from the hands of the abashed and blushing page, and answered with complaisance to the imperfect and half-muttered greeting which he endeavoured to deliver to him on the part of Avenel. He even paused a moment ere he broke the silk with which the letter was secured, to ask the page his name—so much he was struck with his very handsome features and form. “ Roland Græme,” he said, repeating the words after the hesitating page. “What, o f the Grahames of the Lennox?” “No, my lord,” replied Roland ; “ my parents dwelled in the Debateable Land.” Moray made no farther enquiry, but proceeded to read his dis­ p a tc h e s ; d u r in g th e p e r u s a l o f w h ic h , h is b r o w b e g a n to a s s u m e a

stem expression of displeasure, as that of one who found something which at once surprised and disturbed him. He sate down on the nearest seat, frowned till his eyebrows almost met together, read the letter twice over, and was then silent for several minutes. At length, raising his head, his eye encountered that of the usher, who in vain endeavoured to exchange the look o f eager and curious observation with which he had been perusing the Regent’s features, for that open and unnoticing expression of countenance, which, in looking at all, seems as if it saw and marked nothing—a cast o f look which may be practised with advantage by all those, of whatsoever degree, who are admitted to witness the familiar and unguarded hours of their super­ iors. Great men are as jealous of their thoughts as the wife o f King Candaules was o f her charms, and will as readily punish those who have, however involuntarily, beheld them in mental deshabille and exposure. “ Leave the apartment, Hyndman,” said the Regent sternly, “ and carry your observation elsewhere. You are too knowing, sir, for your

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post, which, by special order, is destined for men o f blunter capacity. So ! now you look more like a fool than you did— (for Hyndman, as may easily be supposed, was not a little disconcerted by this rebuke )— keep that confused stare, and it may keep you your office. Begone, sir!” The usher departed in dismay, not forgetting to register, amongst his other causes o f dislike to Roland Græme, that he had been the witness of this disgraceful chiding. When Hyndman had left the apartment, the Regent again addressed the page— “Your name you say is Armstrong?” “ No,” replied Roland, “ my name is Græme, so please you— Roland Græme, whose forbears were designed of Heathergill, in the Debateable Land.” “Ay, I knew it was a name from the Debateable Land. Hast thou any acquaintances here in Edinburgh?” “M y lord,” replied Roland, willing rather to evade this question than to answer it directly, for the prudence of being silent with respect to Lord Seyton’s adventure immediately struck him, “ I have been in Edinburgh scarce an hour, and that for the first time in my life.” “What! and thou Sir Halbert Glendinning’s page?” said the Regent. “ I was brought up as my Lady’s page,” said the youth, “ and left Avenel Castle for the first time in my life— at least since my childhood — only three days since.” “M y Lady’s page !” repeated the Earl o f Moray, as if speaking to himself; “it was strange to send his Lady’s page on a matter o f such deep concernment—Morton will say it is o f a piece with the nomina­ tion o f his brother to be Abbot; and yet in some sort an inexperienced youth will best serve the turn.—What hast thou been taught, young man, in thy doughty apprenticeship?” “To hunt, my lord, and to hawk,” said Roland Græme. “ To hunt coneys, and hawk at ouzels?” said the Regent smiling; “ for such are the sports of ladies and their followers.” Græme’s cheek reddened deeply as he replied, not without some emphasis, “T o hunt red deer of the first head, and to strike down herons o f the highest soar, my lord, which, in Lothian speech, may be termed, for aught that I know, coneys and ouzels ;— also, I can wield a brand and couch a lance according to our Border meaning; in inland speech these may be termed water-flags and bull-rushes.” “Thy speech rings like metal,” said the Regent, “ and I pardon the sharpness o f it for the truth.— Thou knowest, then, what belongs to the duty o f a man-at-arms.” “ So far as exercise can teach it, without real service in the field,”

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answered Roland Græme; “but our Knight permitted none o f his household to make raids, and I never had the good fortune to see a stricken field.” “The good fortune !” repeated the Regent, smiling somewhat sor­ rowfully, “ take my word, young man, war is the only game from which both parties rise losers.” “Not always, my lord !” answered the page, with his characteristic audacity, “if fame speak truth.” “ How, sir?” said the Regent, colouring in his turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion to the height which he himself had attained by the hap of civil war. “ Because, my lord,” said Roland Græme, without change of tone, “he who fights well, must have fame in life, or honour in death ; and so war is a game from which no one can rise a loser.” The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton presented himself. “ I come somewhat hastily,” he said, “ and I enter unannounced, because my news are o f weight—it is as I said— Edward Glendinning is named Abbot, and”____ “ Hush, my lord !” said the Regent, “I know it, but”____ “And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord of Moray,” answered Morton, h is dark red brow growing darker and redder as he spoke. “Morton,” said Moray, “ suspect me not—touch not mine honour — I have to suffer enough from the calumnies of foes, let me not have to contend with the unjust suspicions of my friends.—We are not alone,” said he, recollecting himself, “ or I could tell you more.” He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which the windows formed in the massive wall, and which afforded a retiring place for their conversing apart. In this recess, Roland observed them speak together with much earnestness, Moray appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton having a jealous and offended air, which seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the Regent. As their conversation grew more earnest, they became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the presence of the page, the more readily as his position in the apartment placed him out of sight, so that he found himself unwillingly privy to more of their discourse than he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity after the secrets o f others had never been numbered amongst Roland’s failings; and moreover, with all his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety o f becoming privy to the secret dis­ course of these powerful and dreaded men. Still he could neither stop his ears, nor with propriety leave the apartment; and while he thought

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of some means o f signifying his presence, he had already heard so much, that, to have produced himself suddenly would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dangerous, as in quiet to abide the end o f their conference. What he overheard, however, was but an imperfect part o f their communication; and although a more expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances o f the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Roland Græme could only form very general and vague conjectures as to the import o f their discourse. “All is prepared,” said Moray, “ and Lindesay is setting forward— She must hesitate no longer—thou seest I act by thy counsel, and harden myself against softer considerations.” “ True, my lord,” replied Morton, “ in what is necessary to gain power, you do not hesitate, but go boldly to the mark. But are you as careful to defend and preserve what you have won ?—Why this estab­ lishment o f domestics around her?—has not your mother men and maidens enough to tend her, but you must consent to this superfluous and dangerous retinue?” “ For shame, Morton!— a Princess, and my sister, could I do less than allow her due tendance ?” “ Ay,” replied Morton, “ even thus fly all your shafts— smartly enough loosened from the bow, and not unskilfully aimed—but a breath o f foolish affection ever crosses in the mid volley, and sways the arrow from the mark.” “ Say not so, Morton!” replied Moray, “I have both dared and done”_____ “Yes, enough to gain, but not enough to keep— reckon not on her thinking and acting thus—you have wounded her deeply, both in pride and in power—it signifies nought, that you would now tent the wound with unavailing salves— as matters stand with you, you must forfeit the title o f an affectionate brother, to hold that of a bold and determined statesman.” “Morton!” said Moray with some impatience, “ I brook not these taunts—what I have done I have done—what I must further do, I must and will—but I am not made o f iron like thee, and I cannot but remember—Enough o f this—my purpose holds.” “And I warrant me,” said Morton, “ the choice o f these domestic consolations will rest with __ __ __ ” here he whispered names which escaped Roland Graeme’s ear. Moray replied in a similar tone, but so much raised towards the conclusion o f the sentence, that the page heard these words— “ And of him I hold myself secure, by Glendinning’s recommendation.” “Ay—which may be as much trust-worthy as his late conduct at the Abbey o f Saint Mary ’s—you have heard his brother’s election has

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taken. Your favourite Sir Halbert, my Lord of Moray, has as much fraternal affection as yourself.” “ By heaven, Morton, that taunt demanded an unfriendly answer— but I pardon it, for your brother also is concerned— But this election shall be annulled. I tell you, Earl of Morton, while I hold the sword of state in my royal nephew’s name, neither Lord nor Knight in Scotland shall dispute my authority ; and if I bear with insults from my friends, it is only while I know them to be such, and forgive their follies for their faithfulness.” Morton muttered what seemed to be some excuse, and the Regent answered him in a milder tone, and then subjoined, “ Besides, I have a pledge besides Glendinning’s recommendation for this youth’s fidel­ ity—his nearest relative has placed herself in my hands as his security, to be dealt withal as his doings shall deserve.” “That is something,” replied Morton ; “but yet in fair love and good will, I must still pray you to keep on your guard. The foes are stirring again, as horse-flies and hornets become busy so soon as the stormblast is over. George o f Seyton was cropping the causeway this morn­ ing with a score o f men at his back, and had a ruffle with my friends of the House o f Leslie—they met at the Tron, and were fighting hard, when the provost, with his guard o f partizans, came in thirds-man, and staved them asunder with their halberts, as men part dog and bear.” “ He hath my order for such interference,” said the Regent—“Has any one been hurt?” “ George o f Seyton himself, by Black Ralph Leslie— the divel take the rapier that ran not through from side to side ! Ralph has a bloody coxcomb, by a blow from a messan-page whom nobody knew—Dick Seyton of Windygowl is run through the arm, and two gallants o f the Leslies have suffered phlebotomy. This is all the gentle blood which has been spilled in the revel; but a yeoman or two on both sides have had bones broken and ears cropped. The ostlere-wives, who are like to be the only losers by their miscarriage, have dragged the knaves off the street, and are crying a drunken coronach over them.” “You take it lightly, Douglas,” said the Regent, “but these broils and feuds would shame the capital of the Great Turk, let alone that of a Christian and reformed state. But, if I live, this gear shall be amended, and men shall say, when they read my story, that if it were my cruel hap to rise to power by the dethronement of a sister, I employed it, when gained, for the benefit o f the commonweal.” “And o f your friends,” replied Morton ; “wherefore I trust for your instant order annulling the election o f this lurdane Abbot, Edward Glendinning.”

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“You shall be presently satisfied,” and, stepping forward, he began to call, “ So ho, Hyndman_ _ _ ” when suddenly his eye lighted on Roland Græme. “ By my faith, Douglas,” said he, turning to his friend, “here have been three at counsel.” “Ay, but only two can keep counsel,” said Morton; “ the galliard must be disposed of.” “ For shame, Morton— an orphan boy!— Hark thee, my child— thou hast told me of some of thy accomplishments— can’st thou speak truth?” “Ay, my lord, when it serves my turn,” replied Græme. “ It shall serve thy turn now,” said the Regent; “ and falsehood shall be thy destruction. How much hast thou heard or understood of what we two have spoken together?” “ But little, my lord,” replied Roland Græme boldly, “which met my apprehension, saving that it seemed to me as if in something you doubted the faith of the Knight of Avenel, under whose roof I was nurtured.” “And what hast thou to say on that point, young man?” continued the Regent, bending his eyes upon him with a keen and strong expres­ sion of observation. “That,” said the page, “ depends on the quality of those who speak against his honour whose bread I have long eaten.— If they be my inferiors, I say they lie, and will maintain what I say with my batton ; if my equals, still I say they lie, and will do battle in the quarrel, if they list, with my sword; if my superiors”—he paused. “ Proceed boldly,” said the Regent—“What if thy superior said aught that nearly touched your master’s honour?” “ I would say,” replied Græme, “that he did ill to slander the absent, and that my master was a man who could render an account of his actions to any one who should manfully demand it of him to his face. ” “And it were manfully said,” replied the Regent— “what thinkst thou, my Lord of Morton ?” “ I think,” replied Morton, “that if the young galliard resemble a certain ancient friend of ours, as much in the craft of his disposition as he does in eye and in brow, there may be a wide difference betwixt what he means and what he speaks.” “And whom meanest thou that he resembles so closely?” said Moray. “ Even the true and trusty Julian Avenel,” replied Morton. “ But this youth belongs to the Debateable Land,” said Moray. “ It may be so; but Julian was an out-lying striker of venison, and made many a far cast when he had a fair doe in chase.” “ Pshaw!” said the Regent, “this is but idle talk— Here, thou,

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Hyndman—thou Curiosity—conduct this youth to his companion— You will both,” he said to Græme, “keep yourselves in readiness to travel on short notice.”—And then motioning to him courteously to withdraw, he broke up the interview.

Chapter : f our It is and is not— ’tis the thing I sought for, H ave kneel 'd for, pray’d for, risk’d my fame and life for, And yet it is not— no more than the shadow U pon the hard, cold, flat, and polish’d mirror, Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance W hich it presents in form and lineament.

Old Play h e u s h e r , with gravity which ill concealed a jealous scowl, con­ ducted Roland Græme to a lower apartment, where he found his comrade the falconer. The man of office then briefly acquainted them that this would be their residence till his Grace’s further orders ; that they were to go to the pantry, to the buttery, to the cellar, and to the kitchen, at the usual hours, to receive the allowances becoming their station,—instructions which Adam Woodcock’s old familiarity with the court made him perfectly understand— “For your beds,” he said, “you must go to the hostelrie of Saint Michael’s, in respect the palace is now full of the domestics of the greater nobles.” No sooner was the usher’s back turned than Adam exclaimed, with all the glee of eager curiosity, “And now, Master Roland, the news— the news— come, unbutton thy pouch, and give us thy tidings—What says the Regent? Asks he for Adam Woodcock?— and is all soldered up, or must the Abbot of Unreason strap for it?” “All is well in that quarter,” said the page; “ and for the rest—But hey-day—what, have you taken the chain and medal off from my bonnet?” “And meet time it was, when yon usher, vinegar-faced rogue that he is, began to enquire what popish trangam you were wearing—By the mass, the metal would have been confiscated for conscience-sake, like your other rattle-trap yonder at Avenel, which Mrs Lilias bears about on her shoes in the guise of a pair o f shoe-buckles—This comes of carrying popish nicknackets about you.” “ The jade !” exclaimed Roland Græme, “has she melted down my rosary into buckles for her clumsy hoofs, which will become such a garnish well nigh as well as a cow’s might—But, hang her, let her keep them—many a dog’s trick have I played old Lilias, for want of having something better to do, and the buckles will serve for a remembrance.

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Do you remember the verjuice I put into the comfits, when old Win­ gate and her were to breakfast together on Easter morning?” “ In troth do I, Master Roland—the major-domo’s mouth was as crooked as a hawk’s beak for the whole morning afterward, and any other page in your room would have tasted the discipline of the porter’s lodge for it—But my lady’s favour stood between your skin and many a jerking—Lord send you may be the better for her protec­ tion in such matters.” “ I am at least grateful for it, Adam; and I am glad you put me in mind o f it.” “Well, but the news, my young master,” said Woodcock, “ spell me the tidings—what are we to fly at next?—what did the Regent say to you?” “Nothing that I am to repeat again,” said Roland Græme, shaking his head. “Why, hey-day!” said Adam, “how prudent we are become all o f a sudden ! You have advanced rarely in brief space, Master Roland. You have well nigh had your broken head, and you have gained your golden chain, and you have made an enemy, Master Usher to wit, with his two legs like hawks’ perches, and you have had audience of the first man in the realm, and bear as much mystery on your brow, as if you had flown in the court-sky ever since you were hatched.— I believe, on my soul, you would run with a piece o f the egg-shell on your head like the curlieus, whom (I would we were after them again) we used to call whaups in the Halidome and its neighbourhood.— But sit thee down, boy; Adam Woodcock was never the lad to seek to enter into forbid­ den secrets— sit thee down, and I will go fetch the vivres— I know the butler and the pander of old.” The good-natured falconer set forth upon his errand, busying him­ self about procuring their refreshment; and, during his absence, Roland Græme abandoned himself to the strange, complicated, and yet heart-stirring reflections, to which the events of the morning had given rise. Yesterday he was of neither mark nor likelihood, a vagrant boy, the attendant on a relative, of whose sane judgment he himself had not the highest opinion; but now he had become, he knew not why, or wherefore, or to what extent, the custodier, as the Scottish phrase went, o f some important state secret, in the safe keeping of which the Regent himself was concerned. It did not diminish from, but rather added to the interest of a situation so unexpected, that Roland himself did not perfectly understand wherein he stood com­ mitted by the state secrets, in which he had unwittingly become parti­ cipator. On the contrary, he felt like one who looks on a romantic landscape, of which he sees the features for the first time, and then

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obscured with mist and driving tempest. The imperfect glimpse which the eye catches of rocks, trees, and other objects around him, adds double dignity to these shrouded mountains and darkened abysses, of which the height, depth, and extent, are left to imagination. But mortals, especially at the well appetized age which precedes twenty years, are seldom so much engaged either by real or conjec­ tured subjects o f speculation, but what their earthly wants claim their hour of attention. And with many a smile did our hero, so the reader may term him if he will, hail the re-appearance of his friend Adam Woodcock, bearing on one wooden platter a tremendous portion of boiled beef, and on another a plentiful allowance of greens, or rather what the Scotch call lang-kaill. A groom followed with bread, salt, and the other means o f setting forth a meal; and when they had both placed on the oaken table what they bore in their hands, the falconer observed, that since he knew the court, it had got harder and harder every day to the poor gentlemen and yeomen retainers, but that now it was an absolute fleaing of a flea for the hide and tallow. Such throng­ ing to the wicket, and such churlish answers, and such bare beefbones, such a shouldering at the buttery-hatch and cellarage, and nought to be gained beyond small insufficient single ale, or at best with a single straike of malt to counterbalance a double allowance of water— “ By the mass, though, my young friend,” said he, while he saw the food disappearing fast under Roland’s active exertions, “it is not so well to lament for former times as to take the advantage o f the present, else we are like to lose on both sides.” So saying, Adam Woodcock drew his chair towards the table, unsheathed his knife, for every one carried that minister of festive distribution for himself, and imitated his young companion’s example, who for the moment had lost his anxiety for the future in the eager satisfaction of an appetite sharpened by youth and abstinence. In truth, they made, though the materials were sufficiently simple, a very respectable meal, at the expence of the royal allowance; and Adam Woodcock, notwithstanding the deliberate censure which he had passed on the household beer of the palace, had taken the fourth deep draught of the black jack ere he remembered him that he had spoken in its dispraise. Flinging himself jollily and luxuriously back in an old Danske elbow-chair, and looking with a careless glee towards the page, extending at the same time his right leg, and tucking the other easily over it, he reminded his companion that he had not yet heard the ballad which he had made for the Abbot of Unreason’s revel. And accordingly he struck merrily up with “ T h e Pope, that pagan full o f pride, H as blinded us full lang”

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Roland Græme, who felt no great delight, as may be supposed, in the falconer’s satire, considering its subject, began to snatch up his mantle, and fling it around his shoulders, an action which instantly interrupted the ditty of Adam Woodcock. “Where the vengeance are you going now,” he said, “ thou restless boy?— Thou hast quicksilver in the veins of thee to a certainty, and can’st no more abide any douce and sensible communing, than a hoodless hawk would keep perched on my wrist !” “Why, Adam,” replied the page, “ if you must needs know, I am about to take a walk and look at this fair city. One may as well be still mewed up in the old castle o f the lake, if one is to sit the livelong night between four stone walls, and hearken to old ballads.” “ It is a new ballad, the Lord help thee !” replied Adam, “ and that one o f the best that ever was matched with a rousing chorus.” “Be it so,” said the page, “ I will hear it another day, when the rain is dashing against the windows, and there is neither steed stamping, nor spur jingling, nor feather waving in the neighbourhood, to mar my marking it well. But, even now, I want to be in the world, and to look about me.” “ But the never a stride shall you go without me,” said the falconer, “ until the Regent shall take you whole and sound off my hand ; and so, if you will, we may go to the hostelry o f Saint Michael’s, and there you will see company enough—out at the casement, mark you me, for as to rambling through the street to seek Seytons and Leslies, and having a dozen holes drilled in your new jacket with rapier and poniard, I will yield no way to it.” “ T o the hostelry o f Saint Michael’s then, with all my heart,” said the page; and they left the palace accordingly, rendered to the centinels at the gate, who had now taken their posts for the evening, a strict account o f their names and business, were dismissed through a small wicket o f the close-barred portal, and soon reached the inn or hostelry of Saint Michael, which stood in a large court-yard, off the main street, close under the descent of the Calton-hill. The place, wide, waste, and uncomfortable, resembled rather an Eastern caravansery, where men found shelter indeed, but were obliged to supply themselves with every thing else, than our modem inns ; W here not one com fort shall to those be lost, W ho never ask, or never feel, the cost.

But still, to the inexperienced eye of Roland Græme, the bustle and confusion of this place of public resort, furnished excitement and amusement. In the large room, into which they had rather found their own way than been ushered by mine host, travellers and natives o f the city entered and departed, met and greeted, gamed or drank together,

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regardless of each other’s presence, forming the strongest contrast to the stem and monotonous order and silence with which matters were conducted in the well-ordered household of the Knight of Avenel. Altercation of every kind, from brawling to jesting, was going on amongst the groupes around them, and yet the noise and mingled voices seemed to disturb no one, and indeed to be noticed by no others than by those who composed the groupe to which the speaker belonged. The falconer passed through the apartment to a projecting latticed window, which formed a sort of recess from the room itself; and having here ensconced himself and his companion, he called for some refreshments; and a tapster, after he had shouted for the twentieth time, accommodated him with the remains of a cold capon and a neat’s tongue, together with a pewter stoup of weak French vin-depais. “ Fetch a stoup of brandy-wine, thou knave—We will be jolly to-night, Master Roland,” said he, when he saw himself thus accom­ modated, “ and let care come to-morrow.” But Roland had eaten too lately to enjoy the good cheer; and feeling his curiosity much sharper than his appetite, he made it his choice to look out of the lattice, which overhung a large yard, sur­ rounded by the stables of the hostelry, and feed his eyes on the busy sight beneath, while Adam Woodcock, after he had compared his companion to the “ Laird of Macfarlane’s geese, who liked their play better than their meat,” disposed of his time with the aid of cup and trencher, occasionally humming the burthen of his birth-strangled ballad, and beating time to it with his fingers on the little round table. In this exercise he was frequently interrupted by the exclamations of his companion, as he saw something new in the yard beneath, to attract and interest him. It was a busy scene, for the number o f gentlemen and nobles who were now crowded into the city, had filled all spare stables and places of public reception with their horses and military attendants. There were some score of yeomen, dressing their own or their masters’ horses in the yard, whistling, singing, laughing, and upbraiding each other in a style of wit which the good order of Avenel Castle rendered strange to Roland Græme’s ears. Others were busy repairing their own arms, or cleaning those of their masters. One fellow having just bought a bundle o f twenty spears, was sitting in a comer, employed in painting the white handles of the weapons with yellow and vermillion. Other lacqueys led large stag-hounds, or wolf-dogs, o f noble race, carefully muzzled to prevent accidents to passengers. All came and went, mixed together and separated, under the delighted eye o f the page, whose imagination had not even conceived a scene so gaily

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diversified with the objects he had most pleasure in beholding ; so that he was perpetually breaking the quiet reverie o f honest Woodcock, and the mental progress which he was making in his ditty, by exclaiming, “ Look here, Adam—look at the bonny bay horse— Saint Anthony, what a gallant forehand he hath got!— And see the goodly grey, which yonder fellow in the frieze-jacket is dressing as awkwardly as if he had never touched aught but a cow—I would I were nigh him to teach him his trade !—And lo you, Adam, the gay Milan armour that the yeoman is scouring, all steel and silver, like our Knight’s prime suit, of which old Wingate makes such account—And see to yonder pretty wench, Adam, who comes tripping through them all with her milkpail— I warrant me she has had a long walk from the loaning— She has a stammel waistcoat, like your favourite Cis Sunderland, Master Adam.” “By my hood, lad,” answered the falconer, “ it is well for thee thou wert brought up where grace grew. Even in the Castle of Avenel thou wert a wild blood enough, but hadst thou been nurtured here, within a flight-shot of the Court, thou hadst been the veriest crack-hemp of a page that ever wore feather in thy bonnet or steel by thy side : truly, I wish it may end well with thee.” “ Nay, but leave thy senseless humming and drumming, old Adam, and come to the window ere thou hast drenched thy senses in the pintpot there. See here comes a merry minstrel with his crowd, and a wench with him, that dances with bells at her ancles; and see, the yeomen and pages leave their horses and the armour they were clean­ ing, and gather round, as is very natural, to hear the music. Come, old Adam, we will thither too.” “You shall call me cutt if I do go down,” said Adam; “you are near as good minstrelsy as he can make, if you had the grace to listen to it.” “ But the wench in the stammel waistcoat is stopping too, Adam— by heaven, they are going to dance. Frieze jacket wants to dance with stammel-waistcoat, but she is coy and recusant.” Then suddenly changing his tone of levity into one of deep interest and surprise, he exclaimed, “ Queen of Heaven! what is it that I see!” and then remained silent. The sage Adam Woodcock, who was in a sort of languid degree amused with the page’s exclamations, even while he professed to despise them, became at length rather desirous to set his tongue once more a-going, that he might enjoy the superiority afforded by his own intimate familiarity with all the circumstances which excited in his young companion’s mind so much wonderment. “Well then,” he said at last, “what is it you do see, Master Roland, that you have become mute all of a sudden?”

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Roland returned no answer. “ I say, Master Roland Græme,” said the falconer, “ it is manners in my country for a man to speak when he is spoken to.” Master Roland Græme remained silent. “ The murrain is in the boy,” said Adam Woodcock, “ he hath stared out his eyes and talked his tongue to pieces, I think.” The falconer hastily drank off his can of wine, and came to Roland, who stood like a statue, with his eyes eagerly bent on the court-yard, though Adam Woodcock was unable to detect amongst the merry scene which it exhibited aught that could deserve such devoted atten­ tion. “The lad is mazed !” said the falconer to himself. But Roland Græme had good reasons for his surprise, though they were not such as he cared to communicate to his companion. The touch of the old man’s instrument, for he had already begun to play, had drawn in several auditors from the street, when one entered the gate of the yard, whose appearance exclusively arrested the atten­ tion of Roland Græme. He was of his own age, or somewhat younger, and from his dress and bearing might be of the same rank and calling, having all the air of coxcombry and pretension, which accorded with a handsome though slight and low figure, and an elegant dress, in part hid by a large purple cloak. As he entered, he cast a glance up towards the windows, and to his extreme astonishment, under the purple velvet bonnet and white feather, Roland recognized the features so deeply impressed on his memory, the bright and clustered tresses, the laughing full blue eyes, the well-formed eye-brows, the nose, with the slightest possible inclination to be aquiline, the ruby lip, o f which an arch and half suppressed smile seemed the habitual expression—in short, the form and face o f Catherine Seyton; in man’s attire, how­ ever, and mimicking, as it seemed, not unsuccessfully, the bearing of a youthful but forward page. “ Saint George and Saint Andrew!” said the astounded Roland Græme to himself, “was there ever such an audacious quean!— She seems a little ashamed o f her mummery too, for she holds the lap of the cloak to her face, and her colour is heightened—but, Santa Maria, how she threads the throng, with as firm and bold a step as if she had never tied petticoat round her waist—Holy saints ! she holds up her riding-rod too, as if she would lay it about some of their ears, that stand most in her way—by the hand o f my father, she bears herself like the very model o f pagehood.— Hey! what! sure she will not strike frieze-jacket in earnest.” But he was not long left in doubt; for the lout whom he had before repeatedly noticed, standing in the way of the bustling page, and maintaining his place with clownish obstinacy

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or stupidity, the advanced riding-rod was, without a moment’s hesita­ tion, sharply applied to his shoulders, in a manner which made him spring aside, rubbing the part o f the body which had received so unceremonious a hint that it was in the way of his betters. The party injured growled forth an oath or two of indignation, and Roland began to think of flying down stairs to the assistance of the translated Catherine ; but the laugh of the yard was against frieze-jacket, which indeed had, in these days, small chance of fair play in a quarrel with velvet and embroidery ; so that the fellow, who was a menial in the inn, slunk back to finish his task of dressing the bonny grey, laughed at by all, but most by the wench in the stammel-waistcoat, his fellow-ser­ vant, who, to crown his disgrace, had the cruelty to cast an applauding smile upon the author of the injury, while, with a freedom more like the milk-maid of the town than she of the plains, she accosted him with— “ Is there any one you want here, my pretty gentleman, that you seem in such haste ?” “ I seek a sprig o f a lad,” said the seeming gallant, “with a sprig o f holly in his cap, black hair and black eyes, a green jacket, and the air of a country coxcomb— I have sought him through every close and alley in the Canongate, the fiend gore him !” “Why, God-a-mercy, N un!” muttered Roland Græme, much bewildered. “ I will enquire him presently out for your fair young worship,” said the wench of the inn. “ Do,” said the gallant squire, “and if you bring me to him, you shall have a groat to-night, and a kiss on Sunday when you have on a cleaner kirtle.” “Why, God-a-mercy, Nun !” again muttered Roland, “this is a note above E La.” In a moment after the servant entered the room, and ushered in the object of his surprise. While the disguised vestal looked with unabashed brow, and bold and rapid glance of her eye, through the various parties in the large old room, Roland Græme, who felt an internal awkward sense o f bashful confusion, which he deemed altogether unworthy o f the bold and dashing character to which he aspired, determined not to be brow­ beaten and put down by this singular female, but to meet her with a glance o f recognition so sly, so penetrating, so expressively humorous, as should shew her at once he was in possession o f her secret and master o f her fate, and should humble her towards himself, at least into the look and manner of respectful and deprecating observance. This was extremely well planned ; but just as Roland had called up the knowing glance, the suppressed smile, the shrewd intelligent look,

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which was to ensure his triumph, he encountered the bold, firm, and steady gaze of his brother or sister-page, who, casting on him a falcon glance, and recognizing him at once as the object o f his search, walked up with the most unconcerned look, the most free and undaunted composure, and hailed him with “You Sir, Holly-top, I would speak with you.” The steady coolness and assurance with which these words were uttered, although the voice was the very voice he had heard at the old convent, and although the features more nearly resembled those of Catherine when seen close than when viewed from a distance, produced, nevertheless, such a confusion in Roland’s mind, that he became uncertain whether he was not still under a mistake from the beginning; the knowing shrewdness which should have animated his visage faded into a sheepish bashfulness, and the half-suppressed but most intelligible smile, became the senseless giggle of one who laughs to cover his own disorder of ideas. “Do they understand a Scotch tongue in thy country, Holly-top?” said this marvellous specimen of metamorphosis. “ I said I would speak with thee.” “What is your business with my comrade, my young chick of the game?” said Adam Woodcock, willing to step in to his companion’s assistance, though totally at a loss to account for the sudden disap­ pearance of all his usual smartness and presence of mind. “Nothing to you, my old cock of the perch,” replied the gallant; “ go mind your hawks’ castings. I guess by your bag and your gauntlet that you are squire of the body to a sort of kites.” He laughed as he spoke, and the laugh reminded Roland so irres­ istibly of the hearty fit of risibility, in which Catherine had indulged at his expence when they first met in the old nunnery, that he could scarce help exclaiming, “ Catherine Seyton, by heavens!”— He checked the exclamation, however, and only said, “ I think, sir, we two are not totally strangers to each other.” “We must have met in our dreams then,” said the youth; “ and my days are too busy to remember what I think at nights.” “ Or apparently to remember upon one day those whom you may have seen on the preceding one,” said Roland Græme. The youth in his turn cast on him a look o f some surprise, as he replied, “ I know no more of what you mean than does the horse I ride on—if there be offence in your words, you shall find me as ready to take it as any lad in Lothian.” “You know well,” said Roland, “though it pleases you to use the language of a stranger, that with you I can have no purpose to quar­ rel.”

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“ Let me do mine errand then, and be rid o f you,” said the page. “ Step hither this way, out o f that old leathern-fist’s hearing.” They walked into the recess o f the window, which Roland had left upon the youth’s entrance into the apartment. The messenger then turned his back on the company, after casting a hasty and sharp glance around to see if they were observed. Roland did the same, and the page in the purple mande thus addressed him, taking at the same time from under his cloak a short but beautifully wrought sword, with the hilt and the ornaments upon the sheath of silver, massively chased and over-gilded— “ I bring you this weapon from a friend, who gives it you under the solemn condition, that you will not unsheath it until you are commanded by your rightful sovereign. For your warmth o f temper is known, and the presumption with which you intrude yourself into the quarrels o f others ; and, therefore, this is laid upon you as a penance by those who wish you well, and whose hand will influence your destiny for good or for evil. This is what I was charged to tell you. So if you will give a fair word for a fair sword, and pledge your promise, with hand and glove, good and well ; and if not, I will carry back Calibum to those who send it.” “And may I not ask who these are ?” said Roland Græme, admiring at the same time the beauty o f the weapon thus offered him. “My commission in no way leads me to answer such a question,” said he of the purple mantle. “ But if I am offended,” said Roland, “may I not draw to defend myself?” “ Not this weapon,” answered the sword-bearer ; “but you have your own at command, and, besides, for what do you wear your poniard ?” “ For no good,” said Adam Woodcock, who had now approached close to them ; “ for no good, and that I can witness as well as any one.” “ Stand back, fellow,” said the messenger; “ thou hast an intrusive curious face, that will come by a buffet if it is found where it has no concern.” “ A buffet, my young Master Malapert,” said Adam, drawing back however; “best keep down fist, or, by Our Lady, buffet will beget buffet!” “ Be patient, Adam Woodcock,” said Roland Græme;— “ and let me pray you, fair sir, since by such addition you chuse for the present to be addressed, may I not barely unsheath this fair weapon, in pure simplicity of desire to know whether so fair a hilt and scabbard are matched with a befitting blade ?” “ By no manner of means,” said the messenger; “ at a word, you must take it under the promise that you never draw it until you receive the commands of your lawful sovereign, or you must leave it alone.”

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“Under that condition, and coming from your friendly hand, I accept of the sword,” said Roland, taking it from his hand ; “but credit me, that if we are to work together in any weighty emprise, as I am induced to believe, some confidence and openness on your part will be necessary to give the right impulse to my zeal— I press for no more at present, it is enough that you understand me.” “ I understand you!” said the page, exhibiting the appearance of unfeigned surprise in his turn,— “ Renounce me if I do— Here you stand jiggetting, and sniggling, and looking cunning, as if there were some mighty matter of intrigue and common understanding betwixt you and one you never set eyes on before !” “What !” said Roland, “will you deny that we have met before ?” “Marry that I will, in any Christian court,” said the other page. “And will you also deny,” said Roland, “ that it was recommended to us to study each other’s features well, that in whatsoever disguise the time might impose upon us, each should recognize in the other the secret agent of a mighty work? Do not you remember, that Sister Magdalen and Dame Bridget”_ _ _ The messenger here interrupted him, shrugging up his shoulders with a look of compassion, “ Bridget and Magdalen ! why this is mad­ ness and dreaming. Hark ye, master Holly-top, your wits are gone on wool-gathering; comfort yourself with a caudle, thatch your brain­ sick noddle with a woollen night-cap, and so God be with you.” As he concluded this polite parting address, Adam Woodcock, who was again seated by the table on which stood the now empty can, said to him, “Will you drink a cup, young man, in the way of courtesy, now you have done your errand, and listen a good song?” and without waiting for an answer, he commenced his ditty,— “ T h e Pope, that pagan full o f pride, H ath blinded us too long”_ _ _

It is probable that the good wine had made some innovation in the falconer’s brain, otherwise he would have recollected the danger of introducing any thing like political or polemical pleasantry into a public assemblage, at a time when men’s minds were in a state of great irritability. To do him justice, he perceived his error, and stopped short so soon as he saw that the word Pope had at once interrupted the separate conversations of the various parties which were assembled in the apartment; and that many began to draw themselves up, bridle, look big, and prepare to take part in the impending brawl; while others, more decent and cautious persons, hastily paid down their lawing, and prepared to leave the place ere bad should come to worse. And to worse it was soon likely to come ; for no sooner did Wood­ cock’s ditty reach the ear of the stranger page, than, uplifting his

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riding-rod, he exclaimed, “ He who speaks irreverently o f the Holy Father of the Church in my presence, is the cub of a heretic wolfbitch, and I will switch him as I would a mongrel cur.” “And I will break thy young pate,” said Adam, “if thou dares to lift a finger to me.” And then, in defiance of the young Drawcansir’s threats, with a stout heart and dauntless accent, he again uplifted the stave. “ T h e Pope, that pagan full o f pride, H ath blinded” _ _ _

But Adam was able to proceed no farther, being unfortunately blinded himself by a stroke of the impatient youth’s switch across his eyes. Enraged at once by the smart and the indignity, the falconer started up, and darkling as he was, for his eyes watered too fast to permit his seeing any thing, he would soon have been at close grips with his insolent adversary, had not Roland Græme, contrary to his nature, played for once the prudent man and the peace-maker, and thrown himself betwixt, imploring Woodcock’s patience. “You know not,” he said, “with whom you have to do.—And thou,” addressing the messenger, who stood scornfully laughing at Adam’s rage, “ get thee gone. Whoever thou art, if thou art what I guess thee, thou well knowest there are earnest reasons why thou shouldst.” “ Thou hast hit right for once, Holly-top,” said the gallant, “ though I guess you drew your bow at a venture.— Here, host, let this yeoman have a pottle o f wine to wash the smart out of his eyes— and there is a French crown for him.” So saying, he threw the piece of money on the table, and left the apartment, with a quick yet steady pace, looking firmly at right and left, as if to defy interruption; and snapping his fingers at two or three respectable burghers, who, declaring it was a shame that any one should be suffered to rant and ruffle in defence of the Pope, were labouring to find the hilts of their swords, which had got for the instant unhappily entangled in the folds of their cloaks. But, as the adversary was gone ere any o f them had reached his weapon, they did not think it necessary to unsheathe cold iron, but merely observed to each other, “This is more than masterful violence, to see a poor man stricken in the face, just for singing a ballad against the whore of Babylon—if the Pope’s champions are to be the bangsters in our very change-houses, we shall soon have the old shavelings back again.” “ The provost should look to it,” said another, “and have some five or six armed with partizans, to come in upon the first whistle, to teach these gallants their lesson. For, look you, neighbour Lugleather, it is not for decent householders like ourselves to be brawling with the godless grooms and pert pages of the nobles, that are bred up to little

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else save bloodshed and blasphemy.” “ For all that, neighbour,” said Lugleather, " I would have curried that youngster as properly as ever I curried a lamb’s hide, had not the hilt of my bilbo been for the instant beyond my grasp; and before I could turn my girdle, gone was my master.” “ Ay,” said the others, “the devil go with him, and peace abide with us— I give my rede, neighbours, that we pay the lawing, and be stepping homeward, like brother and brother; for old Saint Giles’s is tolling curfew, and the street grows dangerous at night.” With that the good burghers adjusted their cloaks, and prepared for their departure, while he that seemed the briskest of the three, laying his hand on the hilt of his Andrea Ferrara, observed, “ that they that spoke in praise of the Pope oft the High-gate of Edinburgh, had best bring the sword of Saint Peter to defend them.” While the ill-humour, excited by the insolence of the young aristo­ crat was thus evaporating in empty menace, Roland Græme had to controul the far more serious indignation o f Adam Woodcock. “Why, man, it was but a switch across the mazzard—blow your nose, dry your eyes, and you will see all the better for it.” “ By this light, which I cannot see,” said Adam Woodcock, “thou hast been false friend to me, young man—neither taking up my right­ ful quarrel, norletting me fight it out myself.” “Fye for shame, Adam Woodcock,” replied the youth, determined to turn the tables on him, and become the preacher of good order and peaceable demeanour in turn— “ I say fye for shame !—Alas, that you will speak thus ! Here are you sent with me, to prevent my innocent youth from getting into snares” “ I wish your innocent youth were cut short with a halter, with all my heart,” said Adam, who began to see which way the admonition tended. “And instead of setting before me,” continued Roland, “ an example o f patience and sobriety becoming the falconer o f Sir Halbert Glendinning, you quaff me off I know not how many flagons of ale, besides a gallon o f wine, and a full measure o f strong waters.” “ It was but one poor pottle,” said poor Adam, whom consciousness now reduced to a merely defensive warfare. “ It was enough to pottle you handsomely, however,” said the page — “And then, instead o f going to bed to sleep off your liquor, must you sit singing your roistering songs about popes and pagans, till you have got your eyes almost switched out of your head; and but for my interference, whom your drunken ingratitude accuses of deserting you, yon galliard would have cut your throat, for he was whipping out a whinger as broad as my hand and as sharp as a razor—And these are

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lessons for an inexperienced youth!— Oh Adam, out upon you! Out upon you !” “Marry, amen, and with all my heart,” said Adam; “out upon my folly for expecting any thing but impertinent raillery from a page like thee, that if he saw his father in a scrape would laugh at him instead of lending him aid.” “Nay, but I will lend thee aid,” said the page, still laughing, “ that is, I will lend thee aid to thy chamber, good Adam, where thou shalt sleep off wine and ale, ire and indignation, and awake the next morningwith as much fair wit as nature has blessed thee withal. Only one thing I will warn thee, good Adam, that henceforth and for ever, when thou railest at me for being somewhat hot at hand, and rather too prompt to out with poniard or so, thy admonition shall serve as a prologue to the memorable adventure of the switching of Saint Michael’s.” With such condoling expressions he got the crest-fallen falconer to his bed, and then retired to his own pallet, where it was some time ere he could fall asleep. I f the messenger whom he had seen were really Catherine Seyton, what a masculine virago and termagant she must be ! and stored with what an inimitable command o f insolence and assurance !—the brass on her brow would furbish the front o f twenty pages, and I should know, thought Roland, what that amounts to— And yet, her features, her look, her light gait, her laughing eye, the art with which she disposed the mantle to shew no more of her limbs than needs must be seen—I am glad she had at least that grace left—the voice, the smile—it must have been Catherine Seyton, or the devil in her likeness. One thing is good, I have silenced the eternal predica­ tions of that ass, Adam Woodcock, who has set up for being a preacher and a governor, so soon as he has left the hawks’ mew behind him. And with this comfortable reflection, joined to the happy indiffer­ ence which youth hath for the events of the morrow, Roland Græme fell fast asleep.

Chapter fiv e N ow have you reft from me my staff, my guide, W ho taught my youth, as men teach untamed falcons, T o use my strength discreetly— I am reft: O f com rade and o f counsel.

Old Play

of the next morning’s dawn there was a loud knocking at the gate of the hostelry; and those without, proclaiming that they came in name o f the Regent, were instantly admitted. A moment or In the grey

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two afterwards, Michael Wing-the-wind stood by the bed-side of our travellers. “ Up! up!” he said, “ there is no slumber when Moray hath work ado.” Both sleepers sprung up, and began to dress themselves. “You, old friend,” said Wing-the-wind to Adam Woodcock, “must to horse instantly, with this packet to the monks of Kennaquhair ; and with this,” delivering them as he spoke, “ to the Knight of Avenel.” “As much as commanding the monks to annul their election, I’ll warrant me, of an Abbot,” quoth Adam Woodcock, as he put the packets into his bag, “ and charging my master to see it done—To hawk at one brother with another, is less than fair play, methinks.” “ Fash not thy beard about it, old boy,” said Michael, “but betake thee to the saddle presently; for if these orders are not obeyed, there will be bare walls at the Kirk of Saint Mary’s, and it may be at the Castle of Avenel to boot ; for I heard my Lord o f Morton loud with the Regent, and we are at a pass that we cannot stand with him anent trifles.” “ But,” said Adam, “ touching the Abbot of Unreason—what say they to that outbreak?— an they be shrewishly disposed, I were better pitch the packets to Satan, and take the other side of the Border for my bield.” “ O, that is passed over as a jest, since there was little harm done.— But, hark thee, Adam,” continued his comrade, “ if there were a dozen vacant abbacies in your road, whether of jest or earnest, reason or unreason, draw thou never one of their mitres over thy brows— The time is not fitting, man !—besides, our Maiden longs to clip the neck of a fat churchman.” “ She shall never sheer mine in that capacity,” said the falconer, while he knotted the kerchief in two or three double folds around his sun-burned bull-neck, calling out at the same time, “Master Roland, Master Roland, make haste ! we must back to perch and mew, and, thank heaven more than our own wit, with our bones whole, and without a stab in the stomach.” “ Nay, but,” said Wing-the-wind, “the page goes not back with you, the Regent has other employment for him.” “ Saints and sorrows!” exclaimed the falconer— “Master Roland Græme to remain here, and I to return to Avenel !—Why it cannot be — the child cannot manage himself in this wild world without me, and I question if he will stoop to any other whistle than mine own; there are times I myself can hardly bring him to my lure.” It was at Roland’s tongue’s end to say something concerning the occasion they had for using mutually each other’s prudence, but the

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real anxiety which Adam evinced at parting with him took away his disposition to such ungracious raillery. The falconer did not alto­ gether escape, however, for, in turning his face towards the lattice, his friend Michael caught a glimpse of it, and exclaimed, “ I prithee, Adam Woodcock, what hast thou been doing with these eyes o f thine ? they are swelled to the starting from the hool !” “Nought in the world,” said he, after casting a deprecating glance at Roland Græme, “but the effect of sleeping in this damned truckle, without a pillow.” “Why, Adam Woodcock, thou art grown strangely dainty,” said his old companion; “ I have known thee sleep all night with no better pillow than a bush of ling, and start up with the sun, as glegg as a falcon. And now thine eyes resemble”_ _ _ “ Tush, man, what signifies how mine eyes look now ?” said Adam— “let us but roast a crab-apple, pour a pottle of ale on it, and bathe our throats withal, thou shalt see a change in me.” “ And thou wilt be in heart to sing thy jolly ballad about the pope,” said his comrade. “Ay, that I will,” replied the falconer, “when we have left this quiet town five miles behind us, if you will take your hobby and ride so far on my way.” “ Nay, that I may not,” said Michael— “ I can but stop to partake your morning’s draught, and see you fairly to horse— I will see that they saddle them, and toast the crab for thee, without loss of time.” During his absence the falconer took the page by the hand— “May I never hood hawk again,” said the good-natured fellow, “ if I am not as sorry to part with you as if you were a child o f mine own, craving pardon for the freedom— I cannot tell what makes me love you so much, unless it be for the reason that I loved the vicious devil of a dun galloway nag, whom my master the Knight called Satan, till Master Warden changed his name to Seyton ; for, he said, it was over boldness to call a beast after the King of Darkness”_ _ _ “And,” said the page, “it was over boldness in him, I trow, to call a vicious brute after a noble family.” “Well,” proceeded Adam, “ Seyton or Satan, I loved that nag over every other horse in the stable. There was no sleeping on his back—he was for ever fidgetting, bolting, rearing, biting, kicking, and giving you work to do, and may be the measure o f your back on the heather to the boot o f it all. And I think I love you better than any lad in the castle, for the self-same qualities”_ _ _ “Thanks, thanks, kind Adam. I hold myself bound to you for the good estimation in which you hold me.” “ Nay, interrupt me not,” said the falconer— “ Satan was a good nag

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— But I say I think I shall call the two eyasses after you, the one Roland, and the other Græme ; and, while Adam Woodcock lives, be sure you have a friend— Here is to thee, my dear son.” Roland most heartily returned the grasp of the hand, and Wood­ cock, having taken a deep draught, continued his farewell speech. “There are three things I warn you against, Roland, now that you are to tread this weary world without my experience to assist you. In the first place, Never draw dagger on slight occasion— every man’s doublet is not so well stuffed as a certain abbot’s that you wot of. Secondly, Fly not at every pretty girl, like a merlin at a thrush—you will not always win a gold chain for your labour— and, by the way, here I return to you your fanfarona—keep it close, it is weighty, and may benefit you at a pinch more ways than one. Thirdly, and to conclude, as our worthy preacher says, Beware of the pottle-pot—it has drenched the judgment of wiser men than you. I could bring some instance of it, but I dare say it needeth not; for if you should forget your own mishaps, you will scarce fail to remember mine— And so farewell, my dear son.” Roland returned his good wishes, and failed not to send his humble duty to his kind Lady, charging the falconer, at the same time, to express his regret that he should have offended her, and his deter­ mination so to bear him in the world that she would not be ashamed of the generous protection she had afforded him. The falconer embraced his young friend, mounted his stout, round-made, trotting nag, which the serving man, who had attended them, held ready at the door, and took the road to the southward. A sullen and heavy sound echoed from the horse’s feet, as if indicating the sorrow o f the good-natured rider. Every hoof-tread seemed to tap upon Roland’s heart as he heard his comrade withdraw with so little of his usual alert activity, and felt that he was once more alone in the world. He was roused from his reverie by Michael Wing-the-wind, who reminded him that it was necessary they should instantly return to the palace, as my Lord Regent went to the Sessions early in the morning. They went thither accordingly, and Wing-the-wind, a favourite old domestic, who was admitted nearer to the Regent’s person and priv­ acy, than many whose posts were more ostensible, soon introduced Græme into a small matted chamber, where he had an audience of the present head of the troubled State of Scotland. The Earl of Moray was clad in a sad-coloured morning-gown, with a cap and slippers of the same cloth, but, even in this easy dishabille, held his sheathed rapier in his hand, a precaution which he adopted when receiving strangers, rather in compliance with the earnest remonstrances of his

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friends and partizans, than from any personal apprehensions of his own. He answered with a silent nod the respectful obeisance of the page, and took one or two turns through the small apartment in silence, fixing his keen falcon eye on Roland, as if he wished to penetrate into his very soul. At length he broke silence. “Your name is, I think, Julian Græme.” “ Roland Græme, my lord, not Julian,” replied the page. “ Right—I was misled by some trick o f my memory—Roland Græme, from the Debateable Land.— Roland, thou knowest the duties which belong to a lady’s service ?” “ I should know them, my lord,” replied Roland, “having been bred so near the person of my Lady o f Avenel; but I trust never more to practise them, as the Knight hath promised” “ Be silent, young man,” said the Regent, “ I am to speak, and you to hear and to obey. It is necessary that, for some space at least, you shall again enter into the service of a lady, who, in rank, hath no equal in Scotland; and this service accomplished, I give thee my word as Knight and Prince, that it shall open to thee a course o f ambition, such as may well gratify the aspiring wishes of one whom circumstances entitle to entertain much higher views than thou. I will take thee into my household and near to my person, or, at your own choice, I will give you the command o f a foot-company—either is a preferment which the proudest laird in the land might be glad to assure to a second son. ” “May I presume to ask, my lord,” said Roland, observing the Earl paused for a reply, “ to whom my poor services are in the first place destined?” “You will be told hereafter,” said the Regent; and then, as if over­ coming some internal reluctance to speak further himself, he added, “ or why should I not myself tell you, that you are about to enter into the service of a most illustrious—most unhappy lady—into the service o f Mary of Scotland.” “ O f the Queen, my lord!” said the page, unable to repress his surprise. “ O f Her who was the Queen !” said Moray, with a singular mixture of displeasure and embarrassment in his tone o f voice. “You must be aware, young man, that her son reigns in her stead.” He sighed from an emotion, partly perhaps natural, and partly assumed. “And am I to attend upon her Grace in her place of imprisonment, my lord?” again demanded the page, with a straight-forward and hardy simplicity, which somewhat disconcerted the sage and powerful statesman. “ She is not imprisoned,” answered Moray, angrily; “ God forbid

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she should— she is only sequestrated from state affairs, and from the business of the public, until the world be so effectually settled, that she may enjoy her natural and uncontroule d freedom, without her royal disposition being exposed to the practices of wicked and designing men. It is for this purpose,” he added, “ that while she is to be fur­ nished, as right is, with such attendance as may befit her present secluded state, it becomes necessary that those placed around her, are persons on whose prudence I can have reliance. You see, therefore, you are at once called on to discharge an office most honourable in itself, and so to discharge it that you may make a friend o f the Regent of Scotland. Thou art, I have been told, a singularly apt and apprehen­ sive youth ; and I perceive by thy look, that thou doest already under­ stand what I would say on this matter. In this schedule your particular points o f duty are set down at length—but the sum required of you is Fidelity—I mean fidelity to myself and to the state. You are, there­ fore, to watch every attempt which is made or inclination displayed, to open any communications with any of the lords who have become banders in the west, and dare to call themselves by the name of the Queen’s faction—with Hamilton, with Seyton, with Fleming, or the like. It is true that my gracious sister, reflecting upon the ill chances that have happed to the state o f this poor kingdom, from evil counsel­ lors who have abused her royal nature in time past, hath determined to sequestrate herself from state affairs in future. But it is our duty, as acting for and in name of our infant nephew, to guard against the evils which may arise from any mutation or vacillation in her royal resolu­ tions. Wherefore it will be thy duty to watch, and report to our lady mother, whose guest our sister is for the present, whatever may infer a disposition to withdraw her person from the place of security in which she is lodged, or to open communications with those without. If, however, your observation should detect any thing of weight, and which may exceed mere suspicion, fail not to send notice by an espe­ cial messenger to me directly, and this ring shall be thy warrant to order horse and man on such service.— And now begone— if there be half the wit in thy head that there is apprehension in thy look, thou fully comprehendest all that I would say—Serve me faithfully, and sure as I am belted earl, thy reward shall be great.” Roland Græme made an obeisance, and was about to depart. The Earl signed to him to remain. “I have trusted thee deeply,” he said, “young man, for thou art the only one o f her suite who has been sent to her by my own recommendation. Her gentlewomen are of her own nomination—it were too hard to have barred her that privilege, though some there were who reckoned it inconsistent with sure policy. Thou art young and handsome— mingle in their follies, and see they

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cover not deeper designs under the appearance of female levity — if they mine, do thou countermine— For the rest, all decorum and respect to the person o f thy mistress— she is a princess though a most unhappy one—And hath been a queen, though now, alas ! no longer such—Pay, therefore, to her all honour and respect, consistent with thy fidelity to the King and me— Particulars are marked down in the schedule— And now, farewell.— Yet stay—you travel with Lord Lindesay, a man of the old world, rough and honest, though untaught ; see that thou offend him not, for he is not patient o f raillery, and thou, I have heard, art a crack-halter.” This he said with a smile, then added, "I could have wished the Lord Lindesay’s mission had been entrusted to some other and more gentle noble.” “And wherefore should you wish that, my lord ?” said Morton, who even then entered the apartment; “the council have decided for the best—we have had but too many proofs of this lady’s stubbornness of mind, and the oak that resists the sharp steel axe, must be riven with the jagged iron wedge. And this is to be her page ?—My Lord Regent hath doubtless instructed you, young man, how you shall guide your­ self in these matters; I will add but a little hint on my part. You are going to the castle of a Douglas, where treachery never thrives—the first moment o f suspicion will be the last of your life. My kinsman, William Douglas, understands no raillery, and if he once have cause to think you false, you will waver in the wind from the castle battlements ere the sun set upon his anger.— And is the lady to have an almoner withal?” “ Occasionally, Douglas,” said the Regent; “it were hard to deny the spiritual consolation which she thinks essential to her salvation.” “You are even too soft-hearted, my lord—What, a false priest to communicate her lamentations, not only to our unfriends in Scotland, but to the Guises, to Rome, to Spain, and I know not where !” “ Fear not,” said the Regent, “we will take such order that no treachery shall happen.” “ Look to it then,” said Morton ; “you know my mind respecting the wench you have consented she shall receive as a waiting-woman— one of a family, which, of all others, has ever been devoted to her, and inimical to us. Had we not been wary, she would have been purveyed of a page as much to her purpose as her waiting damsel. I hear a rumour that an old mad Romish pilgrimer, who passes for at least half a saint among them, was employed to find a fit subject.” “We have escaped that danger at least,” said Moray, “ and con­ verted it into a point of advantage, by sending this boy of Glendin­ ning’s— and for her waiting damsel, you cannot grudge her one poor maiden instead o f her four noble Maries, and all their silken train.”

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“ I care not so much for the waiting maiden,” said Morton, “but I cannot brook the almoner—I think priests of all persuasions are much like each other—Here is John Knox, who made such a noble pullerdown, is ambitious of becoming a setter-up, and a founder of schools and colleges out of the Abbey-lands, and bishops’ rents, and other spoils o f Rome, which the nobility of Scotland have won with the sword and bow, and with which he would now endow new hives to sing the old drone.” “John is a man of God,” said the Regent, “ and his scheme is a devout imagination.” The sedate smile with which this was spoken, left it impossible to conjecture whether the words were meant in approbation, or in deri­ sion, of the plan of the Scottish Reformer. Turning then to Roland Græme, as if he thought he had been long enough a witness of this conversation, he bade him get him presently to horse, since my Lord of Lindesay was already mounted. The page made his reverence, and left the apartment. Guided by Michael Wing-the-wind, he found his horse ready saddled and prepared for the journey in front of the palace porch, where hovered about a score of men-at-arms, whose leader shewed no small symptoms o f surly impatience. “ Is this the jackanape page for whom we have waited this long?” said he to Wing-the-wind. “ And my Lord Ruthven will reach the castle long before us.” Michael assented, and added that the boy had been detained by the Regent to receive some parting instructions. The leader made an inarticulate sound in his throat, expressive of sullen acquiescence, and calling to one of his domestic attendants, “ Eward,” said he, “take the gallant into your charge, and let him speak with no one else.” He then addressed, by the title of Sir Robert, an elderly and respectable looking gentleman, the only one of the party who seemed above the rank of a retainer or domestic, and observed that they must get to horse with all speed. During this discourse, and while they were riding slowly along the street o f the suburb, Roland had time to examine more accurately the looks and figure of the Baron, who was at their head. Lord Lindesay of the Byres was rather touched than stricken with years. His upright stature and strong limbs still shewed him fully equal to all the exertions and fatigues of war. His thick eye-brows, now par­ tially grizzled, lowered over large eyes full of dark fire, which seemed yet darker from the uncommon depth at which they were set in his head. His features, naturally strong and harsh, had their sternness exaggerated by one or two scars received in battle. These features,

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naturally calculated to express the harsher passions, were shaded by an open steel cap, with a projecting front, but having no visor, over the gorget o f which fell the black and grizzled beard o f the grim old Baron, which totally hid the lower part o f his face. The rest o f his dress was a loose buff-coat, which had once been lined with silk and adorned with embroidery, but which seemed much stained with travel, and dam­ aged with cuts, received probably in battle. It covered a corslet, which had once been o f polished steel, fairly gilded, but was now somewhat injured with rust. A sword of antique make and uncommon size, framed to be wielded with both hands, a kind o f weapon which was then beginning to go out of use, hung from his neck in a baldrick, and was so disposed as to traverse his whole person—the huge hilt appear­ ing over his left shoulder, and the point reaching well nigh to the right heel, and jarring against his spur as he walked. This unwieldy weapon could only be unsheathed by pulling the handle over the left shoulder — for no human arm was long enough to draw it in the usual manner. The whole equipment was that of a rude warrior, negligent o f his exterior even to misanthropical sullenness; and the short, harsh, haughty tone, which he used towards his attendants, belonged to the same unpolished character. The person who rode with Lord Lindesay, at the head of the party, was an absolute contrast to him, in manner, form, and features. His thin and silky hair was already white, though he seemed not above forty-five or fifty years old. His tone of voice was soft and insinuating — his form thin, spare, and bent by a habitual stoop— his pale cheek was expressive o f shrewdness and intelligence— his eye was quick though placid, and his whole demeanour mild and conciliatory. He rode an ambling nag, such as were used by ladies, clergymen, or others o f peaceful profession—wore a riding habit of black velvet, with a cap and feathers of the same hue, fastened up by a golden medal — and for show, and as a mark of rank rather than for use, carried a walking sword, (as the short light rapiers were called) without any other arms offensive or defensive. The party had now quitted the town, and proceeded, at a steady trot, towards the westward. As they prosecuted their journey, Roland Græme would gladly have learned something o f its purpose and tendency, but the countenance o f the personage next to whom he had been placed in the train, discouraged all approach to familiarity. The Baron himself did not look more grim and inaccessible than his feudal retainer, whose grizzly beard fell over his mouth like the portcullis before the gate of a castle, as if for the purpose o f preventing the escape of any word, of which absolute necessity did not demand the utterance. The rest of the train seemed under the same taciturn

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influence, and journeyed on without a word being exchanged amongst them—more like a troop of Carthusian friars than a party of military retainers. Roland Græme was surprised at this extremity of discip­ line; for even in the household of the Knight of Avenel, though somewhat distinguished for the accuracy with which decorum was enforced, a journey was a period o f licence, during which jest and song, and every thing within the limits of becoming mirth and pastime, was freely permitted. This unusual silence was, however, so far acceptable, that it gave him time to bring any shadow of judgment which he possessed to council on his own situation and prospects, which would have appeared to any reasonable person in the highest degree dangerous and perplexing. It was quite evident that he had, through various circumstances not under his own controul, formed contradictory connexions with both the contending factions, by whose strife the kingdom was distracted, without being properly an adherent o f either. It seemed also clear, that the same situation in the household o f the deposed Queen, to which he was now promoted by the influence of the Regent, had been des­ tined to him by his enthusiastic grandmother, Magdalen Græme ; for on this subject, the words which Morton had dropped had been a ray o f light; yet it was no less clear that these two persons, the one the declared enemy, the other the enthusiastic votary, of the Catholic religion;—the one at the head o f the King’s new government, the other, who regarded that government as a criminal usurpation, must have required and expected very different services from the individual whom they had thus united in recommending. It required very little reflection to foresee that these contradictory claims on his services might speedily place him in a situation where his honour as well as his life might be endangered. But it was not in Roland Graeme’s nature to anticipate evil before it came, or to prepare to combat difficulties before they arrived. “ I will see this beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stuart,” said he, “o f whom we have heard so much, and then it will be time enough to determine whether I will be Kingsman or Queensman. None of them can say I have given word or promise to either of their factions ; for they have led me up and down like a Blind Billy, without giving me any light into what I was to do. But it was lucky that grim Douglas came into the Regent’s closet this morning, otherwise I had never got free o f him without plighting my troth to do all the Earl would have me, which seemed, after all, but foul play to the poor imprisoned lady, to place her very page as an espial on her.” Skipping thus lightly over a matter o f such consequence, the thoughts of the hair-brained boy went a wool-gathering after more agreeable topics. Now, he admired the Gothic towers of Barnbougle,

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rising from their sea-beaten rock, and overlooking one of the most glorious landscapes in Scotland— and now he began to consider what notable sport for the hounds and the hawks must be afforded by the variegated ground over which they travelled— and now he compared the steady and dull trot at which they were then prosecuting their journey, with the delight of sweeping over hill and dale in pursuit of his favourite sports. As, under influence o f these joyous recollections, he gave his horse the spur, and made him execute a gambade, he instantly incurred the censure of his grave neighbour, who hinted to him to keep the pace, and move quiedy and in order, unless he wished such notice to be taken of his eccentric movements as was likely to be very displeasing to him. The rebuke and the restraint under which the youth now found himself, brought back to his recollection his late good-humoured and accommodating associate and guide, Adam Woodcock ; and from him his imagination made a short flight to Avenel Castle, to the quiet and unconfined life of its inhabitants, the goodness o f his early protect­ ress, not forgetting the denizens of its stables, kennels, and hawkmews. In a brief space, all these gave way to the remembrance o f that riddle of womankind, Catherine Seyton—who appeared before the eyes of his mind, now in her female form, now in her male attire, now in both at once, like some strange dream, which presents to us the same individual under two different characters at the same instant. Her mysterious present also recurred to his recollection—the sword which he now wore at his side, and which he was not to draw, save by command of his legitimate Sovereign ! But the key o f this mystery he judged he was likely to find in the issue o f his present journey. With such thoughts passing through his mind, Roland Græme accompanied the party of Lord Lindesay to the Queen’s-Ferry, which they passed in vessels that lay in readiness for them. They encoun­ tered no adventure whatsoever in their passage, excepting one horse being lamed in getting him into the boat, an incident very common upon such occasions, until a few years ago, when the Ferry was completely regulated. What was more peculiarly characteristic of the olden age, was the discharge of a culverin at the party from the batdements of the old casde of Rosythe, on the north side of the Ferry, the lord of which happened to have some public or private quarrel with the Lord Lindesay, and took this mode of expressing his resentment. The insult, however, as it was harmless, remained unnoticed and unavenged, nor did anything else occur worthy of notice until the band had come where Lochleven spread its magnificent sheet of waters to the beams of a bright summer sun. The ancient casde, which occupies an island nearly in the centre of

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the lake, recalled to the page that of Avenel, in which he had been nurtured. But the lake was much larger, and adorned with several islets besides that on which the fortress was situated; and instead of being embosomed in hills like that of Avenel, had upon the southern side only a splendid mountainous screen, being the descent of one of the Lomond hills, and on the other was surrounded by the extensive and fertile plains of Kinross. Roland Græme looked with some degree of dismay on the water-girdled fortress, which then, as now, consisted only of one large Donjon-keep, surrounded with a court­ yard, with two round flanking-towers at the angles, which contained within its circuit some other buildings o f inferior importance. A few old trees, clustered together near the castle, gave some relief to the air of desolate seclusion ; but yet the page, while he gazed upon a building so sequestered, could not but feel for the situation of a captive Prin­ cess doomed to dwell there, as well as for his own. I must have been bom, he thought, under the star that presides over ladies and lakes of water, for I cannot by any means escape from the service o f the one or from dwelling in the other. But if they allow me not the fair freedom of my sport and exercise, they shall find it as hard to confine a wilddrake, as a youth who can swim like one. The band had now reached the edge of the water, and one of the party advancing displayed Lord Lindesay’s pennon, waving it repeatedly to and fro, while that Baron himself blew a clamorous blast on his bugle. A banner was presently displayed from the roof of the castle in reply to these signals, and one or two figures were seen busied as if unmooring a boat which lay close by the islet. “ It will be some time ere they can reach us with the boat,” said the companion of the Lord Lindesay ; “ should we not do well to proceed to the town, and array ourselves in some better order, ere we appear before”_ _ _ “You may do as you list, Sir Robert,” replied Lindesay, “ I have neither time nor temper to waste on such vanities. She has cost me many a hard ride, and must not now sconner at the thread-bare cloak and soiled doublet that I am arrayed in. It is the livery to which she has brought all Scotland.” “ Do not speak so harshly,” said Sir Robert; “if she hath done wrong, she hath dearly abied it ; and in losing all real power, one would not deprive her o f the little external homage due at once to a lady and a princess.” “ I say to you once more, Sir Robert Melville,” replied Lindesay, “ do as you will— for me, I am now too old to dink myself as a gallant to grace the bower of dames.” “The bower o f dames, my lord !” said Melville, looking at the rude

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grim tower— “ is it yon dark and grated castle, the prison of a captive Queen, to which you give so gay a name ?” “Name it as you list,” replied Lindesay ; “had the Regent desired to send an envoy capable to speak to a captive Queen, there are many gallants in his court who would have courted the occasion to make speeches out of Amadis o f Gaul, or the Mirror o f Knighthood. But when he sent blunt old Lindesay, he knew he would speak to a misguided woman, as her former misdoings and her present state render necessary. I sought not this employment—it has been thrust upon me ; and I will not cumber myself with more form in the discharge of it, than needs must be tacked to such an occupation.” So saying, Lord Lindesay threw himself from horseback, and, wrapping his riding-cloak around him, lay down at lazy length upon the sward to await the arrival of the boat, which was now seen rowing from the castle towards the shore. Sir Robert Melville, who had also dismounted, walked at short turns to and fro upon the bank, his arms crossed on his breast, often looking to the castle, and displaying in his countenance a mixture o f sorrow and of anxiety. The rest of the party sate like statues on horseback, without moving so much as the points of their lances, which they held upright in the air. As soon as the boat approached a rude quay or landing-place, near to which they had stationed themselves, Lord Lindesay started up from his recumbent posture, and asked the person who steered, why he had not brought a larger boat with him to transport his retinue. “ So please you,” replied the boatman, “because it is the order o f our lady, that we bring not to the castle more than four persons.” “ Thy lady is a wise woman,” said Lindesay, “ to suspect me of treachery!— or had I intended it, what is to hinder us from throwing you and your comrades into the lake, and filling the boat with my own fellows?” The steersman, on hearing this, made a hasty signal to his men to back their oars, and hold off from the shore which they were approaching. “Why, thou ass,” said Lindesay, “thou didst not think that I meant thy fool’s head serious harm? Hark thee, friend—with fewer than three servants I will go no whither, and Sir Robert Melville will require at least the attendance of one domestic ; and it will be at your peril and your lady’s to refuse us admission, come hither as we are on matters of great national concern.” The steersman answered with firmness, but with great civility of expression, that his orders were positive to bring no more than four into the island, but he offered to row back to obtain a revisal o f his orders.

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“ Do so, my friend,” said Sir Robert Melville, after he had in vain endeavoured to persuade his stubborn companion to consent to a temporary abatement of his train, “ row back to the castle, sith it will be no better, and obtain thy lady’s orders to transport the Lord Lindesay, myself, and our retinue thither.” “And hearken,” said Lord Lindesay, “ take with you this page who comes as an attendant on your lady’s guest.— Dismount, sirrah,” said he, addressing Roland, “ and embark with them in that boat.” “And what is to become of my horse ?” said Græme ; “ I am answer­ able for him to my master.” “ I will relieve you of the charge,” said Lindesay; “thou wilt have little enow to do with horses for these ten years to come.” “ If I thought so,” said Roland—but he was interrupted by Sir Robert Melville, who said to him good-humouredly, “ Dispute it not, young friend— resistance can do no good, but may well run thee into danger.” Roland Græme felt the justice of what he said, and, though neither delighted with the manner nor matter o f Lindesay’s address, deemed it best to submit to necessity, and to embark without further remon­ strance. The men plied their oars. The quay, with the party o f horse stationed near it, receded from the page’s eyes—the castle and the islet seemed to draw near in the same proportion ; and in a brief space the boat arrived under the shadow of a huge old tree which overhung the landing-place. The steersman and Græme leaped ashore; the boatmen remained lying on their oars ready for further service.

Chapter Six C ould valour aught avail or people’s love, Fran ce had not wept N avarre’s brave H enry slain; I f wit or beauty could compassion move, T h e R ose o f Scotland had not wept in vain. Elegy in a R oyal M ausoleum.— L Ew I s t t h e g a t e of the court-yard of Lochleven appeared the stately form of the Lady of Lochleven, a female whose early charms had captivated James V., by whom she became mother of the celebrated Regent Moray. As she was of noble birth (being a daughter o f the House of Mar ) and of great beauty, her intercourse with James did not prevent her being afterwards sought in honourable marriage by many gallants of the time, amongst whom she had preferred Sir Robert Douglas of Lochleven. But well has it been said,

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–––––O ur pleasant vices A re made the whips to scourge us—

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The station which the Lady of Lochleven now held as the widow of a man of high rank and interest, and the mother o f a lawful family, did not prevent her nourishing a painful sense o f degradation, even while she was proud o f the talents, the power, and the station of her son, now prime ruler of the state, but still a pledge of her illicit intercourse. Had James done to her (she said in her secret heart) the justice he owed her, she had seen in her son, as a source of unmixed delight, of unchastened pride, the lawful monarch of Scotland, and one of the ablest who ever swayed the sceptre. The House of Mar, not inferior in antiquity or grandeur to that of Drummond, would then have also boasted a Queen amongst its daughters, and escaped the stain attached to female frailty, even when it has a royal lover for an apology. While such feelings preyed on a bosom naturally proud and severe, they had a corresponding effect upon her countenance, where, with the remains o f great beauty, were mingled traits indicative o f inward discontent and peevish melancholy. It perhaps contributed to increase this habitual temperament, that the Lady Lochleven had adopted uncommonly rigid and severe views of religion, imitating in her ideas of reformed faith the very worst errors o f the Catholics, in limiting the benefit of the gospel to those who profess their own speculative tenets. In every respect, the unfortunate Queen Mary, now the compulsory guest, or rather prisoner of this sullen lady, was obnoxious to her hostess. Lady Lochleven disliked her as the daughter of Mary of Guise, the legal possessor of those rights over James’s heart and hand, of which she conceived herself to have been injuriously deprived ; and yet more so as the professor of a religion which she detested worse than Paganism. Such was the dame, who, with stately mien, and sharp yet hand­ some features, shrouded by her black velvet coif, interrogated the domestic who steered her barge to the shore, what had become of Lindesay and Sir Robert Melville. The man related what had passed, and she smiled scornfully as she replied, “ Fools must be flattered, not foughten with—row back, make thy excuse as thou canst—say Lord Ruthven hath already reached this castle, and that he is impatient for Lord Lindesay’s presence. Away with thee, Randal—yet stay—what galopin is that thou hast brought hither?” “ So please you, my lady, he is the page who is to wait upon– – – ” “ Ay, the new male minion,” said the Lady Lochleven; “ the female arrived yesterday—I shall have a well-ordered house with this lady and her retinue ; but I trust they will soon find some others to under­ take such a charge. Begone, Randal— And you (to Roland Græme) follow me to the garden.” She led the way with a slow and stately step to the small garden,

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which, enclosed by a stone wall ornamented with statues, and having an artificial fountain in the centre, extended its dull parterres on the side of the court-yard, with which it communicated by a low and arched portal. Within the narrow circuit of its formal and limited walks, Mary Stuart was now learning to perform the weary part of a prisoner, which, with little interval, she was doomed to sustain during the remainder of her life. She was followed in her slow and melan­ choly exercise by two female attendants ; but in the first glance which Roland Græme bestowed upon one so illustrious by birth, so distin­ guished by her beauty, accomplishments, and misfortunes, he was sensible of the presence of no other than the unhappy Queen of Scotland. Her face, her form, have been so deeply impressed upon the ima­ gination, that, even at the distance of nearly three centuries, it is unnecessary to remind the most ignorant and uninformed reader of the striking traits which characterize that remarkable countenance, which seems at once to combine our ideas of the majestic, the pleas­ ing, and the brilliant, leaving us to doubt whether they express most happily the queen, the beauty, or the accomplished woman. Who is there, at the very mention of Mary Stuart’s name, that has not her countenance before him, familiar as that of the mistress of his youth, or the favourite daughter of his advanced age? Even those who feel themselves compelled to believe all, or much of what her enemies laid to her charge, cannot think without a sigh upon a countenance expressive of anything rather than the foul crimes with which she was charged when living, and which still continue to shade, if not to blacken her memory. That brow, so truly open and regal— these eye­ brows, so regularly graceful, which yet were saved from the charge of regular insipidity by the beautiful effect of the hazel eyes which they overarched, and which seem to utter a thousand histories— the nose, with all its Grecian precision of outline— the mouth, so well propor­ tioned, so sweetly formed, as if to speak nothing but what was delight­ ful to hear—the dimpled chin—the stately swanlike neck, form a countenance, the like of which we know not to have existed in any other character moving in that high class o f life, where the actresses as well as the actors command general and undivided attention. It is in vain to say that the portraits which exist of this remarkable woman are not like each other; for, amidst their discrepancy, each possesses general features which the eye at once acknowledges as peculiar to the vision which our imagination has raised while we read her history for the first time, and which has been impressed upon it by the numerous prints and pictures which we have seen. Indeed we cannot look on the worst of these, however deficient in point of execution, without saying,

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that is meant for Queen Mary; and no small instance it is of the power o f beauty, that its charms should have remained the subject not merely of admiration, but of warm and chivalrous interest, after the lapse of such a length of time. We know that by far the most acute of those who, in latter days, have adopted the unfavourable view of Mary’s character, longed, like the executioner before his dreadful task was performed, to kiss the fair hand of Her on whom he was about to perform so horrible a duty. Dressed, then, in a deep mourning robe, and with all those charms of face, shape, and manner, with which faithful tradition has made each reader familiar, Mary Stuart advanced to meet the Lady of Lochleven, who, on her part, endeavoured to conceal dislike and apprehension under the veil of respectful indifference. The truth was, that she had experienced repeatedly the Queen’s superiority in that species of disguised yet cutting sarcasm, with which women can suc­ cessfully avenge themselves, for real and substantial injuries. It may be well doubted, whether this talent was not as fatal to its possessor as the many others enjoyed by that highly gifted, but most unhappy female ; for, while it often afforded her a momentary triumph over her keepers, it failed not to exasperate their resentment ; and the satire and sarcasm in which she had indulged, were frequently retaliated by the deep and bitter hardships which they had the power of inflicting. It is well known that her death was at length hastened by a letter which she wrote to Queen Elizabeth, in which she treated her jealous rival, and the Countess of Shrewsbury, with the keenest irony and ridicule. As the ladies met together, the Queen said, bending her head at the same time in return to the obeisance of the Lady Lochleven, “We are this day fortunate—we enjoy the company of our amiable hostess at an unusual hour, and during a period which we have hitherto been per­ mitted to give to our private exercise. But our good hostess knows well she has at all times access to our presence, and need not observe the useless ceremony of requiring our permission.” “ I am sorry my presence is deemed an intrusion by your Grace,” said the Lady o f Lochleven. “I came but to announce the arrival o f this addition to your train,” (motioning with her hand towards Roland Græme) “ a circumstance towards which ladies are seldom indiffer­ ent.” “ O ! I crave your ladyship’s pardon, and am bent to the earth with obligation for the kindness o f my nobles,— or my sovereigns shall I call them?—who have permitted me such a respectable addition to my personal retinue.” “They have indeed studied, madam,” said the Lady Lochleven, “to shew their kindness toward your Grace— something at the risk per­

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haps of sound policy, and I trust their doing so will not be miscon­ strued.” “ Impossible!” said the Queen; “the bounty which permits the daughter of so many kings, and who yet is Queen of the realm, the attendance of two waiting-women and a boy, is a grace which Mary Stuart can never sufficiently acknowledge. Why! my train will be equal to that of any country-dame in this your kingdom of Fife, saving but the lack of a gentleman-usher, and two blue-coated serving-men. But I must not forget, in my selfish joy, the additional trouble and charges to which this augmentation of our train will put our kind hostess, and the whole house of Lochleven. It is this, I am aware, which clouds your brows, my worthy lady. But be of good cheer; the crown of Scotland has many a fair manor, and your affectionate son, and my no less affectionate brother, will endow you with the best of them, ere Mary should be dismissed from this hospitable castle from your ladyship’s lack of means to support the charges.” “The Douglasses of Lochleven, madam,” answered the lady, “have known for ages how to discharge their duty to the State, without looking for reward, even where the task was both irksome and danger­ ous.” “Nay! but my dear Lochleven,” said the Queen, “you are over scrupulous. I pray you accept of a goodly manor ; what should support the Queen of Scotland and this her princely court, saving her own crown-lands— and who should minister to the wants of a mother, save an affectionate son like the Earl of Moray, who possesses so wonder­ fully both the power and inclination?— Or said you it was the danger of the task which clouded your smooth and hospitable brow?—no doubt, a page is a formidable addition to my body-guard of females— and I bethink me it must have been for that reason that my Lord of Lindesay refused even now to venture within the reach of a force so formidable, without being attended by a competent retinue.” The Lady Lochleven started, and looked something surprised ; and Mary, suddenly changing her manner from the smooth ironical affectation of mildness to an accent of austere command, and drawing up at the same time her fine person, said, with the full majesty o f her rank, “Yes ! Lady of Lochleven, I know that Ruthven is already in the castle, and that Lindesay waits on the bank the return of your barge to bring him hither along with Sir Robert Melville. For what purpose do these nobles come ? And why am I not in ordinary decency apprized of their arrival ?” “ Their purpose, madam,” replied the Lady o f Lochleven, “they must themselves explain—And a formal annunciation were needless, where your Grace hath attendants who can play the espial so well.”

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“Alas ! poor Fleming,” said the Queen, turning to the elder of the female attendants, “thou wilt be tried, condemned, and gibbetted, for a spy in the garrison, because thou didst chance to cross the great hall while my good Lady of Lochleven was parleying at the full pitch of her voice with her pilot Randal. Put black wool in thy ears, girl, as you value the wearing of them longer. Remember, in the Castle of Loch­ leven, ears and tongue are matters not of use, but of show merely. Our good hostess can hear, as well as speak, for us all.—We excuse your further attendance, my lady hostess,” she said, once more addressing the object of her resentment, “ and retire to prepare for an interview with our rebel lords. We will use the anti-chamber of our sleeping apartment as our hall of audience.— You, young man,” she pro­ ceeded, addressing Roland Græme, and at once softening the iron­ ical sharpness of her manner into good-humoured raillery, “you, who are all our male attendance, from our Lord High Chamberlain down to our least galopin, follow us to prepare our court.” She turned and walked slowly towards the castle. The Lady of Lochleven folded her arms and smiled in bitter resentment, as she watched her retiring steps. “ Thy whole male attendance?” she muttered, repeating the Queen’s last words, “ and well for thee had it been had thy train never been larger;” then turning to Roland, in whose way she had stood while making this pause, she made room for him to pass, saying at the same time, “ Art thou already eves-dropping? follow thy mistress, minion, and, if thou wilt, tell her what I have now said.” Roland Græme hastened after his royal mistress and her attend­ ants, who had just entered a postern-gate communicating betwixt the castle and the small garden. They ascended a winding-stair as high as the second storey, which was in a great measure occupied by a suite of three rooms, opening into each other, and assigned as the dwelling of the captive Princess. The outermost was a small hall or anti-room, within which opened a large parlour, and from that again the Queen’s bed-room. Another small apartment, which opened into the same parlour, contained the beds of the gentlewomen in waiting. Roland Græme stopped, as became his station, in the outermost of these apartments, there to await such orders as might be communic­ ated to him. From the grated window of the room he saw Lindesay, Melville, and their followers, disembark; and observed that they were met at the castle gate by a third noble, to whom Lindesay exclaimed, in his loud harsh voice,— “My Lord of Ruthven, you have the start of u s!” At this instant, the page’s attention was called to a burst of hysterical sobs from the inner apartment, and to the hurried ejaculations of the

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terrified females, which led him almost instantly to hasten to their assistance. When he entered, he saw that the Queen had thrown herself into the large chair which stood nearest the door, and was sobbing for breath in a strong fit of hysterical affection. The elder female supported her in her arms, while the younger bathed her face with water and with tears alternately. “ Hasten, young man!” said the elder lady, in alarm, “ fly—call assistance— she is swooning!” But the Queen ejaculated in a faint and broken voice, “ Stir not, I charge you!— call no one to witness— I am better— I will recover instantly.” And, indeed, with an effort which seemed like that of one struggling for life, she sate up in her chair, and endeavoured to resume her composure, while her features yet trembled with the viol­ ent emotion of body and mind which she had undergone. “ I am ashamed of my weakness, girls,” she said, taking the hands o f her attendants ; “but it is over—and I am Mary Stuart once more. The savage tone o f that man’s voice—my knowledge of his insolence—the name which he named—the purpose for which they come, may excuse a moment’s weakness— and it shall be a moment’s only.” She snatched from her head the curch or cap, which had been disordered during her hysterical agony—shook down the thick clustered tresses o f dark brown which had been before veiled under it—and, drawing her slender fingers across the labyrinth which they formed, she arose from the chair, and stood like the inspired image o f a Grecian proph­ etess, in a mood which partook at once o f sorrow and pride, of smiles and of tears. “We are ill appointed,” she said, “ to meet our rebel subjects ; but, as far as we may, we will strive to present ourselves as becomes their Queen. Follow me, my maidens,” she said ; “what says thy favourite song, my Fleming? M y m aids, come to my dressing bower, And deck my nut-brown hair; W here’er ye laid a plait before, L oo k ye lay ten times mair.

Alas !” she added, when she had repeated with a smile these lines of an old ballad, “violence has already robbed me of the ordinary decora­ tions o f my rank ; and the few that nature gave me have been destroyed by sorrow and by fear.” Yet while she spoke thus, she again let her slender fingers stray through the wilderness of the beautiful tresses which veiled her kingly neck and swelling bosom, as if, in her agony of mind, she had not altogether lost the consciousness of her unrivalled charms. Roland Græme, on whose youth, inexperience, and ardent sense o f what was dignified and lovely, the demeanour of so fair and high-born a lady, in such depth of distress, wrought like the charm of

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a magician, stood rooted to the spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard his life in a quarrel so fair as that which Mary Stuart’s must needs be. She had been bred in France— she was possessed o f the most distinguished beauty—she had reigned a Queen, and a Scottish Queen, to whom knowledge of character was as essential as the use of vital air.— In all these capacities, Mary was, o f all women on the earth, most alert at perceiving and using the advantages which her charms gave her over almost all who came within the sphere of their influence. She cast on Roland a glance which might have melted a heart of stone. “ My poor boy,” she said, with a feeling partly real, partly political, “thou art a stranger to us—sent to this doleful captivity from the society of some tender mother, or sister, or maiden, with whom you had freedom to tread a gay measure round the May-pole— I grieve for you— But you are the only male in my limited household—wilt thou obey my orders?” “ T o the death, madam,” said Græme in a determined tone. “ Then keep the door of mine apartment,” said the Queen ; “keep it till they offer actual violence, or till we shall be fitly arrayed to receive these intrusive visitors.” “ I will defend it till they pass over my body,” said Roland Græme, any hesitation which he had felt as to the line of conduct he ought to pursue, being completely swept away by the impulse of the moment. “ Not so, my good youth,” answered Mary ; “ not so, I command thee — if I have one faithful subject beside me, much need, God wot, I have to care for his safety. Resist them but till they are put to the shame of using actual violence, and then give way I charge you—remember my commands.” And, with a smil e expressive at once of favour and of authority, she turned from him, and, followed by her attendants, entered the bed-room. The youngest paused for half a second ere she followed her com­ panion, and made a signal to Roland Græme with her hand. He had been already long aware that this was Catherine Seyton— a circum­ stance which could not much surprise a youth of quick intellects, who recollected the sort o f mysterious discourse which had passed betwixt the two matrons at the deserted Nunnery, and on which his meeting with Catherine in this place seemed to cast so much light. Yet such was the engrossing effect of Mary’s presence, that it surmounted for the moment even the feelings o f a youthful lover ; and it was not until Catherine Seyton had disappeared, that Roland began to consider in what relation they were to stand to each other.— “ She held up her hand to me in a commanding manner,” he thought; “perhaps she wanted to confirm my purpose for the execution of the Queen’s com­ mands ; for I think she could scarce purpose to scare me with the sort

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of discipline which she administered to frieze-jacket, and to poor Adam Woodcock. But we will see to that anon; meantime, let us do justice to the trust reposed in us by this unhappy Queen. I think my Lord of Moray will himself own that it is the duty o f a faithful page to defend his lady against intrusion on her privacy.” Accordingly, he stepped to the little vestibule, made fast, with lock and bar, the door which opened from thence to the large stair-case, and then sate him down to attend the result. He had not long to wait— a rude and strong hand first essayed to lift the latch, then pushed and shook the door with violence, and when it resisted his attempt to open it, exclaimed, “ Undo the door there, you within !” “Why, and at whose command,” said the page, “ am I to undo the door of the Queen o f Scotland ?” Another vain attempt, which made hinge and bolts jingle, shewed that the impatient applicant without would willingly have entered without regarding his challenge; but at length an answer was returned. “ Undo the door, on your peril— the Lord Lindesay comes to speak with the Lady Mary o f Scotland.” “The Lord Lindesay, as a Scottish noble,” answered the page, “ must await his Sovereign’s leisure.” An earnest altercation ensued amongst those without, in which Roland distinguished the remarkably harsh voice of Lindesay in reply to Sir Robert Melville, who appeared to have been using some sooth­ ing language— “ No ! no ! no ! I tell thee no ! I will place a petard against the door rather than be baulked by a profligate woman, and bearded by an insolent foot-boy.” “Yet, at least,” said Melville, “let me try fair means in the first instance. Violence to a lady would stain your scutcheon for ever. Or await till my Lord Ruthven comes.” “ I will await no longer,” said Lindesay ; “it is high time the business were done, and we on our return to the council. But thou mayst try thy fair play, as thou callest it, while I cause my train to prepare the petard. I came hither provided with as good gunpowder as blew up the Kirk of Field.” “ For God’s sake be patient,” said Melville; and, approaching the door, he said, as speaking to those within, “ Let the Queen know that I, her faithful servant, Robert Melville, do entreat her, for her own sake, and to prevent worse consequence, that she will undo the door, and admit Lord Lindesay, who brings a message from the Council of State.” “ I will do your errand to the Queen,” said the page, “ and report to you her answer.”

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He went to the door o f the bed-chamber, and tapping against it gently, it was opened by the elder lady, to whom he communicated his errand, and returned with directions from the Queen to admit Sir Robert Melville, and Lord Lindesay. Roland Græme returned to the vestibule, and opened the door accordingly, into which the Lord Lindesay strode, with the air of a soldier who has fought his way into a conquered fortress; while Melville, deeply dejected, followed him more slowly. “ I draw you to witness, and to record,” said the page to this last, “that, save for the especial commands of the Queen, I would have made good the entrance, with my best strength, and my best blood, against all Scotland.” “ Be silent, young man,” said Melville, in a tone of grave rebuke; “add not brands to fire—this is no time to make a flourish of thy boyish chivalry.” “ She has not appeared even yet,” said Lindesay, who had now reached the midst of the parlour or audience room ; “how call you this trifling?” “ Patience, my lord,” replied Sir Robert, “time presses not—and Lord Ruthven hath not as yet returned.” “ He too must bedizen himself for the nonce,” said Lindesay; “ I have known him press into her presence with less ceremony.” At this moment the door of the inner apartment opened, and Queen Mary presented herself, advancing with an air o f peculiar grace and majesty, and seeming totally unruffled, either by the visit, or by the rude manner in which it had been enforced. Her dress was a robe of black velvet; a small ruff, open in front, gave a full view of her beautifully formed chin and neck, but veiled the bosom. On her head she wore a small cap of lace, and a transparent white veil hung from her shoulders over the long black robe, in large loose folds, so that it could be drawn at pleasure over the face and person. She wore a cross o f gold around her neck, and had her rosary of gold and ebony hanging from her girdle. She was closely followed by her two ladies, who remained standing behind her dur­ ing the conference. Even Lord Lindesay, though the rudest noble of that rude age, was surprised into something like respect by the unconcerned and majestic mien o f her, whom he had expected to find frantic with impotent passion, or dissolved in useless and vain sorrow, or overwhelmed with the fears likely in such a situation to assail fallen royalty. “We fear we have detained you, my Lord of Lindesay,” said the Queen, while she courtsied with dignity in answer to his reluctant obeisance ; “but a female does not willingly receive her visitors without

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some minutes spent at the toilette. Men, my lord, are less dependant on such ceremonies.” Lord Lindesay, casting his eye down on his own travel-stained and disordered dress, muttered something of a hasty journey, and the Queen paid her greeting to Sir Robert Melville with courtesy, and even, as it seemed, with kindness. There was then a dead pause, during which Lindesay looked towards the door, as if expecting with impatience the colleague of their embassy. The Queen alone was entirely unembarrassed, and, as if to break the silence, she addressed Lord Lindesay, with a glance at the large and cumbrous sword which he wore, as already mentioned, hanging from his neck. “You have there a trusty and a weighty travelling companion, my lord. I trust you expected to meet with no enemy here, against whom such a formidable weapon could be necessary. It is, methinks, some­ what a singular ornament for a courtesy, though I am—as I well need to be—too much of a Stuart to fear a sword.” “ It is not the first time, madam,” replied Lindesay, bringing round the weapon so as to rest its point on the ground, and leaning one hand on the huge cross-handle, “it is not the first time that this weapon has intruded itself into the presence of the House o f Stuart.” “ Possibly, my lord,” replied the Queen, “it may have done service to my ancestors—Your ancestors were men of loyalty.” “Ay, madam,” replied he, “ service it hath done; but such as kings love neither to acknowledge nor to reward— it was the service which the knife renders to the tree when trimming it to the quick, and depriving it of the superfluous growth of rank and unfruitful suckers, which rob it of nourishment.” “You talk riddles, my lord,” said Mary ; “ I well hope the explanation carries nothing insulting with it.” “You shall judge, madam,” answered Lindesay. “With this good sword was Archbald Douglas, Earl o f Angus, girded on the memor­ able day when he acquired the name of Bell-the-Cat, for dragging from the presence of your great-grandfather, the third James of the race, a crew of minions, flatterers, and favourites, whom he hanged over the bridge of Lauder, as a warning to such reptiles how they approach a Scottish throne. With this same weapon, the same inflex­ ible champion o f Scottish honour and nobility slew at one blow Spens of K ilspindie, a courtier of your grandfather James the Fourth, who had dared to speak lightly of him in the royal presence. They fought near the brook of Fala; and Bell-the-Cat, with this blade, sheared through the thigh of his opponent, and lopped the limb as easily as a shepherd’s boy slices a twig from a sapling.” “My lord,” replied the Queen, reddening, “my nerves are too good

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to be alarmed even by this terrible history—May I ask how a blade so illustrious passed from the House of Douglas to that of Lindesay?— Methinks it should have been preserved as a consecrated relique, by a family who have held all that they could do against their king, to be done in favour of their country.” “ Nay, madam,” said Melville, anxiously interfering, “ ask not that question o f Lord Lindesay—And you, my lord, for shame— for decency—forbear to reply to it.” “ It is time that this lady should hear the truth,” replied Lindesay. “And be assured that she will be moved to anger by none that you can tell, my lord. There are cases in which just scorn has always the mastery over just anger.” “Then know,” said Lindesay, “that upon the field of Carberryhill, when that false and infamous traitor and murtherer, James, sometime Earl of Bothwell, and nick-named Duke of Orkney, offered to do personal batde with any of the associated nobles who came to drag him to justice, I accepted his challenge, and was by the noble Earl of Morton gifted with this good sword that I might therewith fight it out—Ah! so help me heaven, had his presumption been one grain more, or his cowardice one grain less, I should have done such work with this good steel on his traitorous corpse, that the hounds and carrion-crows should have found their morsels daintily carved to their use !” The Queen’s courage well nigh gave way at the mention of Bothwell’s name— a name connected with such a train o f guilt, shame, and disaster. But the prolonged boast of Lindesay gave her time to rally herself, and to answer with an appearance of cold contempt— “ It is easy to slay an enemy who enters not the lists. But had Mary Stuart inherited her father’s sword as well as his sceptre, the boldest o f her rebels should not upon that day have complained that they had no one to cope withal. But your lordship will forgive me if I abridge this conference. A brief description of a bloody fight is long enough to satisfy a lady’s curiosity; and unless my Lord of Lindesay has some­ thing more important than to tell us of the deeds which old Bell-theCat achieved, and how he would himself have emulated them, had time and tide permitted, we will retire to our private apartment, and you, Fleming, shall finish reading to us yonder little treatise Des Rhodomantades Espagnolles.” “ Tarry, madam,” said Lindesay, his complexion reddening in his turn; “ I know your quick wit too well of old to have sought an inter­ view that you might sharpen its edge at the expence of my honour. Lord Ruthven and myself, with Sir Robert Melville as a concurrent, come to your Grace on the part of the Secret Council, to tender to you

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what much concerns the safety of your own life and the welfare of the State.” “The Secret Council?” said the Queen; “by what powers can it subsist or act, while I, from whom it holds its character, am here detained under unjust restraint? But it matters not—what concerns the welfare of Scotland shall be acceptable to Mary Stuart, come from whatsoever quarter it will—and for what concerns her own life, she has lived long enough to be weary o f it, even at the age of twenty-five. —Where is your colleague, my lord—why tarries he ?” “ He comes, madam,” said Melville, and Lord Ruthven entered at the instant, holding in his hand a packet. As the Queen returned his salutation she became deadly pale, but instantly recovered herself by dint of strong and sudden resolution, just as the noble, whose appear­ ance seemed to excite such emotions in her bosom, entered the apart­ ment in company with George Douglas, the youngest brother of the Knight o f Lochleven, who, during the absence of his brethren, acted as Seneschal o f the Castle.

Chapter S even I give this heavy weight from o ff my head, And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand ; With mine own tears I wash away my balm , W ith my own hand I give away my crown, W ith mine own tongue deny my sacred state, W ith mine own breath release all duteous oaths. R ichard I I

L o r d R u t h v e n had the look and bearing which became a soldier

and a statesman, and the martial cast of his form and features, pro­ cured him the popular epithet of Greysteil, by which he was distin­ guished by his intimates, after the hero of a metrical romance then generally known. His dress, which was a buff-coat embroidered, had a half-military character, but exhibited nothing o f the sordid negli­ gence which distinguished that of Lindesay. But the son o f an ill-fated sire, and the father o f a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his look that cast o f inauspicious melancholy, by which the physiognomists of that time pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and unhappy death. The terror which the presence of this nobleman impressed on the Queen’s mind, arose from the active share he had borne in the slaugh­ ter o f David Rizzio; his father having presided at the perpetration of that abominable crime, although so weak from long and wasting ill­ ness, that he could not endure the weight of his armour, having arisen

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from a sick-bed to commit a murther in the presence of his Sovereign. On that occasion, his son had attended and taken an active part. It was little to be wondered at that the Queen, considering her condition when such a deed o f horror was acted in her presence, should retain an instinctive terror for the principal actors in the murther. She returned, however, with grace the salutation o f Lord Ruthven, and extended her hand to George Douglas, who kneeled and kissed it with respect; the first mark of a subject’s homage which Roland Græme had seen any of them render to the captive Sovereign. She returned his greeting in silence, and there was a brief pause, during which the steward of the castle, a man of a sad brow and a severe eye, placed, under George Douglas’s directions, a table, and writing materials on the table ; and the page, obedient to his dumb signal, advanced a large chair to the side on which the Queen stood, the table thus forming a sort of bar which divided the Queen and her personal followers from her unwelcome visitors. The steward then withdrew after a low rever­ ence. When he had closed the door behind him, the Queen broke silence— “With your favour, my lords, I will sit—my walks are not indeed extensive enough at present to fatigue me greatly, yet I find repose something more necessary than usual.” She sate down accordingly, and shading her cheek with her beauti­ ful hand, looked keenly and impressively at each of the nobles in turn. Mary Fleming applied her kerchief to her eyes, and Catherine Seyton and Roland Græme exchanged a glance, which showed that both were too deeply engrossed with sentiments o f interest and commis­ eration for their royal mistress, to think of any thing which regarded themselves. “ I wait your business, my lords,” said the Queen, after she had been seated for about a minute without a word being spoken,— “ I wait your message from those you call the Secret Council.—I trust it is a peti­ tion of pardon, and a desire that I will resume my rightful throne, without using with due severity my right of punishing those who have dispossessed me of it.” “Madam,” replied Ruthven, “ it is painful for us to speak harsh truths to a Princess who has long ruled us. But we come to offer, not to implore pardon.— In a word, madam, we have to propose to you on the part o f the Secret Council, that you sign these deeds, which will contribute greatly to the pacification of the State, the advancement of God’s word, and the welfare of your own future life.” “ Am I expected to take these fair words on trust, my lord ? or may I hear the contents o f these reconciling papers, ere I am asked to sign them?” “ Unquestionably, madam; it is our purpose and wish, you should

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read what you are required to sign,” replied Ruthven. “ Required?” repeated the Queen with some emphasis; “but the phrase suits well the matter—Read, my lord.” The Lord Ruthven proceeded to read a formal instrument, running in the Queen’s name, and setting forth that she had been called at an early age to the administration of the crown and realm of Scotland, and had toiled diligently therein, until she was in body and spirit so vexed and disgusted, that she was unable any longer to endure the travail and pain of State affairs ; and that since God had blessed her with a fair and hopeful son, she was desirous to ensure to him, even while she yet lived, his succession to the crown, which was his by right of hereditary descent. “Wherefore,” the instrument proceeded, “we, of the motherly affection we bear to our said son, have renounced and demitted, and by these our letters, of free good will, renounce and demit the Crown, government, and guiding of the realm of Scotland, in favour of our said son, that he may succeed to us as native Prince thereof, as much as if we had been removed by decease, and not by our own proper act. And that this demission of our royal authority may have the more full and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we give, grant, and commit, full and free and plain power to our trusty cousins, Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and William Lord Ruthven, to appear in our name before as many of the nobility, clergy, and bur­ gesses, as may be assembled at Stirling, and there, in our name and behalf, publicly, and in their presence, to renounce the Crown, guid­ ance, and government of this our kingdom of Scotland” The Queen h e r e b ro k e in w ith an a ir of e x tre m e s u r p r is e . “ How is this, my lords?” she said; “ Are my ears turned rebels, that they deceive me with sounds so extraordinary?— and yet it is no wonder that, having conversed so long with rebellion, they should now force its language upon my understanding.— Say I am mistaken, my lords— say, for the honour of yourselves and the Scottish nobility, my right trusty cousins o f Lindesay and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient line, have not sought the prison-house of their kind mis­ tress for such a purpose as these words seem to imploy. Say, for the sake of honour and loyalty, that my ears have deceived me.” “ No, madam,” said Ruthven gravely, “your ears do not deceive you —they deceived you when they were closed against the preachers of the evangele, and the honest advice of your faithful subjects; and when they were ever open to flattery of pick-thanks and traitors, foreign cubiculars and domestic minions. The land may no longer brook the rule of one who cannot rule herself ; wherefore, I pray you to comply with the last remaining wish of your subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself and us the further agitation of matter so painful.”

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“And is this all my loving subjects require of me, my lord?” said Mary in a tone of bitter irony. “ Do they really stint themselves to the easy boon that I should yield up the crown, which is mine by birth­ right, to an infant, which is scarcely more than a year old—that I fling down my sceptre, and take up a distaff— O no ! it is too little for them to ask—That other roll o f parchment contains something harder to be complied with, and which may more highly tax my readiness to comply with the petitions of my lieges.” “This parchment,” answered Ruthven, in the same tone of inflex­ ible gravity, and unfolding the instrument as he spoke, “ is one by which your Grace constitutes your nearest in blood, and the most honourable and trust-worthy o f your subjects, James, Earl of Moray, Regent o f the kingdom during the minority of the young King. He already holds the appointment from the Secret Council.” The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and clapping her hands together, exclaimed, “ Comes the arrow out o f his quiver?— out of my brother’s bow? Alas ! I looked for his return from France as my sole, at least my readiest, chance of deliverance. And yet, when I heard that he had assumed the government, I guessed he would shame to wield it in my name.” “ I must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “to the demand o f the Council.” “ The demand o f the Council!” said the Queen; “say rather the demand o f a set of robbers, impatient to divide the spoil they have seized. To such a demand, and sent by the mouth of a traitor, whose scalp, but for my womanish mercy, should long since have stood on the city gates, Mary of Scotland has no answer.” “ I trust, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “my being unacceptable to your presence will not add to your obduracy o f resolution. It may become you to remember that the death of the minion, Rizzio, cost the house of Ruthven its head and leader. My father, more worthy than a whole province o f such vile sycophants, died in exile, and broken­ hearted.” The Queen put her hands on her face, and resting her arms on the table, stooped down her head and wept so bitterly, that the tears were seen to find their way in streams between the white and slender fingers with which she endeavoured to conceal them. “My lords,” said Sir Robert Melville, “this is too much rigour— under your lordships’ favour, we came hither, not to revive old griefs, but to find the mode o f avoiding new ones.” “ Sir Robert Melville,” said Ruthven, “we best know for what pur­ pose we were delegated hither, and wherefore you were somewhat unnecessarily sent to attend us.”

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“ Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “ I know not why we were cumbered with the good knight, unless he comes in place of the lump o f sugar which pothicars put into their wholesome but bitter medic­ aments, to please a froward child—a needless labour, methinks, where men have the means to make them swallow the physic other­ wise.” “ Nay, my lords,” said Melville, “ye best know your own secret instructions— I conceive I shall best obey mine in striving to mediate between her grace and you.” “ Be silent, Sir Robert Melville,” said the Queen, arising, and her face still glowing with agitation as she spoke. “My kerchief, Fleming — I shame that traitors should have power to move me thus.— Tell me, proud lords,” she added, wiping away the tears as she spoke, “by what earthly warrant can liege subjects pretend to challenge the rights of an anointed Sovereign—to throw off the allegiance they have vowed, and to take away the crown from the head where Divine warrant hath placed it ?” “Madam,” said Ruthven, “ I will deal plainly with you. Your reign, from the dismal field o f Pinkie-cleuch, when ye were a babe in the cradle, to this day that ye stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissentions, and foreign wars, that the like is not to be found in our chronicles. The French and English have, of one consent, made Scotland the battle-field on which to fight out their own ancient quarrel. For ourselves, every man’s hand hath been against his brother, nor hath a year passed over without rebellion and slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppressing of the com­ mons. We may endure it no longer, and therefore, as a prince to whom God hath refused the gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings and projects no blessing hath ever descended, we pray you to give way to other rule and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet be saved to this distracted realm.” “My lord,” said Mary, “it seems to me that you fling on my unhappy and devoted head those evils, which, with far more justice, I may impute to your own turbulent, wild, and untameable dispositions— the frantic violence with which you, the Magnates of Scotland, enter into feuds against each other, sticking at no cruelty to gratify your wrath, taking deep revenge for the slightest offences, and setting at defiance those wise laws which your ancestors made for staunching of such cruelty, rebelling against the lawful authority, and bearing your­ selves as if there were no king in the land, or rather as if each were king in his own premises. And now you throw the blame on me— on me, whose life has been embittered—whose sleep has been broken— whose happiness has been wracked by your dissentions. Have I not

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myself been obliged to travise wilds and mountains, at the head o f a few faithful followers, to maintain peace and to put down oppression ? Have I not worn harness on my person, and carried pistols at my saddle ; fain to lay aside the softness o f a woman, and the dignity of a Queen, that I might show an example to my followers ?” “We grant, madam,” said Lindesay rudely, “ that the affrays occa­ sioned by your mis-government, may sometimes have startled you in the midst of a masque or galliard; or it may be that such may have interrupted the idolatry of the mass, or the jesuitical counsels of some French ambassador. But the longest and severest journey which your Grace has taken in my memory, was from Jedburgh to Hermitage Castle ; and whether it was for the weal of the State, or for your own honour, rests with your Grace’s conscience.” The Queen turned to him with inexpressible sweetness o f tone and manner, and that engaging look which heaven had assigned her, as if to shew that the choicest arts to win men’s affections may be given in vain. “ Lindesay,” said she, “you spoke not to me in this stem tone, and with such scurril taunt, yon fair summer evening, when you and I shot at the butts against the Earl of Mar and Mary Livingstone, and won of them the evening’s collation, in the privy garden of Saint Andrews.* The Master of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed to be my soldier. How I have offended the Lord of Lindesay I know not, unless honours have changed manners.” Hard-hearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck with this unexpected appeal, but almost instantly replied, “Madam, it is well known that your Grace could in those days make fools of whomsoever approached you— I pretend not to have been wiser than others—but gayer men and better courtiers soon jostled aside my rude homage, and I think your Grace cannot but remember times, when my awk­ ward attempts to take the manners that pleased you, were the sport of the court-popinjays, the Maries and the French-women.” “ My lord, I grieve if I have offended you through idle gaiety,” said the Queen; “ and can but say it was most unwittingly done. You are fully revenged; for through gaiety,” she said with a sigh, “will I never offend any one more.” “ Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Ruthven; “ I must pray your decision in this weighty matter which I have submitted to you.” “What, my lord,” said the Queen, “ upon the instant and without a * It appears from the researches o f M r C halm ers, that such a m atch w as actually shot for betwixt these distinguished parties ( L ife o f M ary, vol. I. p. 7 0 ). W e have been m uch confi rm ed in our final opinion, respecting the authenticity o f the learned B en ed ictin e’s m anuscript, (w hich, indeed, at first w e w ere strongly inclined to doubt,) by finding he agrees in m any minute circum stances with the very curious w ork o f the great antiquary o f Scotland. (N o te by the A ntiquarian Society o f K en n aq u h air.)

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moment’s time to deliberate— can the Council, as they term them­ selves, expect this of me ?” “Madam,” replied Ruthven, “the Council hold the opinion, that since the fatal term which passed betwixt the night of King Henry’s murder and the day o f Carberry-hill, your Grace should have held you prepared for the measure now proposed, as the easiest escape from your numerous dangers and difficulties.” “ Great God !” exclaimed the Queen; “ and is it as a boon that you propose to me, what every Christian king ought to regard as a loss of honour equal to the loss of life !—you take from me my crown, my power, my subjects, my wealth, my state— and what, in the name of every saint, can you offer, or do you offer, in requital of my compli­ ance?” “We give you pardon,” answered Ruthven, sternly— “we give you space and means to spend your remaining life in penitence and seclu­ sion—we give you time to make your peace with Heaven, and to receive the pure Gospel, which you have ever rejected and perse­ cuted.” The Queen turned pale at the menace which this speech, as well as the rough and inflexible tone of the speaker, seemed distinctly to infer — “And if I do not comply with your request so fiercely urged, my lord —what then follows ?” She said this in a voice in which female and natural fear was con­ tending with the feelings of insulted dignity.— There was a pause, as if no one cared to return to the question a distinct answer. At length Ruthven spoke : “ There is little need to tell to your Grace, who are well read both in the laws and in the chronicles of the realms, that murder and adultery are crimes for which ere now queens themselves have suffered death.” “And where, my lord, or how, found you an accusation so horrible, against her who stands before you ?” said Queen Mary. “The foul and odious calumnies which have poisoned the general mind of Scotland, and placed me a helpless prisoner in your hands, are surely no proof of guilt.” “We need look for no further proof, than the shameless marriage betwixt the widow of the murdered and the leader of the band of murderers ! They that joined hands in the fated month o f May, had already joined hearts and counsel in the deed which preceded that marriage but a few brief weeks.” “My lord, my lord !” said the Queen, eagerly, “remember well there were more consents than mine went to that fatal union, that most unhappy act of a most unhappy life. The evil steps adopted by sover­ eigns, are often the suggestion of bad counsellors ; but counsellors are

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worse than fiends who tempt and betray, if they themselves are the first to call their unfortunate princes to answer for the consequences of their own advice.— Heard ye never of a bond by the nobles, my lords, recommending that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary? Methinks, were it carefully examined, we should see that the names of Morton, and of Lindesay, and of Ruthven, may be found in that bond, which pressed me to marry that unhappy man.— Ah! stout and loyal Lord Herries, who never knew guile or dishonour, you bent your noble knee to me in vain, to warn me of my danger, and were yet the first to draw your good sword in my cause when I suffered for neglect­ ing thy counsel ! Faithful knight and true noble, what a difference betwixt thee and those counsellors of evil, who now threaten my life for having fallen into the snares they spread for me !” “Madam,” said Ruthven, “we know that you are an orator; and perhaps for that reason the Council has sent hither men, whose con­ verse hath been more with the wars than with the language o f the schools or the cabals of state. We but desire to know if, on assurance of life and honour, ye will demit the rule of this kingdom o f Scotland ?” “And what warrant have I,” said the Queen, “ thatye will keep treaty with me, if I should barter my kingly estate for seclusion, and leave to weep in secret?” “ Our honour and our word, madam,” answered Ruthven. “ They are two slight and unsolid pledges, my lord,” said the Queen ; “ add at least a handful of thistle-down to give them weight in the balance.” “ Away, Ruthven,” said Lindesay; “ she was ever deaf to counsel, save of slaves and sycophants ; let her remain by her refusal, and abye it.” “ Stay, my lord,” said Sir Robert Melville, “ or rather permit me to have but a few minutes private audience with her Grace. If my pres­ ence with you could avail aught, it must be as a mediator— do not, I conjure you, leave the castle or break off the conference, until I bring you word how her Grace shall finally stand disposed.” “We will remain in the hall,” said Lindesay, “ for half an hour’s space ; but in despising our words and our pledge of honour, she has touched the honour of my name : let her look herself to the course she has to pursue. If the half hour should pass away without her determin­ ing to comply with the demands of the nation, her career will be brief enough.” With little ceremony the two nobles left the apartment, traversed the vestibule, and descended the winding-stairs, the clash o f Lindesay’s huge sword being heard as it rung against each step in his descent. George Douglas followed them, after exchanging with M el­

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ville a gesture of surprise and sympathy. As soon as they were gone, the Queen, again giving way to grief, fear, and agitation, threw herself into the seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to abandon herself to despair. Her female attendants, weep­ ing themselves, endeavoured yet to pray her to be composed, and Sir Robert Melville, kneeling at her feet, made the same entreaty. After giving way to a passionate burst of sorrow, she at length said to M el­ ville, “ Kneel not to me, Melville—mock me not with the homage of the person, when the heart is far away—Why stay you behind with the deposed, the condemned, she who has but few hours perchance to live ? You have been favoured as well as the rest ; why do you continue the empty show of gratitude and thankfulness any longer than they ?” “ Madam,” said Sir Robert Melville, “ so help me heaven at my need, my heart is as true to you as when you were in your highest place.” “True to me ! true to me !” repeated the Queen, with some scorn; “ tush, Melville, what signifies the truth which walks hand in hand with my enemies’ falsehood ?— thy hand and thy sword have never been so well acquainted that I can trust thee in aught where manhood is required— O, Seyton, for thy bold father, who is both wise, true, and valiant!” Roland Græme could withstand no longer his earnest desire to offer his services to a princess so distressed and so beautiful— “ If one sword,” he said, “ madam, can do any thing to back the wisdom of this grave counsellor, or to defend your rightful cause, here is my weapon, and here is my hand ready to draw and use it.” And raising his sword with the one hand, he laid the other upon the hilt. As he thus held up the weapon, Catherine Seyton exclaimed, “Methinks I see a token from my father, madam;” and immediately crossing the apartment, she took Roland Græme by the skirt o f the cloak, and asked him earnestly whence he had that sword. The page answered with surprise, “Methinks this is no presence in which to jest— Surely, damsel, you yourself best know whence and how I obtained the weapon.” “ Is this a time for folly?” said Catherine Seyton; “ unsheathe the sword instantly!” “ I f the Queen commands me ?” said the youth, looking towards his royal mistress. “ For shame, maiden !” said the Queen ; “wouldst thou instigate the poor boy to enter into useless strife with the two most approved soldiers in Scotland?” “ In your Grace’s cause,” replied the page, “ I will venture my life upon them!” And as he spoke, he drew his weapon partly from the

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sheath, and a piece of parchment, rolled around the blade, fell out and dropped on the floor. Catherine Seyton caught it up with eager haste. “ It is my father’s hand-writing,” she said, “ and doubtless conveys his best duteous advice to your Majesty ; I knew that it was prepared to be sent in this weapon, but I expected another messenger.” “ By my faith, fair one,” thought Roland, “ and if you knew not that I had such a secret missive about me, I was yet more ignorant.” The Queen cast her eye upon the scroll, and remained a few min­ utes wrapped in deep thought. “ Sir Robert Melville,” she at length said, “this scroll advises me to submit myself to necessity, and to subscribe the deeds these hard men have brought with them, as one who gives way to the natural fear inspired by the threats of rebels and murtherers. You, Sir Robert, are a wise man, and Seyton is both sagacious and brave. Neither, I think, would mislead me in this mat­ ter.” “Madam,” said Melville, “if I have not the strength of body o f the Lords Herries or Seyton, I will yield to neither in zeal for your M aj­ esty’s service. I cannot fight for you like those lords, but neither of them are more willing to die for your service.” “ I believe it, my old and faithful counsellor,” said the Queen, “ and believe me, Melville, I did thee but a moment’s injustice— read what my Lord Seyton hath written to us, and give us thy best counsel.” He glanced over the parchment, and instantly replied,— “ O! my dear and royal mistress, only Treason itself could give you other advice than Lord Seyton has here expressed. He, Herries, Huntly, the English ambassador Throgmorton, and others, your friends, are all alike o f opinion, that whatever deeds or instruments you execute within these walls, must lose all force and effect, as extorted from your Grace by duresse, by sufferance of present evil, and fear of men, and harm to ensue on your refusal. Yield, therefore, to the tide, and be assured, that in subscribing what parchments they present to you, you bind yourself to nothing, since your act of signature wants that which alone can make it binding, the free will of the granter.” “Ay, so says my Lord Seyton,” replied Mary; “yet methinks, for the daughter of so long a line of sovereigns to resign her birth-right, because rebels press upon her with threats, argues little of royalty, and will read ill for the fame of Mary in future chronicles. Tush! Sir Robert Melville, the traitors may use black threats and bold words, but they will not dare to put their hands forth on our person.” “Alas ! madam, they have already dared so far, and incurred such peril by the lengths which they have gone, that they are but one step from the worst and uttermost.”

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“ Surely,” said the Queen, her fears again predominating, “ Scottish nobles would not lend themselves to assassinate a helpless woman?” “ Bethink you, madam,” he replied, “what horrid spectacles have not been seen in our day, and what act is so dark, that some Scottish hand has not been found to dare it? Lord Lindesay, besides his natural sullenness and hardness of temper, is the near kinsman of Henry Darnley, and Ruthven has his own deep and dangerous plans. The Council, besides, speak of proofs by writ and word, of a casket with letters— of I know not what.” “Ah! good Melville,” answered the Queen, “were I as sure of the even-handed integrity of my judges, as of my own innocence— And yet ” “ Oh! pause, madam,” said Melville; “ even innocence must some­ times for a season stoop to injurious blame. Besides, you are here ” he looked round, and paused. “ Speak out, Melville,” said the Queen, “never one approached my person who wished to work me evil ; and even this poor page, whom I have to-day seen for the first time in my life, I can trust safely with your communication. ” “ Nay, madam,” answered Melville, “in such emergence, and he being the bearer of Lord Seyton’s message, I will venture to say before him and these fair ladies, whose truth and fidelity I dispute not—I say I will venture to say—that there are other modes besides that of open trial, by which deposed sovereigns die; and that, as Machiavel saith, there is but one step betwixt a king’s prison and his grave.” “ Oh ! were it but swift and easy for the body,” said the unfortunate Princess, “were it but safe and happy change for the soul, the woman lives not that would take the step so soon as I !— But alas ! Melville, when we think of death, a thousand sins, which we have trod as worms beneath our feet, rise up against us as flaming serpents. Most injuri­ ously do they accuse me of being aiding of Damley’s death, yet, Blessed Lady! I afforded too open occasion for it—and— I espoused Bothwell.” “Think not of that now, madam,” said Melville, “think rather o f the immediate mode of saving yourself and your son. Comply with their present unreasonable demands, and trust that better times will shortly arrive.” “Madam,” said Roland Græme, “if it please you to do so, I will presently swim through the lake, if they refuse me other conveyance to the shore ; I will go to the courts successively o f England, France, and Spain, and will shew you have subscribed these vile instruments from no stronger impulse than the fear of death, and I will do battle against them that say otherwise.”

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The Queen turned her round, and with one of those sweet smiles which, during the era of life’s romance, overpay every risk, held her hand towards Roland, but without speaking a word. He kneeled rev­ erently and kissed it, and Melville again resumed his plea. “Madam,” he said, “time presses, and you must not let these boats, which I see they are even now preparing, put forth on the lake. Here are enough of witnesses—your ladies—this bold youth—myself, when it can serve your cause effectually, for I would not hastily stand committed in this matter—but even without me here is evidence enough to shew, that you have yielded to the demands o f the Council through force and fear, but from no sincere and unconstrained assent. Their boats are already manned for their return— Oh ! permit your old servant to recal them.” “ Melville,” said the Queen, “thou, an ancient courtier—when didst thou ever know Sovereign Prince recal to his presence subjects, who had parted from him on such terms as those on which these envoys of the Council left us, and who yet were recalled without submission or apology?— Let it cost me both life and crown, I will not again com­ mand them to my presence.” “ Alas ! madam, that empty form should make a barrier, when if I rightly understand, you are not unwilling to listen to real and advan­ tageous counsel— But y o u r s c r u p le is sa v e d — I h e a r th e m re tu r n to a s k your final resolution.— O ! take the advice o f the noble Seyton, and you may once more command those who now usurp a triumph over you. But hush ! I hear them in the vestibule.” As he concluded speaking, George Douglas opened the door of the apartment, and marshalled in the two noble envoys. “We come, madam,” said the Lord Ruthven, “to request your answer to the proposal o f the Council.” “Your final answer,” said Lord Lindesay, “ for with a refusal you must couple the certainty that you have precipitated your fate, and renounced the last opportunity of making peace with God, and ensur­ ing your longer abode in the world.” “My lords,” said Mary, with inexpressible grace and dignity, “the evils we cannot resist we must submit to— I will subscribe those parchments with such liberty of choice as my condition permits me. Were I on yonder shore, with a fleet jennet and ten good and loyal knights around me, I would subscribe my sentence of eternal con­ demnation, as soon as the resignation of my crown. But here— in the castle of Lochleven—with deep water around me— and you, my lords, beside me,— I have no freedom of choice. Give me the pen, Melville, and bear witness to what I do, and why I do it.” “ It is our hope your Grace will not suppose yourself compelled, by

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any apprehensions from us,” said the Lord Ruthven, “ to execute what must be your own voluntary deed.” The Queen had already stooped towards the table, and placed the parchment before her, with the pen between her fingers, ready for the important act of signature. But when Lord Ruthven had done speak­ ing, she looked up, stopped short, and threw down the pen. “ If,” said she, “ I am expected to declare I give away my crown of free will, or otherwise than because I am compelled to renounce it by the threat of worse evils to myself and my subjects, I will not put my name to such an untruth—not to gain full possession of England, France, and Scot­ land, all once my own, in possession or by right.” “ Beware, madam,” said Lindesay; and snatching hold of the Queen’s arm with his own gauntletted hand, he pressed it, in the rudeness of his passion, more closely perhaps than he was himself aware of,— “beware how you contend with those who are the stronger, and have the mastery of your fate.” He held his grasp on her arm, bending his eyes on her with a stem and intimidating look, till both Ruthven and Melville cried shame ; and Douglas, who had hitherto remained in a state of apparent apathy, had made a stride from the door, as if to interfere. The rude Baron then quitted his hold, disguising the confusion which he really felt at having indulged his passion to such extent, under a sullen and con­ temptuous smile. The Queen immediately began, with an expression of pain, to bare the arm which he had grasped, by drawing up the sleeve o f her gown, and it appeared that his grasp had left the purple marks of his iron fingers upon her flesh— “My lord,” she said, “ as a knight and gentle­ man, you might have spared my frail arm so severe a proof that you have the greater strength on your side, and are resolved to use it. But I thank you for it—it is the most decisive token of the terms on which this day’s business is to rest.— I draw you to witness, both lords and ladies,” she said, shewing the marks of the grasp on her arm, “ that I subscribe these instruments in obedience to the sign manual of my Lord of Lindesay, which you may see imprinted on mine arm.” Lindesay would have spoken, but was restrained by his colleague Ruthven, who said to him, “ Peace, my lord. Let the Lady Mary of Scotland ascribe her signature to what she will, it is our business to procure it, and to carry it to the Council. Should there be debate hereafter on the manner in which it was adhibited, there will be time enough for it.” Lindesay was silent accordingly, only muttering within his beard, “I meant not to hurt her ; but I think women’s flesh be as tender as newfallen snow.”

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The Queen meanwhile subscribed the rolls of parchment with a hasty indifference, as if they had been matters of slight consequence, or o f mere formality. When she had performed this painful task, she arose, and, having curtsied to the lords, was about to withdraw to her chamber. Ruthven and Sir Robert Melville made, the first a formal reverence, the second an obeisance, in which his desire to acknow­ ledge his sympathy was obviously checked by the fear of appearing in the eyes of his colleagues too partial to his former mistress. But Lindesay stood motionless, even when they were preparing to with­ draw. At length, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he walked round the table which had hitherto been betwixt them and the Queen, kneeled on one knee, took her hand, kissed it, let it fall, and arose— “ Lady,” he said, “thou art a noble creature, even though thou hast abused God’s choicest gifts. I pay that devotion to thy manliness of spirit, which I would not have paid to the power thou hast long undeservedly wielded — I kneel to Mary Stuart, not to the Queen.” “ The Queen and Mary Stuart pity thee alike, Lindesay,” said Mary — “ alike they pity, and they forgive thee— an honoured soldier had thou been by a king’s side— leagued with rebels, what art thou but a good blade in the hands of a ruffi an?— Farewell, my Lord Ruthven, the smoother but the deeper traitor.— Farewell, Melville— mayst thou find masters that can understand state policy better, and have the means to reward it more richly than Mary Stuart.— Farewell, George of Douglas— make your respected mother comprehend that we would be alone for the remainder of the day—God wot, we have need to collect our thoughts.” All bowed and withdrew ; but scarce had they entered the vestibule, ere Ruthven and Lindesay were at variance. “ Chide not with me, Ruthven,” Lindesay was heard to say, in answer to something more indistinctly urged by his colleague— “ Chide not with me, for I will not brook it!—You put the hangman’s office on me in this matter, and even the very hangman hath leave to ask some pardon o f those on whom he does his office. I would I had as deep cause to be this lady’s friend as I have to be her enemy—thou shouldst see if I spared limb and life in her quarrel.” “Thou art a sweet minion,” said Ruthven, “to fight a lady’s battle, and all for a brent brow and a tear in the eye ! Such toys have been out of thy thoughts this many a year.” “ Do me right, Ruthven,” said Lindesay. “You are like a polished corslet o f steel ; it shines more gaudily but is not a whit softer—nay, it is five times harder than a Glasgow breast-plate of hammered iron. Enough, we know each other.” They descended the stairs, were heard to summon their boats, and

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the Queen signed to Roland Græme to retire to the vestibule, and leave her with her female attendants.

Chapter Eight G ive me a m orsel on the greensward rather, C oarse as you will the cooking— L e t the fresh spring Bubble beside my napkin— and the free birds Tw ittering and chirping, hop from bough to bough, T o claim the crumbs I leave for perquisites— Y o u r prison-feasts I like not.— The Woodsman, a D ram a

A r e c e s s in the vestibule was enlightened by a small window, at which Roland Græme stationed himself to mark the departure o f the lords. He could see their followers mustering on horseback under their respective banners— the western sun glancing on their corslets and steel caps as they moved to and fro, mounted or dismounted, at intervals. On the narrow space betwixt the castle and the water, the Lords Ruthven and Lindesay were already moving slowly to their boats, accompanied by the Lady o f Lochleven, her son, and their principal attendants. They took a ceremonious leave of each other, as Roland could discern by their gestures, and the boats put off from the landing-place ; the boatmen stretched to their oars, and they speedily diminished upon the eye of the idle gazer, who had no better occupa­ tion than to watch their motions. Such seemed also the occupation of the Lady Lochleven and George Douglas, who, returning from the landing-place, looked frequently back to the boats, and at length stopped as if to observe their progress under the window at which Roland Græme was stationed.—As they gazed on the lake, he could hear the lady distinctly say, “And she has bent her mind to save her life at the expence of her kingdom?” “Her life, madam !” replied her son ; “ I know not who would dare to attempt it in the castle of my brother. Had I dreamed that it was with such purpose that Lindesay insisted upon bringing his followers hither, neither he nor they should have passed the iron gate o f Loch­ leven castle.” “ I speak not of private slaughter, my son, but of open trial, condem­ nation and execution; for with such she has been threatened, and to such threats she has given way. Had she not had more o f the false Guisian blood than o f the royal race of Scotland in her veins, she had bidden them defiance to their teeth— But it is all of the same complex­ ion, and meanness is the natural companion of profligacy.— I am discharged, forsooth, from intruding on her gracious presence this

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evening. Go thou, my son, and render the usual service o f the meal to this unqueened Queen.” “ So please you, lady mother,” said Douglas, “ I care not greatly to approach her presence.” “Thou art right, my son; and therefore I trust thy prudence, even because I have noted thy caution. She is like an isle on the ocean, surrounded with shelves and quicksands ; its verdure fair and inviting to the eye, but the wreck of many a goodly vessel which hath approached it too rashly. But for thee, my son, I fear nought; and we may not, with our honour, suffer her to eat without the attendance of one o f us. She may die by the judgment o f Heaven, or the fiend may have power over her in her despair ; and then we would be touched in honour to shew, that in our house, and at our table, she had had all fair play and fitting usage.” Here Roland was interrupted by a smart tap on the shoulders, reminding him sharply of Adam Woodcock’s adventure of the pre­ ceding evening. He turned round, almost expecting to see the page of Saint Michael’s hostelry. He saw, indeed, Catherine Seyton; but she was in female attire, differing indeed a great deal in shape and mater­ ials from that which she had worn when they first met, and becoming her birth as the daughter of a great Baron, and her rank as the attend­ ant on a princess. “ So, fair page,” said she, “ eaves-dropping is one of your page-like qualities I presume.” “ Fair sister,” answered Roland in the same tone, “ if some friends o f mine be as well acquainted with the rest of our mystery, as they are with the arts of swearing, swaggering, and switching, they need ask no page in Christendom for further insight into his vocation.” “ Unless that pretty speech infer that you have yourself had the discipline o f the switch since we last met, the probability whereof I nothing doubt, I profess, fair page, I am at a loss to conjecture your meaning. But there is no time to debate it now, they come with the evening meal. Be pleased, Sir Page, to do your duty.” Four servants entered bearing dishes, preceded by the same stem old steward whom Roland had already seen, and followed by George Douglas, with his arms folded on his bosom, and his looks bent on the ground. With the assistance of Roland Græme, a table was suitably covered in the next or middle apartment, on which the domestics placed their burthens with great reverence ; the steward and Douglas bowed low when they had seen the table properly adorned, as if their royal prisoner had sate at the board in question. The door opened, and Douglas, raising his eyes hastily, cast them again on the earth, when he perceived it was only the Lady Mary Fleming who entered. “ Her Grace,” she said, “will not eat to-night.”

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“ Let us hope she may be otherwise persuaded,” said Douglas; “meanwhile, madam, please to see our duty performed.” A servant presented bread and salt on a silver plate, and the old steward carved for Douglas a small morsel in succession from each of the dishes presented, which he tasted, as was then the custom at the tables of princes, to which death was often suspected to find its way in the disguise of food. “ The Queen will not then come forth to-night?” said Douglas. “ She has so determined,” replied the lady. “ Our farther attendance then is unnecessary—we leave you to your supper, fair ladies, and wish you good even.” He retired slowly as he came, and with the same air of deep dejec­ tion and melancholy, and was followed by the attendants belonging to the castle. The two ladies sate down to their meal, and Roland Græme, with ready alacrity, prepared to wait upon them. Catherine Seyton whispered her companion, who replied, with the question spoken in a low tone, but looking at the page— “ Is he of gentle blood and well nurtured ?” The answer which she received seemed satisfactory, for she said to Roland, “ Sit down, young gentleman, and eat with your sisters in captivity.” “ Permit me rather to perform my duty in attending them,” said Roland, anxious to shew he was possessed o f the high tone of defer­ ence prescribed by the rules of chivalry towards the fair sex, and especially to dames and maidens o f quality. “You will find, Sir Page,” said Catherine, “you will have little time allowed you for your meal ; waste it not in ceremony, or you may rue your politeness ere to-morrow morning.” “ Your speech is too free, maiden,” said the elder lady; “the mod­ esty of the youth may teach you more fitting fashions towards one whom to-day you have seen for the first time.” Catherine Seyton cast down her eyes, but not till she had given a single glance o f inexpressible archness towards Roland, whom her more grave companion now addressed in a tone o f protection. “ Regard her not, young gentleman— she knows little of the world, save the forms o f a country nunnery—take thy place at the board-end, and refresh thyself after thy journey.” Roland Græme obeyed willingly, as it was the first food he had that day tasted ; for Lord Lindesay and his followers seemed regardless of human wants. Yet, notwithstanding the sharpness o f his appetite, a natural gallantry of disposition, the desire o f shewing himself a wellnurtured gentleman in all courtesies towards the fair sex, and, for aught I know, the pleasure of assisting Catherine Seyton, kept his

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attention awake during the meal, to all those nameless acts of duty and service Which gentlemen of that age were accustomed to render. He carved with neatness and decorum, and selected duly whatever was most delicate to place before the ladies. Ere they could form a wish, he sprung from the table, ready to comply with it—poured wine — tempered it with water—removed and exchanged trenchers, and performed the whole honours o f the table, with an air at once of cheerful diligence, profound respect, and graceful promptitude. When he observed that they had finished eating, he hastened to offer to the elder lady the silver ewer and basin, and a napkin, with the ceremony and gravity which he would have used towards Mary her­ self. He next, with the same decorum, having supplied the basin with fair water, presented it to Catherine Seyton. Apparently, she was determined to disturb his self-possession, if possible ; for, while in the act of bathing her hands, she contrived, as it were by accident, to flirt some drops of water upon the face o f the assiduous assistant. But if such was her mischievous purpose she was completely disappointed; for Roland Græme, internally piquing himself on his self-command, neither laughed nor was discomposed ; and all that the maiden gained by her frolic was a severe rebuke from her companion, taxing her with mal-address and indecorum. Catherine replied not, but sat pouting, som eth ing in the humour o f a spoiled child, w h o watches the o p p o r­ tunity of wreaking upon some one or other its resentment for a deserved reprimand. The Lady Mary Fleming, in the meanwhile, was naturally well pleased with the exact and reverent observance of the page, and said to Catherine, after a favourable glance at Roland Græme,— “You might well say, Catherine, our companion in captivity was well-born and gently nurtured.— I would not make him vain by my praise, but his services enable us to dispense with those which George Douglas condescends not to afford us, save when the Queen is herself in presence.” “ Umph! I think hardly,” answered Catherine. “ George Douglas is one of the most handsome gallants in Scotland, and ’tis pleasure to see him even still, when the gloom of Lochleven Castle has shed the same melancholy over him, that it has done over every thing else. When he was at Holyrood, who would have said the young sprightly George of Douglas would have been contented to play the locksman here on Lochleven, with no gayer amusement than that of turning the key on two or three helpless women?— A strange office for a Knight of the Bleeding Heart—Why does he not leave it to his brothers ?” “ Perhaps, like us, he has no choice,” answered the Lady Fleming. “ But Catherine, thou hast used thy brief space at court well, to

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remember what George Douglas was then.” “ I used mine eyes, which I suppose was what I was designed to do, and they were worth using there—when I was at the nunnery, they were very useless appurtenances, and now I am at Lochleven, they are good for nothing, save to look over that eternal work o f embroidery.” “You say thus, when you have been but few brief hours amongst us —was this the maiden who would live and die in a dungeon, might she but have permission to wait on her gracious Queen?” “ Nay, if you chide in earnest, my jest is ended,” said Catherine Seyton. “ I would not yield in attachment to my poor god-mother, to the gravest dame that ever had wise saws upon her tongue, and a double-starch’d ruff around her throat—you know I would not, Dame Mary Fleming, and it is putting shame on me to say otherwise. ” “ She will challenge the other court lady,” thought Roland Græme ; “ she will to a certainty fling down her glove, and if Dame Mary Fleming hath but the soul to lift it, we may have a combat in the lists !” — But the answer of Lady Mary Fleming was such as turns away wrath. “Thou art a good child,” she said, “my Catherine, and a faithful; but heaven pity him that shall have one day a creature so beautiful to delight him, and a thing so mischievous to torment him—thou art fit to drive twenty husbands stark mad.” “ Nay,” said Catherine, resuming the full career of her careless good humour, “they must be half-witted beforehand, that give me such an opportunity. But I am glad you are not angry with me in sincerity,” casting herself as she spoke into the arms of her friend, and continuing, with a tone of apologetic fondness, while she kissed her on either side of the face, “You know, my dear Fleming, that I have to contend with both my father’s lofty pride, and with my mother’s high spirits— God bless them!— they have left me these good qualities, having small portion to give me beside, as times go— and so I am wilful and saucy ; but let me remain but a week in this castle, and O, my dear Fleming, my spirit will be as chastized and as humble as thine own.” Dame Mary Fleming’s sense of dignity, and love of form, could not resist this affectionate appeal. She kissed Catherine Seyton in her turn affectionately; while answering the last part of her speech, she said, “Now, Our Lady forbid, dear Catherine, that you should lose aught that is beseeming of what becomes so well your light heart and lively humour. Keep but your sharp wit on this side of madness, and it cannot but be a blessing to us. But let me go, mad wench—I hear her Grace touch her silver call.” And, extricating herself from Catherine’s grasp, she went towards the door of Queen Mary, from which was heard the low tone of a silver whistle, which, now only used by the

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boatswains in the navy, was then, for want of bells, the ordinary mode by which ladies, even of the very highest rank, summoned their domestics. When she had made two or three steps towards the door of the Queen’s apartment, however, she turned back, and advancing to the young couple whom she left together, she said, in a very serious though a low tone, “ I trust it is impossible that we can, any of us, or in any circumstances, forget, that few as we are, we form the household o f the Queen of Scotland; and that, in her calamity, all boyish mirth and childish jesting can only serve to give a great triumph to her enemies, who have already found their account in objecting to her the lightness o f every idle folly, that the young and the gay practised in her court.” So saying, she left the apartment. Catherine Seyton seemed much struck with this remonstrance— She suffered herself to drop into the seat which she had quitted when she went to embrace Dame Mary Fleming, and for some time rested her brow upon her hands ; while Roland Græme looked at her earn­ estly, with a mixture o f emotions which perhaps he himself could neither have analyzed nor explained. As she raised her face slowly from the posture to which a momentary feeling o f self-rebuke had depressed it, her eyes encountered those o f Roland, and became gradually animated with their usual spirit o f malicious drollery, which not unnaturally excited a similar expression in those of the equally volatile page. They sat for the space o f two minutes, each looking at the other with great seriousness on their features, and much mirth in their eyes, until at length Catherine was the first to break silence. “May I pray you, fair sir,” she began, very demurely, “ to tell me what you see in my face to arouse looks so extremely sagacious and knowing as those with which it is your worship’s pleasure to honour me? It would seem as there were some wonderful confidence and intimacy betwixt us, fair sir, if one is to judge from your extremely cunning looks ; and so help me Our Lady, as I never saw you but twice in my life before.” “And when were these happy occasions,” said Roland, “if I may be bold enough to ask the question?” “At the nunnery o f Saint Catherine’s,” said the damsel, “in the first instance; and, in the second, during five minutes o f a certain raid or foray which it was your pleasure to make into the lodging o f my lord and father, Lord Seyton, from which, to my surprise, as probably to your own, you returned with a token o f friendship and favour, instead o f broken bones, which were the more probable reward o f your intru­ sion, considering the prompt ire of the house o f Seyton. I am deeply mortified,” she added, ironically, “ that your recollection should require refreshment on a subject so important; and that my

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memory should be stronger than yours on such an occasion, is truly humiliating.” “Your own memory is not so exactly correct, fair mistress,” answered the page, “seeing you have forgotten meeting the third, in the hostelry o f Saint Michael’s, when it pleased you to lay your switch across the face o f my comrade, in order, I warrant, to shew that, in the house of Seyton, neither the prompt ire of its descendants, nor the use of the doublet and hose, are subject to Salique law, or confined to the use o f the males.” “ Fair sir,” answered Catherine, looking at him with great steadi­ ness, and some surprise, “unless your fair wits have forsaken you, I am at a loss what to conjecture of your meaning.” “ By my troth, fair mistress,” answered Roland, “ and were I as wise a warlock as Michael Scott, I could scarce riddle the dream you read me. Did I not see you last night in the hostelry of Saint Michael’s ?— Did you not bring me this sword, with command not to draw it, save at the command of my native and rightful sovereign? And have I not done as you required me ? Or is this sword a piece of lath—my word a bullrush—my memory a dream— and my eyes good for nought— espials which corbies might pick out of my head ?” “And if your eyes serve you not more truly on other occasions than in your vision of Saint Michael,” said Catherine, “ I know not, the pain apart, that the corbies would do you any great injury in the deprivation — But hark, the bell—hush, for God’s sake, we are interrupted.” The damsel was right; for no sooner had the dull toll of the castle bell begun to resound through the vaulted apartment, than the door of the vestibule flew open, and the steward, with his severe countenance, his gold chain, and his white rod, entered the apartment, followed by the same train of domestics who had placed the dinner on the table, and who now, with the same ceremonious formality, began to remove it. The steward remained motionless as some old picture, while the domestics did their office ; and when it was accomplished, every thing removed from the table, and the board itself taken from its tressels and disposed against the wall, he said aloud, without addressing any one in particular, and somewhat in the tone o f a herald reading a proclama­ tion, “My noble lady, Dame Margaret Erskine, by marriage Douglas, lets the Lady Mary of Scotland and her attendants to wit, that a servant of the true evangele, her reverend chaplain, will to-night, as usual, expound, lecture, and catechize, according to the forms o f the congregation of gospellers.” “Hark you, my friend, M r D ryfesdale,” said Catherine, “ I under­ stand this announcement is a nightly form of yours. Now, I pray you to

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remark, that the Lady Fleming and I— for I trust your insolent invita­ tion concerns us only—have chosen Saint Peter’s pathway to heaven, so I see no one whom your godly exhortation, catechize, or lecture, can benefit, excepting this poor page, who, being in Satan’s hand as well as yourself, had better worship with you than remain to cumber our better-advised devotions.” The page was well nigh giving a round denial to the assertion which this speech implied, when, remembering what had passed betwixt him and the Regent, and seeing Catherine’s finger raised in a monitory fashion, he felt himself, as on former occasions at the Castle of Avenel, obliged to submit to the task o f dissimulation, and followed D ryfesdale down to the casde-chapel, where he assisted in the devo­ tions o f the evening. The chaplain was named Elias Henderson. He was a man in the prime o f life, and possessed good natural parts, carefully improved by the best education which those times afforded. To these qualities were added a faculty of close and terse reasoning; and, at intervals, a flow o f happy illustration and natural eloquence. The religious faith of Roland Græme, as we have had opportunity to observe, rested on no secure basis, but was entertained rather in obedience to his grand­ mother’s behests, and his secret desire to contradict the chaplain of Avenel Castle, than from any fixed or steady reliance which he placed on the Romish creed. His ideas had been of late considerably enlarged by the scenes he had passed through; and feeling that there was shame in not understanding something of those polemical disputes betwixt the professors of the ancient and of the reformed faith, he listened with more attention than it had hitherto been in his nature to yield on such occasions, to an animated discussion o f some o f the principal points o f difference betwixt the churches. So passed away the first day in the Castle of Lochleven; and those which followed it, were, for some time, of a very monotonous and uniform tenor.

Chapter N ine ’Tis a weary life this– – – Vaults overhead, and grates and bars around me, And my sad hours spent with as sad companions, Whose thoughts are brooding o’er their own mischances, Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. The Woodsman

T h e c o u r s e of life to which Mary and her little retinue were doomed, was in the last degree secluded and lonely, varied only as the weather permitted or rendered impossible the Queen’s usual walk in

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the garden, or on the battlements. The greater part of the morning she wrought with her ladies at those pieces of needle-work, many o f which still remain proofs of her indefatigable application. At such hours the page was permitted the freedom o f the castle and islet; nay, he was sometimes invited to attend George o f Douglas when he went a sport­ ing upon the lake, or on its margin; opportunities of diversion, which were only clouded by the remarkable melancholy which always seemed to brood on that gentleman’s brow, and to mark his whole demeanour,— a sadness so profound, that Roland never observed him to smile or to speak any word unconnected with the immediate object of their exercise. The most pleasant part of Roland’s day, was the occasional space which he was permitted to pass in personal attendance on the Queen and her ladies, together with the regular dinner-time, which he always spent with Dame Mary Fleming and Catherine Seyton. On these occasions, he had frequent occasion to admire the lively spirit and inventive imagination o f the latter damsel, who was unwearied in her contrivances to amuse her mistress, and to banish, for a time at least, the melancholy which preyed on her bosom. She danced, she sung, she recited tales of ancient and o f modem time, with that heartfelt exertion o f talent, of which the pleasure lies not in the vanity of displaying it to others, but in the enthusiastic consciousness that we possess it ourselves. And yet these high accomplishments were mixed with an air of rusticity and hair-brained vivacity, which seemed rather to belong to some village-maid, the coquette of the ring around the May-pole, than to the high-bred descendant of an ancient baron. A touch o f audacity altogether short of effrontery, and far less approach­ ing to vulgarity, gave as it were a wildness to all that she did, and Mary, while defending her from some occasional censure o f her graver companion, compared her to a trained singing-bird escaped from a cage, which practises in all the luxuriance o f freedom, and in full possession o f the greenwood bough, the airs which it had learned during its earlier captivity. The moments which the page was permitted to pass in the presence of this fascinating creature, danced so rapidly away, that, brief as they were, they compensated the weary dulness of all the rest o f the day. The space o f indulgence, however, was always brief, nor were any private interviews betwixt him and Catherine permitted, or even poss­ ible. Whether it were some special precaution respecting the Queen’s household, or whether it were her general ideas of propriety, Dame Fleming seemed particularly attentive to prevent the young people from holding any separate correspondence together, and bestowed for Catherine’s sole benefit in this matter the full stock of prudence

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and experience which she had acquired, when Mother o f the Queen’s maidens of honour, and by which she had acquired their hearty hat­ red. Casual meetings, however, could not be prevented, unless Cath­ erine had been more desirous of shunning, or Roland Græme less anxious in watching for them. A smile, a gibe, a sarcasm, disarmed of its severity by the arch look with which it was accompanied, was all that time permitted to pass between them on such occasions. But such passing interviews neither afforded time nor opportunity to renew discussion of the circumstances attending their earlier acquaintance, or to permit Roland to investigate more accurately the mysterious apparition o f the page in the purple velvet cloak at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s. The winter’s months slipped heavily away, and spring was already advanced, when Roland Græme observed a gradual change in the manners of his fellow prisoners. Having no business of his own to attend to, and being, like those of his age, education, and degree, sufficiently curious concerning what passed around, he became by degrees to suspect, and finally to be convinced, that there was some­ thing in agitation amongst his companions in captivity, to which they did not desire that he should be privy. Nay he became almost certain that, by some means unintelligible to him, Queen Mary held corres­ pondence beyond the walls and waters which surrounded her prisonhouse, and that she nourished some secret hope of deliverance or escape. In the conversations betwixt her and her attendants, at which he was necessarily present, the Queen could not always avoid shewing that she was acquainted with the events which were passing abroad in the world, and which he only heard through her report. He observed that she wrote more and wrought less than had been her former custom, and that, as if desirous to lull suspicion asleep, she changed her manner towards the Lady Lochleven into one more gracious, and which seemed to express a resigned submission to her lot— “ They think I am blind,” he said to himself, “ and that I am unfit to be trusted because I am so young, or it may be because I was sent hither by the Regent. Well!—be it so—they may be glad to confide in me in the long run ; and Catherine Seyton, for as saucy as she is, may find me as safe a confidant as that sullen Douglas, whom she is always running after. It may be they are angry at me for listening to Master Elias Henderson ; but it was their own fault for sending me there, and if the man speaks truth and good sense, and preaches only the word o f God, he is as like to be right as either Pope or Councils.” It is probable that in this last conjecture, Roland Græme had hit upon the real cause why the ladies had not entrusted him with their counsel. He had o f late had several conferences with Henderson on

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the subject of religion, and had given him to understand that he stood in need of his instructions, although he had not thought there was either prudence or necessity for confessing that hitherto he had held the tenets of the Church of Rome. Elias Henderson, a keen propagator of the reformed faith, had sought the seclusion of Lochleven Castle, with the express purpose and expectation of making converts from Rome amongst the domestics o f the dethroned Queen, and confirming the faith o f those who already held the Protestant doctrines. Perhaps his hopes soared a little higher, and he might nourish some expectation of a proselyte more distinguished, in the person o f the deposed Queen. But the pertinacity with which she and her female attendants refused to see or listen to him, rendered such hope, if he nourished it, altogether abortive. The opportunity o f enlarging the religious information of Roland Græme, and bringing him to a more due sense o f his duties to Heaven, was hailed by the good man as a door opened by Provid­ ence for the salvation of a sinner. He dreamed not, indeed, that he was converting a Papist, but such was the ignorance which Roland displayed upon some material points of the reformed doctrine, that Master Henderson, while praising his docility to the Lady Lochleven and her son, seldom failed to add, that his venerable brother, Henry Warden, must be now decayed in strength and in mind, since he found a catechumen of his flock so ill grounded in the principles of his belief. For this, indeed, Roland Græme thought it was unneces­ sary to assign the true reason, which was his having made it a point of honour to forget all that Henry Warden taught him, as soon as he was no longer compelled to repeat it over as a lesson acquired by rote. The lessons of his new instructor, if not more impressively delivered, were received by a more willing ear, and a more awakened understanding, and the solitude of Lochleven Castle was favourable to graver thoughts than the page had hitherto entertained. He wavered yet, indeed, as one who was almost persuaded; but his attention to the chaplain’s instructions procured him favour even with the stem old dame herself ; and he was once or twice, but under great precaution, permitted to go to the neighbouring village of Kin­ ross, situated on the mainland, to execute some ordinary commission o f his unfortunate mistress. For some time Roland Græme might be considered as standing neuter betwixt the two parties who inhabited the water-girdled tower o f Lochleven; but, as he rose in the opinion of the Lady o f the Castle and her chaplain, he perceived, with great grief, that he lost ground in that of Mary and her female allies. He came gradually to be sensible that he was regarded as a spy upon their discourse, and that, instead of

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the ease with which they had formerly conversed in his presence, without suppressing any of the natural feelings o f anger, or sorrow, or mirth, which the chance topic of the moment happened to call forth, their talk was now studiously restricted to the most indifferent sub­ jects, and a studied reserve observed even in their mode of speaking upon these. This obvious want of confidence was accompanied with a correspondent change in their personal demeanour towards the unfortunate page. The Queen, who had at first treated him with marked courtesy, now scarce spoke to him, save to convey some necessary command for her service. The Lady Fleming restricted her notice to the most dry and distant expressions o f civility, and Cather­ ine Seyton became bitter in her pleasantries, and shy, cross, and petted in any intercourse they had together. What was yet more pro­ voking, he saw—or thought he saw—marks of intelligence betwixt George Douglas and the beautiful Catherine Seyton; and, sharpened by jealousy, he wrought himself almost into a certainty, that the looks which they exchanged conveyed matter o f deep and serious import. No wonder, he thought, if, courted by the son of a proud and powerful baron, she can no longer spare a word or look to the poor fortuneless page. In a word, Roland Graeme’s situation became truly uncomfortable, and his heart naturally enough rebelled against the injustice of this treatment, which deprived him of the only comfort which he had received for submitting to a confinement in other respects irksome. He accused Queen Mary and Catherine Seyton (for concerning the opinion of Dame Fleming he was indifferent) of inconsistency, in being displeased with him on account o f the natural consequences of an order of their own. Why did they send him to hear this overpower­ ing preacher? The Abbot Ambrosius, he recollected, understood the weakness of their Popish cause better, when he enjoined him to repeat within his mind aves, and credos, and paters, all the while old Henry Warden preached or lectured, that so he might secure himself against lending even a momentary ear to his heretical doctrine. “ But I will endure this life no longer,” said he to himself manfully; “ do they suppose I would betray my mistress, because I see cause to doubt of her religion?— that would be serving, as they say, the devil for God’s sake— I will forth into the world—he that serves fair ladies, may at least expect kind looks and kind words, and I bear not the mind of a gentleman, to submit to cold treatment and suspicion, and a life-long captivity besides. I will speak to George Douglas to-morrow when we go out together fishing.” A sleepless night was spent in agitating this magnanimous resolu­ tion, and he arose in the morning not perfectly decided in his own

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mind whether he should abide by it or not. It happened that he was summoned by the Queen at an unusual hour, and just as he was about to go out with George Douglas. He went to attend her commands in the garden; but as he had his angling-rod in his hand, the circum­ stance announced his previous intention, and the Queen, turning to the Lady Fleming, said, “ Catherine must devise some other amuse­ ment for us, ma bonne amie; our discreet page has already made his party for the day’s pleasure.” “ I said from the beginning,” answered the Lady Fleming, “that your Grace ought not to rely on being favoured with the company of a youth who has so many Huguenot acquaintance, and has means of amusing himself far more agreeably than with us.” “ I wish,” said Catherine, her animated features reddening with mortification, “that his friends would sail away with him for good, and bring us in return a page (if such a thing can be found) faithful to his Queen and to his religion.” “ One part of your wishes may be granted, madam,” said Roland Græme, unable any longer to restrain his sense of the treatment which he received on all sides; and he was about to add, “ I heartily wish you a companion in my room (if such can be found) who is capable of enduring women’s caprices without going distracted.” Luckily, he recollected the remorse which he had felt at having given way to the vivacity of his temper upon a similar occasion ; and, closing his lips, imprisoned until it died on his tongue, a reproach so misbe­ coming the presence of majesty. “Why do you remain there,” said the Queen, “ as if you were rooted to the parterre?” “ I but attend your Grace’s commands,” said the page. “ I have none to give you— Begone, sir !” As he left the garden to go to the boat, he distinctly heard Mary upbraid one of her attendants in these words :— “You see to what you have exposed us !” This brief scene at once determined Roland Græme’s resolution to quit the castle, if it were possible, and to impart his resolution to George Douglas without loss of time. That gentleman, in his usual mood of silence, sate in the stem of the little skiff which they used on such occasions, trimming his fishing-tackle, and, from time to time, indicating by signs to Græme, who pulled the oars, which way he should row. When they were a furlong or two from the castle, Roland rested on the oars, and addressed his companion somewhat abruptly, — “ I have something of importance to say to you, under your pleasure, fair sir.” The pensive melancholy of Douglas’s countenance at once gave

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way to the eager, keen, and startled look of one who expects to hear something o f deep and alarming import. “ I am wearied to the very death, of this Castle of Lochleven,” continued Roland. “ Is that all ?” said Douglas ; “ I know none o f its inhabitants who are much better pleased with it.” “Ay—but I am neither a native of the house, nor a prisoner in it, and so I may reasonably desire to leave it.” “You might desire to quit it with equal reason,” answered Douglas, “if you were both the one and the other.” “ But,” said Roland Græme, “ I am not only tired o f living in Loch­ leven Castle, but I am determined to quit it.” “ That is a resolution more easily taken than executed,” replied Douglas. “Not if yourself, sir, and your Lady Mother, chuse to consent,” answered the page. “You mistake the matter, Roland,” said Douglas ; “you will find that the consent of two other persons is equally essential—that of the Lady Mary your mistress, and that of my brother the Regent, who placed you about her person, and who will not think it proper that she should change her attendants so soon.” “And must I then remain whether I will or no?” demanded the page, somewhat appalled at a view of the subject, which would have occurred sooner to a person of more experience. “ At least,” said George Douglas, “you must will to remain till my brother wills to dismiss you.” “ Frankly,” said the page, “and speaking to you as to a gentleman who is incapable of betraying me, I will confess, that if I thought myself a prisoner here, neither walls nor water should confine me long.” “ Frankly,” said Douglas, “I could not much blame you for the attempt; yet, for all that, the Regent, or the Earl of Morton, or any of my brothers, or in short any of the king’s lords into whose hands you fell, would hang you like a dog, or like a centinel who deserts his post. And I promise you that you will hardly escape them—But row on towards Saint Serf's island— there is a breeze from the west, and we will have sport keeping to windward of the isle, where the ripple is strongest. We will speak more o f what you have mentioned, when we have had an hour’s sport.” Their fishing was successful, though never did two anglers pursue even that silent and unsocial pleasure with less verbal intercourse. When their time was expired, Douglas took the oars in his turn, and by his order Roland Græme steered the boat, directing her course

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upon the landing-place at the Castle. But he also stopped in the midst of his course, and looking around him, said to Græme, “There is a thing which I could mention to thee, but it is so deep a secret, that even here, surrounded as we are by sea and sky, without the possibility of a listener, I cannot prevail on myself to speak it out.” “Better leave it unspoken, sir,” answered Roland Græme, “if you doubt the honour of him who alone can hear it.” “ I doubt not your honour,” replied George Douglas ; “but you are young, imprudent, and changeful.” “Young,” said Roland, “I am, and it may be imprudent—but who hath informed you that I am changeful?” “ One that knows you, perhaps, better than you know yourself,” answered Douglas. “ I suppose you mean Catherine Seyton,” said the page, his heart rising as he spoke ; “but she is herself fifty times more variable in her humour than the very water which we are floating upon.” “My young acquaintance,” said Douglas, “ I pray you to remember that Catherine Seyton is a lady of blood and birth, and must not be lightly spoken of.” “Master George of Douglas,” said Græme, “ as that speech seemed to be made under the warrant of something like a threat, I pray to observe, that I value not the threat at the estimation of a fin of one of these dead trouts; and, moreover, I would have you to know that the champion who undertakes the defence of every lady of blood and birth, whom men accuse of change of faith and of fashion, is like to have enough o f work on his hands.” “ Go to,” said the Seneschal, but in a tone of good humour, “thou art a foolish boy, unfit to deal with in any matter more serious than the casting o f a net, or the flying o f a hawk.” “ If your secret concern Catherine Seyton,” said the page, “ I care not for it, and so you may tell her if you will. I wot she can shape you opportunity to speak with her, as she has ere now.” The flush which passed over Douglas’s face, made the page aware that he had lighted on a truth, when he was, in fact, speaking at random; and the feeling that he had done so, was like striking a dagger into his own heart. His companion, without farther answer, resumed the oars, and pulled lustily till they arrived at the island and the castle. The servants received the produce of their sport, and the two fishers, turning from each other in silence, went each to his several apartment. Roland Græme had spent about an hour in grumbling against Catherine Seyton, the Queen, the Regent, and the whole House of Lochleven, with George Douglas at the head o f it, when the time

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approached that his duty called him to attend the meal of Queen Mary. As he arranged his dress for this purpose, he grudged the trouble, which, on similar occasions, he used, with boyish foppery, to consider as one of the most important duties of his day; and when he went to take his place behind the chair o f the Queen, it was with an air of offended dignity, which could not escape her observation, and probably appeared to her ridiculous enough, for she whispered some­ thing in French to her ladies, at which the Lady Fleming laughed, and Catherine appeared half diverted and half disconcerted. This pleas­ antry, of which the subject was concealed from him, the unfortunate page received, o f course, as a new offence, and called an additional degree o f sullen dignity into his mien, which might have exposed him to farther raillery, but that Mary appeared disposed to make allowance for, and compassionate his feelings. With the peculiar tact and delicacy which no woman possessed in greater perfection, she began to sooth by degrees the vexed spirit of her magnanimous attendant. The excellence of the fish which he had taken in his expedition, the high flavour and beautiful red colour o f the trouts, which have long given distinction to the lake, led her first to express her thanks to her attendant for so agreeable an addition to her table, especially upon a jour de jeûne; and then brought on enquiries into the place where the fish had been taken, their size, their peculiar­ ities, the times when they were in season, and a comparison between the Lochleven trouts and those which are found in the lakes and rivers of the south o f Scotland. The ill humour o f Roland Græme was never o f an obstinate character. It rolled away like mist before the sun, and he was easily engaged in a keen and animated dissertation about Lochleven trout, and sea trout, and river trout, and bull trout, and char, which never rise to a fly, and par, which some suppose infant salmon, and herlings, which frequent the Nith, and vendisses, which are only found in the Castle-Loch of Lochmaben; and he was hurrying on with the eager impetuosity and enthusiasm of a young sportsman, when he observed that the smile with which the Queen at first listened to him died languidly away, and that, in spite of her efforts to suppress them, tears rose to her eyes. He stopped suddenly short, and, dis­ tressed in his turn, asked, “ I f he had had the misfortune unwittingly to give displeasure to her Grace ?” “No, my poor boy,” replied the Queen; “but as you numbered up the lakes and the rivers o f my kingdom, imagination cheated me, as it will do, and snatched me from these dreary walls, away to the romantic streams of Nithsdale, and the royal towers of Lochmaben. O land, which my fathers have so long ruled ! of the pleasures which you extend so freely, your Queen is now deprived, and the poorest beggar,

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who may wander free from one landward town to another, would scorn to change fates with Mary of Scotland !” “Your Highness,” said the Lady Fleming, “will do well to with­ draw.” “ Come with me then, Fleming,” said the Queen, “ I would not burthen hearts so young as these are, with the sight of my sorrows.” She accompanied these words with a look of melancholy compas­ sion towards Roland and Catherine, who were now left together alone in the apartment. The page found his situation not a little embarrassing, for, as every reader must have experienced who has chanced to be in such a situation, it is extremely difficult to maintain the full dignity of an offended person in the presence of a beautiful girl, whatever reason we may have for being angry with her. Catherine Seyton, on her part, sate still like a lingering ghost, which, conscious of the awe which its presence imposes, is charitably disposed to give the poor confused mortal whom it visits, time to recover his senses, and comply with the grand rule of dæmonology by speaking first. But as Roland seemed in no hurry to avail himself of her condescension, she carried it a step farther, and herself opened the conversation. “ I pray you, fair sir, if it may be permitted me to disturb your august reverie by a question so simple,—what may have become of your rosary?” “ It is lost, madam—lost sometime since,” said Roland, partly embarrassed and partly indignant. “And may I ask further, sir,” said Catherine, “why you have not replaced it with another?— I have half a mind,” she said, taking from her pocket a string of ebony beads adorned with gold, “ to bestow one upon you, to keep for my sake, just to remind you of former acquaint­ ance.” There was a little tremulous accent in the tone with which these words were delivered, which at once put to flight Roland Græme’s resentment, and brought him to Catherine’s side; but she instantly resumed the bold and firm accent which was more familiar to her. “ I did not bid you,” she said, “ come and sit so close by me; for the acquaintance that I spoke of, has been stiff and cold, dead and buried, for this many a day.” “ Now Heaven forbid!” said the page; “it has only slept, and now that you desire it should awake, fair Catherine, believe me that a pledge of your returning favour”– – – “Nay, nay,” said Catherine, withholding the rosary, towards which, as he spoke, he extended his hand, “ I have changed my mind on better reflection. What should a heretic do with these holy beads, that have

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been blessed by the Father of the Church himself?” Roland winced grievously, for he saw plainly which way the dis­ course was now likely to tend, and felt that it must at all events be embarrassing. “Nay, but,” he said, “it was as a token of your regard that you offered them.” “Ay, fair sir, but that regard attended the faithful subject, the loyal and pious Catholic, the individual who was so solemnly devoted at the same time with myself to the same grand duty; which, you must now understand, was to serve the church and the Queen,— to such a per­ son, if you ever heard o f him, was my regard due, and not to him who associates with traitors and heretics, and is about to become a rene­ gado.” “ I should scarce believe, fair mistress,” said Roland, indignantly, “ that the vane of your favour turned only to a Catholic wind, consider­ ing that it points so plainly to George Douglas, who, I think, is both kingsman and Protestant.” “ Think better o f George Douglas,” said Catherine, “ than to believe”– – – and then checking herself, as if she had spoken too much, she went on, “ I assure you, fair M r Roland, that all who wish you well are sorry for you.” “ Their number is very few, I believe,” answered Roland, “ and their sorrow, if they feel any, not deeper than ten minutes time will cure.” “They are more, and think more deeply concerning you, than you seem to be aware,” answered Catherine. “But perhaps they think wrong—You are the best judge for yourself ; and if you prefer gold and church-lands to honour and loyalty, and the faith o f your fathers, why should you be hampered in conscience more than others ?” “May Heaven bear witness for me,” said Roland, “that if I entertain any difference o f opinion—that is, if I nourish any doubts in point of religion, they have been adopted on the conviction of my own mind, and the suggestion o f my conscience !” “Ay, ay, your conscience—your conscience!” repeated she with satiric emphasis; “your conscience is the scape-goat; I warrant it an able one—it will bear the burthen of one of the best manors of the Abbey o f Saint Mary’s at Kennaquhair, lately forfeited to our noble Lord the King, by the Abbot and community thereof, for the high crime o f fidelity to their religious vows, and now to be granted by the High and Mighty Traitor, and so forth, James, Earl of Moray, to the good squire o f dames Roland Græme, for his loyal and faithful ser­ vice as under-espial, and deputy-turnkey, for securing the person of his lawful sovereign, Queen Mary.” “You misconstrue me cruelly,” said the page ; “yes, Catherine, most cruelly—God knows I would protect this poor lady at the risk of my

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life, or with my life ; but what can I or what can any one do for her ?” “ Much may be done— enough may be done—all may be done—if men will be but true and honourable, as Scottish men were in the days o f Bruce and Wallace. O, Roland, from what an enterprize you are now withdrawing your heart and hand, through mere fickleness and coldness of spirit!” “ How can I withdraw,” said Roland, “ from an enterprize which has never been communicated to me?—has the Queen, or have you, or has any one communicated with me upon any thing for her service which I have refused? Or have you not, all of you, held me at such distance from your counsels, as if I were the most faithless spy since the days of Ganelon?” “ And who,” said Catherine Seyton, “would trust the sworn friend, and pupil, and companion, of the heretic preacher Henderson? ay—a proper tutor you have chosen, instead o f the excellent Ambrosius, who is now turned out of house and homestead, if indeed he is not lan­ guishing in a dungeon, for withstanding the tyranny of Morton, to whose brother the temporalities of that noble house of God have been gifted away by the Regent.” “Is it possible?” said the page; “ and is the excellent Father Ambrose in such distress?” “ He would account the news o f your falling away from the faith of your fathers,” answered Catherine, “a worse mishap than aught that tyranny can inflict on himself.” “ But why,” said Roland, very much moved, “ should you suppose that—that—that it is with me as you say?” “Do you deny it?” replied Catherine; “ do you not admit that you have drunk the poison which you should have dashed from your lips ? — do you deny that it now ferments in your veins, if it has not alto­ gether corrupted the springs o f life ?— do you deny that you have your doubts, as you proudly term them, respecting what popes and councils have declared it unlawful to doubt of?— Is not your faith wavering, if not overthrown?—Does not the heretic preacher boast his conquest? — does not the heretic woman o f this prison-house hold up thy example to others ?— Do not the Queen and the Lady Fleming believe in thy falling away?— and is there any except one—yes I will speak it out, and think as lightly as you please of my good will—is there one except myself that holds even a lingering hope that you may yet prove what we once all hoped o f you ?” “ I know not,” said our poor page, much embarrassed by the view which was thus presented to him of the conduct he was expected to pursue, and by a person in whom he was not the less interested that so long residence in Lochleven Castle, with no object so likely to attract

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his undivided attention, had taken place since they had first met,— “ I know not what you expect of me, or fear from me. I was sent hither to attend Queen Mary, and to her I acknowledge the duty of a servant through life and death—if any one had expected service of another kind, I was not the party to render it. I neither avow nor disclaim the doctrines of the reformed church.—Will you have the truth ? It seems to me that the profligacy of the Catholic clergy has brought this judgment on their own heads, and, for aught I know, it may be for their reformation. But for betraying this unhappy Queen— God knows I am guiltless of the thought. Did I believe worse of her, than as her servant I wish—as her subject I dare to do— I would not betray her—far from it—I would aid her in aught which could tend to a fair trial of her cause.” “ Enough! enough!” answered Catherine Seyton, clasping her hands together; “then thou wilt not desert us if any means are pre­ sented, by which, placing our Royal Mistress at freedom, this case may be honestly tried betwixt her and her rebellious subjects.” “Nay, but fair Catherine,” replied the page, “hear but what the Lord of Moray said when he sent me hither.” “ Hear what the devil said,” replied the maiden, “ rather than what a false subject, a false brother, a false counsellor, a false friend said ! A man raised from a petty pensioner on the crown’s bounty, to be the counsellor of majesty, and the prime distributor of the bounties o f the state ;— one with whom rank, fortune, title, consequence, and power, all grew up like a mushroom, by the mere warm good will of the sister, whom, in requital, he hath mewed up in this place of melancholy seclusion—whom, in further requital, he has deposed, and whom, if he dared—he would murther.” “ I think not so ill of the Earl of Moray,” said Roland Græme ; “ and sooth to speak,” he added, with a slight smile, “it would require some bribe to make me embrace, with firm and desperate resolution, either one side or the other.” “Nay, if that is all,” replied Catherine Seyton, in a tone of enthusi­ asm, “you shall be guerdoned with prayers from oppressed subjects, from dispossessed clergy, from insulted nobles—with immortal praise by future ages, with eager gratitude by the present—with fame on earth, and with felicity in heaven ! Your country will thank you—your Queen will be debtor to you—you will achieve at once the highest from the lowest degree in chival ry—all men will honour, all women will love you—And I, sworn with you so early to the accomplishment of Queen Mary’s freedom, will—yes— I will love you better—than ever sister loved brother.” “ Say on— say on,” said Roland, kneeling on one knee, and taking

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her hand, which in the warmth of her exhortation, Catherine held towards him. “Nay,” said she, pausing, “ I have already said too much—far too much, if I prevail not with you— far too little if I do. But I prevail,” she continued, seeing that the countenance of the youth she addressed returned the enthusiasm of her own— “ I prevail; or rather the good cause prevails through its own strength—thus I devote thee to it– – – ” and as she spoke she approached her finger to the brow of the aston­ ished youth; and, without touching it, signed the cross over his fore­ head, stooped her face towards him, and seemed to kiss the empty space in which she had traced the symbol ; then starting up and extric­ ating herself from his grasp, darted into the Queen’s apartment. Roland Græme remained as the enthusiastic maiden had left him, kneeling on one knee, with breath withheld, and with eyes fixed upon the space which the fairy form of Catherine Seyton had so lately occupied. If his thoughts were not of unmixed delight, they at least partook of that thrilling and intoxicating, though mingled sense of pain and pleasure, the most overpowering which life offers in its blended cup. He rose and retired slowly; and although the chaplain M r Henderson preached on that evening his best sermon against the errors of popery, I would not engage that he was followed accurately through the chain of his reasoning by the young proselyte, with a view to whose especial benefit he had handled the subject.

Chapter Ten And when L o v e ’s torch hath set the heart in flame, C om es Seignor R eason, with his saws and cautions, G iving such aid as the old grey-beard Sexton, W ho n om the church-vault drags his crazy engine, T o ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet Against a conflagration.

Old Play

I n a m u s i n g m o o d , Roland Græme upon the ensuing morning betook himself to the battlements of the castle, as the spot where he might indulge the course o f his “thick-coming fancies” with least chance of interruption. But his place of retirement was in the present case ill chosen, for he was presently joined by Master Elias Hender­ son. “ I sought you, young man,” said the preacher, “having to speak of something which concerns you nearly.” The page had no pretence for avoiding the conference which the

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chaplain thus offered, though he felt that it might prove an embarrass­ ing one. “ In teaching thee, as far as my feeble knowledge hath permitted, thy duty towards God,” said the chaplain, “there are particulars of your duty towards man, upon which I was unwilling long or much to insist. You are here in the service of a lady, honourable as touching her birth, deserving of all compassion as respects her misfortunes, and gar­ nished with even but too many of those outward qualities which win men’s regard and affection. Have you ever considered your regard to this Lady Mary o f Scotland, in its true light and bearing?” “ I trust, reverend sir,” replied Roland Græme, “that I am well aware o f the duties a servant in my condition owes to his royal mis­ tress, especially in her lowly and distressed condition.” “ True,” answered the preacher, “but it is even that honest feeling which may, in the Lady Mary’s case, carry thee into great crime and treachery.” “ How so, reverend sir?” replied the page; “ I profess I understand you not.” “ I speak to you not of the crimes o f this ill-advised lady,” said the preacher ; “they are not subjects for the ears of her sworn servant. But it is enough to say, that this unhappy person hath rejected more offers o f grace, more hopes o f glory, than ever were held out to earthly princess ; and that she is now, her day o f grace being passed, sequest­ rated in this lonely castle, for the common weal of the people of Scotland, and it may be for the benefit of her own soul.” “ Reverend sir,” said Roland, somewhat impatiently, “ I am but too well aware that my unfortunate mistress is imprisoned, since I have the misfortune to share in her restraint myself— o f which, to speak sooth, I am heartily weary.” “It is even o f that which I am about to speak,” said the chaplain mildly ; “but first, my good Roland, look forth on the pleasant prospect o f yonder cultivated plain. You see, where the smoke arises, yonder village standing half hidden by the trees, and you know it to be the dwelling-place of peace and unity. From space to space, each by the side of its own stream, you see the gray towers of barons, with cottages interspersed; and you know that they also, with their household, are now living in unity; the lance hung up on the wall, and the sword resting in its sheath.— You see, too, more than one fair church, where the pure waters o f life are offered to the thirsty, and where the hungry are refreshed with spiritual food.—What would he deserve, who should bring fire and slaughter into so fair and happy a scene— who should bare the swords o f the gentry and turn them against each other—who should give tower and cottage to the flames, and slake the

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embers with the blood of the in-dwellers?—What would he deserve who should lift up again that ancient Dagon of Superstition, whom the worthies of the time have beaten down, and who should once more make the churches o f God the high places of Baal?” “You have limned a frightful picture, reverend sir,” said Roland Græme ; “yet I guess not whom you would charge with the purpose of effecting a change so horrible.” “ God forbid,” replied the preacher, “that I should say to thee, thou art the man—yet beware, Roland Græme, that thou, in serving thy mistress, hold fast the still higher service which thou owest to the peace of thy country, and the prosperity of her palaces; else, Roland Græme, thou mayest be the very man upon whose head will fall the curses and assured punishment due to such work. If thou art won by the song o f these syrens to aid that unhappy lady’s escape from this place o f penitence and security, it is over with the peace of Scotland’s cottages, and with the prosperity of her palaces— and the babe unborn shall curse the name of the man, who gave inlet to the disorder which will follow the war betwixt the mother and the son.” “ I know o f no such plan, reverend sir,” answered the page, “and therefore can aid none such. My duty towards the Queen has been simply that of an attendant: it is a task of which, at times, I would willingly have been freed, nevertheless”– – – “ It is to prepare thee for the enjoyment of something more of liberty,” said the preacher, “that I have endeavoured to impress upon you the deep responsibility under which your office must be dis­ charged. George Douglas hath told the Lady Lochleven that you are weary o f this service, and my intercession hath partly determined her good ladyship, that, as your discharge cannot be granted, you shall, instead, be employed in certain commissions on the mainland, which have hitherto been discharged by other persons of confidence. Wherefore, come with me to the lady, for even to-day such duty will be imposed on you.” “ I trust you will hold me excused, reverend sir,” said the page, who felt that an increase of confidence on the part of the Lady of the Castle and her family would render his situation in a moral view doubly embarrassing; “ One cannot serve two masters— and I much fear that my mistress will not hold me excused for taking employment under another.” “ Fear not that,” said the preacher, “ her consent shall be asked and obtained. I fear she will yield it but too easily, as hoping to avail herself o f your agency to maintain correspondence with her friends, as those falsely call themselves, who would make her name the watch-word for civil war.”

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“And thus,” said the page, “ I will be exposed to suspicion on all sides ; for my mistress will consider me as a spy placed on her by her enemies, seeing me so far trusted by them; and the Lady Lochleven will never cease to suspect the possibility of my betraying her, because circumstances put it into my power to do so— I would rather remain as I am.” There followed a pause of one or two minutes, during which Hen­ derson looked steadily in Roland’s countenance, as if desirous to ascertain whether there was not more in the answer than the precise words seemed to imply. He failed in this point, however; for Roland, bred a page from childhood, knew well enough how to assume a sullen petted cast of countenance, calculated to hide all internal emotions. “ I understand thee not, Roland,” said the preacher, “ or rather thou thinkest on this matter more deeply than I apprehended to be in thy nature. Methought, the delight of going on shore with thy bow, or thy gun, or thy angling-rod, would have borne away all other feeling.” “And so it would,” replied Roland, who perceived the danger of suffering Henderson’s half-roused suspicion to become fully awake, “I would have thought of nothing but the gun and the oar, and the wild water-fowl that tempt me by sailing among the sedges yonder so far out o f flight-shot, had you not spoken o f my going on shore as what was to occasion the burning of town and tower, the downfall o f the evangele and up-setting of the mass.” “ Follow me, then,” said Henderson, “ and we will seek the Lady Lochleven.” They found her at breakfast with her son George Douglas— “ Peace be with your ladyship,” said the preacher, bowing to his patroness, “ Roland Græme awaits your order.” “Young man,” said the lady, “ our chaplain hath warranted for thy fidelity, and we are determined to give you certain errands to do for us in our town of Kinross.” “Not by my advice,” said Douglas coldly. “ I said not that it was,” answered the lady, something sharply. “ Thy mother may, I should think, be old enough to judge for herself in a matter so simple.— Thou wilt take the skiff, Roland, and two o f my people, whom Dryfesdale or Randal will order out, and fetch off certain stuff of plate and hangings, which should last night be lodged at Kinross by the wains from Edinburgh.” “And give this packet,” said George Douglas, “to a servant o f ours, whom you will find in waiting there.— It is the report to my brother,” he added, looking towards his mother, who acquiesced by bending her head. “ I have already mentioned to Master Henderson,” said Roland

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Græme, “that, as my duty requires my attendance on the Queen, her Grace’s permission for my journey ought to be obtained before I can undertake your commission.” “ Look to it, my son,” said the old lady, “ the scruple o f the youth is honourable.” “ Craving your pardon, madam, I have no wish to force myself on her presence thus early,” said Douglas, in an indifferent tone; “ it might displease her, and were no way agreeable to me.” “And I,” said the Lady Lochleven, “ although her temper hath been more gentle of late, have no will to undergo, without necessity, the rancour o f her wit.” “ Under your permission, madam,” said the chaplain, “ I will myself render your request to the Queen— during my long residence in this house she hath not deigned to see me in private, or to hear my doc­ trine ; and yet so may Heaven prosper my labours, as love for her soul, and desire to bring her into the right path, was my chief motive for coming hither.” “ Take care, Master Henderson,” said Douglas, in a tone which seemed almost sarcastic, “lest you rush hastily on an adventure to which you have no vocation—you are learned, and know the adage, Ne accesseris in consilium nisi vocatus.—Who hath required this at your hand?” “The Master to whose service I am called,” answered the preacher, looking upward, “ He who hath commanded me to be earnest in sea­ son and out o f season.” “Your acquaintance hath not been much, I think, with courts or princes,” continued the young Esquire. “ No, sir,” replied Henderson, “but, like my Master Knox, I see nothing frightful in the fair face of a pretty lady.” “ My son,” said the Lady o f Lochleven, “ quench not the good man’s zeal—let him do the errand to this unhappy Princess.” “With more willingness than I would do it myself,” said George Douglas. Yet something in his manner appeared to contradict his words. The minister went accordingly, and, demanding an audience of the imprisoned Princess, was admitted. He found her with her ladies engaged in the daily task of embroidery. The Queen received him with that courtesy, which, in the ordinary case, she used towards all who approached her, and the clergyman, in opening his commission, was obviously somewhat more embarrassed than he had expected to be.— “ The good Lady of Lochleven—may it please your Grace ” He made a short pause, during which Mary said, with a smile, “My Grace would, in truth, be well pleased, were the Lady Lochleven our

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good lady—But go on—What is the will o f the good Lady of Lochleven?” “ She desires, madam,” said the chaplain, “that your Grace will permit this young gentleman, your page, Roland Græme, to pass to Kinross to look after some household stuff and hangings, sent hither for the better furnishing your Grace’s apartments.” “ The Lady Lochleven,” said the Queen, “uses needless ceremony, in requesting our permission for that which stands within her own pleasure. We well know that this young gentleman’s attendance on us had not been so long permitted, were he not thought to be more at the command o f that good lady than at ours.— But we chearfully yield consent that he shall go on her errand—with our will we would doom no living creature to the captivity which we ourselves must suffer.” “Ay, madam,” answered the preacher, “ and it is doubtless natural for humanity to quarrel with its prison-house. Yet there have been those, who have found that time spent in the house of temporal captiv­ ity, may be so employed as to redeem us from spiritual slavery.” “ I apprehend your meaning, sir,” replied the Queen, “but I have heard your apostle— I have heard Master John Knox ; and were I to be perverted, I would willingly resign to the ablest and most powerful of heresiarchs, the poor honour he might acquire by overcoming my faith and my hope.” “Madam,” said the preacher, “ it is not to the talents or skill of the husbandman, that God gives the increase— the words which were offered in vain by him whom you justly call our apostle, during the bustle and gaiety of a court, may yet find better acceptance during the leisure for reflection which this place affords. God knows, lady, that I speak in singleness of heart, as one who would as soon compare himself to the immortal angels, as to the holy man whom you have named. Yet would you but condescend to apply to their noblest use these talents and that learning which all allow you to be possessed of— would you but afford us the slightest hope that you would hear and regard what can be urged against the blinded superstition and idolatry in which you are brought up, sure am I, that the most powerfully gifted o f my brethren, that even John Knox himself, would hasten hither, and account the rescue of your single soul from the nets of Romish error” “ I am obliged to you and to them for their charity,” said Mary ; “but as I have at present but one presence-chamber, I will reluctantly see it converted into a Huguenot synod.” “At least, madam, be not thus obstinately blinded in your errors !— hear one who has hungered and thirsted, watched and prayed, to undertake the good work o f your conversion, and who would be con­

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tent to die the instant that a work so advantageous for yourself and so beneficial to Scotland were accomplished—Yes, lady, could I but shake the remaining pillar of the heathen temple in this land— and that permit me to term your faith in the delusions o f Rome— I could be content to die overwhelmed in the ruins.” “ I will not insult your zeal, sir,” replied Mary, “by saying you are more likely to make sport for the Philistines than to overwhelm them —your charity claims my thanks, for it is warmly expressed and may be truly purposed— But believe as well of me as I am willing to do of you, and think that I may be as anxious to recal you to the ancient and only road, as you are to teach me your new bye-ways to paradise.” “Then, madam, if such be your generous purpose,” said Hender­ son, eagerly, “what hinders that we should dedicate some part of that time, unhappily now too much at your Grace’s disposal, to discuss a question so weighty? You, by report o f all men, are both learned and witty, and I, though without such advantage, am strong in my cause as in a tower o f defence. Why should we not spend some space in endeavouring to discover which of us hath the wrong in this most important matter?” “Nay,” said Queen Mary, “ I never alleged my force was strong enough to accept of a combat en champ clos, with a scholar and a polemic. Besides, the partie is not equal—you, sir, might retire when you felt the battle go against you, while I am tied to the stake, and have no permission to say the debate wearies me, I would be alone.” She curtsied low to him as she uttered these words; and Hender­ son, whose zeal was indeed ardent, but not to the neglect of delicacy, bowed in return, and prepared to withdraw. “ I would,” he said, “that my earnest wish, my most zealous prayer, could procure to your Grace any blessing and comfort, but especially that in which alone blessing or comfort is, as easily as the slightest intimation of your wish will remove me from your presence.” He was in the act of departing, when Mary said to him, with much courtesy, “ Do me no injury in your thoughts, good sir ; it may be, that if my time here be protracted longer—as surely I hope it will not, trusting that either my rebel subjects will repent of their disloyalty, or that my faithful lieges will obtain the upper hand—but if my time be here protracted, it may be I shall have no displeasure in hearing one who seems so reasonable and compassionate as yourself, and I may hazard your contempt by endeavouring to recollect and repeat the reasons which schoolmen and councils give for the faith that is in me, — although I fear that, God help me ! my Latin has deserted me with my other possessions. This must, however, be for another day. Mean­ while, sir, let the Lady of Lochleven employ my page as she lists— I

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will not afford suspicion by speaking a word to him before he goes.— Roland Græme, my friend, lose not the opportunity of amusing thy­ self—dance, sing, run, and leap— all may be done merrily on the main land ; but he must have more quicksilver in his veins who could frolic here.” “Alas ! madam,” said the preacher, “to what is it you exhort the youth, while time passes, and eternity summons— can our salvation be insured by idle mirth, or our great work wrought out without fear and trembling?” “ I cannot fear or tremble,” replied the Queen; “to Mary Stuart such emotions are unknown. But, if weeping and sorrow on my part will atone for the boy enjoying an hour of boyish pleasure, be assured the penance shall be duly paid.” “Nay, but, gracious lady,” said the preacher, “in this you greatly err ;— our tears and our sorrows are all too little for our own faults and follies, nor can we transfer them, as your church falsely teaches, to the benefit of others.” “May I pray you, sir,” answered the Queen, “with as little offence as such a prayer may import, to transfer yourself elsewhere—we are sick at heart, and may not now be disturbed with farther controversy—And thou, Roland, take this little purse;” (then turning to the divine, she said, shewing its contents,) “ Look, reverend sir—it contains only these two or three gold testoons, a coin which, though bearing my own poor features, I have ever found more active against me than on my side, just as my subjects take arms against me, with my own name for their summons and signal.— Take this purse, that thou mayest want no means o f amusement—fail not to bring me back news from Kin­ ross, only let them be such as, without suspicion or offence, may be told in the presence o f this reverend gentleman, or of the good Lady Lochleven herself.” The last hint was too irresistible to be withstood; and Henderson withdrew, half mortified, half pleased, with his reception; for Mary, from long habit, and the address which was natural to her, had learned, in an extraordinary degree, the art of evading discourse which was disagreeable to her feelings or prejudices, without affront­ ing those by whom it was proffered. Roland Græme retired with the chaplain, at a signal from his lady; but it did not escape him, that as he left the room, stepping backwards, and making the deep obeisance due to royalty, Catherine Seyton held up her slender fore-finger, with a gesture which he alone could wit­ ness, and which seemed to say, “ Remember what has passed betwixt us.” Roland Græme had now his last charge from the Lady o f Loch­

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leven. “ There are revels,” she said, “this day at the village— my son’s authority is, as yet, unable to prevent these continued workings of the ancient leaven of folly which the Romish priests have kneaded into the very souls of the Scottish peasantry. I do not command thee to abstain from them—that would be only to lay a snare for thy folly, or to teach thee falsehood—but enjoy these vanities with moderation, and mark them as what thou must soon learn to renounce and contemn. Our chamberlain at Kinross, Luke Lundin,— Doctor, as he foolishly calleth himself—will acquaint what is to be done in the matter about which thou goest. Remember thou art trusted— shew thyself, there­ fore, worthy o f trust.” When we recollect that Roland Græme was not yet nineteen, and that he had spent his whole life in the solitary Castle of Avenel, excepting the few hours he had passed in Edinburgh, and his late residence at Lochleven, (the latter period having very little served to enlarge his acquaintance with the gay world,) we cannot wonder that his heart beat high with hope and curiosity, at the hope of partaking the sport even of a country wake. He hastened to his little cabin, and turned over the wardrobe with which (in every respect becoming his station) he had been supplied from Edinburgh, probably by orders of the Earl of Moray. By the Queen’s command he had hitherto waited upon her in mourning, or at least in sad-coloured raiment. Her condi­ tion, she said, admitted o f nothing more gay. But now he selected the gayest dress his wardrobe afforded, composed of scarlet, slashed with black satin, the royal colours o f Scotland— combed his long curled hair—disposed his chain and medal round a beaver hat of the newest block—and with the gay faulchion which had reached him in so mysterious a manner hung by his side in an embroidered belt, added to his natural frank mien and handsome form, made a most com­ mendable and pleasing specimen of the young gallant of the period. He sought to make his parting reverence to the Queen and her ladies, but old Dryfesdale hurried him to the boat. “We will have no private audiences,” he said, “ my master ; since you are to be trusted with somewhat, we will try at least to save thee from temptation. God help thee, child,” he added, with a glance of con­ tempt at his gay clothes, “ and the bear-ward be yonder from Saint Andrews, have a care thou go not near him.” “ And wherefore, I pray you?” said Roland. “ Lest he take thee for one of his run-away jack-an-apes,” answered the steward, smiling sourly. “ I wear not my clothes at thy cost,” said Roland indignantly. “Nor at thine own either, my son,” replied the steward, “ else would thy garb better resemble thy merit.”

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Roland Græme suppressed with difficulty the repartee which arose to his lips, and, wrapping his black velvet mantle around him, threw himself into the boat, which two rowers, themselves urged by curiosity to see the revels, pulled stoutly towards the west end o f the lake. As they put off, Roland thought he could discover the face of Catherine Seyton, though carefully withdrawn from observation, peeping from a loophole to view his departure. He pulled off his hat, and held it up as a token that he saw and wished her adieu. A white kerchiefwaved for a second across the window, and for the rest of the little voyage, the thoughts of Catherine Seyton disputed ground in his breast with the expectations excited by the approaching revel. As they approached nigher and nigher to the shore, the sounds o f mirth and music, the laugh, the halloo, and the shout, came thicker upon the ear, and in a trice the boat was moored, and Roland Græme hastened in quest of the chamberlain, that, being informed what time he had to his own disposal, he might lay it out to the best advantage.

Chapter Eleven R oom for the m aster o f the ring, ye swains, D ivide your crowded ranks— before him march T h e rural m instrelsy, the rattling drum , T h e clam orous w ar-pipe, and far-echoing horn. R u ra l Games.— S o m e r v i l l e

N o l o n g s p a c e intervened ere Roland Græme was able to dis­ cover amongst the crowd o f revellers, who gambolled on the open space which extends betwixt the village and the lake, a person o f so great importance as Doctor Luke Lundin, upon whom devolved offi­ cially the charge of representing the lord of the land, and who was attended for support o f his authority by a piper, a drummer, and four sturdy clowns armed with rusty halberts, garnished with party-col­ oured ribbands, myrmidons, who, early as the day was, had already broken more than one head in the awful names of the Laird o f Loch­ leven and his chamberlain. As soon as this dignitary was informed that the castle skiff had arrived with a gallant, dressed like a lord’s son at the least, who desired presently to speak with him, he adjusted his ruff and his black coat, turned his girdle till the garnished hilt o f his long rapier became visible, and walked with due solemnity towards the beach. Solemn indeed he was entitled to be, even on less important occasions, for he had been bred to the venerable study of medicine, as those acquainted with the science very soon discovered from the aphorisms which ornamented his discourse. His success had not been equal to his

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pretensions; but as he was a native o f the neighbouring Kingdom of Fife, and bore distant relation to, or dependance upon, the ancient family of Lundin of that ilk, who were bound in close friendship with the house of Lochleven, he had, through their interest, got planted comfortably enough in his present station upon the banks of that beautiful lake. The profits of his chamberlainry being moderate, especially in these unsetded times, he had eked it out a little with some practice in his original profession; and it was said that the inhabitants of the village and barony of Kinross, were not more effectually thirled (which may be translated enthralled) to the baron’s mill, than they were to the medical monopoly of the chamberlain. Woe betide the family o f the rich boor, who presumed to depart this life without a passport from Doctor Luke Lundin! for if his representatives had aught to settle with the baron, as it seldom happened otherwise, they were sure to find a cold friend in the chamberlain. He was considerate enough, however, gratuitously to help the poor out o f their ailments, and sometimes out of all their other distresses at the same time. Formal, in a double proportion, both as a physician and as a person in office, and proud o f the scraps of learning which rendered his language almost universally unintelligible, Doctor Luke Lundin approached the beach, and hailed the page as he advanced towards him.— “ The freshness of the morning upon you, fair sir—You are sent, I warrant me, to see if we observe here the regimen which her good ladyship hath prescribed, for eschewing all superstitious cere­ monies and idle anilities in these our revels. I am aware that her good ladyship would willingly have altogether abolished and abrogated them—But as I had the honour to quote to her from the works of the learned Hercules o f Saxony, omnis curatio estvel canonicavel coacta, that is, fair sir, (for silk and velvet have seldom their Latin ad unguem,) every cure must be wrought either by art and induction of rule, or by constraint; and the wise physician chuseth the former. Which argu­ ment her ladyship being pleased to allow well of, I have made it my business so to blend instruction and caution with delight, (fiat mixtio, as we say) that I can answer that the vulgar mind will be defæcated and purged of anile, and popish fooleries by the medicament adhibited, so that the primvibeing cleansed, Master Henderson, or any other able pastor, may at will throw in tonics, and effectuate a perfect moral cure, tuto, cito, jucundo.” “ I have no charge, Doctor Lundin,” replied the page– – – “ Call me not doctor,” said the chamberlain, “ since I have laid aside my furred gown and bonnet, and retired me into this temporality of chamberlainship.” “ O, sir,” said the page, who was no stranger by report to the

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character o f this original, “the cowl makes not the monk, neither the cord the friar—we have all heard o f the cures wrought by Doctor Lundin.” “ Toys, young sir—trifles,” answered the leech, with grave dis­ clamation o f superior skill ; “the hit-or-miss practice of a poor retired gentleman, in a short cloak and doublet—Marry, Heaven hath sent its blessing—and this I must say, better fashioned mediciners have brought fewer patients through— longa robba corta scienzia, saith the Italian—ha, fair sir, you have the language ?” Roland Græme did not think it necessary to expound to this learned Theban whether he understood him or no; but, leaving that matter uncertain, he told him he came in quest of certain packages which should have arrived at Kinross, and been placed under the chamberlain’s charge the evening before. “Body o’ m e!” said Doctor Lundin, “ I fear our common carrier, John Auchtermuchty, hath met with some mischance, that he came not up last night with his wains—bad land this to journey in, my master; and the fool will travel by night too, although, (besides all maladies from your tussis to your pestis, which walk abroad in the night-air,) he may well fall in with half a dozen swash-bucklers, who will ease him at once o f his baggage and his earthly complaints. I must send forth to enquire after him, since he hath stuff o f the hon­ ourable household on hand— and, by our lady, he hath stuff o f mine too— certain drugs sent me from the city for composition of my Alexipharmics— this gear must be looked to.— Hodge,” said he, addressing one of his redoubted body-guard, “do thou and Toby Telford take the mickle brown aver and the black cut-tailed mare, and make out towards the Keiry-craigs, and see what tidings you can have o f Auchtermuchty and his wains— I trust it is only the medi­ cine o f the pottle-pot, (being the only medicamentum which the beast useth) which hath caused him to tarry on the road. Take the rib­ bands from your halberds, you knaves, and get on your jacks, plate­ sleeves, and knapsculls, that your presence may work some terror if you meet with opposers.” He then added, turning to Roland Græme, “ I warrant me we shall have news of the wains in brief season. Meantime, it will please you to look upon the sports ; but first to enter my poor lodging and take your morning’s cup. For what saith the school o f Salerno ? Poculum mane haustum Restaurat naturam exhaustam.” “Your learning is too profound for me,” replied the page ; “ and so would your draught be likewise, I fear.” “Not a whit, fair sir—a cordial cup of sack, impregnated with

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wormwood, is the best anti-pestilential draught; and, to speak truth, the pestilential miasmata are now very rife in the atmosphere. We live in a happy time, young man,” continued he, in a tone of grave irony, “ and have many blessings unknown to our fathers— Here are two sovereigns in the land, a regnant and a claimant—that is enough of one good thing—but if any one wants more, he may find a king in every peel-house in the country; so if we lack government, it is not for want of governors— Then have we a civil war to refresh us every year, and to prevent our population from starving for want of food— and for the same purpose, we have the Plague proposing us a visit, the best of all recipes for thinning a land, and converting younger brothers into elder ones. Well, each man in his vocation—you young fellows of the sword desire to wrestle, foin, or so forth, with some expert adversary; and for my part, I love to match myself for life or death against that same Plague.” As they proceeded up the street of the little village towards the doctor’s lodgings, his attention was successively occupied by the vari­ ous personages whom he met, and pointed out to the notice of his companion. “ Do you see that fellow with the red bonnet, the blue jerkin, and the great rough batton in his hand?— I believe that clown hath the strength of a tower—he has lived fifty years in the world, and never encouraged the liberal sciences by buying one pennyworth of medic­ aments.— But see you that man with the fa cies hippocratica ?” said he, pointing out a thin peasant, with swelled legs, and a most cadaverous countenance ; “that I call one of the worthiest men in the barony—he breakfasts, luncheons, dines, and sups by my advice, and not without my medicine ; and, for his own single part, will go farther to clear out a moderate stock of pharmaceutics, than half the country besides.— How do you, my honest friend ?” said he to the party in question, with a tone of condolence. “Very weakly, sir, since I took the electuary,” answered the patient; “it neighboured ill with the two spoonfuls of pease-porridge and the kirn-milk.” “ Pease-porridge and kirn-milk! Have you been under medicine these ten years, and keep your diet so ill ?—the next morning take the electuary by itself, and touch nothing for six hours.” The poor object bowed, and shuffled off. The next whom the Doctor deigned to take notice of, was a lame fellow, by whom the honour was altogether undeserved, for at sight of the mediciner, he began to shuffle away in the crowd as fast as his infirmities would permit. “ There is an ungrateful hound for you,” said Doctor Lundin; “I

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cured him of the gout in his feet, and now he talks of the chargeable­ ness of medicine, and makes the first use of his restored legs to fly from his physician. His podagra hath become a chiragra, as honest Martial hath it—the gout has got into his fingers, and he cannot draw his purse. Old saying, and true, Præm ia cum poscit m edicus, Sathan est.

We are angels when we come to cure— devils when we ask payment— but I will administer a purgation to his purse, I warrant him. There is his brother too, a sordid chuff.— So ho there ! Saunders Darlet ! you have been ill I hear?” “Just got the turn, as I was thinking to send to your honour, and I am brawly now again—it was nae great thing that ailed me.” “ Hark ye, sirrah,” said the Doctor, “ I trust you remember you are owing to the laird four stones of barley-meal, and a bow of oats ; and I would have you send no more such kain-fowls as you sent last season, that looked as wretchedly as patients just dismissed from a plaguehospital— And there is hard money owing besides.” “ I was thinking, sir,” said the man, more Scotico, that is, returning no direct answer on the subject on which he was addressed, “my best way would be to come down to your honour, and take your advice yet, in case my trouble should come back.” “ Do so, thou knave,” replied Lundin, “ and remember what Eccle­ siasticus saith—‘Give place to the physician—let him not go from thee, for thou hast need o f him.’ ” His exhortation was interrupted by an apparition, which seemed to strike the Doctor with as much horror and surprise, as his own visage inflicted upon sundry of those persons whom he had addressed. The figure which produced this effect on the Esculapius of the village, was that o f a tall old woman, who wore a high-crowned hat and muffler. The first of these habiliments added apparently to her stat­ ure, and the other served to conceal the lower part o f her face, and as the hat itself was slouched, little could be seen besides two brown cheek-bones, and eyes o f swarthy fire, that gleamed from under two shaggy grey eye-brows. She was dressed in a long dark-coloured robe, o f unusual fashion, bordered at the skirts, and on the stomacher, with a sort of white trimming resembling the Jewish phylacteries, on which were wrought the characters of some unknown language. She held in her hand a walking staff of black ebony. “ By the soul of Celsus,” said Doctor Luke Lundin, “ it is old Mother Nicneven herself— she hath come to beard me within mine own bounds, and in the very execution o f mine office. Have at thy coat, Old Woman, as the song says— Hob Anster, let her presently be

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seized and committed to the tolbooth; and if there are any zealous brethren here who would give the hag her deserts, and duck her, as a witch, in the loch, I pray let them in no way be hindered.” But the myrmidons o f Doctor Lundin shewed in this case no alac­ rity to do his bidding. Hob Anster even ventured to remonstrate in the name o f himself and his brethren. “To be sure he was to do his honour’s bidding; and for a’ that folks said about the skill and the witcheries of Mother Nicneven, he would put his trust in God, and his hand on her collar, without dreadour. But she was no common spaewife this Mother Nicneven, like Jean Jopp that lived on the Brieriebaulk. She had lords and lairds that would ruffle for her. There was Moncrieff o f Tippermalloch, that was popish, and the Laird of Cars­ logie, a kenn’d Queen’s man, were in the fair, with whae kenn’d how mony swords and bucklers at their back ; and they wad be sure to make a break-out if the officers meddled with the auld popish witch-wife, wha was sae weel freined ; mair especially as the laird’s best men, such as were nat in the Castle, were at Edinburgh with him, and he doubted his honour the Doctor would find ower few to make a good backing, if blades were bare.” The Doctor listened unwillingly to this prudential counsel, and was only comforted by the faithful promise of his satellite, that the old woman should, as he expressed it, “be ta’en canny the next time she trespassed on the bounds.” “And in that event,” said the Doctor to his companion, “ fire and faggot shall be the best of her welcome.” This he spoke in hearing of the dame herself, who even then, and in passing the Doctor, shot towards him from under her grey eye-brows a look o f the most insulting and contemptuous superiority. “ This way,” continued the physician, “this way,” marshalling his guest into his lodging,— “ take care you stumble not over a retort, for it is hazardous for the ignorant to walk in the ways of art.” The page found all reason for the caution ; for besides stuffed birds and lizards, and snakes bottled up, and packets of simples made up, and other parcels spread out to dry, and all the confusion, not to mention the confused and sickening smells, incidental to a druggist’s stock in trade, he had also to avoid heaps of charcoal, crucibles, boltheads, stoves, and the other furniture o f a chemical laboratory. Amongst his other philosophical qualities, Doctor Lundin failed not to be a confused sloven, and his old dame housekeeper, whose life, as she said, was spent in “redding him up,” had trotted off to the mart o f gaiety with other and younger folks. Much clattering and jangling therefore there was among jars and bottles and vials, ere the Doctor produced the salutiferous potion which he recommended so strongly,

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and a search equally long and noisy followed, among broken cans and cracked pipkins, ere he could produce a cup out of which to drink it. Both matters being at length achieved, the Doctor set the example to his guest, by quaffing off a cup of the cordial, and smacking his lips with approbation as it descended his gullet. Roland, in turn, submit­ ted to swallow the potion which his host so earnestly recommended, but which he found so insufferably bitter, that he became eager to escape from the laboratory in search of a draught of fair water to expel the taste. In spite of his efforts, he was nevertheless detained by the garrulity o f his host, till he gave him some account of Mother Nic­ neven. “ I care not to speak of her,” said the Doctor, “in the open air, and among the throng o f people ; not for fright, like yon cowardly dog Anster, but because I would give no occasion for a fray, having no leisure to look to stabs, slashes, and broken bones. Men call the old hag a prophetess— I do scarce believe she could foretell when a brood of chickens will chip the shell—Men say she reads the heavens—my black bitch knows as much of them when she sits baying the moon— Men pretend the old wretch is a sorceress, a witch, and what not— Inter nos, I will never contradict a rumour which may bring her to the stake which she so richly deserves—but I will never believe that the tales o f witches which they din into our ears are aught but knavery, cozenage, and old women’s fables.” “ In the name of heaven, what is she then,” said the page, “that you make such stir about her?” “ She is one o f those cursed old women,” replied the physician, “who take currently and impudently upon themselves to act as advisers and curers of the sick, on the strength o f some trash o f herbs, some rhyme o f spells, some julep or diet, drink or cordial.” “ Nay, go no farther,” said the page ; “if they brew cordials, evil be their lot and that of all their partakers !” “You say well, young man,” said Doctor Lundin; “ for mine own part, I know no such pests to the commonwealth as these old incarnate devils, who haunt the chambers o f brain-sick patients, that are mad enough to suffer them to interfere with, disturb, and let, the regular progress of a learned and artificial cure, with their syrups, and their juleps, and diascordium, and mithridate, and my Lady What-shallcall’um’s powder, and worthy Dame Trashem’s pill; and thus make widows and orphans, and cheat the regular and well studied physician, in order to get the name of wise women and skeely neighbours, and so forth. But no more on’t—Mother Nicneven and I will meet one day, and she shall know there is danger in dealing with the doctor.” “ It is a true word, and many have found it,” said the page ; “but,

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under your favour, I would fain walk abroad for a little, and see these sports.” “ It is well moved,” said the Doctor, “and I too should be showing myself abroad.— Moreover, the play waits us, young man—to-day, totus mundus agit histrionem.”— And they sallied forth accordingly into the mirthful scene. END

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ChapterOne S e e on yon verdant lawn, the gathering crowd Thickens am ain; the buxom nymphs advance, U sh er’d by jolly clowns ; distinctions cease, L o st in the common joy, and the bold slave Lean s on his wealthy master unreproved. R u ral Games.— S o m e r v i l l e r e - a p p e a r a n c e of the dignified Chamberlain on the street of the village, was eagerly hailed by the revellers, as a pledge that the play, or dramatic representation, which had been postponed owing to his absence, was now full surely to commence. Any thing like an approach to this most interesting of all amusements, was of recent origin in Scotland, and engaged public attention in proportion. All other sports were discontinued. The dance around the M ay-pole was arrested— the ring broken up and dispersed, while the dancers, each leading his partner by the hand, tripped off to the sylvan theatre. A truce was in like manner achieved betwixt a huge brown bear and certain mastiffs, who were tugging and pulling at his shaggy coat, under the mediation of the bear-ward and half a dozen butchers and farmers, who, by dint of staving and tailing, as it was technically termed, separated the unfortunate animals, whose fury had for an hour past been their chief amusement. The itinerant minstrel found himself deserted by the audience he had collected, even in the most interesting passage of the romance which he recited, and just as he was sending about his boy, with bonnet in hand, to collect their obla­ tions. He indignantly stopped short in the midst o f Rosewal and Lilian, and replacing his three-stringed fiddle or rebeck in its leathern case, followed the crowd, with no good will, to the exhibition which had superseded his own. The juggler ceased his exertions of emitting flame and smoke, and was content to respire in the manner o f ordinary

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mortals, rather than to play gratuitously the part o f a fiery dragon. In short, all other sports were suspended, so eagerly did the revellers throng towards the place of representation. They would err greatly, who should regulate their ideas o f this dramatic exhibition upon those derived from a modem theatre; for the rude shews of Thespis were far less different from those exhibited by Euripides on the stage o f Athens, with all its magnificent decora­ tions and pomp of dresses and of scenery. In the present case, there were no scenes, no stage, no machinery, no pit, box, and gallery, no box-lobby; and, what might in poor Scotland be some consolation for other negations, there was no taking of money at the door. As in the devices of the magnanimous Bottom, the actors had a green plot for a stage, and a hawthorn bush for a green-room and tyring-house. The spectators were accommodated with seats on the artificial bank which had been raised around three-fourths of the play-ground, the remain­ der being left open for the entrance and exit o f the performers. Here sate the uncritical audience, the Chamberlain in the centre, as the person highest in office, all dive to enjoyment and admiration, and all therefore dead to criticism. The characters which appeared and disappeared before the amused and interested audience, were those which fill the earlier stage in all nations— old men, cheated by their wives and daughters, pillaged by their sons, and imposed on by their domestics, a bragga­ docio captain, a knavish pardoner or quæstionary, a country bump­ kin, and a wanton city-dame. Amid all these, and more acceptable than almost the whole put together, was the all-licensed fool, the Gracioso of the Spanish drama, who, with his cap fashioned into the resemblance of a coxcomb, and his bauble, or truncheon, terminated by a carved head wearing a fool’s-cap, in his hand, went, came, and returned, mingling in every scene of the piece, and interrupting the business, without having any share himself in the action, and ever and anon transferring his gibes from the actors on the stage to the audi­ ence who sate around it, prompt to applaud the whole. The wit of the piece, which was not o f the most polished kind, was chiefly directed against the superstitious practices of the Catholic religion; and the stage artillery had on this occasion been levelled by no less a person than Doctor Lundin, who had not only commanded the manager of the entertainment to select one of the numerous satires which had been written against the Papists, (several o f which were cast in a dramatic form,) but had even, like the Prince o f Den­ mark, caused them to insert, or according to his own phrase to infuse, here and there, a few pleasantries of his own penning, on the same inexhaustible subject, hoping thereby to mollify the rigour o f the Lady

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of Lochleven towards pastimes of this description. He failed not to jog Roland’s elbow, who was sitting in state beside him, and recommend to his particular attention those favourite passages. As for the page, to whom the very idea of such an exhibition, simple as it was, was entirely new, he looked on with the undiminished and ecstatic delight with which men of all ranks look for the first time on dramatic representa­ tion, and laughed, shouted, and clapped his hands as the performance proceeded. An incident at length took place which effectually broke off his interest in the business o f the scene. One o f the principal personages in the comic part of the drama was, as we have already said, a quæstionary or pardoner, one of those itinerants who hawked about from place to place reliques, real or pretended, with which he excited the devotion at once and the charity of the populace, and generally deceived both the one and the other. The hypocrisy, impudence, and profligacy of these clerical wan­ derers, had made them the subject of satire from the time of Chaucer down to that of Heywood. Their present representative failed not to follow the same line of humour, exhibiting pig’s bones for reliques, and boasting the virtues of small tin crosses, which had been shaken in the holy porringer at Loretto, and o f cockleshells, which had been brought from the shrine o f Saint James o f Compostella, all which he disposed of to the devout Catholics at nearly as high a price as anti­ quaries are now willing to pay for baubles of similar intrinsic value. At length the pardoner pulled from his scrip a small vial of clear water, of which he vaunted the quality in the following verses :— “ L is t n e t h , g o d e p e o p le , e v e r ic h e o n e ,

F o r in the londe o f Babylone— F a r estward I wot it lyeth, And is the first londe the sonne espieth, T h e r, as he cometh fro out the sé— In this ilk londe, as thinketh me, R ight as holie legendes tell, Snottreth from a roke a well, And falleth into ane bath o f ston, W her chast Susanne in tymes long gon, W as wont to wash her bodie and lim— M ickle vertue hath that streme, A s ye shall se er that ye pas, Ensam ple by this Utde glas— Through nightés cold and dayés hote, H iderward I have it brought ; H ath a wife made slip or slide, O r a maiden stepp’d aside, Putteth this water under her nese, W old she nold, she shall snese.”

The jest, as the reader skilful in the antique language o f the drama must at once perceive, turned on the same pivot as in the old minstrel

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tales of the Drinking Horn o f King Arthur, and the Mande made Amiss. But the audience were neither learned nor critical enough to challenge its want of originality. The potent relique was, after such grimace and buffoonery as befitted the subject, presented success­ ively to each of the female personages of the drama, not one of whom sustained the supposed test of discretion ; but, to the infinite delight of the audience, sneezed much louder and longer than perhaps they themselves had counted on. The jest seemed at last worn thread-bare, and the pardoner was passing on to some new pleasantry, when the jester or clown o f the drama, possessing himself secretly of the vial which contained the wondrous liquor, applied it suddenly to the nose of a young woman, who, with her black silk muffler or screen drawn over her face, was sitting in the foremost rank o f the spectators, intent apparently upon the business of the stage. The contents o f the vial, well calculated to sustain the credit of the pardoner’s legend, set the damsel a sneezing violently, an admission of frailty which was received with shouts of rapture by the audience. These were soon, however, renewed at the expence of the jester himself, when the insulted maiden extricated, ere the paroxysm was well over, one hand from the folds of her mantle, and bestowed on the wag a buffet, which made him reel fully his own length from the fair donor, and then acknow­ ledge the favour by instant prostration. No one pities a jester overcome in his vocation, and the clown met with little sympathy, when, rising from the ground, and whimpering forth his complaints of harsh treatment, he invoked the assistance and sympathy of the audience. But the Chamberlain feeling his own dig­ nity insulted, ordered two of his halberdiers to bring the culprit before him. When these official persons first approached the virago, she threw herself into an attitude of firm defiance, as if determined to resist their authority; and from the sample of strength and spirit which she had already displayed, they shewed no alacrity at executing their com­ mission. But on half a minute’s reflection, the damsel changed totally her attitude and manner, folded her cloak around her arms in modest and maiden-like fashion, and walked o f her own accord to the pres­ ence of the great man, followed and guarded by the two manful satellites. As she moved across the vacant space, and more especially as she stood at the footstool of the doctor’s judgment-seat, the maiden discovered that lightness and elasticity of step, and natural grace of manner, which connoisseurs in female beauty know to be seldom divided from it. Moreover, her neat russet-coloured jacket, and short petticoat o f the same colour, displayed a handsome form and a pretty leg. Her features were concealed by the screen; but the Doctor, whose gravity did not prevent his pretensions to be a connoisseur of

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the school we have hinted at, saw enough to judge favourably of the piece by the sample. He began, however, with considerable austerity of manner— “And how now, saucy quean,” said the medical man o f office, “what have you to say why I should not order you to be ducked in the loch, for lifting your hand to the man in my presence ?” “ Marry,” replied the culprit, “because I judge that your honour will not think the cold bath necessary for my complaints.” “A pestilent jade,” said the Doctor, whispering to Roland Græme ; “ and I’ll warrant her a good one— her voice is as sweet as syrup.— But, my pretty maiden,” said he, “you shew us wonderfully little of that countenance of yours— be pleased to throw aside your muffler.” “ I trust your honour will excuse me till we are more private,” answered the maiden ; “ for I have acquaintance, and I should like ill to be known in the country as the poor girl whom that scurvy knave put his jest upon.” “ Fear nothing for thy good name, my sweet little modicum of can­ died manna,” replied the Doctor, “ for I protest to you, as I am Cham­ berlain of Lochleven, Kinross, and so forth, that the chaste Susanna herself could not have snuffed that elixir without sternutation, being in truth a curious distillation of rectified acetum, or vinegar o f the sun, prepared by mine own hands—Wherefore, as thou sayest thou wilt come to me in private, and express thy contrition for the offence whereof thou hast been guilty, I command that all for the present go forward as if no such interruption o f the prescribed course had taken place.” The damsel curtsied and tripped back to her place. The play pro­ ceeded, but it no longer attracted the attention of Roland Græme. The voice, the figure, and what the veil permitted to be seen of the neck and tresses o f the village damsel, bore so strong a resemblance to those of Catherine Seyton, that he felt like one bewildered in the mazes of a changeful and stupifying dream. The memorable scene at the hostelry rushed on his recollection, with all its doubtful and mar­ vellous circumstances. Were the tales of enchantment which he had read in romances realized in this extraordinary girl? Could she transport herself from the walled and guarded Castle of Lochleven, moated with its broad lake, (towards which he cast back a look as if to be certain it was still in existence,) and watched with such scrupulous care as the safety of a nation demanded— Could she surmount all these obstacles, and make such careless and dangerous use of her liberty, as to engage herself publicly in a quarrel in a village fair? Roland was unable to determine whether the exertions which it must have cost her to gain her freedom, or the use to which she had put it,

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rendered her the most unaccountable creature. Lost in these meditations, he kept his gaze fixed on the subject of them; and in every casual motion, discovered, or thought he discov­ ered, something which reminded him still more strongly of Catherine Seyton. It occurred to him more than once, indeed, that he might be deceiving himself by exaggerating some casual likeness into absolute identity. But then the meeting at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s returned to his mind, and it seemed in the highest degree improbable, that, under such various circumstances, mere imagination should twice have found opportunity to play him the self-same trick. This time, however, he determined to have his doubts resolved, and for this purpose he sate during the rest of the play like a grey-hound in the slips, ready to spring upon the hare the instant that she was started. The damsel, whom he watched so attentively lest she should escape in the crowd when the spectacle was closed, sate as if perfectly uncon­ scious that she was observed. But the worthy Doctor marked the direction of his eyes, and magnanimously suppressed his own inclina­ tion to become the Theseus to this Hippolita, in deference to the rites of hospitality which enjoined him to forbear interference with the pleasurable pursuits of his young friend. He passed one or two formal gibes upon the fixed attention which the page paid to the unknown, and upon his own jealousy; adding, however, that if both were to be presented to the patient at once, he had little doubt she would think the younger man the sounder prescription. “ I fear me,” he added, “we shall have no news of the knave Auchtermuchty for some time, since the vermin whom I sent after him seem to have proved corbie-mes­ sengers— so you have an hour or two on your hands, Master Page ; and as the minstrels are beginning to strike up, now that the play is ended, why, an you incline for a dance, yonder is the green, and there sits your partner—I trust you will hold me perfect in my diagnostics, since I see with half an eye what disease you are sick of, and have administered a pleasing remedy. D iscernit sapiens res (as Cham bers hath it) quas confondit asellu s”

The page hardly heard the end o f this learned adage, or the charge which the Chamberlain gave him to be within reach, in case o f the wains arriving suddenly, and sooner than expected— so eager he was at once to shake himself free of his learned associate, and to satisfy his curiosity regarding the unknown damsel. Yet, in the haste with which he made towards her, he found time to reflect, that in order to secure an opportunity o f conversing with her in private, he must not alarm her at first accosting. He therefore composed his manner and gait, and advancing with becoming self-confidence before three or four

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country-fellows who were intent on the same design, but knew not so well how to put their request into shape, he acquainted her that he, as the deputy o f the venerable Chamberlain, requested the honour of her hand as a partner. “The venerable Chamberlain,” said the damsel frankly, reaching the page her hand, “ does very well to exercise this part of his privilege by deputy; and I suppose the laws of the revels leave me no choice but to accept o f his faithful delegate.” “ Providing, fair damsel,” said the page, “his choice of a delegate is not altogether distasteful to you.” “ O f that, fair sir,” replied the maiden, “ I will tell you more when we have danced the first measure.” We have mentioned that Catherine Seyton had admirable skill in gestic lore, and that she was sometimes called on to dance for the amusement of her royal mistress. Roland Græme had often been spectator of her skill, and sometimes, at the Queen’s command, Catherine’s partner on such occasions. He was, therefore, perfectly acquainted with Catherine’s modes of dancing; and observed that his present partner, in grace, in agility, in quickness of ear, and precision of execution, exactly resembled her, save that the Scottish jigg, which he now danced with her, required a more violent and rapid motion, and more rustic agility, than the stately pavens, lavoltas, and couran­ toes, which he had seen her execute in the chamber of Queen Mary. The active duties of the dance left him little time for reflection, and none for conversation ; but when their pas des deux was finished, amidst the acclamations of the villagers, who had seldom witnessed such an exhibition, he took an opportunity, when they yielded up the green to another couple, to use the privilege of a partner, and enter into con­ versation with the mysterious maiden whom he still held by the hand. “ Fair partner, may I not crave the name of her who has graced me thus far?” “You may,” said the maiden; “but it is a question if I shall answer you.” “ And why?” asked Roland. “ Because nobody gives anything for nothing—and you can tell me nothing in return which I care to hear.” “ Could I not tell you my name and lineage, in exchange for yours ?” returned Græme. “No !” answered the maiden, “ for you know little of either.” “ How?” said the page, somewhat angrily. “Wrath you not for the matter,” said the damsel ; “I will shew you in an instant that I know more o f you than you do of yourself.” “ Indeed !” answered Græme ; “ for whom then do you take me ?”

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“For the wild falcon,” answered she, “whom a dog brought m his mouth to a certain castle, when he was but an unfledged eyass— for the hawk whom men dare not let fly, lest he should check at game, and pounce on carrion—whom folks must keep hooded till he has the proper sight o f his eyes, and can discover good from evil.” “Well—be it so,” replied Roland Græme ; “ I guess at a part of your parable, fair mistress mine—and perhaps I know as much of you as you do of me, and can well dispense with the information which you are so niggard in giving.” “ Prove that,” said the maiden, “ and I will give you credit for more penetration than I judged you to be gifted withal.” “ It shall be proved instantly,” said Roland Græme. “ The first letter of your name is S, and the last N .” “Admirable !” said his partner; “ guess on.” “ It pleases you to-day,” continued Roland, “to wear the snood and kirtle, and perhaps you may be seen to-morrow in hat and feather, hose and doublet.” “ In the clout! in the clout! you have hit the very white,” said the damsel, suppressing a great inclination to laugh. “You can switch men’s eyes out of their heads as well as— the heart out of their bosoms.” These last words were uttered in a low and tender tone, which, to Roland’s great mortification, and somewhat to his displeasure, was so far from allaying, that it greatly increased his partner’s unruly disposi­ tion to laughter. She could scarce compose herself while she replied, “ I f you had thought my hand so formidable,” extricating it from his grasp, “you would not have grasped it so hard ; but I perceive you know me so fully, that there is no occasion to shew you my face.” “ Fair Catherine,” said the page, “he were unworthy ever to have seen you, far less to have dwelt so long in the same service, and under the same roof with you, who could mistake your air, your gesture, your step in walking or in dancing, the turn o f your neck, the symmetry of your form—none could be so dull as not to recognize you by so many proofs ; but for me, I could swear even to that tress of hair that escapes from under your muffler.” “And to the face of course which that muffler covers,” said the maiden, removing her veil, and in an instant endeavouring to replace it. She shewed the features of Catherine; but an unusual degree of petulant impatience inflamed them, when, from some awkwardness in her management of the muffler, she was unable again to adjust it with that dexterity which was a principal accomplishment of the coquettes of the time. “The fiend rive the rag to tatters,” said the damsel, as the veil

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fluttered about her shoulders, with an accent so earnest and decided, that it made the page start. He looked again at the damsel’s face, but the information which his eyes received, was to the same purport as before. He assisted her to adjust her muffler, and both were for an instant silent. The damsel spoke first, for Roland Græme was over­ whelmed with surprise at the contrarieties which Catherine Seyton seemed to include in her person and character. “You are surprised,” said the damsel to him, “ at what you see and hear—But the times which make men out of women, are least o f all fitted for men to become women; yet you yourself are in danger of such a change.” “ I in danger of becoming effeminate !” said the page. “ Yes you, for all the boldness of your reply,” said the damsel. “When you should hold fast your religion, because it is assailed on all sides by rebels, traitors, and heretics, you let it glide out of your breast like water grasped in the hand. If you are driven from the faith of your fathers from fear of a traitor, is not that womanish ?—if you are cajoled by the cunning arguments of a trumpeter o f heresy, or the praises of a puritanic old woman, is not that womanish ?—if you are bribed by the hope of spoil and preferment, is not that womanish ?—And when you wonder at my venting a threat or an execration, should you not wonder at yourself, who, pretending to a gentle name and aspiring to knight­ hood, can be at the same time cowardly, silly, and self-interested?” “ I would that a man would bring such a charge,” said the page ; “he should see, ere his life was a minute older, whether he had cause to term me coward or no.” “ Beware of such big words,” answered the maiden; “you said but anon that I sometimes wear hose and doublet.” “But remain still Catherine Seyton, wear what you list,” said the page, endeavouring again to possess himself of her hand. “You indeed are pleased to call me so,” replied the maiden, evading his intention, “but I have many another name besides.” “ And will you not reply to that,” said the page, “by which you are distinguished beyond every other maiden in Scotland?” The damsel, unallured by his praises, still kept aloof, and sung with gaiety a verse from an old ballad, “ O some do call me Jack , sweet love, And some do call me Jill ; B ut when I ride to Holyrood, M y name is W ilful W ill.”

“Wilful Will !” exclaimed the page, impatiently; “ say rather Will 0’ the Wisp—Jack with the lantern, for never was such a deceitful or wandering meteor.”

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“ If I be such,” replied the maiden, “ I ask no fools to follow me— If they do so, it is at their own pleasure, and must be on their own proper peril.” “Nay, but, dearest Catherine,” said Roland Græme, “be for one instant serious.” “ If you will call me your dearest Catherine, when I have given you so many names to chuse upon,” replied the damsel, “I would ask you how, supposing me for two or three hours of my life escaped from yonder tower, have you the cruelty to ask me to be serious during the only merry moments I have seen perhaps for months ?” “Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments o f deep and true feel­ ing, which are worth ten thousand years of the liveliest mirth; and such was that of yesterday, when you so nearly”– – – “ So nearly what?” demanded the damsel, hastily. “When you approached your lips so near to the sign you had traced on my forehead.” “Mother o f Heaven !” said she in a yet fiercer tone, and with a more masculine manner than she had yet exhibited; “ Catherine Seyton approach her lips to a man’s brow—and thou that man—vassal, thou liest!” The page stood astonished; but, conceiving he had alarmed the damsel’s delicacy by alluding to the enthusiasm of a moment, and the manner in which she had expressed it, he endeavoured to faulter forth an apology. His excuses, though he was unable to give them any regular shape, were accepted by his companion, who had indeed suppressed her indignation after its first explosion— “ Speak no more on’t,” she said; “ and now let us part, our conversation may attract more notice than is convenient for either of us.” “Nay, but allow me at least to follow you to some sequestered place.” “You dare not,” replied the maiden. “ How,” said the youth, “ dare not? where is it you dare go, where I dare not follow?” “You fear a Will 0’ the Wisp,” said the damsel ; “ how would you face a fiery dragon, with an enchantress mounted on its back?” “ Like Sir Eger, Sir Grime, or Sir Greysteil,” said the page ; “but be there such toys to be seen here ?” “ I go to Mother Nicneven’s,” answered the maid ; “ and she is witch enough to rein the homed devil, with a red silk thread for a bridle, and a rowan-tree switch for a whip.” “ I will follow you,” said the page. “ Let it be at some distance,” said the maiden— and wrapping her mantle around her with more success than on her former attempt, she

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mingled with the throng, and walked towards the village, heedfully followed by Roland Græme at some distance, and under every precaution which he could use to prevent his purpose from being observed.

Chapter Two Y es, it is he whose eyes look’d on thy childhood, And watch’d with trembling hope thy dawn o f youth, T h at now, with these same eye-balls dimm’d with age, And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonour. O ld Play t t h e e n t r a n c e of the principal, or indeed so to speak, the only street in Kinross, the damsel, whose steps were pursued by Roland Græme, cast a glance behind her, as if to be certain he had not lost trace of her, and then plunged down a very narrow lane which run betwixt two rows of poor and ruinous cottages. She paused for a second at the door of one of those miserable tenements, again cast her eye up the lane towards Roland, then lifted the latch, opened the door, and disappeared from his view. With whatever haste the page followed her example, the difficulty which he found in discovering the trick of the latch, which did not work quite in the usual manner, and in pushing open the door, which did not yield to his first effort, delayed for a minute or two his entrance into the cottage. A dark and smoky passage passed as usual betwixt the exterior wall of the house, and the hallan or clay-wall which served as a partition betwixt and the interior. At the end of this passage and through the partition, was a door leading into the ben or inner cham­ ber of the cottage, and when Roland Græme’s hand was upon the latch of this door, a female voice pronounced,“ Benedictus qui veniat in nomine D om ini damnandus qui in nomine inim ici.” On entering the apartment, he perceived the figure which the chamberlain had pointed out to him as Mother Nicneven, seated beside the lowly hearth. But there was no other person in the room. Roland Græme gazed around in surprise at the disappearance of Catherine Seyton, without paying much attention to the supposed sorceress, until she attracted and rivetted his regard by the tone in which she asked him— “What seekest thou here ?” “ I seek,” said the page, with much embarrassment; “ I seek” But his answer was cut short, when the old woman, drawing her huge grey eye-brows sternly together, with a frown which knitted her brow into a thousand wrinkles, arose, and stretching herself up to her full natural size, tore the kerchief from her head, and seizing

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Roland by the arm, made two strides across the floor of the apartment to a small window through which the light fell full on her face, and shewed the astonished youth the countenance of Magdalen Græme. — “Yes, Roland,” she said, “thine eyes deceive thee not, they shew thee truly the features o f her whom thou hast thyself deceived, whose wine thou hast turned into gall, her bread of joyfulness into bitter poison, her hope into the blackest despair—it is she who now demands of thee what seek’st thou here?— She whose heaviest sin towards Heaven hath been that she loved thee even better than the weal o f the whole church, and could not without reluctance surrender thee even in the cause of God— She now asks thee, what seek’st thou here?” While she spoke, she kept her broad black eye rivetted on the youth’s face, with the expression with which the eagle regards his prey ere he tears it to pieces. Roland felt himself at the moment incapable either of reply or of evasion. This extraordinary enthusiast had pre­ served over him in some measure the ascendancy which she had acquired during his childhood; and besides he knew the violence of her passions and her impatience of contradiction, and was sensible that almost any reply which he could make, was like to throw her into an ecstacy of rage. He was therefore silent, and Magdalen Græme proceeded with encreasing enthusiasm in her apostrophe— “ Once more, what seek’st thou, false boy?— Seek’st thou the honour thou hast renounced, the faith thou hast abandoned, the hopes thou hast destroyed ?— Or didst thou seek me, the sole protectress o f thy youth, the only parent whom thou hast known, that thou mayst trample on my grey hairs, even as thou hast already trampled on the best wishes of my heart?” “ Pardon me, mother,” said Roland Græme; “but, in truth and reason, I deserve not your blame— I have been treated amongst you— even by yourself, my revered parent, as well as by others,— as one who lacked the common attributes of free-will and human reason, or was at least deemed unfit to exercise them. A land o f enchantment have I been led into, and spells have been cast around me— every one has met me in disguise— every one has spoke to me in parables— I have been like one who walks in a weary and bewildering dream—And now you blame me that I have not the sense, and judgment, and steadiness of a waking, and a disenchanted, and a reasonable man, who knows what he is doing, and wherefore he does it. If one must walk with masks and spectres, who waft themselves from place to place as it were in vision rather than reality, it might shake the soundest faith and turn the wisest head. I sought, since I must needs avow my folly, the same Catherine Seyton with whom you made me first acquainted, and

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whom I most strangely find in this village of Kinross, gayest among the revellers, when I had but just left her in the well-guarded castle of Lochleven, the sad attendant of an imprisoned Queen— I sought her, and in her place I find you, my mother, more strangely disguised than even she is.” “And what hadst thou to do with Catherine Seyton?” said the matron, sternly; “is this a time or a world to follow maidens, or to dance around a maypole ? When the trumpet summons every true­ hearted Scotsman around the standard of the true sovereign, shaft thou be found loitering in a lady’s bower?” “No, by Heaven! nor imprisoned in the rugged walls o f an island castle !” answered Roland Græme; “ I would the blast were to sound even now, for I fear that nothing less loud will dispel the chimerical visions by which I am surrounded.” “ Doubt not that it will sound,” said the matron, “ and that so fear­ fully loud, that Scotland shall never hear the like until the last and loudest blast of all shall announce to mountain and to valley that time is no more. Meanwhile, be thou but brave and constant—Serve God and honour thy sovereign—Abide by thy religion.— I can not—I will not—I dare not ask thee the truth of the horrible surmises I have heard touching thy falling away—perfect not that accursed sacrifice— and yet, even at this late hour, thou mayst be what I have hoped for the son of my dearest hope—what say I, the son of my hope ?—thou shalt be the hope of Scotland, her boast and her honour!— Even thy wildest and most foolish wishes may perchance be fulfilled— I shame to mingle meaner motives with the noble guerdon I hold out to thee— It shames me, being such as I am, to mention the idle passions of youth, save with contempt and the purpose of censure. But we must bribe children to wholesome medicine by the offer of cates, and youth to honourable achievement with the promise of pleasure. Mark me, therefore, Roland. The love of Catherine Seyton will follow him only who shall achieve the freedom of her mistress; and believe, it will be one day soon in thine own power to be that happy lover. Cast, there­ fore, away doubt and fear, and prepare to do what religion calls for, what thy country demands of thee, what thy duty as a subject and as a servant alike require at your hand; and be assured even the idlest wishes of thy heart will be most readily attained by following the call of thy duty.” As she ceased speaking, a double knock was heard against the inner door. The matron hastily adjusting her muffler, and resuming her chair by the hearth, demanded who was there. “Salve in nomine sancto” was answered from without. “S alvete et vos” answered Magdalen Græme.

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And a man entered in the ordinary dress o f a nobleman’s retainer, wearing at his girdle a sword and buckler— “ I sought you,” said he, “my mother, and him whom I see with you.” Then addressing himself to Roland Græme, he said to him, “ Hast thou not a packet from George Douglas?” “ I have,” said the page, suddenly recollecting that which had been committed to his charge in the morning, “but I may not deliver it to any one without some token that they have right to ask it.” “You say well,” replied the serving-man, and whispered into his ear, “ The packet which I ask is the report to his brother—will this token suffice?” “ It will,” replied the page, and taking the packet from his bosom, gave it to the man. “ I will return presently,” said the serving-man, and left the cottage. Roland had now sufficiently recovered his surprise to accost his relative in turn, and request to know the reason why he found her in so precarious a disguise, and a place so dangerous— “You cannot be ignorant,” he said, “ of the hatred that the Lady of Lochleven bears to those of your—that is of our religion—your present disguise lays you open to suspicions o f a different kind, but inferring no less hazard; and whether as a Catholic, or as a sorceress, or as a friend to the unfortunate Queen, you are in equal danger, if apprehended within the bounds of the Douglas ; and in the Chamberlain, who administers their authority, you have, for his own reasons, an enemy, and a bitter one.” “I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling with triumph; “ I know that, vain of his school-craft, and carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views with jealousy and hatred the blessings which the saints have conferred on my prayers, and on the holy reliques, before the touch, nay, before the bare presence of which, disease and death have so often been known to retreat—I know he would rend and tear me ; but there is a chain and a muzzle on the ban-dog that shall restrain his fury, and the Master’s servant shall not be offended by him until the Master’s work is wrought. When that hour comes, let the shadows of the evening descend on me in thunder and in tempest; the time shall be welcome that relieves my eyes from seeing guilt, and my ears from listening to blasphemy. Do thou but be constant—play thy part as I have played and will play mine, and my release shall be like that of a blessed martyr which angels hail with palm and song, while earth pursues him with hiss and with execration.” As she concluded, the serving-man again entered the cottage, and said, “ All is well ! the time holds for to-night.” “What time? what holds?” exclaimed Roland Græme; “ I trust I

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have given the Douglas’s packet to no wrong”–– “ Content yourself, young man,” answered the serving-man; “ thou hast my word and token.” “ I know not if the token be right,” said the page ; “ and I care not much for the word of a stranger.” “What,” said the matron, “ although thou mayst have given a packet delivered to thy charge by one of the Queen’s rebels into the hand of a loyal subject—there were no great mistake in that, thou hot-brained boy.” “By Saint Andrew, there were foul mistake though,” answered the page ; “it is the very spirit of my duty, in this first stage of chivalry, to be faithful to my trust; and had the devil given me a message to dis­ charge, I would not (so I had plighted my faith to the contrary) betray his counsel to an angel o f light.” “Now, by the love I once bore thee,” said the matron, “ I could slay thee with mine own hand, when I hear thee talk of a dearer faith being due to rebels and heretics, than thou owest to thy church and thy prince !” “ Be patient, my good sister,” said the serving-man, “ I will give him such reasons as shall counterbalance the scruples which beset him— the spirit is honourable, though now it may be mistimed and mis­ placed— Follow me, young man.” “ Ere I go to call this stranger to a reckoning,” said the page to the matron, “is there nothing I can do for your comfort and safety?” “ Nothing,” she replied, “nothing, save what will lead more to thy own honour—the saints who have protected me thus far, will lend me succour as I need it. Tread the path of glory that is before thee, and only think of me as the creature on earth who will be most delighted to hear o f thy fame.—Follow the stranger—he hath tidings for you that you little expect.” The stranger remained on the threshold as if waiting for Roland, and whenever he saw him put himself in motion, he moved on before him at a quick pace. Diving still deeper down the lane, Roland per­ ceived that it was now bordered by buildings upon the one side only, and that the other was fenced by a high old wall, over which some trees extended their branches. Descending a good way farther, they came to a small door in the wall. Roland’s guide paused, looked around for an instant to see if any one were within sight, then taking a key from his pocket, opened the door and entered, making a sign to Roland Græme to follow him. The youth did so, and the stranger locked the door carefully on the inside. During this operation the page had a moment to look around, and perceived that he was in a small orchard very trimly kept.

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The stranger led him through an alley or two, shaded by trees loaded with summer-fruit, into a pleached arbour, where, taking the turf-seat which was on the one side, he motioned to Roland to occupy that which was opposite to him, and after a momentary silence, opened the conversation as follows : “You have asked a better warrant than the word of a mere stranger, to satisfy you that I have the author­ ity of George of Douglas for possessing myself of the packet entrusted to your charge?” “ It is precisely the point on which I demand reckoning of you,” said Roland. “ I fear I have acted hastily; if so, I must redeem my error as I best may.” “You hold me then as a perfect stranger?” said the man. “Look at my face more attentively, and see if the features do not resemble those of a man much known to you formerly.” Roland gazed attentively, but the ideas recalled to his mind were so inconsistent with the mean and servile dress of the person before him, that he did not venture to express the opinion which he was irresistibly induced to form. “Yes ! my son,” said the stranger, observing his embarrassment, “you do indeed see before you the unfortunate Father Ambrose, who once accounted his ministry crowned in your preservation from the snares o f heresy, but who is now condemned to lament thee as a cast­ away!” Roland Graeme’s kindness of heart was at least equal to his vivacity o f temper—he could not bear to see his ancient and honoured master and spiritual guide in a situation which inferred a change o f fortunes so melancholy, but, throwing himself at his feet, grasped his knees and wept aloud. “What mean these tears, my son ?” said the Abbot; “if they are shed for your own sins and follies, surely they are gracious showers, and may avail thee much—but weep not, if they fall on my account. You indeed see the Superior of the Community of Saint Mary’s, in the dress of a poor sworder, who gives his master the use o f his blade and buckler, and, if needful, of his life, for a coarse livery coat, and four marks by the year. But such a garb suits the time, and, in this period of the church militant, as well becomes her prelates, as staff, mitre, and crosier, in the days of the church’s triumph.” “ By what fate ?— ” said the page, “And yet why,” added he, check­ ing himself, “need I ask? Catherine Seyton in some sort prepared me for this. But that the change should be so absolute—the destruction so complete !” “Yet, my son,” said the Abbot Ambrosius, “thine own eyes beheld, in my unworthy elevation to the Abbot’s stall, the last especial act of

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holy solemnity which shall be seen in the church of Saint Mary’s, until it shall please Heaven to turn back the captivity of the church. For the present, the shepherd is smitten—ay, well nigh to the earth—the flock are scattered, and the shrines of saints and martyrs, and pious bene­ factors to the church, are given to the owls of night, and the satyrs of the desert.” “And your brother, the Knight of Avenel— could he do nothing for your protection?” “ He himself hath fallen under the suspicion of the ruling powers,” said the Abbot, “who are as unjust to their friends as they are cruel to their enemies. I could not grieve at it, did I hope it might estrange him from his course ; but I know the soul of Halbert, and I rather fear it will drive him to prove his fidelity to their unhappy cause, by some deed which may be yet more destructive to the church, and more offensive to heaven. Enough of this, and now to the business of our meeting—I trust you will hold it sufficient if I pass my word to you that the packet o f which you were lately the bearer, was designed for my hands by George of Douglas ?” “ Then,” said the page, “ is George of Douglas”– – – “A true friend to his Queen, Roland ; and will soon, I trust, have his eyes opened to the errors of his (miscalled) church.” “ But what is he to his brother, and what to the Lady of Lochleven ?” said the page impatiently. “ The best friend to both, both in time and through eternity,” said the Abbot, “ if he shall prove the happy instrument for redeeming the evil they have wrought, and are still working.” “ Still,” said the page, “ I like not that good service which begins in breach of trust.” “ I blame not thy scruples, my son,” said the Abbot; “but the time which has wrenched asunder the allegiance of Christians to the church, and o f subjects to their king, has dissolved all the lesser bonds of society; and, in such days, mere human ties must no more restrain our progress, than the brambles and briars, which catch hold of his garments, should delay the path of a pilgrim who travels to pay his vows.” “ But, my father– – – ” said the youth, and then stopped short in a hesitating manner. “ Speak on my son,” said the Abbot; “ speak without fear.” “ Let me not offend you then,” said Roland, “when I say that it is even this which our adversaries charge against us; that shaping the means according to the end, we are willing to commit great moral evil in order that we may work out eventual good.” “ The heretics have played their usual arts on you, my son,” said the

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Abbot; “they would willingly deprive us even of the power of acting wisely and secretly, though their possession of superior force forbids our contending with them on the terms o f equality. They have reduced us to a state of exhausted weakness, and now would fain proscribe the means by which weakness, through all the range of nature, supplies the lack of strength, and defends itself against its more potent enemies. As well might the hound say to the hare, use not these wily turns to escape me, but contend with me in pitched battle, as the armed and powerful heretic demand of down-trodden and oppressed Catholics to lay aside the wisdom o f the serpent, by which alone they may again hope to raise up the Jerusalem over which they weep, and which it is their duty to rebuild— But more o f this hereafter — and now, my son, I command thee on thy faith to tell me truly and particularly what has chanced to thee since we parted, and what is the present state of thy conscience. Thy relation, our sister Magdalen, is a woman of excellent gifts, blessed with a zeal which neither doubt nor danger can quench; but yet it is not a zeal altogether according to knowledge ; wherefore, my son, I would willingly be myself thy inter­ rogator and thy counsellor, in these days of darkness and stratagem.” With the respect which he owed to his first instructor, Roland Græme went rapidly through the events which the reader is acquain­ ted with ; and while he disguised not from the prelate the impression which had been made on his mind by the arguments of the preacher Henderson, he accidentally, and almost involuntarily, gave his Father Confessor to understand the influence which Catherine Seyton had acquired over his mind. “ It is with joy I discover, my dearest son,” replied the Abbot, “that I have arrived in time to arrest thee on the verge of the precipice to which you were approaching. These doubts of which you complain, are the weeds which naturally grow up in a strong soil, and require the careful hand of the husbandman to eradicate them. Thou must study a little volume, which I will impart to thee in fitting time, in which, by Our Lady’s grace, I have placed in somewhat a clearer light than heretofore, the points debated betwixt us and these heretics, who sow among the wheat the same tares which were formerly privily mingled with the good seed by the Albigenses and the Lollards. But it is not by reason alone that you must hope to conquer these insinuations o f the enemy. It is sometimes by timely resistance, but oftener by timely flight. You must shut your ears against the arguments of the heresi­ arch, when circumstances permit you not to withdraw the foot from his company. Anchor your thoughts upon the service o f Our Lady, while he is expending in vain his heretical sophistry. Are you unable to maintain your attention on heavenly objects, think radier on thine

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earthly pleasures, than tempt Providence and the Saints, by giving an attentive ear to the erring doctrine—think of thy hawk, thy hound, thine angling-rod, thy sword and buckler—think even o f Catherine Seyton, rather than give thy soul to the lessons of the tempter. Alas ! my son, believe not that, worn out with woes, and bent more by affliction than by years, I have forgotten the effect o f beauty over the heart o f youth. Even in the watches o f the night, broken by thoughts of an imprisoned Queen, a distracted kingdom, a church laid waste and ruinous, come other thoughts than they suggest, and feelings which belong to an earlier and happier course of life. Be it so—we must bear our load as we may—And not in vain are these passions implanted in our breast, since— as now in thy case— they may come in aid of res­ olutions founded upon higher grounds. Yet beware, my son—this Catherine Seyton is the daughter o f one of Scotland’s proudest, as well as most worthy barons; and thy state may not suffer thee — as yet—to aspire so high. But thus it is— Heaven works its purposes through human folly; and Douglas’s ambitious affection, as well as thine, shall contribute alike to the desired end.” “ How, my father,” said the page, “ my suspicions are then true !— Douglas loves” “ He does, and with a love as much misplaced as thine own; but beware of him—cross him not—thwart him not.” “Let him not cross or thwart me,” said the page ; “ for I will not yield him an inch of way, had he in his body the soul of every Douglas that has lived since the time of the Dark Grey Man.” “ Nay, have patience, idle boy, and reflect that your suit can never interfere with his— a truce with these vanities, I command thee, and let us better employ the little space which it still remains to us to spend together. To thy knees, my son, and resume the long interrupted duty of confession; that, happen what may, the hour may find in thee a faithful Catholic, relieved from the guilt o f his sins by authority of the Holy Church. Could I but tell thee, Roland, the joy with which I see thee once more put thy knee to its best and fittest use ! Quid dicis, mi fili? ” “ Culpas meas” answered the youth; and according to the ritual of the Catholic Church, he confessed and received absolution, to which was annexed the condition of performing certain enjoined penances. When this religious ceremony was ended, an old man, in the dress of a peasant of the better order, approached the arbour and greeted the Abbot— “ I have waited the conclusion of your devotions,” he said, “ to tell you the youth is sought after by the Chamberlain, and it were well he were to appear without delay. Holy Saint Francis, if the halberdiers were to seek him here, they might sorely wrong my

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garden-plot—they are in office and reck not where they tread, were each step on jessamine and clove-jilliflowers.” “We will speed him forth, my brother,” said the Abbot ; “but alas ! is it possible that such trifles should live in your mind at a crisis so awful as that which is now impending?” “ Reverend father,” answered the proprietor o f the garden, for such he was, “how oft shall I pray you to keep your high counsel for high minds like your own? What would you have o f me, that I have not granted unresistingly, though with a sore heart?” “ I would have you be yourself, my brother,” said the Abbot Ambrosius; “ and remember what you were, and to what your early vows have bound you.” “ I tell thee, Father Ambrosius,” replied the gardener, “ the patience of the best saint that ever said pater-noster, would be exhausted by the trials to which you put mine. What I have been, it skills not to speak at present—no one knows better than yourself, father, what I renounced, in hopes to find ease and quiet during the remainder of my days— and no one better knows how my retreat has been invaded, my fruit-trees broken, my flower-beds trodden down, my quiet fright­ ened away, and my very sleep driven from my bed, since ever this poor Queen—God bless her—hath been sent to Lochleven.— I blame her not; being a prisoner, it is natural she should wish to get out from so vile a hold, where there is scarce any space even for a tolerable garden, and where the water-mists, as I am told, blight all the early blossom— I say, I cannot blame her for endeavouring for her freedom; but why I should be drawn into the scheme—why my harmless arbours, that I planted with my own hands, should become places o f privy conspiracy —why my little quay, which I built for my own fishing boat, should have become a haven for secret embarkations— in short, why I should be dragged into matters where both heading and hanging are like to be the end, I profess to you, reverend father, I am totally ignorant.” “My brother,” answered the Abbot, “you are wise, and ought to know” “ I am not—I am not—I am not wise,” replied the horticulturist, pettishly, and stopping his ears with his fingers— “ I was never called wise, but when men wanted to engage me in some action of notorious folly.” “ But, my good brother,” said the Abbot– – – “ I am not good neither,” said the gardener ; “ I am neither good nor wise— Had I been wise, you would not have been admitted here ; and were I good, methinks I would send you elsewhere, to hatch plots for destroying the quiet of the country. What signifies disputing about queen or king, when men may sit at peace— sub umbra vitis sui ; and so

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would I do, after the precept of holy writ, were I, as you term me, wise or good. But such as I am, my neck is in the yoke, and you make me draw what weight you list. Follow me, youngster—this reverend father, who makes in his jack-man’s dress nearly as reverend a figure as I myself, will agree with me in one thing at least, and that is, that you have been long enough here.” “ Follow the good father, Roland,” said the Abbot, “ and remember my words— a day is approaching that will try the temper of all true Scotsmen—may thy heart prove faithful as the steel of thy blade !” The page bowed in silence, and they parted ; the gardener, notwith­ standing his advanced age, walking on before him very briskly, and muttering as he went, partly to himself, partly to his companion, after the manner of old men o f weakened intellects— “When I was great,” thus run his maundering, “ and had my mule and my ambling palfrey at command, I warrant you I could have as well flown through the air as have walked at this pace. I had my gout and my rheumatics, and an hundred things beside, that hung fetters on my heels ; and now, thanks to Our Lady, and honest labour, I can walk with any good man of my age in the K ingdom of Fife— Fie upon it, that experience should be so long in coming.” As he was thus muttering, his eye fell upon the branch of a pear tree, which drooped down for want o f support, and at once forgetting his haste, the old man stopped and set seriously about binding it up. Roland Græme had both readiness, neatness of hand, and good nature in abundance ; he immediately lent his aid, and in a minute or two the bough was supported, and tied up in a way perfectly satisfact­ ory to the old man, who looked at it with great complaisance. “They are bargamots,” he said, “ and if you will come ashore in autumn, you shall taste of them—the like are not in Lochleven Castle—the garden there is a poor pin-fold, and the gardener, Hugh Houkham, hath little skill o f his craft—so come ashore, Master Page, in autumn, when you would eat pears. But what am I thinking of—ere that time come, they may have given thee sour pears for plums. Take an old man’s advice, youth, one who hath seen many days, and sat in higher places than thou canst hope for—bend thy sword into a pruning-hook, and make a dibble of thy dagger—thy days shall be the longer, and thy health the better for it—and come to aid me in my garden, and I will teach thee the real French fashion of imping, which the Southron call graffing. Do this, and do it without loss of time, for there is a whirlwind coming over the land, and only those shall escape who lie too much beneath the storm to have their boughs broken by it.” So saying, he dismissed Roland Græme, through a door different from that by which he had entered, signed a cross, and pronounced a

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benedicite, as they parted, and then, still muttering to himself, retired into the garden, and locked the door on the inside.

Chapter Three Pray G o d she prove not m asculine ere long !

King Henry VI

from the old man’s garden, Roland Græme found that a grassy paddock, in which sauntered two cows, the property o f the gardener, still separated him from the village. He paced through it, lost in meditation upon the words of the Abbot. Father Ambrosius had, with success enough, exerted over him that reverential influence which the guardians and instructors of childhood possess over more mature youth. And yet, when Roland looked back upon what the father had said, he could not but suspect that he had rather sought to evade entering into the controversy betwixt the churches, than to repel the objections and satisfy the doubts which the lectures o f Henderson had excited. “ For this he had no time,” said the page to himself, “neither have I now calmness and learning sufficient to judge upon points of such magnitude. Besides, it were base to quit my faith while the wind o f fortune sets against it, unless I were so placed that my conversion, should it take place, were free as light from the imputation of self-interest. I was bred a Catholic—bred in the faith o f Bruce and Wallace— I will hold that faith till time and reason shall convince me that it errs. I will serve this poor Queen as a subject should serve an imprisoned and wronged sovereign—they who placed me in her ser­ vice have to blame themselves— they sent me hither, a gentleman, and trained in the paths of loyalty and honour, when they should have sought out some truckling, cogging, double-dealing knave, who would have been at once the observant page of the Queen, and the obsequious spy o f her enemies. Since I must chuse betwixt aiding and betraying her, I will decide as becomes her servant and her subject— But Catherine Seyton— Catherine Seyton, beloved by Douglas, and holding me on or off as the intervals of her leisure or caprice will permit—how shall I deal with the coquette ?— By heaven, when I next have an opportunity, she shall render me some reason for her conduct, or I will break with her for ever.” As he formed this doughty resolution, he crossed the stile which led out of the little enclosure, and was almost immediately greeted by Dr Luke Lundin. “ Ha! my most excellent young friend,” said the Doctor, “ from whence come you? but I note the place.—Yes, neighbour Blink­ D is m is s e d

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hoolie’s garden is a pleasant rendezvous, and you are of the age when lads look after a bonny lass with one eye, and a dainty plum with another. But hey! you look subtrist and melancholic— I fear the maiden has proved cruel, or the plums unripe; and surely, I think neighbour Blinkhoolie’s damsons can scarce have been well pre­ served throughout the winter—he spares the saccharine juice on his confects. But courage, man, there are more Kates in Kinross ; and for the immature fruit, a glass of my double distilled aqua mirabilis— probatum est.” The page darted an ireful glance at the facetious physician; but presently recollecting that the name Kate, which had provoked his displeasure, was probably but introduced for the sake o f alliteration, he suppressed his wrath, and only asked if the wains had been heard of? “Why, I have been seeking you this hour, to tell you that the stuff is in your boat, and that the boat waits your pleasure. Auchtermuchty had only fallen into company with an idle knave like himself, and a stoup o f aquavitæ. Your boatmen lie on their oars, and there have already been made two wefts from the warder’s turret, to intimate that those in the castle are impatient for your return. Yet there is time for you to take a slight repast; and, as your friend and physician, I hold it unfit you should face the water-breeze with an empty stomach.” Roland Græme had nothing for it but to return, with such cheer as he might, to the place where his boat was moored on the beach, and resisted all offer o f refreshment, although the Doctor promised that he should prelude the collation with a gentle appetizer—a decoction of herbs, gathered and distilled by himself. Indeed, as Roland had not forgotten the contents of his morning cup, it is possible that the recollection induced him to stand firm in his refusal o f all food, to which such an unpalatable preface was to be annexed. As they passed towards the boat, (for the ceremonious politeness of the worthy Chamberlain would not permit the page to go thither without attendance,) Roland Græme, amidst a group who seemed to be assembled around a party o f wandering musicians, distinguished, as he thought, the dress o f Catherine Seyton. He shook himself clear from his attendant, and at one spring was in the midst of the crowd, and at the side of the damsel. “ Catherine,” he whispered, “is it well for you to be still here ?—will you not return to the castle ?” “ To the devil with your Catherines and your castles !” answered the maiden, snappishly; “have you not had time enough already to get rid of your follies ? Begone ! I desire not your farther company, and there will be danger in thrusting it upon me.” “ Nay—but if there be danger, fairest Catherine,” replied Roland,

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“why will you not allow me to stay and share it with you ?” “ Intruding fool,” said the maiden, “the danger is all on thine own side— the risk is, in plain terms, that I strike thee on the mouth with the hilt o f my dagger.” So saying, she turned haughtily from him, and moved through the crowd, who gave way in some astonishment at the masculine activity with which she forced her way among them. As Roland, though much irritated, prepared to follow, he was grappled on the other side by Doctor Luke Lundin, who reminded him of the loaded boat, o f the two wefts, or signals with the flag, which had been made from the tower, of the danger o f the cold breeze on an empty stomach, and of the vanity of spending more time upon coy wenches and sour plums. Roland was thus, in a manner, dragged back to his boat, and obliged to launch her forth upon his return to Loch­ leven Castle. That little voyage was speedily accomplished, and the page was greeted at the landing-place by the severe and caustic welcome o f old Dryfesdale. “ So, young gallant, you are come at last, after a delay of six hours, and after two signals from the castle. But, I warrant, some idle junketting had occupied you too deeply to think of your service or your duty. Where is the note of the plate and household stuff?—pray Heaven it hath not been diminished under the sleeveless care o f so young a gadabout.” “ Diminished under my care, Sir Steward?” retorted the page angrily; “ say so in earnest, and by heaven your grey hair shall hardly protect your saucy tongue !” “A truce with your swaggering, young Esquire,” returned the stew­ ard; “we have bolts and dungeons for brawlers. Go to my lady, and swagger before her, if thou darest—she will give thee proper cause of offence, for she has long waited thee, long and impatiently.” “And where then is the Lady of Lochleven?” said the page; “ for I conceive it is of her thou speakest.” “Ay—of whom else?” replied Dryfesdale; “ or who besides the Lady o f Lochleven hath a right to command in this castle ?” “The Lady of Lochleven is thy mistress,” said Roland Græme; “but mine is the Queen o f Scotland.” The steward looked at him fixedly for a moment, with an air in which suspicion and dislike were ill concealed by an affectation of contempt. “The bragging cock-chicken,” he said, “will betray himself by his rathe crowing. I have marked thy changed manner in the chapel of late— ay, and your changing of glances at meal-time with a certain idle damsel, who, like thyself, laughs at all gravity and goodness— there is something about you, my master, which should be looked to. But, if you would know whether the Lady of Lochleven or that other

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lady hath right to command thy service, thou wilt find them together in the Lady Mary’s anti-room.” Roland hastened thither, not unwilling to escape from the illnatured penetration o f the old man, and reflecting at the same time what peculiarity could have occasioned the Lady o f Lochleven’s being in the Queen’s apartments at this time o f the afternoon, so much contrary to her usual wont. His acuteness instantly penetrated the meaning. “ She wishes,” he concluded, “to see the meeting betwixt the Queen and me on my return, that she may form a guess whether there is any private intelligence or understanding betwixt us— I must be guarded.” With this resolution he entered the parlour, where the Queen, seated in her chair, with the Lady Fleming leaning upon the back o f it, had already kept the Lady o f Lochleven standing in her presence for the space of nearly an hour, to the manifest increase of her very visible bad humour. Roland Græme, on entering the apartment, made a deep obeisance to the Queen and another to the Lady, and then stood still as if to await their further question. Speaking almost together, the Lady Lochleven said, “ So, young man, returned at length?”—And then stopped indignantly short, while the Queen went on without regarding her— “ Roland, you are welcome home to us—you have proved the true dove and not the raven—yet I am sure I could have forgiven you, if, once dismissed from this water-circled ark of ours, you had never again returned to us. I trust you have brought back an olive branch, for our kind and worthy hostess has chafed herself much for your long absence, and we never needed more some symbol of peace and reconciliation.” “I grieve I should have been detained, madam,” answered the page ; “but from the delay of the person entrusted with the matters for which I was sent, I did not receive them till late in the day.” “ See you there now,” said the Queen to the Lady Lochleven; “we could not persuade you, our dearest hostess, that your household goods were in all safe-keeping and surety. True it is, that we can excuse your anxiety, considering that these august apartments are so scantily furnished, that we have not been able to offer you even the relief o f a stool during the long time you have afforded us the pleasure of your society.” “ The will, madam,” said the Lady Lochleven, “the will to offer us such accommodation was more wanting than the means.” “What!” said the Queen, looking round and affecting surprise, “ there are then stools in this apartment— one, two—no less than four, including the broken one— a royal garniture !—we observed them not —Will it please your ladyship to sit?”

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“No, madam, I will soon relieve you of my presence,” replied the Lady Lochleven; “ and, while with you, my aged limbs can still better brook fatigue, than my mind stoop to accept of constrained courtesy.” “Nay, Lady of Lochleven, if you take it so deeply,” said the Queen, rising and motioning to her own vacant chair, “ I would rather you assumed my seat—you are not the first o f your family who has done so.” The Lady of Lochleven courtsied a negative, but seemed with much difficulty to suppress the angry answer which rose to her lips. During this sharp conversation, the page’s attention had been almost entirely occupied by the entrance of Catherine Seyton, who came from the inner apartment, in the usual dress in which she attended upon the Queen, and with nothing in her manner which marked either the hurry or confusion incident to a hasty change of disguise, or to the conscious fear o f detection in a perilous enterprize. Roland Græme ventured to make her an obeisance as she entered, but she returned it with an air o f the utmost indifference, which, in his opinion, was extremely inconsistent with the circumstances in which they stood towards each other.— Surely, he thought, she cannot in reason expect to bully me out of the belief due to mine own eyes, as she tried to do concerning the apparition in the hostelry o f Saint Michael’s — I will try if I cannot make her feel that this will b e but a vain task, and that confidence in me is the wiser and safer course to pursue. These thoughts had passed rapidly through his mind, when the Queen, having finished her altercation with the Lady o f the Castle, again addressed him— “What o f the revels at Kinross, Roland Græme? methought they were gay, if I could judge from some faint sounds of mirth and distant music, which found their way even so far as these grated windows, and died when they entered them, as all that is mirthful must—But thou lookest as sad as if thou hadst come from a conventicle o f the Huguenots !” “And so perchance he hath, madam,” replied the Lady o f Loch­ leven, at whom this side-shaft was launched. “ I trust, amid yonder idle fooleries, there wanted not some pouring forth of doctrine to a better purpose than that vain mirth, which, blazing and vanishing like the crackling of dry thorns, leaves to the fools who love it nothing but dust and ashes.” “Mary Fleming,” said the Queen, turning round and drawing her mantle around her, “ I would that we had the chimney-grate supplied with a faggot or two of those same thorns, which the Lady o f Loch­ leven describes so well. Methinks the damp air from the lake, which stagnates in these vaulted rooms, renders them deadly cold.” “Your Grace’s pleasure shall be obeyed,” said the Lady o f Loch­

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leven ; “yet may I presume to remind you that we are now in summer ?” “ I thank you for the information, my good lady,” said the Queen; “ for prisoners better learn their calendar from the mouth o f their jailor, than from any change they themselves feel in the seasons.— Once more, Roland Græme, what of the revels?” “They were gay, madam,” said the page, “but of the usual sort, and little worth your Highness’s ear.” “ O, you know not,” said the Queen, “ how very indulgent my ear has become to all that speaks of freedom and the pleasures o f the free. Methinks I would rather have seen the gay villagers dance their ring round the May-pole, than have witnessed the most stately masque within the walls of a palace—the absence of stone-walls— the sense that the green turf is under the foot which may tread it free and unrestrained, is worth all that art or splendour can add to more courtly revels.” “ I trust,” said the Lady Lochleven, addressing the page in her turn, “there were amongst those follies none of the riots or disturbances to which they so naturally lead ?” Roland gave a slight glance to Catherine Seyton, as if to bespeak her attention as he replied,— “ I witnessed no offence, madam, worthy of marking—none indeed of any kind, save that a bold damsel made her hand somewhat too familiar with the cheek of a player-man, and ran some hazard of being ducked in the lake.” As he uttered these words he cast a hasty glance on Catherine ; but she sustained, with the utmost serenity o f manner and countenance, the hint which he had deemed could not have been thrown out before her without exciting some fear and confusion. “ I will cumber your Grace no longer with my presence,” said the Lady Lochleven, “unless you have aught to command me.” “ Nought, our good hostess,” answered the Queen, “ unless it be to pray you, that on another occasion you deem it not needful to post­ pone your better employment to wait so long upon us.” “May it please you,” added the Lady Lochleven, “to command this your gentleman to attend us, that I may receive some account of those matters which have been sent hither for your Grace’s use.” “We may not refuse what you are pleased to require, madam,” answered the Queen. “ Go with the lady, Roland, if our commands be indeed necessary to thy doing so. We will hear to-morrow the history of thy Kinross pleasures. For this night we dismiss thy attendance.” Roland Græme went with the Lady of Lochleven, who failed not to ask him many questions concerning what had passed at the sports, to which he rendered such answers as were most likely to lull asleep any suspicions which she might entertain of his disposition to favour

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Queen Mary, taking especial care to avoid all allusion to the apparition o f Catherine Seyton, and o f the Abbot Ambrosius. At length, after undergoing a long and somewhat close examination, he was dismissed with such expressions, as, coming from the reserved and stem Lady of Lochleven, might seem to express a degree o f favour and counten­ ance. His first care was to obtain some refreshment, which was more cheerfully afforded him by a good-natured pander than by D ryfes­ dale, who was, on that occasion, much disposed to abide by the fash­ ion of Pudding-bum House, where T h e y who came not the first call, G at no more meat till the next meal.

When Roland Græme had finished his repast, having his dismissal from the Queen for the evening, and being little inclined for such society as the Castle afforded, he stole into the garden, in which he had permission to spend his leisure time, when it pleased him. In this place, the ingenuity of the contriver and disposer of the walks had exerted itself to make the most of little space, and by screens, both of stone ornamented with rude sculpture, and hedges of living green, had endeavoured to give as much intricacy and variety as the confined limits o f the garden would admit. Here the young man walked sadly, considering the events o f the day, and comparing what had dropped from the Abbot with what he had himself noticed of the demeanour of George Douglas. It must be so, was the painful but inevitable conclusion at which he arrived; it must be by his aid that she is thus enabled, like a phantom, to transport herself from place to place, and to appear at pleasure on the mainland or on the islet. It must be so, he repeated once more; with him she holds a close, intimate, and secret correspondence, altogether incon­ sistent with the eye o f favour which she has sometimes cast upon me, and destructive to the hopes which she must have known these glances have necessarily inspired. And yet, (for love will hope where reason despairs,) the thought rushed on his mind, that it was possible she only encouraged Douglas’s passion so far as might serve her mis­ tress’s interest, and that she was o f too frank, noble, and candid a nature to hold out to himself hopes which she meant not to fulfil. Lost in these various conjectures, he seated himself upon a bank o f turf, which commanded a view o f the lake on the one side, and on the other of that front of the casde alongst which the Queen’s apartments were situated. The sun had been now for some time set, and the twilight of May was rapidly fading into a serene night. On the lake, the expanded water rose and fell, with the lightest and softest influence o f a southern

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breeze, which scarcely dimpled the surface over which it passed. In the distance was still seen the dim outline of the island of Saint Serf, once visited by many a sandalled pilgrim, as the blessed spot trodden by a man o f God— now neglected, or violated, as the refuge o f lazy priests, who had with justice been compelled to give place to the sheep and the heifers of a protestant baron. As Roland gazed on the dark speck, amid the lighter blue o f the waters which surrounded it, the mazes of polemical discussion again stretched themselves before the eye of his mind. Had these men justly suffered their exile as licentious drones, the robbers, at once, and disgrace of the busy hive; or, had the hand of avarice and rapine expelled from the temple, not the ribalds who polluted, but the faithful priests who served it in honour and fidelity? The argu­ ments of Henderson, in this contemplative hour, rose with double force before him, and could scarce be parried by the appeal which the Abbot Ambrosius had made from his understanding to his feel­ ings,— an appeal which he had felt more forcibly amid the bustle of stirring life, than it now seemed to his more undisturbed reflec­ tion. It required an effort to divert his mind from this embarrassing topic; and he found that he best succeeded by turning his eyes to the front of the tower, watching where a twinkling light still streamed from the casement o f Catherine Seyton’s apartment, obscured by times for a moment, as the shadow of the fair inhabitant passed betwixt the taper and the window. At length the light was removed or extinguished, and that object o f speculation was also withdrawn from the eyes o f the meditative lover. Dare I confess the fact, without injuring his character for ever as a hero of romance: these eyes gradually became heavy, speculative doubts on the subject of reli­ gious controversy, and anxious conjectures concerning the state of his mistress’s affections, became confusedly blended together in his musings ; the fatigue of a busy day prevailed over the harassing subjects of contemplation which occupied his mind, and he fell fast asleep. Sound were his slumbers, until they were suddenly dispelled by the iron tongue of the castle bell, which sent its deep and sullen sounds wide over the bosom of the lake, and awakened the echoes of Ben­ narty, the hill which descends steeply on its southern bank. Roland started up, for this bell was always tolled at ten o’clock, as the signal for locking the castle gates, and placing the keys under the charge of the seneschal. He therefore hasted to the wicket, by which the garden communicated with the building, and had the mortification, just as he reached it, to hear the bolt leave its sheath with a discordant crash, and enter the stone groove of the door-lintel.

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“ Hold, hold,” cried the page, “ and let me in ere you lock the wicket” The voice of Dryfesdale replied from within, in his usual tone of embittered sullenness— “ The hour is passed, fair master—you like not the inside of these walls— even make it a complete holiday, and pass the night as well as the day out of bounds.” “ Open the door,” exclaimed the indignant page, “ or by Saint Giles I will make thy gold chain smoke for it !” “Make no alarm here,” retorted the impenetrable Dryfesdale, “but keep thy sinful oaths and silly threats for those that regard them—I do mine office, and carry the keys to the seneschal.— Adieu, my young master; the cool night air will advantage your hot blood.” The steward was right in what he said; for the cooling breeze was very necessary to appease the feverish fit of anger which Roland experienced, nor did the remedy succeed for some time. At length, after some hasty turns made through the garden, exhausting his pas­ sion in vain vows of vengeance, Roland Græme began to be sensible that his situation ought rather to be held as matter of laughter, than of serious resentment. T o one bred a sportsman, a night spent in the open air had in it little o f hardship, and the poor malice of the steward seemed more worthy of his contempt than his anger. I would to God, he said, that the grim old man may always have contented himself with such sportive revenge. He often looks as he were capable o f doing us a darker turn. Returning, therefore, to the turf-seat which he had for­ merly occupied, and which was partially sheltered by a trim fence of green holly, he drew his mantle around him, stretched himself at length on the verdant settle, and endeavoured to resume that sleep which the castle-bell had interrupted to so little purpose. Sleep, like other earthly blessings, is niggard of its favours when most courted. The more Roland invoked her aid the further she fled from his eye-lids. He had been completely awakened, first by the sounds of the bell, and then by his own aroused vivacity o f temper, and he found it difficult again to compose himself to slumber. At length, when his mind was wearied out with a maze o f unpleasing meditation, he succeeded in coaxing himself into a broken slumber. This was again dispelled by the voices of two persons who were walking in the garden, the sound of whose conversation, after mingling for some time in the page’s dreams, at length succeeded in awaking him thor­ oughly. He raised himself from his reclining posture in the utmost astonishment, which the circumstance of hearing two persons at that late hour conversing on the outside of the watchfully guarded Castle of Lochleven, was so well calculated to excite. His first thought was upon supernatural beings ; his next, upon some attempt on the part of

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Queen Mary’s friends and followers; his last was, that George of Douglas, possessed o f the keys, and having the means of ingress and egress at pleasure, was availing himself of his office to hold a rendez­ vous with Catherine Seyton in the castle garden. He was confirmed in this opinion by the tone of the voice, which asked in a low whisper, whether all was ready.

Chapter four In some breasts passion lies conceal’d and silent, L ik e w ar’s swart powder in a castle-vault, U ntil occasion, like the linstock, lights it: T h e n com es at once the lightning and the thunder, And distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder. Old P lay G r æ m e , availing himself of a breach in the holly screen, and of the assistance of the full moon, which was now arisen, had a perfect opportunity, himself unobserved, to reconnoitre the persons and the motions of those by whom his rest had been thus unexpectedly disturbed, and his observation confirmed his jealous apprehensions. They stood together in close and earnest conversation within four yards of the place o f his retreat, and he could easily recognize the tall form and deep voice of Douglas, and the no less remarkable dress and tone o f the page at the hostelry of Saint Michael’s. “ I have been at the door o f his apartment,” said Douglas, “but he is not there— or he will not answer. It is fast bolted on the inside, as is the custom, and we cannot pass through it—and what his silence may bode I know not.” “You have trusted him too far,” said the other; “ a feather-headed coxcomb, upon whose changeable mind and hot brain there is no making an abiding impression.” “ It was not I who was willing to trust him,” said Douglas ; “but I was assured he would prove friendly when called upon, for– – – ” here he spoke so low that Roland lost the tenor of his words, which was the more provoking, as he more than suspected that he was himself the subject of their conversation. “ Nay,” replied the stranger, speaking more aloud, “ I have on my side always put him off with fair words, which make fools fain—but now, if you distrust him at the push, deal with him with your dagger, and so make open passage.” “ That were too rash,” said Douglas; “ and, besides, as I told you, R o l a n d

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the door o f his apartment is shut and bolted. I will essay again to waken him.” Græme instantly comprehended, that the ladies having been somehow made aware o f his being in the garden, had secured the door of the outer room in which he usually slept, as a sort of centinel upon that only access to the Queen’s apartments. But then how came Catherine Seyton to be abroad, if the Queen and the other lady were still within their chambers, and the access to them locked and bolted?— “ I will be instantly at the bottom of these mysteries,” said he, “ and then thank Mrs Catherine, if this be really she, for the kind use which she exhorted Douglas to make o f his dagger— they seek me, as I comprehend, and they shall not seek me in vain.” Douglas had by this time re-entered the castle by the wicket, which was now open. The stranger stood alone in the garden walk, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes cast impatiently up to the moon, as if accusing her of betraying him by the magnificence of her lustre. In a moment Roland Græme stood before him— “ A goodly night,” he said, “Mrs Catherine, for a young lady to stray forth in disguise, and to meet with men in an orchard.” “ Hush !” said the stranger page, “hush, thou foolish patch, and tell us in one word if thou art friend or foe.” “ How should I be friend to one who deceives me by fair words, and who would have Douglas deal with me with his poniard?” replied Roland. “ The fiend receive George of Douglas and thee too, thou bom mad-cap and sworn marplot,” said the other ; “we shall be discovered, and then death is the word.” “ Catherine,” said the page, “you have dealt falsely and cruelly with me, and the moment of explanation is now come— neither it nor you shall escape me.” “ Madman !” said the stranger, “ I am neither Kate nor Catherine— the moon shines bright enough surely to know the hart from the hind.” “ That shift shall not serve you, fair mistress,” said the page, laying hold on the lap o f the stranger’s cloak; “this time, at least, I will know with whom I deal.” “ Unhand me,” said she, endeavouring to extricate herself from his grasp, and in a tone where anger seemed to contend with a desire to laugh; “ use you so little discretion towards a daughter of Seyton?” But as Roland, encouraged perhaps by her risibility to suppose his violence was not unpardonably offensive, kept hold on her mantle, she said, in a sterner tone of unmixed resentment,— “Madman, let me go !

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— there is life and death in this moment—I would not willingly hurt thee, and yet, beware !” As she spoke she made a sudden effort to escape, and in doing so, a pistol, which she carried in her hand or about her person, went off. This warlike sound instantly awakened the well-warded castle. The warder blew his horn, and began to toll the castle-bell, crying out at the same time, “ Fie, treason ! treason ! cry all ! cry all !” The apparition o f Catherine Seyton, which the page had let loose in the first moment of astonishment, vanished in darkness, but the plash of oars was heard, and in a second or two, five or six harquebusses and a falconet were fired from the battlements of the castle successively, as if levelled at some object on the water. Confounded with these incid­ ents, no way for Catherine’s protection (supposing her to be in the boat which he had heard put from the shore ) occurred to Roland, save to have recourse to George of Douglas. He hastened for this purpose towards the apartment of the Queen, whence he heard loud voices and much trampling of feet. When he entered, he found himself added to a confused and astonished group, which, assembled in that apartment, stood gazing upon each other. At the upper end o f the room stood the Queen, equipped as for a journey, and attended not only by the Lady Fleming, but by the omnipresent Catherine Seyton, dressed in the habit o f her own sex, and bearing in her hand the casket in which Mary kept such jewels as she had been permitted to retain. At the other end of the hall was the Lady of Lochleven, hastily dressed, as one startled from slumber by the sudden alarm, and surrounded by domestics, some bearing torches, others holding naked swords, par­ tizans, pistols, or such other weapons as they had caught up in the hurry of a night alarm. Betwixt these two parties stood George Doug­ las, his arms folded on his breast, his eyes bent on the ground, like a criminal who knows not how to deny, yet continues unwilling to avow, the guilt in which he has been detected. “Speak, George of Douglas,” said the Lady of Lochleven; “ speak, and clear the horrid suspicion which rests on thy name. Say ‘a Doug­ las was never faithless to his trust, and I am a Douglas.’ Say this, my dearest son, and it is all I ask thee to say to clear thy name, even under such a foul charge. Say it was but the wile o f these unhappy women, and this false boy, which plotted an escape so fatal to Scotland— so destructive to thy brother’s house.” “Madam,” said old D ryfesdale the steward, “this much do I say for this silly page, that he could not be accessary to unlocking the doors, since I myself this night bolted him out o f the castle. Whoever limned this night-piece, the lad’s share in it were small.” “Thou liest, Dryfesdale,” said the lady, “ and wouldst throw the

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blame on thy master’s house, to save the worthless life o f a gipsey boy.” “ His death were more desirable to me than his life,” answered the steward, sullenly; “but the truth is the truth.” At these words Douglas raised his head, drew up his figure to its full height, and spoke boldly and sedately, as one whose resolution was taken. “ Let no life be endangered for me. I alone”– – – “ Douglas,” said the Queen, interrupting him, “ art thou mad?— speak not, I charge you.” “Madam,” replied he, bowing with the deepest respect, “ gladly would I obey your commands, but they must have a victim, and let it be the true one.—Yes, madam,” he continued, addressing the Lady of Lochleven, “ I alone am guilty in this matter—if the word o f a Douglas has yet any weight with you, believe me that this boy is innocent; and, on your conscience, I charge you do him no wrong; nor let the Queen suffer hardship for embracing the opportunity of freedom which sin­ cere loyalty—which a sentiment yet deeper—offered to her accept­ ance. Yes ! I had planned the escape of the most beautiful, the most persecuted of women; and far from regretting that I, for a while, deceived the malice o f her enemies, I glory in it, and am most willing to yield up life itself in her cause.” “ Now, may God have comfort on my age,” said the Lady of Loch­ leven, “and enable me to bear this load of affliction ! O Princess, bom in a luckless hour, when will you cease to be the instrument of seduc­ tion and of ruin to all who approach you! O ancient house o f Loch­ leven, famed so long for truth and honour, evil was the hour brought the deceiver under thy roof!” “ Say not so, madam,” replied her son; “the old honours of the Douglas line will be outshone, when one of its descendants dies for the most injured o f queens— for the most lovely of women.” “ Douglas,” said the Queen, “ must I at this moment—ay, even at this moment, when I may lose a faithful subject for ever— chide thee for forgetting what is due to me as thy Queen?” “Wretched boy,” said the distracted Lady o f Lochleven, “ hast thou fallen even thus far into the snare of this Moabitish woman?—hast thou bartered thy name, thy allegiance, thy knightly oath, thy duty to thy parents, thy country, and thy God, for a feigned tear, or a sickly smile, from lips which flattered the infirm Francis—lured to death the ideot Damley—read luscious poetry with the minion C hastelet— mingled in the lays o f love which were sung by the beggar Rizzio— and which were joined in rapture to those of the foul and licentious Bothwell?” “ Blaspheme not, madam!” said Douglas;— “Nor you, fair Queen,

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and virtuous as fair, chide at this moment the presumption of thy vassal!—think not that the mere devotion of a subject could have moved me to the part I have been performing. Well you deserve that each of your lieges should die for you ; but I have done more— have done that to which love alone could compel a Douglas— I have dis­ sembled. Farewell then, Queen of all hearts, and Empress of that of Douglas !—When you are freed from this vile bondage— as freed you shall be, if justice remains in Heaven—and when you load with hon­ ours and titles the happy man who shall deliver you, cast one thought on him whose heart would have despised every reward save a kiss of your hand— cast one thought on his fidelity, and drop one tear on his grave.” And throwing himself at her feet, he seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “This before my face!” said the Lady of Lochleven— “wilt thou court thy adulterous paramour before the eyes of a parent?—Tear them asunder, and put him under strict ward ! Seize him, upon your lives!” she added, seeing that her attendants looked on each other with hesitation. “ They are doubtful,” said Mary. “ Save thyself, Douglas, I com­ mand thee !” He started up from the floor, and only exclaiming, “My life or death are yours, and at your disposal !”—drew his sword, and broke through those who stood betwixt him and the door. The enthusiasm of his onset was too sudden and too lively to have been opposed by any thing short of the most decided opposition; and as he was both loved and feared by his brother’s vassals, none of them would offer him actual injury. The Lady o f Lochleven stood astonished at his sudden escape— “Am I surrounded,” she said, “by traitors? Upon him, villains!— pursue, stab, cut him down !” “He cannot leave the island, madam,” said Dryfesdale, interfering; “ I have the key of the boat-chain.” But two or three voices o f those who pursued from curiosity, or command of their mistress, exclaimed from below, that he had cast himself into the lake. “ Brave Douglas still!” exclaimed the Queen— “ O, true and noble heart, that prefers death to imprisonment!” “ Fire upon him!” said the Lady of Lochleven; “if there be here a true servant of his brother, let him shoot the runagate dead, and let the lake cover our shame !” The report of a gun or two was heard, but they were probably shot rather to obey the Lady, than with any purpose of hitting the mark; and Randal immediately entering, said, that Master George

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had been taken up by a boat, which lay at a little distance from the castle. “Man a barge, and pursue them !” said the lady. “ It were quite vain,” said Randal ; “by this they are half way to shore, and a cloud has come over the moon.” “And has the traitor then escaped?” said the lady, pressing her hands against her forehead with a gesture of despair; “the honour of our house is for ever gone, and all will be deemed complices in this base treachery.” “ Lady of Lochleven,” said Mary, advancing towards her, “you have this night cut off my fairest hopes—you have turned my expected freedom into bondage, and dashed away the cup o f joy in the very instant I was advancing it to my lips— and yet I feel for your sorrow the pity that you deny to mine— Gladly would I comfort you if I might ; but as I may not, I will at least part from you in charity.” “ Away, proud woman!” said the lady; “who ever knew so well as thou to deal the deepest wounds under the pretence of kindness and courtesy?—Who, since the great traitor, could ever so betray with a kiss?” “ Lady Douglas o f Lochleven,” said the Queen, “in this moment thou canst not offend me— no, not even by thy coarse and unwomanly language, held to me in presence of menials and armed retainers. I have this night owed so much to one member o f the house o f Loch­ leven, as to cancel whatever its mistress can do or say in the wildness of her passion.” “We are bounden to you, Princess,” said Lady Lochleven, putting a strong constraint on herself, and passing from her tone o f violence to that o f bitter irony ; “ our poor house hath been but seldom graced with royal smiles, and will hardly, with my choice, exchange their rough honesty for such court-honour as Mary of Scotland has now to bestow.” “ They,” replied Mary, “who know so well how to take, may think themself excused from the obligation implied in receiving. And that I have now little to offer, is the fault o f the Douglasses and their allies.” “ Fear nothing, madam,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, in the same bitter tone, “you retain an exchequer which neither your own prodigality can drain, nor your offended country deprive you of— while you have fair words and delusive smiles at command, you need no other bribes to lure youth to folly.” The Queen cast a not ungratified glance on a large mirror, which, hanging on one side o f the apartment, and illuminated by the torch­ light, reflected her beautiful face and person. “ Our hostess grows complaisant,” she said, “my Fleming—we had not thought that grief

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and captivity had left us so well stored with that sort o f wealth which ladies prize most dearly.” “Your Grace will drive this severe woman frantic,” said Fleming, in a low tone. “On my knees I implore you to remember she is already dreadfully offended, and that we are in her power.” “I will not spare her, Fleming,” answered the Queen; “it is against my nature. She returned my honest sympathy with insult and abuse, and I will gall her in return— if her words are too blunt for answer, let her use her poniard if she dare !” “The Lady Lochleven,” said the Lady Fleming aloud, “would surely do well now to withdraw, and to leave her Grace to repose.” “Ay,” replied the lady, “or to leave her Grace, and her Grace’s minion, to think what silly fly they may next wrap their meshes about. M y eldest son is a widower— were he not more worthy the flattering hopes with which you have seduced his brother?— True, the yoke o f marriage has been already thrice fitted— but the church o f Rome calls it a sacrament, and its votaries may deem it is one in which they cannot too often participate.” “And the votaries o f the church o f Geneva,” replied Mary, colour­ ing with indignation, “as they deem marriage no sacrament, are said at times to dispense with the holy ceremony.”— Then, as if afraid o f the consequences o f this home allusion to the errors o f Lady Lochleven’s early life, the Queen added, “Come, my Fleming, we grace her too much by this altercation, we will to our sleeping apartment— if she would disturb us again to-night, she must cause the door to be forced.” So saying, she retired to her bed-room, followed by her two women. Lady Lochleven, stunned as it were by this last sarcasm, and not the less deeply incensed that she had drawn it upon herself, remained like a statue on the spot which she had occupied, when she received an affront so flagrant. Dryfesdale and Randal endeavoured to rouse her to recollection by questions. “What is your honourable ladyship’s pleasure in the premises?” “ Shall we not double the centinels, and place one upon the boats and another in the garden?” said Randal. “Would you that dispatches be sent to Sir William at Edinburgh, to acquaint him with what has happened ?” demanded Dryfesdale ; “and ought not the place o f Kinross to be alarmed, lest there be force upon the shores o f the lake ?” “D o all as thou wilt,” said the lady, collecting herself, and about to depart. “Thou hast the name o f a good soldier, Dryfesdale— take all precautions.— Sacred heaven! that I should be thus openly upbraided !”

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“Would it be your pleasure,” said Dryfesdale, hesitating, “that this person— this lady— be more severely restrained?” “No, vassal !” answered the lady indignantly, “my revenge stoops not to such a low gratification. But I will have more worthy vengeance, or the tomb o f my ancestors shall cover my shame.” “And you shall have it, madam,” replied Dryfesdale— “Ere two suns go down, you shall term yourself amply revenged.” T h e lady made no answer— perhaps did not hear his words, as she presently left the apartment. By the command o f Dryfesdale, the rest o f the attendants were dismissed, some to do the duty o f guard, others to their repose. T he steward himself remained after they had all departed; and Roland Græme, who was alone in the apartment, was surprised to see the old soldier advance toward him with an air of greater cordiality than he had ever before assumed towards him, but which sat ill on his scowling features. “Youth,” he said, “I have done thee some wrong— it is thine own fault, for thy behaviour hath seemed as light to me as the feather thou wearest in thy hat ; and surely thy fantastic apparel, and idle humour of mirth and folly, have made me construe thee something harshly. But I saw this night from my casement, (as I looked out to see how thou hadst disposed o f thyself in the garden,) I saw, I say, the true efforts which thou didst make to detain the companion o f the perfidy o f him who is no longer worthy to be called by his father’s name, but must be cut off from his house like a rotten branch. I was just about to come to thy assistance when the pistol went o ff ; and the warder, (a false knave, whom I suspect to be bribed for the nonce, ) saw himself forced to give the alarm, which, perchance, till then he had wilfully withheld. T o atone, therefore, for my injustice towards you, I would willingly ren­ der you a courtesy, if you would accept it from my hands.” “May I first crave to know what it is ?” replied the page. “ Simply to carry the news o f this discovery to Holyrood, where thou mayest do thyself much grace, as well with the Earl o f Morton and the Regent himself, as with Sir William Douglas, seeing thou has seen the matter from end to end, and borne faithful part therein. T h e making thine own fortune will be thus lodged in thine own hand, when I trust thou wilt estrange thyself from foolish vanities, and learn to walk in this world as one who thinks upon the next.” “ Sir Steward,” said Roland Græme, “I thank you for your cour­ tesy, but I may not do your errand. I pass that I am the Queen’s sworn servant, and may not be o f counsel against her— but setting this apart, methinks it were a bad road to Sir William o f Lochleven’s favour, to be the first to tell him o f his brother’s defection— neither would the Regent be over well pleased to hear the infidelity o f his vassal, nor

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Morton to learn the falsehood o f his kinsman.” “U m !” said the steward, making that inarticulate sound which expresses surprise mingled with displeasure. “Nay, then, even fly where ye list ; for, giddy-pated as ye may be, you know how to bear you in the world.” “ I will shew you my system is less selfish than you think for,” said the page; “for I hold truth and mirth to be better than gravity and cunning— ay, and in the end to be a match for them.— You never loved me less, Sir Steward, than you do at this moment. I know you will give me no real confidence, and I am resolved to accept no false protestations as current coin. Resume your old course— suspect me as much and watch me as close as you will, I bid you defiance— you have met with your match.” “By heaven, young man,” said the steward, with a look o f bitter malignity, “if thou darest to attempt any treachery towards the house o f Lochleven, thy head shall blacken in the sun from the warder’s turret!” “He cannot commit treachery who refuses trust,” said the page ; “and for my head, it stands as seemly on mine own shoulders, as on any turret that ever mason builded.” “Farewell, thou prating and speckled pie,” said Dryfesdale, “that art so vain o f thine idle tongue and variegated coat. Beware trap and lime-twig.” “And fare thee well, thou hoarse old raven,” answered the page; “thy solemn flight, sable hue, and deep croak, are no charms against bird-bolt or hail-shot, and that thou mayest find— it is open war betwixt us, each for the cause o f our mistress, and God shew the right!” “Amen, and defend his own people !” said the steward. “I will let my mistress know what addition thou hast made to this mess o f traitors. Good night, Monsieur Feather-pate.” “Good night, Seignior Sowersby,” replied the page ; and, when the old man departed, he betook himself to rest.

Chapter F ive Poison’d— ill fare— dead, forsook, cast off. K ing jo h n

H ows oe ve r weary Roland Græme might be o f the Castle o f Lochleven, however much he might wish that the plan for Mary’s escape had been perfected, I question if he ever awoke with more pleasing feelings than on the morning after George Douglas’s plan for

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accomplishing her deliverance had been frustrated. In the first place, he had the clearest conviction that he had misunderstood the inuendo o f the Abbot, and that the affections o f Douglas were fixed, not on Catherine Seyton, but on the Queen ; and in the second, from the sort o f explanation which had taken place betwixt the steward and him, he felt himself at liberty, without any breach o f honour towards the family o f Lochleven, to contribute his best aid to any scheme which should in future be formed for the Queen’s escape ; and, independently o f the good will which he himself had to the enterprize, he knew he could find no surer road to the favour o f Catherine Seyton. He now sought but an opportunity to inform her that he had dedicated himself to this task, and fortune was propitious in affording him one which was unusually favourable. At the ordinary hour o f breakfast, it was introduced by the steward with the usual forms, who, as soon as it was placed on the board in the inner apartment, said to Roland Græme, with a glance o f sarcastic import, “I leave you, my young sir, to do the office o f sewer— it has been too long rendered to the Lady Mary by one belonging to the Douglas.” “Were it the prime and principal who ever bore the name,” said Roland, “the office were an honour to him.” T h e steward departed without replying to this bravade, otherwise than by a dark look o f scorn. Græme, thus left alone, busied himself as one engaged in a labour o f love, to imitate, as well as he could, the grace and courtesy with which George o f Douglas was wont to render his ceremonial service at meals to the Queen o f Scotland. There was more than youthful vanity,— there was a generous devotion in the feeling with which he took up the task, as a brave soldier assumes the place o f a comrade who has fallen in the front o f battle. “I am now,” he said, “their only champion ; and, come weal, come woe, I will be, to the best o f my skill and power, as faithful, as trust-worthy, as brave as any Douglas o f them all could have been.” At this moment Catherine Seyton entered, and alone, contrary to her custom ; and not less contrary to her custom, she entered with her kerchief at her eyes. Roland Græme approached her with beating heart and with downcast eyes, and asked her in a low and hesitating voice, whether the Queen were well? “Can you suppose it?” said Catherine; “think you her heart and body are framed o f steel and iron, to endure the cruel disappoint­ ment o f yester even, and the infamous taunts o f yonder puritanic hag?— Would to God that I were a man, to aid her more effectu­ ally!” “If those who carry pistols, and batons, and poniards,” said the

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page, “are not men, they are at least Amazons, and that is as formid­ able.” “You are welcome to the flash o f your wit, sir,” replied the damsel ; “I am neither in spirits to enjoy or reply to it.” “Well then,” said the page, “list to me in all serious truth. And first let me say, that the gear last night had run smoother, had you taken me into your counsels.” “And so we meant; but who could have guessed that Master Page should chuse to pass all night in the garden, like some moon-stricken knight in a Spanish romance— instead o f being in his bed-room, when Douglas came to hold communication with him on our project?” “And why,” said the page, “defer to so late a moment so important a confidence?” “Because your communications with Henderson, and— with par­ don— the natural impetuosity and fickleness o f your disposition, made us dread to entrust you with a secret o f such consequence, till the last moment.” “And why at the last moment ?” said the page, offended at this frank avowal; “why at that, or at any moment, since I had the misfortune to incur so much suspicion?” “Nay— now you are angry again,” said Catherine ; “and to serve you aright I should break off this talk; but I will be magnanimous, and answer your question. Know, then, our reason for trusting you was two-fold. In the first place, we could scarce avoid it, since you slept in the room through which we had to pass— in the second place”– – – “Nay,” said the page, “you may dispense with a second reason, when the first makes your confidence in me a case o f necessity.” “Good now, hold thy peace,” said Catherine. “ In the second place, as I said before— there is one foolish person among us, who believes that Roland Græme’s heart is warm, though his head is giddy— that his blood is pure, though it boils too hastily— and that his faith and honour are true as the load-star, though his tongue sometimes is far less than discreet.” This avowal Catherine repeated in a low tone, with her eyes fixed on the floor, as if she shunned the glance o f Roland while she suffered it to escape her lips— “And this single friend,” exclaimed the youth in rapture; “this only one who would do justice to the poor Roland Græme, and whose own generous heart taught her to distinguish between follies o f the brain and faults o f the heart— Will you not tell me, dearest Catherine, to whom I owe my most grateful, my most heartfelt thanks?” “Nay,” said Catherine, with her eyes still fixed on the ground, “if your own heart tell you not”– – –

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“Divinest Catherine,” said the page, seizing upon her hand, and kneeling on one knee. "— if your own heart, I say, tell you not,” said Catherine, gently disengaging her hand, “it is very ungrateful ; for the maternal kindness o f the Lady Fleming”– – – T h e page started on his feet. “By heaven, Catherine, your tongue wears as many disguises as your person. But you only mock me, cruel girl. You know the Lady Fleming has no more regard for any one, than hath the forlorn princess who is wrought into yonder piece o f old figured court-tapestry.” “It may be so,” said Catherine Seyton, “but you should not speak so loud.” “ Pshaw!” answered the page, but at the same time lowering his voice, “she cares for no one but herself and the Queen. And you know, besides, there is no one o f you whose opinion I value, if I have not your own— no, not that o f Q ueen Mary herself.” “T he more shame for you, if it be so,” said Catherine with great composure. “Nay, but, fair Catherine,” said the page, “why will you thus damp my ardour, when I am devoting myself, body and soul, to the cause o f your mistress?” “It is because in doing so,” said Catherine, “you debase a cause so noble, by naming along with it any baser or more selfish motive. Believe me,” she said, with kindling eyes, and while the blood mantled on her cheek, “they think vilely and falsely o f women— I mean o f those who deserve the name— who deem that they love the gratification o f their vanity, or the mean purpose o f engrossing a lover’s admiration and affection, better than they love the virtue and honour o f the man they may be brought to prefer. He that serves his religion, his prince, and his country, with ardour and devotion, need not plead his cause with the common-place rant o f romantic passion— the woman whom he honours with his love, becomes his debtor, and her corresponding affection is engaged to repay his glorious toil.” “You hold out a glorious prize for such toil,” said the youth, bend­ ing his eyes on her with enthusiasm. “ Only a heart which knows how to value it,” replied Catherine. “He that should free this injured Princess from these dungeons, and set her at freedom among her free and warlike nobles, whose hearts are burning to welcome her— where is the maiden in Scotland, whom the love o f such a hero would not honour, were she sprung from the blood royal o f the land, and he offspring o f the poorest cottager who ever held a plough?” “I am determined,” said Roland, “to take the adventure. T e ll me

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first, however, fair Catherine, and speak it as if you were confessing to the priest— this poor Queen, I know she is unhappy— but, Catherine, do you hold her innocent? She is accused o f murder.” “D o I hold the lamb guilty, because it is assailed by the wolf?” answered Catherine; “do I hold yonder sun polluted, because an earth-damp sullies his beams ?” T h e page sighed and looked down. “I would my conviction were as deep as thine— but one thing is clear, that in this captivity she hath wrong— She rendered upon a capitulation, and the terms have been refused her— I will embrace her quarrel to the death.” “Will you— will you, indeed?” said Catherine, taking his hand in her turn. “ O be but firm in mind, as thou art bold in deed and quick in resolution— Keep but thy plighted faith, and after ages shall honour thee as the saviour o f Scotland.” “But when I have toiled successfully to win that Leah, Honour, thou wilt not, my Catherine,” said the page, “condemn me to a new term o f service for that Rachel, Love ?” “O f that,” said Catherine, again extricating her hand from his, “we shall have full time to speak; but Honour is the elder sister, and must be won the first.” “I may not win her,” answered the page; “but I will venture fairly for her, and man can do no more. And know, fair Catherine, for you shall see the very secret thought o f my heart, that not Honour only— not only that other and fairer sister, whom you frown on me for so much as mentioning— but the stem commands o f duty also, compel me to aid the Queen’s deliverance.” “Indeed!” said Catherine; “you were wont to have doubts on that matter.” “Ay, but her life was not then threatened,” replied Roland. “And is it now more endangered than heretofore ?” asked Cather­ ine Seyton, in anxious terror. “Be not alarmed,” said the page ; “but you heard the terms on which your Royal Mistress parted with the Lady o f Lochleven?” “T oo well— but too well,” said Catherine; “alas! that she cannot rule her princely resentment, and refrain from encounters like these !” “That hath passed betwixt them,” said Roland, “which woman never forgives woman. I saw the Lady’s brow turn pale, and then black, when, before all her menyie, and in her moment o f power, the Queen humbled her to the dust by taxing her with her shame. And I heard the oath o f deadly resentment and revenge which she muttered in the ear o f one, who by his answer will, I judge, be but too ready an executioner o f her will.” “You terrify me,” said Catherine.

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“D o not so take it— call up the masculine part o f your spirit— we will counteract and defeat her plans, be they dangerous as they may. Why do you look upon me thus and weep ?” “Alas !” said Catherine, “because you stand there before me a living and breathing man, in all the adventurous glow and enterprize o f youth, yet still possessing the frolic spirits o f childhood— there you stand, full alike o f generous emprize and childish recklessness ; and if to-day, to-morrow, or in some such brief space, you lie a mangled and lifeless corpse upon the floor o f these hateful dungeons, who but Catherine Seyton will be the cause o f your brave and gay career being broken short as you start from the goal ? Alas! she whom you have chosen to twine your wreath, may too probably have to work your shroud.” “And be it so, Catherine,” said the page, in the full glow o f youthful enthusiasm ; “and do thou work my shroud ; and if thou grace it with such tears as fall now at the thought, it will honour my remains more than an earl’s mantle would my living body. But shame on this faint­ ness o f heart ! the time craves a firmer mood— Be a woman, Catherine — or rather be a man— thou canst be a man if thou wilt.” Catherine dried her tears, and endeavoured to smile. “You must not ask me,” she said, “about that which so much dis­ turbs your mind ; you shall know all in time— nay, you should know all now, but that— Hush ! here comes the Queen.” Mary entered from her apartment, paler than usual, and apparently exhausted by a sleepless night, and by the painful thoughts which had ill supplied the place o f repose ; yet the languor o f her looks was so far from impairing her beauty, that it only substituted the frail delicacy o f the lovely woman for the majestic grace o f the Queen. Contrary to her wont, her toilette had been very hastily dispatched, and her hair, which was usually dressed by Lady Fleming with great care, escaping from beneath the head-tire, which had been hastily adjusted, fell in long and luxuriant tresses o f Nature’s own curling, over a neck and bosom which were somewhat less carefully veiled than usual. As she stepped over the threshold o f her apartment, Catherine, hastily drying her tears, ran to meet her Royal Mistress, and having first kneeled at her feet, and kissed her hand, instantly rose, and placing herself on the other side o f the Queen, seemed anxious to divide with the Lady Fleming the honour o f supporting and assisting her. T h e page, on his part, advanced and put in order the chair o f state, which she usually occupied, and having placed the cushion and foot-stool for her accommodation, stepped back, and stood ready for service in the place usually occupied by his predecessor, the young Seneschal. Mary’s eye rested an instant on him, and could not but

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remark the change o f persons. H er’s was not that female heart which could refuse compassion at least, to a gallant youth who had suffered in her cause, although he had been guided in his enterprize by a too presumptuous passion ; and the words “Poor Douglas !” escaped from her lips, perhaps unconsciously, as she leant herself back in her chair, and put the kerchief to her eyes. “Yes, gracious madam,” said Catherine, assuming a cheerful man­ ner, in order to cheer her Sovereign, “our gallant knight is indeed banished— the adventure was not reserved for him— but he has left behind him a youthful Esquire, as much devoted to your Grace’s service, and who, by me, makes you tender o f his hand and sword.” “If they may in aught avail your Grace,” said Roland Græme, bowing profoundly. “Alas!” said the Queen, “what needs this, Catherine?— why pre­ pare new victims to be involved in, and overwhelmed by my cruel fortune ?— were we not better cease to struggle, and ourselves sink in the tide without farther resistance, than thus drag into destruction with us every generous heart who makes an effort in our favour?— I have had but too much o f plot and intrigue around me, since I was stretched an orphan child in my very cradle, while contending nobles strove which should rule in the name o f the unconscious innocent. Surely time it were that all this busy and most dangerous coil should end. Let me call my prison a convent, and my seclusion a voluntary sequestration o f myself from the world and its ways.” “ Speak not thus, madam, before your faithful servants,” said Cath­ erine, “to discourage their zeal at once, and to break their hearts— Daughter o f Kings, be not in this hour so unkingly— Come, Roland, and let us, the youngest o f her followers, shew ourselves worthy o f her cause— let us kneel before her foot-stool, and implore her to be her own magnanimous self.” And leading Roland Græme to the Queen’s seat, they both kneeled down before her. Mary raised herself in her chair, and sat erect, while, extending one hand to be kissed by the page, she arranged with the other the clustering locks which shaded the bold yet lovely brow o f the high-spirited Catherine. “Alas ! ma mignonne,” she said, for so in fondness she often called her young attendant, “that you should thus desperately mix with my unhappy fate the fortune o f your own young lives !— Are they not a lovely couple, my Fleming? and is it not heart-rending to think that I must be their ruin?” “Not so,” said Roland Græme, “it is we, gracious Sovereign, who will be your deliverers.” “Ex oribus parvulorum !" said the Q ueen, looking upward ; “if it is by the mouth o f these children that heaven calls me to resume the stately

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thoughts which become my birth and my rights, thou wilt grant them thy protection, and to me the power o f rewarding their zeal.”— Then turning to Fleming, she instantly added,— “Thou knowest, my friend, whether to make those who have served me happy, was not ever Mary’s favourite pastime. When I have been rebuked by the stem preachers o f the Calvinistic heresy— when I have seen the fierce countenances o f my nobles averted from me, has it not been because I mixed in the harmless pleasures o f the young and gay, and rather for the sake o f their happiness than my own, have mingled in the masque, the song, or the dance, with the youth o f my household. Well, I repent not o f it— though Knox termed it sin, and Morton degradation — I was happy, because I saw happiness around me; and woe betide the wretched jealousy that can extract guilt out o f the overflowings o f an unguarded gaiety!— Fleming, if we are restored to our throne, shall we not have one blithesome day at a blithesome bridal, o f which we must now name neither the bride nor the groom ?— But that bride­ groom shall have the barony o f Blairgowrie, a fair gift even for a Queen to give, and that bride’s chaplet shall be twined with the fairest pearls that ever were found in the depths o f Lochlomond; and thou thyself, Mary Fleming, the best dresser o f tires that ever busked the tresses o f a queen, and who would scorn to touch those o f any woman o f lower rank,— thou thyself shalt for my love twine them into the bride’s tresses.— Look, my Fleming, suppose them such clustered locks as those o f our Catherine, they would not put shame upon thy skill.” So saying, she passed her hand fondly over the head o f her youthful favourite, while her more aged attendant replied despondently, “Alas ! madam, your thoughts stray far from home.” “They do, my Fleming,” said the Queen, “but is it well or kind in you to call them back?— G od knows, they have kept the perch this night but too closely— Come, I will recal the gay vision, were it but to punish thee— yes, at that blithesome bridal, Mary herself shall forget the weight o f sorrows, and the cumber o f state, and herself once more lead a measure.— At whose wedding was it that we last danced, my Fleming? I think care has troubled my memory— yet something o f it I should remember— canst thou not aid me ?— I know thou canst.” “Alas ! madam,” replied the lady— “W hat!” said Mary, “wilt thou not help us so far? this is a peevish adherence to thine own graver opinion, which holds our talk as folly. But thou art court-bred, and wilt well understand me when I say, the Queen commands Lady Fleming to tell her where she led the last branle.” With a face deadly pale, and a mien as if she was about to sink into

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the earth, the court-bred dame, no longer daring to refuse obedience, faultered out— “ Gracious Lady— if my memory err not— it was at a masque in Holyrood— at the marriage o f Sebastian”– — T h e unhappy Queen, who had hitherto listened with a melancholy smile, provoked by the reluctance with which the Lady Fleming brought out her story, at this ill-fated word, interrupted her with a shriek so wild and loud that the vaulted apartment rang, and both Roland and Catherine sprung to their feet in the utmost terror and alarm. Meantime, Mary seemed, by the train o f horrible ideas so suddenly excited, surprised not only beyond self-command, but for the moment beyond the verge o f reason. “ Traitress !” she said to the Lady Fleming, “thou wouldst slay thy sovereign— Call my French guards— à moi ! à moi! mes Français!— I am beset with traitors in mine own palace— they have murthered my husband— Rescue! rescue for the Queen o f Scotland!” She started up from her chair— her features, late so exquisitely lovely in their paleness, now inflamed with the fury o f frenzy, and resembling those o f a Bellona. “We will take the field ourself,” she said ; “Warn the city — warn Lothian and Fife— Saddle our Spanish barb, and bid French Paris see our petronel be charged.— Better to die at the head o f our brave Scotsmen, like our grandfather at Flodden, than o f a broken heart, like our ill-starred father.” “ Be patient— be composed, dearest Sovereign,” said Catherine; and then addressing Lady Fleming angrily, she added, “How could you say aught that reminded her o f her husband ?” T h e word reached the ear o f the unhappy Princess, who caught it up, speaking with great rapidity. “Husband?— what husband?— Not his most Christian Majesty— he is ill at ease— he cannot mount on horseback— Not him o f the Lennox— but it was the Duke o f Orkney thou wouldst say." “For G od’s love, madam, be patient!” said Lady Fleming. But the Queen’s excited imagination could by no entreaty be diverted from its course. “Bid him come hither to our aid,” she said, “ and bring with him his Lambs, as he calls them— Bowton, Hay o f Talla, Black O rmiston, and his kinsman Hob— fie! how swart they are, and how they smell o f sulphur. What! closeted with Morton? Nay, if the Douglas and the Hepburn hatch the complot together, the bird, when it breaks the shell, will scare Scotland— Will it not, my Fleming?” “ She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming; “we have too many hearers for these strange words.” “Roland,” said Catherine, “in the name o f God, begone!— you cannot aid us here— Leave us to deal with her alone— Away— away !”

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She thrust him to the door o f the anti-room ; yet even when he had entered that apartment, and shut the door, he could still hear the Queen talk in a loud and determined tone, as if giving forth orders, until at length the voice died away in a feeble and continued lamenta­ tion. At this crisis Catherine entered the anti-room. “Be not too anxious,” she said, “the crisis is now over; but keep the door fast— let no one enter until she is more composed.” “In the name o f God, what does this mean?” said the page ; “or what was there in the Lady Fleming’s word to excite so wild a trans­ port?” “ O the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said Catherine, repeat­ ing the words impatiently; “the Lady Fleming is a fool— she loves her mistress, yet knows so littl e how to express her love, that were the Queen to ask her for very poison, she would deem it a point o f duty not to resist her commands. I could have torn her starched head-tire from her formal head— T h e Queen should have as soon had the heart out o f my body, as the word Sebastian out o f my lips. That that piece of weaved tapestry should be a woman, and yet not have wit enough to tell a lie !” “And what was this story o f Sebastian ?” said the page. “By heaven, Catherine, you are all riddles alike.” “You are as great a fool as Fleming,” returned the impatient maiden ; “know ye not, that on the night o f Henry Damley’s murther, and at the blowing up o f the Kirk o f Field, the Queen’s absence was owing to her attending on a masque at Holyrood, given by her to grace the marriage o f this same Sebastian, who, himself a favoured servant, married one o f her female attendants who was near to her person?” “By Saint Giles,” said the page, “I wonder not at her passion now, but only marvel by what forgetfulness it was that she could urge the Lady Fleming with such a question.” “I cannot account for it,” said Catherine; “but it seems as if great and violent grief or horror sometimes obscure the memory, and spread a cloud like that o f an exploding cannon, over the circum­ stances with which they are accompanied. But I may not stay here, where I came not to moralize with your wisdom, but simply to cool my resentment against that unwise Lady Fleming, which I think hath now somewhat abated, so that I shall endure her presence without any desire to damage either her curch or vasquine. Meanwhile, keep fast that door— I would not for my life that any o f these heretic curs saw her in this unhappy state— which, brought on her as it has been by the success o f their own diabolical plottings, they would not stick to call, in their snuffling cant, ‘the judgment o f Providence.’ ”

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She left the apartment just as the latch o f the outward door was raised from without. But the bolt which Roland had drawn on the inside, resisted the efforts o f the person desirous to enter. “Who is there ?” said Græme aloud. “It is I,” replied the harsh and yet slow voice o f the steward Dryfesdale. “You cannot enter now,” returned the youth. “And wherefore ?” demanded Dryfesdale, “ seeing I come but to do my duty, and enquire what mean the shrieks from the apartment o f the Moabitish lady. Wherefore, I say, since such is mine errand, can I not enter?” “Simply,” replied the page, “because the bolt is drawn, and I have no fancy to undo it. I have the right side o f the door to-day, as you had last night.” “Thou art ill-advised, thou malapert boy,” replied the steward, “to speak to me in such fashion ; but I shall inform the Lady o f thine insolence.” “T he insolence,” said the page, “is meant for thee only, in fair guerdon o f thy constant discourtesy to me. For thy lady’s information, I have answer more courteous— you may say that the Queen is ill at ease, and desires to be disturbed neither by visits nor messages.” “I conjure you, in the name o f G od,” said the old man, with more solemnity in his tone than he had hitherto used, “to let me know if her malady really gains power on her !” “ She will have no aid at your hand, or at your lady’s— wherefore, begone, and trouble us no more— we neither want, nor will accept o f aid at your hands.” With this positive reply, the steward, grumbling, and dissatisfied, returned down stairs.

Chapter S ix It is the curse o f kings to be attended By slaves, who take their humours for a warrant T o break into the bloody house o f life, And on the winking o f authority T o understand a law. K in g John

T h e L a d y o f L o cH L E V E N sat alone in h er chamber,endeavour­ ing, with sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix her eyes and her attention on the black-lettered Bible which lay before her, bound in velvet and embroidery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind from the

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resentful recollection o f what had last night passed betwixt her and the Queen, in which the latter had with such bitter taunt reminded her of her early and long-repented transgression. “Why,” she said, “should I resent so deeply, that another reproaches me with that which I have never ceased to make matter o f blushing to myself? and yet, why should this woman, who reaps— at least, has reaped, the fruits o f my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the throne, why should she, in the face o f all my domestics, and o f her own, dare to upbraid me with my shame and folly? Is she not in my power ? does she not fear me ? Ha ! wily tempter, I will wrestle with thee strongly, and with better suggestions than mine own evil heart can supply.” She again took up the sacred volume, and was endeavouring to fix her attention on its contents, when she was disturbed by a tap at the door. It opened at her command, and the Steward Dryfesdale entered, and stood before her with a gloomy and perturbed expression on his brow. “What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou lookest thus ?” said his mistress— “Have there been evil tidings o f my son, or o f my grand­ children?” “No, lady,” replied Dryfesdale ; “but you were deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art as deeply avenged this morning— Where is the chaplain?” “What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so sudden? T he chaplain, as you well know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly o f the brethren.” “I care not,” answered the steward, “he is but a priest o f Baal.” “Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “what meanest thou? I have ever heard, that in the Low Countries thou didst herd with the Ana­ baptist preachers, those boars which tear up the vintage— But the ministry which suits me and my house must content my retainers.” “I would I had good ghostly counsel though,” replied the steward, not attending to his mistress’s rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself — “this woman o f M oab”– – – “ Speak o f her with reverence,” said the lady, “she is a king’s daugh­ ter.” “Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale ; “she goes where there is little differ­ ence betwixt her and a beggar’s child— Mary o f Scotland is dying.” “Dying, and in my castle !” said the Lady, starting up in alarm ; “o f what disease, or by what accident?” “Bear patience, lady— the ministry was mine.” “Thine, villain and traitor !— how didst thou dare”– – – “I heard you insulted, lady— I heard you demand vengeance— I

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promised it to you, and I now bring tidings o f it.” “Dryfesdale, I trust thou ravest,” said the lady. “I rave not,” replied the steward; “that which was written o f me a million o f years ere I saw the light, must be executed by me. She hath that in her veins that, I fear me, will soon stop the springs o f life.” “ Cruel villain,” exclaimed the Lady, “thou hast not poisoned her ?” “And if I had,” said Dryfesdale, “what does it so gready merit? M en bane vermin— why not rid them o f their enemies so ? in Italy they will do it for a cruzador.” “Cowardly ruffian, begone from my sight !” “Think better o f my zeal, lady,” said the steward, “and judge not without looking around you. Lindesay, Ruthven, and your kinsman Morton poniarded Rizzio, and yet you now see no blood on their embroidery— the Lord Semple stabbed the Lord o f Sanquhar— his bonnet sits not a jot more awry on his brow— What noble lives in Scotland but has had a share, for policy or revenge, in some such dealing ?— and who imputes it to them ? Be not cheated with names— a dagger or a draught work to the same end, and are litde unlike— a glass vial imprisons the one, a leathern sheath the other— one deals with the brain, the other sluices the blood— Yet, I say not I gave aught to this lady.” “What doest thou mean by thus dallying with me ?” said the lady; “ as thou wouldst save thy neck from the rope it merits, tell me the whole truth o f this story— thou hast long been known a dangerous man.” “Ay, in my master’s service, I can be cold and sharp as my sword. Be it known to you, that when last on shore, I consulted with a woman o f skill and power, called Nicneven, o f whom the country has rung for this some brief time past. Fools asked her for charms to make them beloved, misers for means to increase their store ; some demanded to know the future— an idle wish, since it cannot be altered; others would have an explanation o f the past— idler still, since it cannot be recalled— I heard their queries with scorn, and demanded the means o f avenging myself o f a deadly enemy, for I grow old, and may trust no longer to Bilboa blade. She gave me a packet— M ix that, said she, with any liquid, and thy vengeance is complete.” “Villain ! and you mixed it with the food o f this imprisoned lady, to the dishonour o f thy master’s house ?” “T o redeem the insulted honour o f my master’s house, I mixed the contents o f the packet with the jar o f succory-water ; they seldom fail to drain it, and the woman loves it over all.” “It was a work o f hell,” said the Lady Lochleven, “both the asking and the granting— But unspeakable are the judgments o f Heaven—

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thus does the cup avenge the powder-casks— Away, wretched man, let us see if aid be yet too late !” “They will not admit us, madam, save we enter by force— I have been twice at the door, but can obtain no entrance.” “We will beat it level with the ground, if needful— And, hold— send off a boat instantly to Kinross, the Chamberlain Luke Lundin is said to have skill— fetch off, too, that foul witch Nicneven; she shall first counteract her own spell, and then be burned to ashes on the island o f Saint Serf. Away, away— tell them to hoist sail and ply oar, as ever they would have good o f the Douglas’s hand.” “Mother Nicneven will not be lightly found or fetched hither on these conditions,” answered Dryfesdale. “Then grant her full assurance o f safety— Look to it, for thine own life must answer for this lady’s recovery.” “ I might have guessed that,” said Dryfesdale sullenly; “but it is my comfort I have avenged mine own cause, as well as yours. She hath scoffed and scripped at me, and encouraged her saucy minion o f a page to ridicule my stiff gait and slow speech. I felt it borne in upon me that I was to be avenged on them.” “ G o to the western turret,” said the Lady, “and remain there in ward until we see how this gear will terminate. I know thy resolved disposition— thou will not attempt escape.” “Not were the walls o f the turret o f egg-shells, and the lake sheeted with ice,” said Dryfesdale. “I am well taught, and strong in belief that man does nought o f himself. He is but the foam on the billow, which rises, bubbles, and bursts, not by its own effort, but by the mightier impulse o f fate, which urges him. Yet, lady, if I may advise, amid this zeal for the life o f the Jezabel o f Scotland, forget not what is due to thine own honour, and keep the matter secret as you may.” So saying, the gloomy fatalist turned from her, and stalked off with sullen composure to the place o f confinement allotted to him. His lady caught at his last hint, and only expressed her fear that the prisoner had partaken o f some unwholesome food, and was danger­ ously ill. T h e castle was soon alarmed and in confusion. Randal was dispatched to the shore to fetch off Lundin, with such remedies as could counteract poison; and with further instructions to bring Mother Nicneven, if she could be found, with full power to pledge the Lady o f Lochleven’s word for her safety. Meanwhile the Lady o f Lochleven herself held parley at the door o f the Queen’s apartment, and in vain urged the page to undo it. “Foolish boy!” she said, “thine own life and thy Lady’s are at stake — Open, I say, or we will cause the door to be broken down.” “I may not open the door without my Royal Mistress’s orders,”

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answered Roland; “she has been very ill, and now she slumbers— if you wake her by using violence, let the consequence be on you and your followers.” “Was ever woman in a strait so fearful ?” said the Lady o f Lochleven — “At least, thou rash boy, beware that no one tastes the food, but especially the jar o f succory-water.” She then hastened to the turret, where D ryfesdale had composedly resigned himself to imprisonment. She found him reading, and demanded o f him, “Was thy fell potion o f speedy operation ?” “ Slow !” answered the steward. “T he hag asked me which I chose — I told her I loved a slow and sure revenge. Revenge, said I, is the highest-flavoured draught which man tastes upon earth, and he should sip it by little and little— not drain it up greedily at once.” “Against whom, unhappy man, couldst thou nourish so fell a revenge?” “I had many objects, but the chief was that insolent page.” “ T h e boy!— thou inhuman man,” exclaimed the lady; “what could he do to deserve thy malice ?” “ He rose in your favour, and you graced him with your commis­ sions— that was one thing. He rose in that o f George Douglas also— that was another. He was the favourite o f the Calvinistic Henderson, who hated me because my spirit disowns a separated priesthood. The Moabitish Queen held him dear— winds from each opposing point blew in his favour— the old servitor o f your house was held lightly among ye— Above all, from the first time I saw his face, I longed to destroy him.” “What fiend have I nurtured in my house ?” replied the Lady. “May God forgive me the sin o f having given thee food and raiment !” “You might not chuse, lady,” answered the steward. “Long ere this castle was builded— ay, long ere the islet which sustains it reared its head above the blue water, I was destined to be your faithful slave, and you to be my ungrateful mistress. Remember you not when I plunged amid the victorious French, in the time o f this lady’s mother, and brought o ff your son, when those who had hung at the same breasts with him dared not attempt the rescue ?— Remember how I plunged into the lake when your grandson’s skiff was overta’en by the tempest, boarded, and steered her safe to the land. Lady— the servant for a Scottish baron is he who regards not his own life, or that of any other, save his master. And, for the death o f the woman— I had tried the potion on her sooner, had not Master George been her taster. Her death— would it not be the happiest news that Scotland ever heard ? Is she not o f the bloody G uisian stock, whose sword was so often red with the blood o f G od’s saints ?— is she not the daughter o f the

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wretched tyrant James, whom heaven cast down from his kingdom, and his pride, even as the king o f Babylon was smitten?” “ Peace, villain!” said the lady— a thousand varied recollections thronging on her mind at the mention o f her royal lover’s name ; “ Peace, and disturb not the ashes o f the dead— o f the royal, o f the unhappy dead. Read thy Bible; and may God grant thee to avail thyself better o f its contents than thou hast yet done.” She departed hastily, and as she reached the next apartment, the tears rose to her eyes so hastily, that she was compelled to stop and use her kerchief to dry them. “ I expected not this,” she said, “no more than to have drawn water from the dry flint, or sap from a withered tree. I saw with a dry eye the apostacy and shame o f George Douglas, the hope o f my son’s house— the child o f my love— and yet I now weep for him who has so long lain in his grave— for him to whom I owe it, that his daughter can make a scoffing and a jest o f my name ! But she is his daughter— my heart, hardened against her for so many causes, relents when a glance o f her eye places her father unexpectedly before me— and as often her likeness to that true daughter o f the house o f Guise, her detested mother, has again confirmed my resolution. But she must not— must not die in my house, and by so foul a practice. Thank God, the operation o f the potion is slow, and may be counteracted. I will to her apartment once more. But O ! that hardened villain, whose fidelity we held in such esteem, and had such high proof o f ! What miracle can unite so much wickedness, and so much truth, in one bosom !” T h e Lady o f Lochleven was not aware how far minds o f a certain gloomy and determined cast by nature, may be warped by a keen sense o f petty injuries and insults, combining with the love o f gain, and sense o f self-interest, and amalgamated with the crude, wild, and undiges­ ted fanatical opinions which this man had gathered among the crazy sectaries o f Germany; or how far the doctrines o f fatalism, which he had embraced so decidedly, sear the human conscience, by represent­ ing our actions as the result o f inevitable necessity. During her visit to the prisoner, Roland had communicated to Catherine the tenor o f the conversation he had had with her at the door o f the apartment. T he quick intelligence o f that lively maiden instantly comprehended the outline o f what was believed to have happened, but her prejudices hurried her beyond the truth. “They meant to have poisoned us,” she exclaimed in horror, “and there stands the fatal liquor which should have done the deed !— ay, so soon as Douglas ceased to be our taster, our food was like to be fatally seasoned. Thou, Roland, who should have made the essay, wert read­ ily doomed to die with us. O , dearest Lady Fleming, pardon, pardon, for the injuries I said to you in my anger— your words were prompted

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by heaven to save our lives, and especially that o f the injured Q ueen. But what have we now to d o ? that old crocodile o f the lake will be presently back to shed her hypocritical tears over our dying agonies— Lady Fleming, what shall we d o ?” “Our Lady help us in our need !” she replied ; “how should I tell— unless we were to make our plaint to the Regent.” “Make our plaint to the devil,” said Catherine, impatiently, “ and accuse his dam at the foot o f his burning throne !— the Queen still sleeps— we must gain time. T h e poisoning hag must not know her scheme has miscarried; the old envenomed spider has but too many ways o f mending her broken web.— T he jar o f succory water,” said she— “ Roland, if thou be’st a man, help me— empty the jar on the chimney— or from the window— make such waste among the viands as if we had made our usual meal, and leave the fragments on cup and porringer, but taste nothing as thou lovest thy life. I will sit by the Queen, and tell her at her waking, in what a fearful pass we stand. Her sharp wit and ready spirit will teach us what is best to be done. Meanwhile, till farther notice, observe, Roland, that the Queen is in a state o f torpor— that Lady Fleming is indisposed— that character, (speaking in a lower tone) will suit her best, and save her wits some labour-in-vain— I am not so much indisposed, thou understandest.” “And I ?” said the page____ “You ?” replied Catherine, “you are quite well— who thinks it worth while to poison puppy-dogs or pages ?” “Does this levity become the time ?” said the page. “It does, it does,” answered Catherine Seyton; “if the Queen approves, I see plainly how this disconcerted attempt may do us good service.” She went to work while she spoke, eagerly assisted by Roland. The breakfast-table soon displayed the appearance as if the ladies had eaten their meal as usual, and the ladies retired as softly as possible into the Queen’s sleeping apartment. At a new summons o f the Lady Lochleven, the page undid the door and admitted her into the anti­ room, asking her pardon for having withstood her, and alleging in excuse, that the Q ueen had fallen into a heavy slumber since she had broken her fast. “ She has eaten and drunken then ?” said the Lady o f Lochleven. “Surely,” replied the page, “according to her Grace’s ordinary custom, unless upon the fasts o f the church.” “T h e jar,” she said, hastily examining it, “it is empty— Drank the Lady Mary the whole o f this water ?” “A large part, madam; and I heard the Lady Catherine Seyton jestingly upbraid the Lady Mary Fleming with having taken more than

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a just share o f what remained, so that but little fell to her own lot.” “And are they well in health ?” said the Lady o f Lochleven. “Lady Fleming,” said the page, “ complains o f lethargy, and looks duller than usual ; and the Lady Catherine o f Seyton feels her head somewhat more giddy than is her wont.” He raised his voice a little as he said these words, to apprize the ladies o f the part assigned to each o f them, and not, perhaps, without the wish o f conveying to the ears o f Catherine the page-like jest which lurked in the allotment. “I will enter the Queen’s chamber,” said the Lady Lochleven, “my business is express.” As she advanced to the door, the voice o f Catherine Seyton was heard from within— “N o one can enter here— the Queen sleeps.” “I will not be controuled, young lady,” replied the Lady o f Loch­ leven ; “there is, I wot, no inner bar, and I will enter in your despite.” “There is, indeed, no inner bar,” answered Catherine firmly, “but there are the staples where that bar should be ; and into those staples have I thrust mine arm, like an ancestress o f your own, when, better employed than the Douglasses o f our days, she thus defended the bed-chamber o f her sovereign against murtherers. T ry your force, then, and see whether a Seyton cannot rival in courage a maiden o f the house o f Douglas.” “I dare not attempt the pass at such risk,” said the Lady o f Loch­ leven; “strange, that this Princess, with all that justly attaches to her as blameworthy, should preserve such empire over the mind o f her attendants.— Damsel, I give thee my honour that I come for the Queen’s safety and advantage. Awaken her, if thou lovest her, and pray her leave that I may enter— I will retire from the door the whilst.” “Thou wilt not awaken the Queen !” said the Lady Fleming. “What choice have we ?” said the ready-witted maiden, “unless you deem it better to wait till the Lady Lochleven herself plays lady o f the bed-chamber. Her fit o f patience will not last long, and the Queen must be prepared to meet her.” “But thou wilt bring back her Grace’s fit by thus disturbing her.” “Heaven forbid !” replied Catherine ; “but if so, it must pass for an effect o f the poison. I hope better things, and that the Queen will be in case when she wakes to form her own judgment in this terrible crisis. Meanwhile, do thou, dear Lady Fleming, practise to look as dull and heavy as the alertness o f thy genius will permit.” Catherine kneeled by the side o f the Queen’s bed, and kissing her hand repeatedly, succeeded at last in awakening without alarming her. She seemed surprised to find that she was ready dressed, but sate up in her bed, and appeared so perfectly composed, that Catherine Sey-

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ton, without farther preamble, judged it safe to inform her o f the predicament in which they were placed. Mary turned pale, and crossed herself again and again, when she heard the imminent danger in which she had stood. But, like the Ulysses o f Homer, – – – Hardly waking yet, Sprung in her mind the momentary wit,

and she at once understood her situation, with the dangers and advantages that attended it. “We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty conference with Catherine, pressing her at the same time to her bosom, and kissing her forehead ; “we cannot do better than to follow the scheme so happily devised by thy quick wit and thy bold affection. Undo the door to the Lady Lochleven. She shall meet her match in art, though not in perfidy. Fleming, draw close the curtain— and get thee behind it— thou art a better tire-woman than an actress— but do but breathe heavily, and, if thou wilt, groan slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark, they come ! Now, Catherine o f M edicis, may thy spirit inspire me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this scene !” Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as light as she could, the Lady Lochleven was ushered into the twilight apartment, and conducted to the side o f the couch, where M ary, pallid and exhausted from a sleepless night, and the subsequent agitation o f the morning, lay extended so listlessly as might well confirm the worst fears o f her hostess. “Now, God forgive us our sins !” said the Lady o f Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing herself on her knees by the side o f the bed ; “it is too true— she is murthered.” “Who is in the chamber ?” said Mary, as if awaking from a heavy sleep; “ Seyton— Fleming, where are you ? I heard a strange voice— who waits ?— call Courcelles.” “Alas ! her memory is at Holyrood, though her body is at Loch­ leven.— Forgive, madam,” continued the lady, “if I call your attention to me— I am Margaret Erskine, o f the house o f Mar, by marriage Lady Douglas o f Lochleven.” “ O , our gentle hostess,” answered the Q ueen, “who hath such care o f our lodgings and o f our diet— We cumber you too much and too long, Good Lady o f Lochleven; but we trust now your task o f hospit­ ality is well nigh ended.” “ Her words go like a knife through my heart,” said the Lady o f Lochleven— “With a breaking heart, I pray your Grace to tell me what is your ailment, that aid may be had if there be yet time.” “Nay, my ailment,” replied the Q ueen, “is nothing— nothing worth telling, or worth a leech’s notice— my limbs feel heavy— my heart feels

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cold— a prisoner’s limbs and heart are rarely otherwise— fresh air, methinks, and freedom, would soon revive me— But, as the Estates have ordered it, death alone can break my prison-doors.” “Were it possible, madam,” said the Lady, “that your liberty could restore your perfect health, I would myself encounter the resentment o f the Regent— o f my son, Sir William— o f my whole friends, rather than you should meet your fate in this castle.” “Alas ! madam,” said the Lady Fleming, who conceived the time propitious to shew that her own address had been held too lighdy o f ; “it is but trying what good freedom may work upon us ; for myself, I think a free walk on the greensward would do me much good at heart. ” The Lady o f Lochleven rose from the bed-side, and darted a pen­ etrating look at the elder valetudinary. “Are you so evil-disposed, Lady Fleming ?” “Evil-disposed indeed, madam,” replied the court dame, “ and more especially since breakfast.” “ Help ! help !” exclaimed Catherine, anxious to break off a conver­ sation which boded her schemes no good; “ Help! I say, help! the Queen is about to pass away. Aid her, Lady Lochleven, if you be a woman.” T h e lady hastened to support the Queen’s head, who, turning her eyes towards her with an air o f great languor, exclaimed, “Thanks, my dearest Lady o f Lochleven— notwithstanding some passages o f late, I have never misconstrued or misdoubted your affection to our house. It was proved, as I have heard, before I was born.” T he Lady Lochleven sprung from the floor on which she had again knelt, and having paced the apartment in great disorder, flung open the lattice, as if to get air. “Now, Our Lady forgive me,” said Catherine to herself, “how deep must the love o f sarcasm be implanted in the breasts o f us women, since the Queen, with all her sense, will risk ruin rather than rein in her wit.” She then adventured, stooping over the Queen’s person, to press her arm with her hand, saying at the same time, “For G od’s sake, madam, restrain yourself.” “Thou art too forward, maiden,” said the Queen; but immediately added, in a low whisper, “Forgive me, Catherine ; but when I felt the hag’s murtherous hands busy about my head and neck, I felt such disgust and hatred, that I must have said something, or died. But I will be schooled to better haviour— only see that thou let her not touch me.” “Now, God be praised !” said the Lady Lochleven, withdrawing her head from the window, “the boat comes as fast as sail and oar can send wood through water— It brings the leech and a female— certainly,

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from the appearance, the very person I was in quest of. Were she but well out o f this castle, with our honour safe, I would that she were on the top o f the wildest mountain in Norway— Or I would I had been there myself, ere I had undertaken.” While she thus expressed herself, standing apart at one window, Roland Graeme, from the other, watched the boat bursting through the waters o f the lake, which glided from its side in ripple and in foam. He, too, became sensible, that at the stern was seated the medical Chamberlain, clad in his black velvet cloak ; and that his own relative, Magdalen Græme, in her assumed character o f Mother Nicneven, stood in the bow, her hands clasped together, and pointed towards the castle, and her attitude, even at that distance, expressing enthusiastic eagerness to arrive at the landing-place. They arrived there accord­ ingly ; and while the supposed witch was detained in a room beneath, the physician was ushered to the Queen’s apartment, which he entered with all due professional solemnity. Catherine had, in the meanwhile, fallen back from the Queen’s bed, and taken an opportun­ ity to whisper to Roland, “Methinks, from the information o f the thread-bare velvet cloak and the solemn beard, there would be little trouble in haltering yonder ass— but thy grandmother, Roland— thy grandmother’s zeal will ruin us, if she get not a hint to dissemble.” Roland, without reply, glided towards the door o f the apartment, crossed the parlour, and safely entered the anti-chamber; but when he attempted to pass farther, the word “Back! Back!” echoed from one to the other, by two men armed with carabines, convinced him that the Lady o f Lochleven’s suspicions had not, even in the midst o f her alarms, been so far lulled to sleep as to omit the precaution o f stationing centinels on her prisoners. He was compelled, therefore, to return to the parlour, or audience-chamber, in which he found the lady o f the castle in conference with her learned leech. “A truce with your cant phrase and your solemn foppery, Lundin,” in such terms she accosted the man o f art, “and let me know instantly, if thou canst tell whether this lady hath swallowed aught that is less than wholesome.” “Nay, but, good lady— honoured patroness— to whom I am alike bondsman in my medical and in my official capacity, deal reasonably with me. If this, mine illustrious patient, will not answer a question, saving with sighs and moans— if that other honourable lady will do nought but yawn in my face when I enquire after the diagnostics— and if that other young damsel, who I profess is a comely maiden”– – – “Talk not to me o f comeliness or o f damsels,” said the Lady o f Lochleven, “I say, are they poisoned ?— in one word, man, have they taken poison, ay or no ?”

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“Poisons, madam,” said the learned leech, “are o f various sorts. There is your animal poison, as the lepus marinus, as mentioned by Dioscorides and Galen— there are mineral and semi-mineral poisons, as those compounded o f sublimate, regulus o f antimony, vitriol, and the arsenical salts— there are your poisons from herbs and vegetables, as the aqua cymbalariæ, opium, aconitum, cantharides, and the like— there are also” “Now, out upon thee for a learned fool ! and I myself am no better for expecting an oracle from such a log,” said the lady. “Nay, but if your ladyship will have patience— if I knew what food they have partaken of— or could see but the remnants o f what they have last eaten— for as to the external and internal symptoms, I can discern nought like; for, as Galen saith in his second book de Antidotis”– – – “Away, fool !” said the lady. “ Send me that hag hither; she shall avouch what it was that she hath given to the wretch Dryfesdale, or the pilniewinks and thumbikins shall wrench it out o f her fingerjoints.” “Art hath no enemy unless the ignorant,” said the mortified D oc­ tor; veiling, however, his remark under the Latin version, and step­ ping apart into a corner to watch the result. In a minute or two, Magdalen Græme entered the apartment, dressed as we have described her at the revel, but with her muffler thrown back, and all affectation o f disguise abandoned. She was attended by two guards, o f whose presence she did not seem even to be conscious, and who followed her with an air o f embarrassment and timidity, which was probably owing to their belief in her supernatural power, coupled with the effect produced by her bold and undaunted demeanour. She confronted the Lady o f Lochleven, who seemed to endure with high disdain the confidence o f her look and manner. “Wretched woman !” said the Lady, after essaying for a moment to bear her down, before she addressed her, by the stately severity o f her look, “what was that powder which thou didst give to a servant o f this house, by name James Dryfesdale, that he might work out with it some slow and secret vengeance ?— confess its nature and properties, or, by the honour o f Douglas, I give thee to fire and stake before the sun is lower!” “Alas!” said Magdalen Græme in reply, “and when became a Douglas or a Douglas’s man so unfurnished o f his means o f revenge, that he should seek them at the hands o f a poor and solitary woman ? T h e towers in which your captives pine away into unpitied graves, yet stand fast on the foundation— the crimes wrought in them have not yet burst their vaults asunder— Your men have still their cross-bows,

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pistolets, and daggers— why need you seek to herbs or charms for the execution o f your revenges ?” “ Hear me, foul hag,” said the Lady o f Lochleven,— “but what avails speaking to thee ?— Bring Dryfesdale hither, and let them be con­ fronted together.” “You may spare your retainers the labour,” replied Magdalen Græme. “ I came not here to be confronted with a base groom, nor to answer the interrogatories o f James’s heretical leman— I came to speak with the Queen o f Scotland— Give place there !” And while the Lady o f Lochleven stood confounded at her bold­ ness, and at the reproach she had cast upon her, Magdalen Græme strode past her into the bed-chamber o f the Queen, and kneeling on the floor, made a salutation as if, in the Oriental fashion, she meant to touch the earth with her forehead. “Hail, Princess!” she said, “hail, daughter o f many a king, but graced above them all in that thou art called to suffer for the true faith ! — hail to thee, the pure gold o f whose crown has been tried in the seven-times heated furnace o f affliction— Hear the comfort which G od and Our Lady send thee by the mouth o f thy unworthy servant.— But first— — ” and stooping her head she crossed herself repeatedly, and, still upon her knees, appeared to be rapidly reciting some for­ mula o f devotion. “ Seize her and drag her to the Massy-more !— to the deepest dun­ geon with the sorceress, whose master, the Devil, could alone have inspired her with boldness enough to insult the mother o f Douglas in his own castle.” Thus spoke the incensed Lady o f Lochleven, but the physician presumed to interpose. “I pray o f you, honoured madam, she be permitted to take her course without interruption. Peradventure, we shall learn something concerning the nostrum she hath ventured, contrary to law and the rules o f art, to adhibit to these ladies, through the medium o f the steward Dryfesdale.” “For a fool,” replied the Lady o f Lochleven, “thou hast counselled wisely— I will bridle my resentment till their conference be over.” “ God forbid, honoured lady,” said Doctor Lundin, “that you should suppress it longer— nothing may more endanger the frame o f your honoured body; and truly, if there be witchcraft in this matter, it is held by the vulgar, and even by solid authors on Dæmonology, that three scruples o f the ashes o f the witch, when she hath been well and carefully burned at a stake, is a grand C atholicon in such matter, even as they prescribe crinis cants rabidi, a hair o f the dog that bit the patient, in cases o f hydrophobia. I warrant neither treatment, being out o f the

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regular practice o f the schools; but in the present case, there can be little harm in trying the conclusion upon this old nigromancer and quack-salver— fiat experimentum (as we say) in corpore vili.” “Peace, fool !” said the Lady, “she is about to speak.” At that moment Magdalen Græme arose from her knees, and turned her countenance on the Queen, at the same time advancing her foot, extending her arm, and assuming the mien and attitude o f a Sybil in frenzy. As her grey hair floated back from under her coif, and her eye gleamed fire from under its shaggy eye-brow, the effect of her expressive, though emaciated features, was heightened by an enthusi­ asm approaching to insanity, and her appearance struck with awe all who were present. Her eyes for a time glanced wildly around, as if seeking for something to aid her in collecting her powers o f expres­ sion, and her lips had a nervous and quivering motion, as those of one who would fain speak, yet rejected as inadequate the words which presented themselves. Mary herself caught the infection, as if by a sort o f magnetic influence, and raising herself on her bed, without being able to withdraw her eyes from those o f Magdalen, waited for the words she was to utter as if for the oracle o f a Pythoness. She waited not long; for no sooner had the enthusiast collected herself, than her gaze became intensely steady, her features assumed a determined energy, and no sooner did she begin to speak, than the words flowed from her with a profuse fluency, which might have passed for inspira­ tion, and which, perhaps, she herself mistook for such. “Arise,” she said, “Queen o f France and o f England ! Arise, Lion­ ess o f Scotland, and be not dismayed, though the nets o f the hunters have encircled thee ! Stoop not to feign with the false ones, whom thou shalt soon meet in the field. T h e issue o f battle is with the God o f armies, but by battle thy cause shall be tried. Lay aside, then, the arts o f lower mortals, and assume those which become a Queen! True Defender o f the only true Faith, the armoury o f heaven is open to thee ! Faithful daughter o f the Church, take the keys o f Saint Peter, to bind and to loose !— Royal Princess o f the land, take the sword o f Saint Paul, to smite and to shear ! There is darkness in thy destiny;— but not in these towers— not under the rule o f their haughty mistress, shall that destiny be closed— in other lands the lioness may crouch to the power o f the tigress, but not in her own— not in Scotland shall the Queen o f Scotland long remain captive— nor is the fate o f the royal Stuart in the hands o f the traitor Douglas. Let the Lady o f Lochleven double her bolts and deepen her dungeons, they shall not retain thee — each element shall lend thee its aid ere thou shalt continue captive — the land shall lend its earthquakes, the water its waves, the air its tempests, the fire its devouring flames, to desolate this house, rather

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than it shall continue the House o f thy captivity.— Hear this and tremble, all ye who fight against the light, for she says it, to whom it hath been assured !” She was silent, and the astonished physician said, “If there was ever an Energumene, or possessed Demoniac, in our days, there is a devil speaking with that woman’s tongue.” “Practice,” said the Lady o f Lochleven, recovering her surprise ; “here is all practice and imposture— T o the dungeon with her !” “ Lady o f Lochleven,” said Mary, arising from her bed, and coming forwards with her wonted dignity, “ere you make arrest on any one in our presence, hear me but one word. I have done you some wrong— I believed you privy to the murderous purpose o f your vassal, and I deceived you in suffering you to believe it had taken effect. I did you wrong, Lady o f Lochleven, for I perceive your purpose to aid me was sincere. We tasted not o f the liquid, nor are we now sick, save that we languish for our freedom.” “It is avowed like Mary o f Scotland,” said Magdalen Græme ; “ and know, besides, that had the Queen drained the draught to the dregs, it was harmless as the water from a sainted spring. Trow ye, proud woman,” she added, addressing herself to the Lady Lochleven, “that I — I— would have been the wretch to put poison in the hands o f a servant or vassal o f the House o f Lochleven, knowing whom that house contained ? as soon would I have furnished drug to slay my own daughter.” “Am I thus bearded in mine own castle,” said the Lady; “to the dungeon with her!— she shall abye what is due to the vender of poisons and practiser o f witchcrafts.” “Yet hear me for an instant, Lady o f Lochleven,” said Mary; “and do you,” to Magdalen, “be silent at my command.— Your steward, lady, has by confession attempted my life, and those o f my household, and this woman hath done her best to save them, by furnishing him with what was harmless, in place o f the fatal drugs which he expected. Methinks I propose to you but a fair exchange, when I say I forgive your vassal with all my heart, and leave vengeance to God, and to his conscience, so that you also forgive the boldness o f this woman in your presence; for we trust you do not hold it as a crime, that she substi­ tuted an innocent beverage for the mortal poison which was to have drenched our cup.” “ Heaven forefend, madam,” said the Lady, “that I should account that a crime which saved the house o f Douglas from a foul breach of honour and hospitality! We have written to our son touching our vassal’s delict, and he must abide his doom, which will most like be death. Touching this woman, her trade is damnable by Scripture, and

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is mortally punished by the wise laws o f our ancestry— she also must abide her doom.” “And have I then,” said the Q ueen, “no claim on the house o f Lochleven for the wrong I have so nearly suffered within their walls ? I ask but in requital, the life o f a frail and aged woman, whose brain, as yourself may judge, seems somewhat affected by years and suffer­ ing.” “If the Lady Mary,” replied the inflexible Lady o f Lochleven, “hath been menaced with wrong in the house o f Douglas, it may be regarded as some compensation, that her complots have cost that house the exile o f a valued son.” “Plead no more for me, my gracious Sovereign,” said Magdalen Græme, “nor abase yourself to ask so much as a grey hair o f my head at her hands. I knew ever the risk at which I served my Church and my Queen, and was ever prompt to pay my poor life as the ransom. It is a comfort to think, that in slaying me, or in restraining my freedom, or even in injuring that single grey hair, the house, whose honour she boasts so highly, will have filled up the measure o f their shame by the breach o f their solemn written assurance o f safety.”— And taking from her bosom a paper, she handed it to the Queen. “It is a solemn assurance o f safety in life and limb,” said Queen Mary, “with space to come and to go, under the hand and seal o f the Chamberlain o f Kinross, granted to Magdalen Græme, commonly called Mother Nicneven, in consideration o f her consenting to put herself, for the space o f twenty-four hours, if required, within the iron grate o f the Castle o f Lochleven.” “Knave!” said the lady, turning to the Chamberlain, “how dared you grant her such a protection ?” “It was by your ladyship’s orders, transmitted by Randal, as he can bear witness,” replied Doctor Lundin; “nay, I am only like the pharmacopolist, who compounds his drugs after the order o f the medi­ ciner.” “ I remember— I remember,” answered the Lady; “but I meant the assurance only to be used in case, by residing in another jurisdiction, she could not have been apprehended under our warrant.” “Nevertheless,” said the Queen, “the Lady o f Lochleven is bound by the action o f her deputy in granting the assurance.” “Madam,” replied the Lady, “the house o f Douglas have never broken their safe-conduct and never will do— too deeply did they suffer by such a breach o f trust, exercised on themselves when your Grace’s ancestor, the second James, in defiance o f the rights o f hos­ pitality, and o f his own written assurance o f safety, poniarded the brave Earl o f Douglas with his own hand, and within two yards o f the

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social board, at which he had just before sat the King o f Scotland’s honoured guest.” “Methinks,” said the Queen, carelessly, “in consideration o f so very recent and enormous a tragedy, which I think only chanced some six score years agone, the Douglasses should have shewn themselves less tenacious o f the company o f their sovereigns, than you, Lady o f Lochleven, seem to be o f mine.” “Let Randal,” said the Lady, “take the hag back to Kinross, and set her at full liberty, discharging her from our bounds in future, on peril o f her head.— And let your wisdom,” to the Chamberlain, “keep her company. And fear not for your character, though I send you in such company ; for, granting her to be a witch, it would be a waste o f faggots to bum you for a wizard.” T h e crest-fallen Chamberlain was preparing to depart; but M ag­ dalen Græme, collecting herself, was about to reply, when the Queen interposed, saying, “Good mother, we heartily thank you for your unfeigned zeal towards our person, and pray you, as our liege-woman, that you abstain from whatever may lead you into personal danger. And, further, it is our will that you depart without a word o f farther parley with any one in this castle. For thy present guerdon, take this small reliquary— it was given to us by our uncle the Cardinal, and hath had the benediction o f the Holy Father himself— And now depart in peace and in silence.— For you, learned sir,” continued the Queen, advancing to the doctor, who made his reverence in a manner doubly embarrassed by the awe o f the Queen’s presence, which made him fear to do too little, and by apprehension o f his lady’s displeasure, in case he should chance to do too much ; “for you, learned sir, as it was not your fault, though surely our own good fortune, that we did not need your skill at this time, it would not become us, however circum­ stanced, to suffer our leech to leave us without such guerdon as we can offer.” With these words, and with the grace which never forsook her, though, in the present case, there might lurk under it a little gentle ridicule, she offered a small embroidered purse to the Chamberlain, who, with extended hand and arched back, his learned face stooping until a physiognomist might have practised the metoposcopical sci­ ence upon it, as seen from behind betwixt his gambadoes, was about to accept o f the professional recompence, offered so gracefully, and by so fair as well as illustrious an hand. But the Lady o f Lochleven interposed, and, regarding the Chamberlain sternly, said aloud, “No servant o f our house, without instantly relinquishing that character, and incurring withal our highest displeasure, shall dare receive any gratuity at the hand o f the Lady Mary.”

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Sadly and slowly the Chamberlain raised his depressed stature into the perpendicular attitude, and left the apartment dejectedly, fol­ lowed by Magdalen Græme, after, with mute but expressive gesture, she had kissed the reliquary with which the Q ueen had presented her, and raising her clasped hands and uplifted eyes towards Heaven, had seemed to entreat a benediction upon the royal donor. As she left the castle and went towards the quay where the boat lay, Roland Græme, anxious to communicate with her if possible, threw himself in her way, and might have succeeded in exchanging a few words with her, as she was guarded only by the dejected Chamberlain and his halberdiers; but she seemed to have taken, in its most strict and literal acceptation, the command to be silent, which she had received from the Queen, for, to the repeated signs of her grandson, she only replied by laying her finger on her lip. D r Lundin was not so reserved. Regret for the handsome gratuity, and for the compulsory task o f self-denial imposed on him, had grieved the spirit o f that worthy officer and learned mediciner— “Even thus, my friend,” said he, squeezing the page’s hand as he bade him farewell, “is merit rewarded. I came to cure this unhappy lady— and I profess she well deserves the trouble, for say what they will o f her, she hath a most winning manner, a sweet voice, a gracious smile, and a most majestic wave o f her hand— if she was not poisoned, say, my dear Master Roland, was that fault o f mine, I being ready to cure her if she had ?— And now I am denied the permission to accept my well-earned honorarium. O Galen! O Hip­ pocrates ! is the graduate’s cap and doctor’s scarlet brought to this pass ! Frustrafatigamus remediis ægros” He wiped his eyes, stepped on the gunwale, and the boat pushed off from the shore, and went merrily across the lake, which was dimpled by the summer wind.

Chapter Seven Death distant?— No, alas ! he’s ever with us, And shakes the dart at us in all our actings : He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health ; Sits by our sick-beds, and prepares our medicines ; We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel, But Death is bye to seize us when he lists. The Spanish Father

F rom t he a g i t a t i n g s c e n e in the Queen’s presence-cham­ ber, the Lady o f Lochleven retreated to her own apartment, and ordered the steward to be called before her.

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“Have they not disarmed thee, Dryfesdale ?” she said, on seeing him enter accoutered, as usual, with sword and dagger. “N o !” replied the old man; “how should they?— Your ladyship, when you commanded me to ward, said nought o f laying down my arms ; and, I think, none o f your menials, without your order, or your son’s, dare approach James Dryfesdale for such a purpose. Shall I now give up my sword to you ?— it is worth little now, for it has fought for your house till it is worn down to the cold iron, like the pantler’s old chipping knife.” “You have attempted a deadly crime— poison under trust.” “ Under trust— hem— I know not what your ladyship thinks o f it, but the world without thinks the trust was given you even for that very end; and you would have been well off had it been so ended, as I proposed, and you neither the worse nor the wiser.” “W retch!” exclaimed the Lady, “and fool as villain, who could not even execute the crime he had planned !” “ I bid as fair for it as man could,” replied Dryfesdale ; “I went to a woman, a witch and a papist— if I found not poison, it was because it was otherwise predestined— I tried fair for it— But the half-done job may be clouted, if you will.” “Villain ! I am even now about to send off an express messenger to my son, to take order how thou shouldst be disposed of. Prepare thyself for death, if thou canst.” “He that looks on death, lady,” answered Dryfesdale, “as that which he may not shun, and which has its own fixed and certain hour, is ever prepared for it. He that is hanged in M ay will eat no flaunes at Midsummer— so there is the moan made for the old serving-man. But whom, pray I, send you on so fair an errand ?” “There will be no lack o f messengers,” answered his mistress. “By my hand, but there will,” replied the old man; “your castle is but poorly manned, considering the watches that you must keep, having this charge— there is the warder, and two others, whom you discarded for tampering with Master George— then for the warder’s tower— the baillie— the donjon— five men mount each guard, and the rest must sleep for the most part in their clothes— to send away another man, were to harass the centinels to death— clean misuse for a household— to take in new soldiers were dangerous, the charge requiring tried men— I see but one thing for it— I will do your errand to Sir William Douglas myself.” “That were indeed a resource !— And on what day within twenty years would it be done ?” said the Lady. “Even with the speed o f man and horse,” said Dryfesdale; “for though I care not much about the fag-end o f an old serving man’s life,

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yet I would like to know as soon as may be whether my neck is mine own, or the hangman’s.” “ Holdest thou thy own life so lightly?” said the Lady. “ Else I had recked more o f that o f others,” said the predestinarian — “What is death ?— it is but ceasing to live— and what is living ?— a weary return o f light and darkness, sleeping and waking, being ahungered and eating— your dead man needs neither candle nor cann, neither fire nor feather-bed, and the joiner’s chest serves him for an eternal frieze-jerkin.” “Wretched man! believest thou not that after the death comes the Judgment?” “ Lady,” answered Dryfesdale, “as my mistress, I may not dispute your words; but as spiritually speaking you are still but a burner o f bricks in Egypt, ignorant of the freedom o f the saints— For, as was well shewn to me by that gifted man, Nicolaus Schœfferbach, who was martyred by the bloody Bishop o f Munster, he cannot sin who doth but execute that which is predestined” “ Silence !” said the Lady, interrupting him— “ Answer me not with thy bold and presumptuous blasphemy, but hear me— Thou hast been long the servant o f our House ?” “T h e bom servant o f the Douglas— they have had the best o f me— I served them since I left Lockerbie : I was then ten year old, and you may soon add the threescore to it.” “T h y foul attempt has miscarried, so thou art guilty only in inten­ tion. It were a deserved deed to hang thee on the warder’s tower ; and yet, in thy present mind, it were but giving a soul to Satan. I take thine offer, then— G o hence— here is my packet— I will add to it but a line, to desire him to send me a faithful servant or two to complete the garrison. Let my son deal with thee as he will. If thou art wise, thou wilt make for Lockerbie so soon as thy foot touches dry land, and let the packet find another bearer ; at all rates, look it miscarries not.” “Nay, madam,” replied he— “I was bom, as I said, the Douglas’s servant, and I will be no corbie-messenger in mine old age— your message to your son shall be done as truly by me as if it concerned another man’s neck. I take my leave o f your honour.” T h e Lady issued her commands, and the old man was ferried over to the shore, to proceed on his extraordinary pilgrimage. It is neces­ sary the reader should accompany him on his journey, which Provid­ ence had determined should not be o f long duration. On arriving at the village, the steward, although his disgrace had transpired, was readily accommodated with a horse, by the Chamber­ lain’s authority; and the roads being by no means esteemed safe, he associated himself with Auchtermuchty, the common carrier, in order

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to travel in his company to Edinburgh. T h e worthy waggoner, according to the established custom o f all carriers, stage-coachmen, and other persons in such public authority, from the earliest days to the present, never wanted good reasons for stopping upon the road, as often and where-ever he would; and the place which had most captivation for him as a resting-place was a change-house, as it was termed, not very distant from a romantic dell, well known by the name o f Keirie Craigs. Attractions o f a kind very different from those which arrested the progress o f John Auchtermuchty and his wains, still continue to hover round this romantic spot, and none has visited its vicinity without a desire to remain long and to return soon. Arrived near his favourite howff, not all the authority o f Dryfesdale (much diminished indeed by the rumours o f his disgrace) could pre­ vail on the carrier, obstinate as the brutes which he drove, to pass on without his accustomed halt, for which the distance he had travelled furnished little or no pretence. Old Keltie, the landlord, who has bestowed his name on a bridge in the neighbourhood o f his quondam dwelling, received the carrier with his usual festive cordiality, and adjourned with him into the house, under pretence o f important busi­ ness, which, I believe, consisted in their emptying together a mutchkin stoup o f usquebaugh. While the worthy host and his guest were thus employed, the discarded steward, with a double portion o f morose­ ness in his gesture and look, walked discontentedly into the kitchen o f the place, which was occupied but by one guest. T h e stranger was a slight figure, scarce above the age o f boyhood, and in the dress o f a page, but bearing an air o f haughty aristocratic boldness and even insolence in his look and manner, that might have made Dryfesdale conclude he had pretensions to superior rank, had not his experience taught him how frequently these airs o f superiority were assumed by the domestics and military retainers o f the Scottish nobility.— “The pilgrim’s morning to you, old sir,” said the youth; “you come, as I think, from Lochleven Castle— What news o f our bonnie Q ueen ?— a fairer dove was never pent up in so wretched a dove-cot.” “They that speak o f Lochleven, and o f those whom its walls con­ tain,” answered Dryfesdale, “speak o f what concerns the Douglas; and they who speak o f what concerns the Douglas, do it at their peril.” “D o you speak from fear o f them, old man, or would you make a quarrel for them ?— I should have deemed your age might have cooled your blood.” “Never, while there are empty-pated coxcombs at each comer to keep it warm.”

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“T he sight o f thy grey hairs keeps mine cold,” said the boy, who had risen up and now sat down again. “It is well for thee, or I had cooled it with this holly-rod,” replied the steward. “I think thou be’st one o f those swash-bucklers, who brawl in ale-houses and taverns, and, if words were pikes, and oaths Andrew Ferraras, would soon place the religion o f Babylon in the land once more, and the woman o f Moab upon the throne.” “Now, by Saint Bennet of Seyton,” said the youth, “I will strike thee on the face, thou foul-mouthed old railing heretic !” “ Saint Bennet o f Seyton !” echoed the steward ; “a proper warrand is Saint Bennet’s, and for a proper nest o f wolf-birds like the Seytons — I will arrest thee as a traitor to King James and the Good Regent— Ho ! John Auchtermuchty— raise aid against the King’s traitor !” So saying, he laid his hand on the youth’s collar, and drew his sword. John Auchtermuchty looked in, but, seeing the naked weapon, ran faster out than he entered. Keltie, the landlord, stood by and helped neither party, only exclaiming, “ Gentlemen! gentlemen! for the love o f Heaven!” and so forth. A struggle ensued, in which the young man, chafed at Dryfesdale’s boldness, and unable, with the ease he expected, to extricate himself from the old man’s determined grasp, drew his dagger, and, with the speed o f light, dealt him three wounds in the breast and body, the least o f which was mortal. T h e old man sunk on the ground with a deep groan, and the host set up a piteous exclamation o f surprise. “Peace, ye bawling hound!” said the wounded steward; “ are dag­ ger-stabs and dying men such rarities in Scotland, that you should cry as if the house were falling?— Young man, I do not forgive thee, for there is nought betwixt us to forgive— thou hast done what I have done to more than one— and I suffer what I have seen them suffer— it was all ordained to be thus and not otherwise— But if thou wouldst do me right, thou wilt send this packet safely to the hands o f Sir William o f Douglas, and see that my memory suffer not, as if I would have loitered on mine errand for fear o f my life.” T h e youth, whose passion had subsided the instant he had done the deed, listened with sympathy and attention, when another person, muffled in his cloak, entered the apartment, and exclaimed— “ Good G od! Dryfesdale, and expiring?” “Ay, and I would that he had been dead,” answered the wounded man, “rather than that his ears had heard the words o f the only Douglas that ever was false— but yet it is better as it is. Good my murderer, and the rest o f you, stand back a little, and let me speak with this unhappy apostate.— Kneel down by me, Master George— You have heard that I failed in my attempt, to take away that Moabitish

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stumbling-block and her retinue— I gave them that which I thought would have removed the temptation out o f thy path— and this, though I had other reasons to shew to thy mother and others, I did chiefly purpose for the love o f thee.” “For the love o f me ! Base poisoner, wouldst thou have committed so horrible, so unprovoked a murder, and mentioned my name with it?” “And wherefore not, George o f Douglas?” answered Dryfesdale. “Breath is now scarce with me, but I would spend my last gasp on this argument. Hast thou not, despite the honour thou owest to thy mother, the faith that is due to thy religion, the truth that is due to the King, been so carried by the charms o f this beautiful sorceress, that thou wouldst have helped her to escape from her prison-house, and again to ascend the throne, which she had made a place o f abomina­ tion ?— Nay, stir not from me— my hand, though fast stiffening, has yet force enough to hold thee.— What doest thou aim at ?— to wed this witch o f Scotland ?— I warrant thee, thou mayst succeed— her heart and hand have been oft won at a cheaper rate, than thou, fool that thou art, would think thyself happy to pay. But, should a servant o f thy house have seen thee embrace the fate o f the ideot Darnley, or o f the villain Bothwell— the fate o f the murdered fool, or o f the living pirate — while an ounce o f rat’s bane could have saved thee ?” “Think on God, Dryfesdale,” said George Douglas, “and leave the utterance o f those horrors— repent if thou canst— if not, at least be silent.— Seyton, aid me to support this dying wretch, that he may compose himself to better thoughts, if it be possible.” “ Seyton ?” answered the dying man; “Seyton ? Is it by a Seyton’s hand that I fall at last ?— there is something o f retribution in that— since the house had nigh lost a sister by my deed.” Fixing his fading eye on the youth, he added, “He hath her very features and presence ! — Stoop down, youth, and let me see thee closer— I would know thee when we meet in yonder world, for homicides will herd together there, and I have been one.” He pulled Seyton’s face, in spite o f some resistance, closer to his own, looked at him fixedly, and added, “Thou hast begun young— thy career will be the briefer— ay, thou wilt be met with, and that anon— a young plant never throve that was watered with an old man’s blood.— Yet why blame I thee ?— strange turns o f fate,” he muttered, ceasing to address Seyton, “ I designed what I could not do, and he has done what he did not perchance design.— Strange, that our will should ever oppose itself to the strong and uncontroulable tide o f destiny— that we should strive with the stream when we might drift with the current ! M y brain will serve me to question it no farther — I would Schœ fferbach were here— yet w hy ?— I am on a course

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which the vessel can hold without a pilot.— Farewell, George of Douglas— I die true to thy house.” He fell into convulsions at these words, and shortly after expired. Seyton and Douglas stood looking on the dying man, and when the scene was closed, the former was the first to speak. "As I live, Douglas, I meant not this, and am sorry; but he laid hands on me, and compelled me to defend my freedom, as I best might, with my dagger. If he were ten times thy friend and follower, I can but say that I am sorry.” “ I blame thee not, Seyton,” said Douglas, “though I lament the chance— there is an over-ruling destiny above us, though not in the sense o f that wretched man, who, beguiled by some foreign mystagogue, used the awful word as the ready apology for whatever he chose to do— We must examine the packet.” They withdrew into an inner room, and remained deep in consulta­ tion, until they were disturbed by the entrance o f Keltie, who, with an embarrassed countenance, asked Master George Douglas’s pleasure respecting the disposal o f the body. “Your honour knows,” he added, “that I make my bread by living men, not by dead corpses ; and old M r Dryfesdale, who was but a sorry customer while he was alive, now that he is deceased occupies my public room, and can neither call for ale nor brandy.” “T ie a stone round his neck,” said Seyton, “and when the sun is down, have him to the Loch o f Cleish ; heave him in, and let him alone for finding out the bottom.” “Under your favour, sir,” said George Douglas, “it shall not be so. — Keltie, thou art a true fellow to me, and thy having been so shall advantage thee. Send or take the body to the church o f Ballingry, and tell what tale thou wilt o f his having fallen in a brawl with some unruly guests o f thine. Auchtermuchty knows nought else, nor are the times so peaceful as to admit close looking into such accidents.” “Nay, let him tell the truth,” said Seyton, “so far as it harms not our scheme.— Say that Henry Seyton met with him, my good fellow— I care not a brass bodle for the feud.” “A feud with the Douglas was ever to be feared, however,” said George, displeasure mingling with his natural deep gravity o f manner. “Not when the best o f the name is on my side,” replied Seyton. “Alas ! Henry, if thou meanest me, I am but half a Douglas in this emprize— half head, half heart, and half hand— But I will think on one who can never be forgotten, and be all, or more, than any o f my ancestors was ever.— Keltie, say it was Henry Seyton did the deed, but beware— not a word o f me !— Let Auchtermuchty carry this packet (which he had re-sealed with his own signet) to my brother at Edin-

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burgh— And here is to pay for the funeral expences, and thy loss o f custom.” “And the washing o f the floor,” said the landlord, “which will be an extraordinary job ; for blood, they say, will scarcely ever out.” “But as for your plan,” said George o f Douglas, addressing Seyton, as if in continuation o f what they had been before treating of, “it has a good face; but, under your favour, you are yourself too hot and too young, besides other reasons which are much against your playing the part you propose.” “We will consult the Father Abbot upon it,” said the youth. “D o you ride to Kinross to-night ?” “Ay— so I purpose,” answered Douglas; “the night will be dark, and suits a muffled man.— Keltie, I forgot, there should be a stone laid on that man’s grave, recording his name, and his only merit, which was being a faithful servant to the Douglas.” “What religion was the man of?” said Seyton; “he used words which make me fear I have sent Satan a subject before his time.” “ I can tell you little o f that,” said George Douglas; “he was noted for disliking both Rome and Geneva, and spoke o f lights he had learned among the fierce sectaries o f Lower Germany— an evil doc­ trine it was, if we judge by the fruits. God keep us from presumptu­ ously judging o f his heavenly secrets !” “Amen !” said the young Seyton, “ and from meeting any encounter this evening.” “It is not thy wont to pray so,” said Douglas. “No— I leave that to you,” replied the youth, “when you are seized with scruples o f engaging with your brother’s vassals. But I would fain have this old man’s blood off diese hands o f mine ere I have to shed more— I will confess to the Abbot to-night, and I trust to have light penance for ridding such a miscreant from the earth. All I sorrow for is, that he was not a score o f years younger— He drew steel first, however, that is one comfort.”

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Chapter E ight Ay, Pedro,— Come you here with mask and lantern, Ladder o f ropes and other moonshine tools— Why, youngster, thou mayst cheat the old Duenna, Flatter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet; But know, that I her father play the Gryphon, Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe, And guard the hidden treasure o f her beauty. The Spanish Father

T he t e n o r o f our tale carri es us back to the Castle o f Lochleven, where we take up the order o f events on the same remarkable day on which Dryfesdale had been dismissed from the castle. It was past noon, the usual hour o f dinner, yet no preparations seemed made for the Queen’s entertainment. Mary herself was retired into her own apartment, where she was closely engaged in writing. Her attendants were together in the presence-chamber, and much disposed to specu­ late on the delay o f the dinner; for it may be recollected that their breakfast had been interrupted. “I believe in my conscience,” said the page, “that having found the poisoning scheme miscarry, by going to the wrong shop for their deadly wares, they are now about to try how famine will work upon us.” Lady Fleming was somewhat alarmed at this surmise, but comfor­ ted herself by observing that the chimney o f the kitchen had reeked that whole day in a manner which contradicted the supposition. — Catherine Seyton presently exclaimed, “They were bearing the dishes across the court, marshalled by the Lady Lochleven herself, dressed out in her highest and stiffest ruff, with her partl et and sleeves o f Cyprus, and her huge old-fashioned farthingale o f crimson velvet.” “ I believe on my word,” said the page, approaching the window also, “it was in that very farthingale that she captivated the heart of gentle King Jamie, which procured our poor Queen her precious bargain o f a brother.” “That may hardly be, Master Roland,” answered the Lady Flem­ ing, who was a great recorder o f the changes o f fashion, “since the farthingales came first in when the Queen Regent went to Saint Andrews, after the battle o f Pinkie, and were then called Vertugardins– – – She would have proceeded farther in this important discussion, but was interrupted by the entrance o f the Lady o f Lochleven, who pre­ ceded the servants bearing the dishes, and formally discharged the

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duty o f tasting each o f them. Lady Fleming regretted, in courtly phrase, that the Lady o f Lochleven should have undertaken so troublesome an office. “After the strange incident o f this day, madam,” said the Lady, “it is necessary for my honour and that o f my son, that I partake whatever is offered to my involuntary guest. Please to inform the Lady Mary that I attend her commands.” “Her Majesty,” replied the Lady Fleming, with due emphasis on the word, “shall be informed that the Lady Lochleven waits.” Mary appeared instantly, and addressed her hostess with courtesy, which even approached to something more cordial. “This is nobly done, Lady Lochleven,” she said; “for though we ourselves appre­ hend no danger under your roof, our ladies have been much alarmed by this morning’s chance, and our meal will be the more cheerful for your presence and assurance. Please you to sit down.” T he Lady Lochleven obeyed the Queen’s command, and Roland performed the office o f carver and attendant as usual. But, notwith­ standing what the Queen had said, the meal was silent and unsocial; and every effort which Mary made to excite some conversation, died away under the solemn and chill replies o f the Lady o f Lochleven. At length it was plain that the Queen, who had considered her advances as a condescension on her part, and who piqued herself justly on her powers o f pleasing, became offended at the repulsive conduct o f her hostess. After looking with a significant glance at Lady Fleming and Catherine, she slightly shrugged her shoulders, and remained silent. A pause ensued, at the end o f which the Lady Douglas spoke.— “I perceive, Madam, I am a check on the mirth o f this fair company— I pray you to excuse me— I am a widow— alone here in a most perilous charge— deserted by my son— betrayed by my servant— I am little worthy o f the grace you do me in offering me a seat at your table, where I am aware that wit and pastime are usually expected from the guests.” “ If the Lady Lochleven is serious,” said the Queen, “we wonder by what simplicity she expects our present meals to be seasoned with mirth. If she is a widow, she lives honoured and uncontroule d , at the head o f her late husband’s household. But I know, at least, o f one widowed woman in the world, before whom the words desertion and betrayal ought never to be mentioned, since no one has been made so bitterly acquainted with their import.” “I meant not to remind you o f your misfortunes, by the mention of mine,” answered the Lady Lochleven, and there was again a deep silence. Mary at length addressed Lady Fleming. “We can commit no

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deadly sins here, ma bonne, where we are so well warded and looked to ; but if we could, this Carthusian silence might be useful as a kind o f penance. If thou hast adjusted my wimple amiss, my Fleming, or if Catherine hath made a wry stitch in her broidery, when she was thinking o f something else than her work, or if Roland Græme hath missed a wild-duck on the wing, and broke a quarrel-pane o f glass in the turret window, as chanced to him a week since, now is the time to think on your sins and to repent o f them.” “Madam, I speak with all reverence,” said the Lady Lochleven; “but I am old, and crave the privilege o f age. Methinks your followers might find fitter subjects for repentance than the trifles you mention, and so mentioned— once more, I crave your pardon— as if you jested with sin and with repentance both.” “You have been our taster, Lady Lochleven,” said the Queen, “I perceive you would eke out your duty with that o f our Father Con­ fessor— And since you chuse that our conversation should be serious, may I ask you why the Regent’s promise— since your son so styles himself— has not been kept to me in that respect ? From time to time this promise has been renewed, and as constantly broken. Methinks, those who pretend themselves to so much gravity and sanctity, should not debar from others the religious succours which their consciences require.” “Madam, the Earl o f Moray was indeed weak enough,” said the Lady Lochleven, “to give so far way to your unhappy prejudices, and a religioner o f the Pope presented himself on his part at our town of Kinross.— But the Douglas is Lord o f his own castle, and will not permit its threshold to be darkened, no not for a single moment, by an emissary belonging to the Bishop o f Rome.” “Methinks it were well, then,” said Mary, “that my Lord Regent would send me where there is less scruple and more charity.” “In this, madam,” answered the Lady Lochleven, “you mistake the nature both o f charity and o f religion. Charity giveth to those who are in delirium the medicaments which may avail their health, but refuses those enticing cates and liquors which please the palate, but augment the disease.” “This your charity, Lady Lochleven, is pure cruelty, under the hypocritical disguise o f friendly care— I am oppressed amongst you as if you meant the destruction both o f my body and soul— but Heaven will not endure such iniquity for ever, and they who are the most active agents in it may speedily expect their reward.” At this moment Randal entered the apartment, with a step so hur­ ried and a look so much perturbed, that the Lady Fleming uttered a faint scream, the Queen was obviously startled, and the Lady o f Loch-

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leven, though too bold and proud to evince any marked signs o f alarm, asked hastily what was the matter ? “Dryfesdale has been slain, madam,” was the reply; “murdered so soon as he gained the dry land by young Master Henry Seyton.” It was now Catherine’s turn to start and grow pale— “Has the murderer o f the Douglas’s vassal escaped ?” was the Lady’s hasty question. “There was none to challenge him but old K eltie, and the carrier Auchtermuchty,” replied Randal; “unlikely men to stay one o f the frackest* youths in Scotland o f his years, and who was like to have friends and partakers at no great distance.” “Was the deed completed ?” said the Lady. “Done, and done thoroughly,” said Randal ; “a Seyton seldom strikes twice— But the body was not spoiled, and your honour’s packet goes forward to Edinburgh by Auchtermuchty, who leaves KeltieBridge early to-morrow— marry, he has drunk two botdes o f aquavitæ to put the fright out o f his head, and now sleeps them off beside his cart-avers.” There was a pause when this fatal tale was told. T h e Queen and Lady Douglas looked on each other, as if each thought how she could best turn the incident to her own advantage in the controversy, which was continually kept alive betwixt them— Catherine Seyton kept her kerchief at her eyes and wept. “You see, madam, the bloody maxims and practices o f the deluded papists,” said Lady Lochleven. “Nay, madam,” replied the Q ueen, “say rather you see the deserved judgment o f Heaven upon a Calvinistical poisoner.” “Dryfesdale was not o f the Church o f Geneva or o f Scotland,” said the Lady Lochleven, hastily. “He was a heretic, however,” replied Mary; “there is but one true and unerring guide, the others lead alike into error.” “Well, madam, I trust it will reconcile you to your retreat, that this deed shews the temper o f those who might wish you at liberty— blood­ thirsty tyrants, and cruel man-quellers are they all, from the ClanRanald and Clan-Tosach in the north, to Ferniherst and Buccleuch in the south— the murdering Seytons in the east”— — “Methinks you forget, madam, that I am a Seyton,” said Catherine, withdrawing her kerchief from her face, which now coloured with indignation. “ If I had forgot it, fair mistress, your forward bearing would have reminded me,” said Lady Lochleven. “If my brother have slain the villain that would have poisoned his * Boldest— most forward.

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Sovereign, and his sister,” said Catherine, “I am only so far sorry that he should have spared the hangman his proper task. For aught fur­ ther, had it been the best Douglas in the land, he would have been honoured in falling by the Seyton’s sword.” “Farewell, gay mistress,” said the Lady o f Lochleven, rising to withdraw; “it is such maidens as you, who make giddy-fashioned revellers and deadly brawlers. Boys must needs rise, forsooth, in the grace o f some sprightly damsel, who thinks to dance through life as through a French galliard.” She then made her reverence to the Queen, and added, “D o you also, madam, fare you well, till curfew time, when I will make, perchance, more bold than welcome in attending upon your supper board.— Come with me, Randal, and tell me more o f this cruel fact.” “ ’T is an extraordinary chance,” said the Queen, when she had departed; “ and, villain as he was, I would this man had been spared time for repentance— we will cause something to be done for his soul, if we ever attain our liberty, and the Church will permit such grace to an heretic.— But, tell me, Catherine, ma mignonne— this brother of thine, who is so frack, as the fellow called him, bears he the same wonderful likeness to thee as formerly ?” “ If your Grace means in temper, you know best whether I am so frock as the serving-man spoke him.” “Nay, thou art prompt enough in all reasonable conscience,” replied the Queen; “but thou art my own darling notwithstanding— But I meant, is this thy twin-brother as like thee in form and feature as formerly? I remember thy dear mother alleged it as a reason for destining thee to the veil, that, were you both to go at large, thou wouldst surely get the credit o f some o f thy brother’s mad pranks.” “I believe, madam,” said Catherine, “there are some unusually simple people even yet, who can hardly distinguish betwixt us, espe­ cially when, for diversion’s sake, my brother hath taken a female dress,”— and, as she spoke, she gave a quick glance at Roland Græme, to whom this conversation conveyed a ray o f light, welcome as ever streamed into the dungeon o f a captive through the door which opened to give him freedom. “H e must be a handsome cavalier this brother o f thine, if he be so like you,” replied Mary. “He was in France, I think, for these late years, so that I saw him not at Holyrood.” “ His looks, madam, have never been much found fault with,” answered Catherine Seyton; “but I would he had less o f that angry and heady spirit which evil times have encouraged amongst our young nobles. God knows, I grudge not his life in your Grace’s quarrel, and love him for the willingness with which he labours for your rescue. But

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wherefore should he brawl with an old ruffianly serving-man, and stain at once his name with such a broil, and his hands with the blood o f an old and ignoble wretch ?” “Nay, be patient, Catherine ; I will not have thee traduce my gallant young knight. With Henry for my knight, and Roland Græme for my trusty squire, methinks I am like a princess o f romance, who may shortly set at defiance the dungeons and the weapons o f all wicked sorcerers.— But my head aches with the agitation o f the day. Take me La Mer des Histoires, and resume where we left off on Wednesday.— Our Lady help thy head, girl, or rather may she help thy heart!— I asked thee for the Sea o f Histories, and thou hast brought L a Cronique d’Amour— Ah, Catherine, time will teach thee, I fear, how little truth there is in that same Chronicle o f Love.” Once embarked upon the Sea o f Histories, the Queen continued her labours with her needle, while Lady Fleming and Catherine read to her alternately for two hours. As to Roland Græme, it is probable that he continued in secret intent upon the Chronicle o f Love, notwithstanding the censure which the Queen had passed upon that branch o f study. He now remembered a thousand circumstances o f voice and manner, which, had his own prepossession been less, must surely have discriminated the brother from the sister ; and he felt ashamed, that, having as it were by heart every particular o f Catherine’s gestures, words, and manners, he should have thought her, notwithstanding her spirits and levity, capable o f assuming the bold step, loud tones, and forward assurance, which accorded well enough with her brother’s hasty and masculine character. He endeavoured repeatedly to catch a glance o f Cather­ ine’s eye, that he might judge how she was disposed to look upon him since he had made the discovery; but he was unsuccessful, for Cath­ erine, when she was not reading herself, seemed to take so much interest in the exploits o f the Teutonic knights against the Heathens of Esthonia and Livonia, that he could not surprise her eye even for a second. But when, closing the book, the Queen commanded their attend­ ance in the garden, Mary, perhaps o f set purpose, (for Roland’s anxiety could not escape so practised an observer,) afforded him a favourable opportunity o f accosting his mistress. T he Queen com­ manded them to a little distance, while she engaged Lady Fleming in a particular and private conversation; the subject whereof, we learn from another authority, to have been the comparative excellence of the high standing ruff and the falling band. Roland must have been duller, and more sheepish than ever was youthful lover, if he had not endeavoured to avail himself o f this opportunity.

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“I have been longing this whole evening to ask o f you, fair Cather­ ine,” said the page, “how foolish and unapprehensive you must have thought me, in being capable to mistake betwixt your brother and you.” “T he circumstance does indeed little honour to my rustic man­ ners,” said Catherine, “ since those o f a wild young man were so readily mistaken for mine. But I shall grow wiser in time ; and with that view I am determined not to think o f your follies, but to correct my own.” “It will be the lighter subject o f meditation o f the two,” said Roland. “I know not that,” said Catherine, very gravely; “I fear we have been both unpardonably foolish.” “I have been mad,” said Roland, “unpardonably mad. But you, lovely Catherine”– – “I,” said Catherine, in the same tone o f unusual gravity, “have too long suffered you to use such expressions towards me— I fear I can permit it no longer, and I blame myself for the pain it may give you.” “And what can have happened so suddenly to change our relation to each other, or alter, with such sudden cruelty, your whole deportment t o m e ?” “I can hardly tell,” replied Catherine, “unless it is that the events o f the day have impressed on my mind the necessity o f our observing more distance to each other— A chance similar to that which betrayed to you the existence o f my brother, may make known to Henry the terms you have used to me ; and, alas ! his whole conduct, as well as his deed this day, makes me too justly apprehensive o f the con­ sequences.” “Fear nothing for that, fair Catherine,” answered the page; “I am well able to protect myself against risks o f that nature.” “That is to say,” replied she, “that you would fight with my twinbrother to shew your regard for his sister. I have heard the Queen say, in her sad hours, that men are, in love or in hate, the most selfish animals o f creation; and your carelessness in this matter looks very like it. But be not so much abashed— you are no worse than others.” “You do me injustice, Catherine,” replied the page, “I thought but o f being threatened with a sword, and did not remember in whose hand your fancy had placed it. If your brother stood before me, with his drawn weapon in his hand, so like as he is to you in word, person, and favour, he might shed my life-blood ere I could find in my heart to resist him to his injury.” “Alas!” said she, “it is not my brother alone. But you remember only the singular circumstances in which we have met in equality, and I may say in intimacy. You think not, that whenever I re-enter my

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father’s house, there is a gulph between us you may not pass, but with peril o f your life.— Your only known relative is o f wild and singular habits, o f a hostile and broken clan— the rest o f your lineage unknown — forgive me that I speak what is the undeniable truth.” “Love, my beautiful Catherine, despises genealogies,” answered Roland Græme. “ Love may— but so will not the Lord Seyton,” rejoined the damsel. “T h e Queen, thy mistress and mine— she will intercede. O ! drive me not from you at the moment I thought myself most happy !— and if I shall aid her deliverance, said not yourself that you and she would become my debtors ?” “All Scotland will become your debtors,” said Catherine; “but for the active effects you might hope from our gratitude, you must remember I am wholly dependent upon my father; and the poor Queen is, for a long time, more like to be dependent on the pleasure o f the nobles o f her party, than possessed o f power to controul them.” “Be it so,” replied Roland ; “my deeds shall controul prejudice itself — it is a bustling world, and I will have my share. T h e Knight o f Avenel, high as he now stands, rose from as obscure an origin as mine.” “Ay !” said Catherine, “there spoke the doughty knight o f romance, that will cut his way to the imprisoned princess, through fiends and fiery dragons.” “But if I can set the princess at large, and procure her the freedom o f her own choice,” said the page, “where, dearest Catherine, will that choice alight?” “Release the princess from duresse, and she will tell you,” said the damsel; and breaking o ff the conversation abruptly, she joined the Queen so suddenly, that Mary exclaimed, half aloud— “No more tidings o f evil import— no dissention, I trust, in my limited household?”— Then looking on Catherine’s blushing cheek, and Roland’s expanded brow and glancing eye— “No— no,” she said, “ I see all is well— Ma petite mignonne, go to my apartment and fetch me down— let me see— ay fetch my pomander box.” And having thus disposed o f her attendant in the manner best qualified to hide her confusion, the Queen added, speaking apart to Roland, “I should at least have two grateful subjects o f Catherine and you ; for what sovereign but Mary would aid true-love so willingly?— Ay, you lay your hand on your sword— your petiteflamberge à rien there — Well, short time will shew if all the good-will be true that is pro­ tested to us.— I hear them toll curfew from Kinross. T o our chamber — this old dame hath promised to be with us again at our evening meal. Were it not for the hope o f speedy deliverance, her presence

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would drive me distracted. But I will be patient.” “I profess,” said Catherine, who just then entered, “ I would I could be Henry, with all a man’s privileges for one moment— I long to throw my plate at that confect o f pride, and formality, and illnature.” T he Lady Fleming reprimanded her young companion for this explosion o f impatience; the Queen laughed, and they went to the presence-chamber, where almost immediately entered supper, and the Lady o f the Castle. T h e Queen, strong in her prudent resolutions, endured her presence with great fortitude and equanimity, until her patience was disturbed by a new form, which had hitherto made no part o f the ceremonial o f the castle. W hen the other attendants had retired, Randal entered, bearing the keys o f the castle fastened upon a chain, and, announcing that the watch was set, and the gates locked, delivered the keys with all reverence to the Lady o f Lochleven. T h e Queen and her ladies exchanged with each other a look o f disappointment, anger, and vexation, and Mary said aloud, “W e can­ not regret the smallness o f our court, when we see our hostess dis­ charge in person so many o f its offices. In addition to her charges o f principal steward o f our household and grand almoner, she has to­ night done duty as captain o f our guard.” “A nd will continue to do so in future, madam,” answered the Lady Lochleven, with much gravity; “the history o f Scotland may teach me how ill the duty is performed, which is done by an accredited deputy— we have heard, madam, o f favourites o f later date, and as little merit, as Oliver Sinclair.” “ O, madam,” replied the Queen, “my father had his female as well as his male favourites— there were the Ladies Sandilands and O lifaunt, and some others, methinks; but their names cannot survive in the memory o f so grave a person as you.” T h e Lady Lochleven looked as if she could have slain the Queen on the spot, but commanded her temper, and retired from the apartment, bearing in her hand the ponderous bunch o f keys. “Now God be praised for that woman’s youthful frailty,” said the Q ueen. “ Had she not that weak point in her character, I might waste my words on her in vain— But that stain is the very reverse o f what is said o f the witch’s mark— I can make her feel there, though she is otherwise insensible all over— But how say you, girls— here is a new difficulty— how are these keys to be come by?— there is no deceiving or bribing this dragon, I trow.” “M ay I crave to know,” said Roland, “whether, if your Grace were beyond the walls o f the castle, you could find means o f conveyance to the firm land, and protection when you are there.”

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“Trust us for that, Roland,” said the Queen; “for to that point our scheme is indifferent well laid.” “Then if your Grace will permit me to speak my mind, I think I could be o f some use in this matter.” “As how, my good youth?— speak on,” said the Queen, “and fear­ lessly.” “M y patron the Knight o f Avenel used to compel the youth edu­ cated in his household to learn the use o f axe and hammer, and working in wood and iron— he used to speak o f old northern cham­ pions, who forged their own weapons, and o f the Highland Captain Donald nan Ord, or Donald o f the Hammer, whom he himself knew, and who used to work at the anvil with a sledge-hammer in each hand. Some said he praised this art, because he was himself o f churlish blood— but I gained some practice in it, as the Lady Catherine Seyton partly knows ; for since we were here I wrought her a silver broach.” “Ay,” replied Catherine, “but you should tell her Grace that your workmanship was so indifferent that it broke to pieces next day, and I flung it away.” “Believe her not, Roland,” said the Queen; “she wept when it was broken, and put the fragments into her bosom. But for your scheme— could your skill avail to forge a second set o f keys ?” “No, madam, because I know not the wards. But I am convinced I could make a set so like that hateful bunch which the lady bore off even now, that could they be exchanged against them by any means, she would never dream she was possessed o f the wrong.” “And the good lady, thank heaven, is somewhat blind,” said the Queen; “but then for a forge, my boy, and the means o f labouring unobserved?” “T he armourer’s forge, at which I used sometimes to work with him, is in the round vault at the bottom o f the turret— he was dis­ missed with the warder for being supposed too much attached to George Douglas. T h e people are accustomed to see me work there, and I will find some excuse that will pass current with them for putting bellows and anvil to work.” “T h e scheme has a promising face,” said the Queen; “about it, my lad, with all speed, and beware the nature o f your work is not discov­ ered.” “Nay, I will take the liberty to draw the bolt against chance visitors, so that I will have time to put away what I am working upon, before I undo the door.” “Will not that o f itself attract suspicion, in a place where it is so current already?” said Catherine. “Not a whit,” replied Roland; “Gregory the armourer, and every

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good hammerman, locks himself in when he is about some master­ piece o f craft. Besides, something must be risked.” “Part we then to-night,” said the Queen, “and God bless you, my children.— If Mary’s head ever rises above water, you shall all arise along with her.”

Chapte n in e It is a time o f danger, not o f revel, When churchmen turn masquers. Spanish Father

T h e E N T E R P R IZ E o f Roland Græme appeared to prosper. A trin­ ket or two, o f which the work did not surpass the substance, (for the materials were silver, supplied by the Queen) were judiciously pre­ sented to those most likely to be inquisitive into the labours o f the forge and anvil, which they thus were induced to reckon profitable to others and harmless in itself. Openly, the page was seen working about such trifles. In private, he forged a number o f keys resembling so nearly in weight and in form those which were presented every evening to the Lady Lochleven, that, on a slight inspection, it would have been difficult to perceive the difference. He brought them to the dark rusty colour by the use o f salt and water; and, in the triumph o f his art, presented them at length to Queen Mary in her presencechamber, about an hour before the tolling o f the curfew. She looked at them with pleasure, yet at the same time with doubt.— “ I allow,” she said, “that the Lady Lochleven’s eyes, which are not o f the clearest, may be well deceived, could we pass these keys on her, in place o f the real implements o f her tyranny. But how is this to be done, and which o f my little court dare attempt this tour dejongleur with any chance o f success ? Could we but engage her in some earnest matter o f argu­ ment— But those which I hold with her, always have been o f a kind which make her grasp her keys the faster, as if she said to herself— Here I hold what sets me above your taunts and reproaches— And even for her liberty, Mary Stuart could not stoop to speak the proud heretic fair.— What shall we do? Shall Lady Fleming tey her elo­ quence in describing the last new head-tire from Paris?— Alas! the good dame has not changed the fashion o f her head-gear since Pinkiefield, for aught that I know. Shall my mignonne Catherine sing to her one o f those touching airs, which draw the very souls out o f me and Roland Græme?— Alas ! Dame Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot psalm sung to the tune o f Réveillez vous belle endormie. — Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our wits are

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really astray in this matter.— M ust our man-at-arms and the cham­ pion o f our body, Roland Græme, manfully assault the old lady, and take the keys from her par voie dufait?” “Nay ! with your Grace’s permission,” said Roland, “I doubt not to manage the matter with more discretion ; for though, in your Grace’s service, I do not fear”– – “A host o f old women,” interrupted Catherine, “each armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no fancy for pikes and partizans.” “They that do not fear fair ladies’ tongues,” continued the page, “need dread nothing else.— But, gracious Liege, I am well nigh satis­ fied that I could pass the exchange o f these keys on the Lady Lochleven; but I dread the centinel who is now planted nightly in the garden, which, by necessity, we must traverse.” “Our last advices from our friend on the shore have promised us assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen. “And is your Grace well assured o f the fidelity and watchfulness of those without?” “ For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for their vigilance, I will answer with my life— I will give thee instant proof, my faithful Roland, that they are ingenious and trusty as thyself. Come hither— Nay, Catherine, attend us ; we carry not so deft a page into our private chamber alone. Make fast the door o f the parlour, Fleming, and warn us if you hear the least step— O r stay, go thou to the door, Catherine, (in a whisper) thy ears and thy wits are both sharper.— Good Flem­ ing, attend us thyself— (and again she whispered) Her reverend pres­ ence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine can— so be not jealous, mignonne.” Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen’s bed-room, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window. “Look from that window, Roland,” she said; “ See you among the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the grey o f the evening from the village o f Kinross— Seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge o f the water ?— It is no brighter at this distance than the torch o f the poor glow-worm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault o f heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart are plotting my deliver­ ance; and without that consciousness, and the hope o f freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died o f a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glimmers, and while it glimmers, my hope lives.— O ! how many evenings I have sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and

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scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights o f Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there was only dejection and despair!” “If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “the candle shines from the house o f Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener?” “Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen; “it is there where my trusty lieges— God and the saints pour blessings on them!— hold consultation for my deliverance. T h e voice o f a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils, and yet I can hold communication with them— I will confide the whole to thee— I am about to ask those faithful friends, if the moment for the great attempt is nigh— Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.” She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage o f the gardener disappeared. “Now, count,” said Queen Mary, “for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself.” T he Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore again shewed its pale twinkle. “Now, Our Lady be praised!” said the Queen; “it was but two nights since, that the absence o f the light remained, while I could tell thirty. T h e hour o f deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it with such truth to me !— alas ! with such hazard to them­ selves— And bless you too, my children!— Come, we must to the audience-chamber again— our absence might excite suspicion, should they serve the supper.” They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening con­ cluded as usual. T h e next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While Lady Douglas o f Lochleven performed her daily duty o f assist­ ant and taster at the Queen’s table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what he brought by word o f mouth. “ Hath he given you that token?” demanded the Lady. “He reserves it, as I think, for your ladyship’s ear,” replied Randal. “ He doth well,” said the Lady ; “tell him to wait in the hall— But no — with your permission, madam, (to the Queen) let him attend me here.” “ Since you chuse to receive your domestics in my presence, madam,” said the Queen, “I cannot chuse.” “M y infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” replied the Lady;

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“the life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my head, and compels me to waive ceremonial.” “ O, my good lady,” replied the Queen, “I would there was nought in this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains o f ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with.” As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and Roland Græme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius. “What is your name, good fellow?” said the Lady. “Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a suitable rever­ ence. “Art thou o f the blood o f the Knight o f Avenel?” said the Lady o f Lochleven. “Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretended soldier. “It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the Knight is the son o f his own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank in the Estate— But he is o f sure truth and approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?” “D o not doubt o f it, madam,” said the disguised churchman. “Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?” said the Lady. “I have, madam,” replied he ; “but it must be said in private.” “Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the recess o f a window; “say in what does it consist?” “In the words o f an old bard,” replied the Abbot. “Repeat them,” answered the Lady; and he uttered, in a low tone, the lines from an old poem, called The Howlat,— “O, Douglas ! Douglas ! Tender and true.”

“Trusty Sir John Holland !” said the Lady Douglas, apostrophizing the poet, “ a kinder heart never inspired a rhime, and the Douglas’s honour was ever on thy harp-string! We receive you among our fol­ lowers, Glendinning— But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward only, till we shall hear more touching him from our son.— Thou fearest not the night-air, Glendinning?” “In the cause o f the Lady before whom I stand, I fear nothing, madam,” answered the disguised Abbot. “ Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trust-worthy soldier,” said the matron— “ G o to the buttery, and let them make much o f thee.” When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen said to Roland Græme, who was now almost constantly in her company, “I spy comfort in that stranger’s countenance ; I know not why it should be so, but I am well persuaded he is a friend.”

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“Your Grace’s penetration does not deceive you,” answered the page; and he informed her that the Abbot o f Saint M aiy’s himself played the part o f the newly arrived soldier. T h e Queen crossed herself and looked upwards. “Unworthy sinner that I am,” she said, “that for my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual office, should wear the garb o f a base sworder, and run the risk o f dying the death o f a traitor !” “Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” said Catherine Seyton; “his aid would bring a blessing on our undertaking, were it not already blest for its own sake.” “What I admire in my religious father,” said Roland, “was the steady front with which he looked on me, without giving the least sign o f former acquaintance. I did not think the like was possible, since I have ceased to believe that Henry was the same person with Cather­ ine.” “But marked you not how astuciously the good father,” said the Queen, “eluded the questions o f the woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which yet she received not as such?” Roland thought in his heart, that when the truth was spoken for the purpose o f deceiving, it was little better than a lie in disguise. But it was no time to agitate such questions o f conscience. “And now for the signal from the shore,” exclaimed Catherine; “my bosom tells me we shall see this night two lights instead o f one gleam from that garden o f Eden— And then, Roland, do you play your part manfully, and we will dance on the greensward li k e midnight fairies.” Catherine’s conjecture misgave not, nor deceived her. In the even­ ing two beams twinkled from the cottage, instead o f one ; and the page heard, with beating heart, that the new retainer was ordered to stand centinel on the outside o f the castle. W hen he intimated this news to the Queen, she held her hand out to him— he knelt, and when he raised it to his lips in all dutiful homage, he found it was damp and cold as marble. “For G od’s sake, madam, droop not now— sink not now.” “ Call upon Our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady Fleming— “call upon your tutelar saint.” “Call the spirits o f the hundred kings you are descended from,” exclaimed the page ; “in this hour o f need, the resolution o f a monarch were worth the aid o f a hundred saints.” “O ! Roland Græme,” said Mary, in a tone o f deep despondency, “be true to me— many have been false to me. Alas ! I have not always been true to myself. M y mind misgives me that I shall die in bondage, and that this bold attempt will cost all our lives— it was foretold me by a soothsayer in France, that I should die in prison, and by a violent

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death, and here comes the hour— O, would to God it found me prepared !” “Madam,” said Catherine Seyton, “remember you are a Queen— better we all died in bravely attempting to gain our freedom, than remained here to be poisoned, as men rid them o f the noxious vermin that haunt old houses.” “You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen; “and Mary will bear her like herself. But, alas ! your young and buoyant spirit can ill spell the causes which have broken mine. Forgive me, my children, and farewell for a while— I will prepare both mind and body for this awful venture.” They separated, till again called together by the tolling o f the cur­ few. T h e Queen appeared grave, but firm and resolved; the Lady Fleming, with the art o f an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how to disguise her inward tremors; Catherine’s eye was fired, as if with the boldness o f the project, and the half smile which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth seemed to contemn all the risk and all the con­ sequences o f discovery. Roland, who felt how much success depended on his own address and boldness, summoned together his whole presence o f mind, and, if he found his spirits flag for a moment, cast his eye upon Catherine, whom he thought he had never seen look so beautiful.— “I may be foiled,” thought he, “but with this reward in prospect, they must bring the devil to aid them ere they cross me.” Thus resolved, he stood like a greyhound in the slips, with hand, heart, eye intent upon making and seizing opportunity for the execu­ tion o f their project. T h e keys had, with the wonted ceremonial, been presented to the Lady Lochleven. She stood with her back to the casement, which, like that o f the Queen’s apartment, commanded a view o f Kinross, with the church, which stands at some distance from the town, and nearer to the lake, then connected with the town by straggling cottages, though now entirely separated by inclosures. With her back to this casement, then, and her face to the table, on which the keys lay for an instant while she tasted the various dishes which were placed there, stood the Lady o f Lochleven, more provokingly intent than usual— so at least it seemed to her prisoners— upon the huge and heavy bunch o f the implements o f their restraint. Just when, having finished her cere­ mony as taster o f the Queen’s table, she was about to take up the keys, the page, who stood beside her, and had handed her the dishes in succession, looked sideways to the church-yard, and exclaimed he saw corpse candles in the church-yard. T h e Lady o f Lochleven was not without a touch, though a slight one, o f the superstitions o f the time ; the fate o f her sons made her alive to omens, and a corpse-light,

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as it was called, in the family burial-place, boded death. She turned her head towards the casement— saw a distant glimmering— forgot her charge for one second, and in that second were lost the whole fruits o f her former vigilance. T he page held the forged keys under his cloak, and with great dexterity exchanged them for the real ones. His utmost address could not prevent a slight clash as he took up the latter bundle. “Who touches the keys?” said the Lady; and while the page answered that the sleeve o f his cloak had stirred them, she turned round, possessed herself o f the bunch which now occupied the place o f the genuine keys, and again turned to gaze at the supposed corpsecandles. “I hold those gleams,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, “to come, not from the church-yard, but from the hut o f the old gardener Blinkhoolie. I wonder what thrift that churl drives, that o f late he hath ever had light in his house till the night grew deep. I thought him an industrious, peaceful man— if he turns resetter o f idle companions and night-walkers, the place must be rid o f him.” “He may work his baskets perchance,” said the page, desirous to stop the train o f her suspicion. “ O r nets, may he not?” answered the Lady. “Ay, madam,” said Roland, “for trout and salmon.” “ Or for fools and knaves,” replied the Lady; “but this shall be looked after to-morrow.— I wish your Grace and your company a good evening.— Randal, attend us.” And Randal, who waited in the anti-chamber, after having surrendered his bunch o f keys, gave his escort to his mistress as usual, while, leaving the Queen’s apartments, she retired to her own. “To-morrow?” said the page, rubbing his hands with glee as he repeated the Lady’s last word, “ fools look to to-morrow, and wise folk use to-night.— May I pray you, my gracious Liege, to retire for one half hour, until all the castle is composed to rest. I must go and rub with oil these blessed implements o f our freedom. Courage and con­ stancy, and all will go well, providing our friends on the shore fail not to send the boat you spoke of.” “Fear them not,” said Catherine, “they are true as steel— if our dear mistress do but maintain her noble and royal courage.” “Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen; “a while since I was overborne, but I have recalled the spirit o f my earlier and more sprightly days, when I used to accompany my armed nobles, and wish to be myself a man, to know what life it was to lie in the fields with sword and buckler, jack and knapscap.” “O, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a lighter and gayer song than the merry soldier,” said Roland. “Your Grace shall be in the

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midst o f them soon, and the look o f such a liege Sovereign will make each o f your host worth three in the hour o f need— But I must to my task.” “W e have but brief time,” said Catherine ; “one o f the two lights in the cottage is extinguished— that shows the boat is put off.” “They will row very slow,” said the page, “or kent where depth permits, to avoid noise.— T o our several gear— I will communicate with the good Father.” At the dead hour o f midnight, when all was silent in the castle, the page put the key into the lock o f the wicket which opened into the garden, and which was at the bottom of a staircase that descended from the Q ueen’s apartment. “Now turn smooth and softly, thou good bolt,” said he, “if ever oil softened rust !” and his precautions had been so effectual, that the bolt revolved with little or no sound o f resistance. He ventured not to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word with the disguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready. “This half hour,” said the centinel, “she lies beneath the wall, too close under the islet to be seen by the warder, but I fear she will hardly escape his notice in putting off.” “ The darkness,” said the page, “ and profound silence, may take her off unobserved, as she came in. Hildebrand has the watch on the tower— a heavy-headed knave, who holds a can o f ale to be the best head-piece upon a night-watch— he sleeps for a wager.” “Then bring down the Queen,” said the Abbot, “and I will call Henry Seyton to assist them to the boat.” On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath, trembling at every rustle of their own apparel, one after another the fair prisoners glided down the winding stair, under the guidance o f Roland Græme, and were received at the wicket-gate by Henry Seyton and the church­ man. T he former seemed instantly to take upon himself the whole dir­ ection o f the enterprize. “M y Lord Abbot,” he said, “give my sister your arm— I will conduct the Queen— and the youth will have the honour to guide Lady Fleming.” This was no time to dispute the arrangement, although it was not that which Roland would have chosen. Catherine Seyton, who well knew the garden path, tripped on before like a sylph, rather leading the Abbot than receiving assistance— the Queen, her native spirit prevailing over female fear, and a thousand painful reflections, moved steadily on, by assistance o f Henry Seyton— while the Lady Fleming encumbered with her fears and her helplessness Roland Græme, who followed in the rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet o f necessaries belonging to the Queen. T he door o f the garden, which communicated with the shore o f the islet, yielded to one o f the keys o f

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which Roland had possessed himself, although not until he had tried several,— a moment o f anxious terror and expectation. T h e ladies were then partly led, partly carried, to the side o f the lake, where a boat with six rowers attended them, the men couched along the bottom to secure them from observation. Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the stem ; the Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by the Queen’s side before he could utter his proffer o f help; and Roland Græme was just lifting Lady Fleming over the boat-side, when a thought suddenly occurred to him, and exclaiming, “Forgotten, for­ gotten ! wait me but one half minute,” he replaced on the shore the helpless lady o f the bed-chamber, threw the Queen’s packet into the boat, and sped back through the garden with the noiseless speed o f a bird on the wing. “ By Heaven he is false at last!” said Seyton; “ I ever feared it!” “ He is as true,” said Catherine, “as Heaven itself, and will main­ tain”— “ Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “ for shame, if not for fear— Fellows, put off, and row for your lives.” “Help me, help me on board !” said the deserted Lady Fleming, and that louder than prudence warranted. “ Put off— put off,” cried Henry Seyton; “leave all behind, so the Queen is safe.” “Will you permit this, madam?” said Catherine, imploringly ; “you leave your deliverer to death.” “ I will not,” said the Queen.— “ Seyton, I command you to stay at every risk.” “Pardon me, madam, if I disobey,” said the intractable young man ; and with one hand lifting in Lady Fleming, he begun himself to push o ff the boat. She was two fathoms length from the shore, and the rowers were getting her head round, when Roland Græme, arriving, bounded from the beach, and attained the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. T h e youth swore a deep but suppressed oath, and stopping Græme as he stepped towards the stem, said, “Your place is not with high-bom dames— keep at the head and trim the vessel— Now give way— give way— row, for God and the Queen !” T h e rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously. “Why did ye not muffle the oars ?” said Roland Græme ; “the dash must awaken the centinel— Row, lads, and get out o f shot ; for had old Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge, this whisper­ ing must have waked him.” “It was all thine own delay,” said Seyton; “thou shalt reckon with me hereafter for that and other matters.” But Roland’s apprehension was verified too instantly to permit him

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to reply. T h e centinel, whose slumbers had withstood the whispering, was alarmed by the dash o f the oars. His challenge was instantly heard — “A boat— a boat !— bring to, or I shoot !” And, as they continued to ply their oars, he called aloud, “Treason! treason!” rung the bell o f the castle, and discharged his harquebuss at the boat. T h e ladies crowded on each other like startled wild-fowl, at the flash and report o f the piece, while the men urged the rowers to the utmost speed. They heard more than one ball whiz along the surface o f the lake, at no great distance from their little bark; and from the lights, which glanced like meteors from window to window, it was evident the whole castle was alarmed, and their escape discovered. “ Pull !” again exclaimed Seyton ; “stretch to your oars, or I will spur you to the task with my dagger— they will launch a boat immediately. ” “That is cared for,” said Roland ; “ I locked gate and wicket on them when I went back, and no boat will stir from the island this night, if doors o f good oak and bolts o f iron can keep men within stone-walls. — And now I resign my office o f porter o f Lochleven, and give the keys to the Kelpie’s keeping.” As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot, who till then had been repeating his prayers, exclaimed, “Now, bless thee, my son ! for thy ready prudence puts shame on us all.” “I knew,” said Mary, drawing her breath more freely, as they were now out o f the reach o f the musketry— “I knew my squire’s truth, promptitude, and sagacity.— I must have him dear friends with my no less true knights, Douglas and Seyton— but where, then, is Douglas ?” “Here, madam,” answered the deep and melancholy voice o f the boatman who sate next her, and who acted as steersman. “Alas ! was it you who stretched your body before me,” said the Queen, “when the balls were raining around us?” “ Believe you,” said he, in a low tone, “that Douglas would have resigned to any one the chance o f protecting his Queen’s life with his own?” T h e dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two, from one o f those small pieces o f artillery, called falconets, then used in defending castles. T h e shot was too vague to have any effect, but the broader flash, the deeper sound, the louder return, which was made by the midnight echoes o f Bennarty, terrified and imposed silence on the liberated prisoners. T h e boat was along-side o f a rude quay or land­ ing-place, running out from a garden o f considerable extent, ere any o f them again attempted to speak. They landed, and while the Abbot returned thanks aloud to Heaven, which had thus far favoured their enterprize, Douglas enjoyed the best reward o f his desperate under­ taking, in conducting the Q ueen to the house o f the gardener. Yet, not

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unmindful o f Roland Græme even in that moment o f terror and exhaustion, Mary expressly commanded Seyton to give his assistance to Fleming, while Catherine voluntarily, and without bidding, took the arm o f the page. Seyton presently resigned Lady Fleming to the care o f the Abbot, alleging, he must look after their horses ; and his attend­ ants, disencumbering themselves o f their boat-cloaks, hastened to assist him. While Mary spent in the gardener’s cottage the few minutes which were necessary to prepare the steeds for their departure, she per­ ceived, in a comer, the old man to whom the garden belonged, and called him to approach. He came as it were with reluctance. “How, brother,” said the Abbot, “so slow to welcome thy royal Queen and mistress, to liberty and to her kingdom?” T h e old man, thus admonished, came forward, and in good terms o f speech, gave her Grace joy o f her deliverance. T h e Queen returned him thanks in the most gracious manner, and added, “It will remain to us to offer some immediate reward for your fidelity, for we wot well your house has been long the refuge in which our trusty servants have met to concert measures for our freedom.” So saying, she offered gold, and added, “We will consider your services more fully here­ after.” “ Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “kneel instantly, and thank her Grace’s kindness.” “Good brother, that wert once a few steps under me, and art still many years younger,” replied the gardener pettishly, “let me do mine acknowledgments in my own way. Queens have knelt to me ere now, and in truth my knees are too old and stiff to bend even to this lovelyfaced lady. May it please your Grace, if your Grace’s servants have occupied my house, so that I could not call it mine own— if they have trodden down my flowers in the zeal o f their midnight comings and goings, and destroyed the hope o f the fruit season, by bringing their war-horses into my garden, I do but crave o f your Grace in requital, that you will chuse your residence as far from me as possible. I am an old man, who would willingly creep to my grave as easily as he can, in peace, good will, and quiet labour.” “I promise you fairly, good man,” said the Queen, “ I will not make yonder castle my residence again, if I can help it. But let me press on you this money— it will make some amends for the havoc we have made in your little garden and orchard.” “ I thank your Grace, but it will make me not the least amends,” said the old man. “T h e ruined labours o f a whole year are not so easily replaced to him who has perchance but that one year to live ; and besides, they tell me I must leave this place and become a wanderer in

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mine old age— me that have nothing on earth saving these fruit-trees, and a few old parchments and family secrets not worth knowing. As for gold, if I had loved it, I had remained Lord Abbot o f Saint Mary’s — and yet, I wot not— for, if Abbot Boniface be but the poor peasant Blinkhoolie, his successor the Abbot Ambrosius is still transmuted for the worse into the guise o f a sword-and-buckler-man.” “ Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface o f whom I have heard ?” said the Queen. “ It is I who should have bent the knee for your blessing, good Father.” “Bend no knee to me, Lady! the blessing o f an old man who is no longer an Abbot, go with you over dale and down— I hear the tramp­ ling o f your horses.” “ Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “When we are once more seated at Holyrood, we will neither forget thee nor thine injured garden.” “Forget us both,” said the Ex-Abbot Boniface, “and may God be wi’ you!” As they hurried out of the house, they heard the old man talking and muttering to himself, as he hastily drew bolt and bar behind them. “ The revenge o f the Douglasses will reach the poor old man,” said the Queen. “ God help me, I ruin every one whom I approach.” “His safety is cared for,” said Seyton; “he must not remain here, but will be privately conducted to a place o f greater security. But I would your Grace were in your saddle.— T o horse ! to horse !” T h e party o f Seyton and o f Douglas were increased to about ten by those attendants who had remained with the horses. T he Queen and her ladies, with all the rest who came from the boat, were instantly mounted, and holding aloof from the village, which was already alarmed by the firing from the castle, with Douglas acting as their guide, they soon reached the open ground, and began to ride as fast as was consistent with keeping together in good order.

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first overwhelmed. She could not at last conceal the change o f her feelings to the person who rode at her rein, and who she doubted not was the Father Ambrosius ; for Seyton, with all the heady impetuosity o f a youth, proud, and justly so, o f his first successful adventure, assumed all the bustle and importance o f commander o f the little party, which escorted, in the language o f the time, the Fortune o f Scotland. He now led the van, now checked his bounding steed till the rear had come up, exhorted the leaders to keep a steady, though rapid pace, and commanded those who were hindmost o f the party to use their spurs, and allow no interval to take place in their line o f march ; and anon he was beside the Queen, or her ladies, enquiring how they brooked the hasty journey, and whether they had any commands for him. But while Seyton thus busied himself with some advantage, and a good deal o f ostentation, the horseman who rode beside the Queen gave her his full and undivided attention, as if he had been waiting upon some superior being. Where the road was rugged and danger­ ous, he abandoned almost entirely the care o f his own horse, and kept his hand constantly upon the Q ueen’s bridle; a river or large brook traversed their course, and his left arm retained her in the saddle, while his right held her palfrey’s rein. “ I had not thought, reverend Father,” said the Queen, when they reached the other bank, “that the convent bred such good horsemen.” — T h e person she addressed sighed, but made no other answer.— “I know not how it is,” said Queen Mary, “ either the sense o f freedom, or the pleasure o f my favourite exercise, from which I have been so long debarred, or both combined, seem to have given wings to me— no fish ever shot through the water, no bird through the air, with the hurried feeling o f liberty and rapture with which I sweep through this night-wind, and over these wolds. Nay, such is the magic o f feeling myself once more in the saddle, that I could almost swear I am at this moment mounted on my own favourite Rosabelle, who was never matched in Scotland for swiftness, for ease o f motion, or for sureness o f foot.” “And if the horse which bears so dear a burthen could speak,” answered the deep voice o f the melancholy George o f Douglas, “would she not reply, who but Rosabelle ought at such an emergence as this to serve her beloved mistress— or who but Douglas ought to hold her bridle-rein !” Queen M ary started ; she foresaw at once all the evils like to arise to herself and him from the deep enthusiastic passion o f this youth ; but her feelings as a woman, grateful at once and compassionate, pre­ vented her assuming the dignity o f the Queen, and she endeavoured to continue the conversation in an indifferent tone.

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“Methought,” she said, “I heard that, at the division o f my spoils, Rosabelle had become the property o f Lord Morton’s paramour and ladye-love, Alice.” “T h e noble palfrey had indeed been destined to so base a lot,” answered Douglas; “she was kept under four keys, and under the charge o f a numerous crew o f grooms and domestics— but Queen Mary needed Rosabelle, and Rosabelle is here.” “And was it well, Douglas,” said Queen Mary, “when such fearful risks o f various kind must needs be encountered, that you should augment their perils to yourself, for a subject o f so little moment as a palfrey?” “D o you call that o f little moment which has afforded you a moment’s pleasure ?— Did you not start with joy when I first said you were mounted on Rosabelle ?— And to have purchased you that pleas­ ure, though it were to last no longer than the flash o f lightning doth, would not Douglas have risked his life a thousand times !” “ O, peace, Douglas, peace,” said the Queen, “this is an unfitting language— and besides, I would speak,” said she, recollecting herself, “with the Abbot o f Saint Mary’s— Nay, Douglas, I will not let you quit my rein in displeasure.” “Displeasure, lady?” answered Douglas; “alas ! sorrow is all that I can feel for your well-warranted contempt— I should be as soon dis­ pleased with Heaven for refusing the wildest wish which mortal can form.” “Abide by my rein, however,” said M ary, “there is room for my Lord Abbot on the other side; and, besides, I doubt if his assistance would be so useful to Rosabelle and me as yours has been, should the road again require it.” T h e Abbot came up on the Q ueen’s left side, and she immediately opened a conversation with him on the topic o f the state o f parties, and the plan fittest for her to pursue in consequence o f her deliverance. In this conversation Douglas took little share, and never but when directly applied to by the Queen, while, as before, his attention seemed entirely engrossed by his care o f the Queen’s personal safety. She learned, however, she had a new obligation to him, since by his con­ trivance the Abbot, whom he had furnished with the family pass­ word, was introduced into the castle as one o f the garrison. Long before day-break they ended their hasty and perilous journey before the gates o f Niddrie, a castle in West Lothian, belonging to Lord Seyton. When the Queen was about to alight, Henry Seyton, preventing Douglas, received her in his arms, and, kneeling down, prayed her Majesty to enter the house o f his father, her faithful ser­ vant.

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“Your Grace,” he added, “may repose yourself here in perfect safety— it is already garrisoned with good men for your protection; and I have sent a post to my father, whose instant arrival, at the head of five hundred men, may be looked for. D o not dismay yourself, there­ fore, should your sleep be broken by the trampling o f horse ; but only think that here are some scores more o f the saucy Seytons come to attend you.” “And by better friends than the saucy Seytons, a Scottish Queen cannot be guarded,” replied Mary. “Rosabelle went fleet as the sum­ mer breeze, and well nigh as easy; but it is long since I have been a traveller, and I feel that repose will be welcome.— Catherine, ma mignonne, you must sleep in my apartment to-night, and bid me wel­ come to your noble father’s castle.— Thanks, thanks to all my kind deliverers— thanks, and a good night is all I can now offer; but if I climb once more to the upper side o f Fortune’s wheel, I will not have her bandage. Mary Stuart will keep her eyes open, and distinguish her friends.— Seyton, I need scarce recommend the venerable Abbot, the Douglas, and my page, to your honourable care and hospitality.” Henry Seyton bowed, and Catherine and Lady Fleming attended the Queen to her apartment; where, acknowledging to them that she should have found it difficult in that moment to keep her promise o f holding her eyes open, she resigned herself to repose, and awakened not till the morning was advanced. Mary’s first feeling when she awoke, was the doubt o f her freedom ; and the impulse prompted her to start from bed, and hastily throwing her mantle over her shoulders, to look out at the casement o f her apartment.— O sight o f joy ! instead o f the crystal sheet o f Lochleven, unaltered save by the influence o f the wind, a landscape o f wood and moorland lay before her, and the park around the castle was occupied by the troops o f her most faithful and most favourite nobles. “Rise, rise, Catherine,” cried the enraptured Princess; “arise and come hither!— here are swords and spears in true hands, and glitter­ ing armour on loyal breasts. Here are banners, my girl, floating in the wind, as lightly as summer-clouds— Great God ! what pleasure to my weary eyes to trace their devices— thine own brave father’s— the princely Hamilton’s— the faithful Fleming’s— See— see— they have caught a glimpse o f me, and throng towards the window !” She flung the casement open, and with her bare head, from which the tresses flew back loose and dishevelled, her fair arm slenderly veiled by her mande, returned by motion and sign, the exulting shouts o f the warriors, which echoed for many a furlong around. When the first burst o f ecstatic joy was over, she recollected how lightly she was dressed, and, putting her hands to her face, which was covered with

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blushes at the recollection, withdrew abruptly from the window. The cause o f her retreat was easily conjectured, and increased the general enthusiasm for a Princess, who had forgotten her rank in her haste to acknowledge the services o f her subjects. T h e unadorned beauties of the lovely woman, too, moved the military spectators more than the highest display o f her regal state might, and what might have seemed too free in her mode o f appearing before them, was more than atoned by the enthusiasm of the moment, and by the delicacy evinced in her hasty retreat. Often as the shouts died away, as often were they renewed till wood and hill rung again ; and many a deep oath was made that morning on the cross o f the sword, that the hand should not part with the weapon, till Mary Stuart was restored to her rights. But what are the promises, what the hopes o f mortals ? In ten days, these gallant and devoted votaries were slain, were captives, or were fled. Mary flung herself into the nearest seat, and still blushing, yet half smiling, exclaimed, “Ma mignonne, what will they think o f me!— to shew myself to them with my bare feet hastily thrust into the slippers — only this loose mande about me— my hair loose on my shoulders — my arms and neck so bare— O, the best they can suppose is, that her abode in yonder dungeon has turned their Queen’s brain! But my rebel subjects saw me exposed when I was in the depth o f afflic­ tion, why should I hold colder ceremony with these faithful and loyal men?— Call Fleming, however— I trust she has not forgotten the little mail with my apparel— We must be as brave as we can, mig­

nonne.” “Nay, madam, our good Lady Fleming was in no case to remember any thing.” “You jest, Catherine,” said the Queen, somewhat offended; “it is not in her nature, surely, to forget her duty so far as to leave us without a change o f apparel.” “ Roland Græme, madam, took care o f that,” answered Catherine; “ for he threw the mail, with your highness’s clothes and jewels, into the boat, ere he ran back to lock the gate— I never saw so awkward a page as that youth— the packet well nigh fell on my head.” “He shall make thee amends, my girl,” said Queen Mary, laughing, “for that, and all other offences given. But call Fleming, and let us put ourselves into apparel to meet our faithful lords.” Such had been the preparations, and such was the skill o f Lady Fleming, that the Queen appeared before her assembled nobles in such attire as became, though it could not enhance, her natural dig­ nity. With the most winning courtesy, she expressed to each individual her grateful thanks, and dignified not only every noble, but many o f the lesser barons by her particular attention.

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“And whither now, my lords ?” she said ; “what way do your councils determine for us ?” “T o Draphane Castle,” replied Lord Arbroath, “if your Majesty is so pleased ; and thence to Dumbarton, to place your Grace’s person in safety, after which we long to prove if these traitors will abide us in the field.” “And when do we journey?” “W e propose,” said Lord Seyton, “if your Grace’s fatigue will permit, to take horse after the morning’s meal.” “Your pleasure, my lords, is mine,” replied the Queen ; “we will rule our journey by your wisdom now, and hope hereafter to have the advantage o f governing by it our kingdom.— You will permit my ladies and me, my good lords, to break our fasts along with you— W e must be half soldiers ourselves, and set state apart.” Low bowed many a helmeted head at this gracious proffer, when the Q ueen, glancing her eyes through the assembled leaders, missed both Douglas and Roland Græme, and enquired for them in a whis­ per at Catherine Seyton. “They are in yonder oratory, madam, sad enough,” replied Cather­ ine; and the Queen observed that her favourite’s eyes were red with weeping. “This must not be,” said the Queen. “Keep the company amused— I will seek them, and introduce them myself.” She went into the oratory, where the first she met was George Douglas, standing, or rather reclining, in the recess o f a window, his back rested against the wall, and his arms folded on his breast. At the sight o f the Q ueen he started, and his countenance shewed, for an instant, an expression o f intense delight, which was instantly exchanged for his usual deep melancholy. “What means this ?” she said ; “Douglas, why does the first deviser and bold executor o f the happy scheme for our freedom, shun the company o f his fellow nobles, and o f the Sovereign whom he has obliged?” “Madam,” replied Douglas, “those whom you grace with your presence bring followers to aid your cause, wealth to support your state,— can offer you halls in which to feast, and impregnable castles for your defence. I, a houseless and landless man— disinherited by my mother, and laid under her malediction— disowned by my name and kindred— bring nothing to your standard but a single sword, and the poor life o f its owner.” “D o you mean to upbraid me, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “by shewing what you have lost for my sake ?” “ God forbid, madam,” interrupted the young man, eagerly; “were

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it to do again, and had I ten times as much rank and wealth, and twenty times as many friends to lose, my losses would be overpaid by the first step you made, as a free princess, upon the soil o f your native king­ dom.” “And what then ails you, that you will not rejoice with those who rejoice upon the same joyful occasion?” said the Queen. “Madam,” replied the youth, “though exheri dated and disowned, I am yet a Douglas : with most o f yonder nobles my family have been in feud for ages— a cold reception amongst them were an insult— and a kind one yet more humiliating.” “For shame, Douglas,” replied the Queen, “shake off this unmanly gloom !— I can make thee match for the best o f them in title and fortune, and, believe me, I will— G o then amongst them, I command you.” “That word,” said Douglas, “is enough— I go. This only let me say, that not for wealth or title would I have done that which I have done— Mary Stuart will not, and the Queen cannot reward me.” So saying, he left the oratory, mingled with the nobles, and placed himself at the bottom o f the table. T h e Queen looked after him, and put her kerchief to her eyes. “Now, Our Lady pity me,” she said, “for no sooner are my prisoncares ended, than those which beset me as a woman and a queen again thicken around me.— Happy Elizabeth! to whom political interest is every thing, and whose heart never betrays thy head.— And now must I seek this other boy, if I would prevent daggers-drawing betwixt him and the young Seyton.” Roland Græme was in the same oratory, but at such a distance from Douglas, that he could not overhear what passed betwixt the Queen and him. He also was moody and thoughtful, but cleared his brow at the Queen’s question, “How now, Roland, you are negligent in your attendance this morning. Are you so much overcome with your night’s ride?” “Not so, gracious madam,” answered Græme; “but I am told the Page o f Lochleven is not the Page o f Niddri e-Castle; and so Master Henry Seyton hath in a manner been pleased to supersede my attend­ ance.” “Now, Heaven forgive me,” said the Queen, “how soon these cockchickens begin to spar!— with children and boys, at least, I may be a queen— I will have you friends.— Some one send me Henry Seyton hither.” As she spoke the last words aloud, the youth whom she had named entered the apartment. “ Come hither,” she said, “Henry Sey­ ton— I will have you give your hand to this youth, who so well aided in the plan o f my escape.”

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“Willingly, madam,” answered Seyton, “so that the youth will grant me, as a boon, that he touch not the hand o f another Seyton whom he knows of. M y hand has passed current for her’s with him before now — and to win my friendship, he must give up thoughts o f my sister’s love.” “Henry Seyton,” said the Queen, “ does it become you to add any condition to my command ?” “Madam,” said Henry, “I am the servant o f your Grace’s throne, son to the most loyal man in Scotland. Our goods, our castles, our blood, are your’s. Our honour is in our own keeping. I could say more, but”— — “Nay, speak on, rude boy,” said the Queen ; “what avails it that I am released from Lochleven, if I am thus enthralled under the yoke o f my pretended deliverers, and prevented from doing justice to one who has deserved as well o f me as yourself?” “Be not in this distemperature for me, sovereign lady,” said Roland; “this young gentleman, being the faithful servant o f your Grace, and the brother o f Catherine Seyton, bears that about him which will charm down my passion at the hottest.” “I warn thee once more,” said Henry Seyton haughtily, “that you make no speech which may infer that the daughter o f Lord Seyton can be aught to thee beyond what she is to every churl’s blood in Scot­ land.” T h e Queen was again about to interfere, for Roland’s complexion rose, and it became somewhat questionable how long his love for Catherine would suppress the natural fire o f his temper. But the interposition o f another person, hitherto unseen, prevented M ary’s interference. There was in the oratory a separate shrine, inclosed with a high screen o f pierced oak, within which was placed an image o f Saint Bennet, o f peculiar sanctity. From this recess, in which she had been probably engaged in her devotions, issued suddenly Magdalen Græme, and addressed Henry Seyton, in reply to his last offensive expressions— “And o f what clay, then, are they moulded these Seytons, that the blood o f the Græmes may not aspire to mingle with theirs? Know, proud boy, that when I call this youth my daughter’s child, I affirm his descent from Malise Earl o f Strathern, called M al­ ise with the bright brand ; and I trow the blood o f your house springs from no higher source.” “Good mother,” said Seyton, “methinks your sanctity should make you superior to these worldly vanities; and indeed it seems to have rendered you somewhat oblivious touching them, since, to be o f gentle descent, the father’s name and lineage must be as well qualified as the mother’s.”

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“And if I say he comes o f the blood o f Avenel by the father’s side,” replied Magdalen Græme, “name I not blood as richly coloured as thine own?” “O f Avenel ?” said the Queen ; “is my page descended o f Avenel ?” “Ay, gracious Princess, and the last male heir o f that ancient house — Julian Avenel was his father, who fell in battle against the South­ ron.” “I have heard the tale of sorrow,” said the Queen ; “it was thy daughter, then, who followed that unfortunate baron to the field, and died on his body ? Alas ! how many ways does woman’s affection find to work out her own misery ! T he tale has oft been told and sung in hall and bower— And thou, Roland, art that child o f misfortune, who was left among the dead and dying?— Henry Seyton, he is thine equal in blood and birth.” “ Scarcely so,” said Henry Seyton, “even were he legitimate ; but if the tale be told and sung aright, Julian Avenel was a false knight, and his leman a frail and credulous maiden.” “Now, by Heaven, thou liest!” said Roland Græme, and laid his hand on his sword. T he entrance o f Lord Seyton, however, prevented violence. “ Save me, my lord,” said the Queen, “and separate these wild and untamed spirits.” “ How, Henry!” said the Baron, “are my castle, and the Queen’s presence, no checks on thine insolence and impetuosity?— And with whom art thou brawling?— unless my eyes spell that token false, it is with the very youth who aided me so gallantly in the skirmish with the Leslies— Let me look, fair youth, at the medal which thou wearest in thy cap. By Saint Bennet, it is the same !— H enry, I command thee to forbear him, as thou lovest my blessing.” “And as you honour my command,” said the Queen ; “good service hath he done me.” “Ay, madam,” replied young Seyton, “as when he carried the billet inclosed in the sword-sheath to Lochleven— marry, the good youth knew no more than a pack-horse what he was carrying.” “ But I, who dedicated him to this great work,” said Magdalen Græme— “I, by whose advice and agency this just heir hath been unloosed from her thraldom— I, who spared not the last remaining hope o f a falling house in this great action— I, at least, knew and counselled; and what merit may be mine, let the reward, most gra­ cious Queen, descend upon this youth. M y ministry here is ended; you are free— a sovereign Princess, at the head o f a gallant army, surrounded by valiant barons— M y service could avail you no farther, but might well prejudice you; your fortune now rests upon men’s

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hearts and men’s swords— may they prove as trusty as the faith o f women !” “You will not leave us, mother,” said the Queen— “you whose practices in our favour were so powerful, who dared so many dangers, and wore so many disguises to blind our enemies and to confirm our friends— you will not leave us in the dawn o f our reviving fortunes, ere we have time to know and to thank you ?” “You cannot know her,” answered Magdalen Græme, “who knows not herself— there are times, when, in this woman’s frame, there is the strength o f him o f Gath— in this over-toiled brain, the wisdom o f the most sage counsellor— and again the mist is on me, and my strength is weakness, my wisdom folly. I have spoken before princes and car­ dinals— ay, noble Princess, even before the princes o f thine own house o f Lorraine; and I know not whence the words o f persuasion came which flowed from my lips, and were drunk in by their ears.— And now, even when I most need words o f persuasion, there is some­ thing which choaks my voice, and robs me o f utterance.” “If there be aught in my power to do thee pleasure,” said the Queen, “the barely naming it shall avail as well as all thine eloquence.” “ Sovereign Lady,” replied the enthusiast, “it shames me that at this high moment, something o f human frailty should cling to one, whose vows the saints have heard, whose labours in the rightful cause heaven has prospered. But it will be thus while the living spirit is shrined in the clay o f mortality— I will yield to the folly,” she said, weeping as she spoke, “and it shall be the last.” Then seizing Roland’s hand, she led him to the Queen’s feet, kneeling herself upon one knee, and causing him to kneel on both. “Mighty Princess,” she said, “look on this flower — it was found by a kindly stranger on a bloody field o f battle, and long it was ere my anxious eyes saw, and my arms pressed, all that was left o f my only daughter. For your sake, and for that o f the holy faith we both profess, I could leave this plant, while it was yet tender, to the nurture o f strangers— ay, o f enemies, to whom, perchance, his blood would have been as wine, had the heretic Glendinning known that he had in his house the heir o f Julian Avenel. Since then I have seen him only in a few hours o f doubt and dread, and now I part with the child o f my love— for ever— for ever.— O , for every weary step I have made in your rightful cause, in this and in foreign lands, give protection to the child whom I must no more call mine !” “ I swear to you, mother,” said the Q ueen, deeply affected, “that, for your sake and his own, his happiness and fortunes shall be our charge !” “I thank you, daughter o f princes,” said Magdalen, and pressed her lips, first to the Q ueen’s hand, then to the brow o f her grandson. “And

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now,” she said, drying her tears, and rising with dignity, “Earth has had its own, and Heaven claims the rest. Lioness o f Scotland, go forth and conquer! and if the prayers o f a devoted votaress can avail thee, they will rise in many a land, and from many a distant shrine. I will glide like a ghost from land to land, from temple to temple ; and where the very name o f my country is unknown, the priests shall ask who is the Queen o f that distant northern land, for whom the aged pilgrim was so fervent in prayer. Farewell ! Honour be thine, and earthly prosperity, if it be the will o f God— if not, may the penance thou shalt do here, ensure thee happiness hereafter.— Let no one speak or fol­ low me— my resolution is taken— my vow cannot be cancelled.” She glided from their presence as she spoke, and her last look was upon her beloved grandchild. He would have risen and followed, but the Queen and Lord Seyton interfered. “Press not on her now,” said Lord Seyton, “if you would not lose her for ever. Many a time have we seen the sainted mother, and often at the most needful moment ; but to press on her privacy, or to thwart her purpose, is a crime which she cannot pardon. I trust we shall yet see her at her need— a holy woman she is for certain, and dedicated wholly to prayer and penance; and hence the heretics hold her as distracted, while Catholics deem her a saint.” “Let me then hope,” said the Queen, “that you, my lord, will aid me in the execution o f her last request.” “What! in the protection o f my young second?— cheerfully— that is, in all that your majesty can think it fitting to ask o f me.— Henry, give thy hand upon the instant to Roland Avenel, for so I presume he must now be called.” “And shall be Lord o f the Barony,” said the Queen, “if God pros­ per our rightful arms.” “ It can only be to restore it to my kind protectress, who now holds it,” said young Avenel. “I would rather be landless all my life, than she lost a rood o f ground by me.” “Nay,” said the Queen, looking to Lord Seyton, “his mind matches his birdi— Henry, thou hast not yet given thy hand.” “It is his,” said Henry, giving it with some appearance o f courtesy, but whispering Roland at the same time,— “For all this, thou hast not my sister’s.” “May it please your Grace,” said Lord Seyton, “now that these passages are over, to honour our poor meal. Tim e it were that our banners were reflected in the Clyde. We must to horse with as little stop as may be.”

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Chapter E leven Ay, sir— our ancient crown, in these wild times, Oft stood upon a cast— the gamester’s ducat, So often staked, and lost, and then regain’d, Scarce knew so many hazards. The Spanish Father

I t i s n o t our object to enter into the historical part o f the reign o f the ill-fated Mary, or to recount, how, during the week which succeeded her flight from Lochleven, her partizans mustered around her with their followers, forming a gallant army, amounting to six thousand men. So much light has been lately thrown on the most minute details o f the period, by M r Chalmers, in his valuable History o f Queen Mary, that the reader may be safely referred to it for the most full information which ancient records afford concerning that interesting time. It is sufficient for our purpose to say, that while Mary’s head­ quarters were at Hamilton, the Regent and his adherents had, in the K ing’s name, assembled a host at Glasgow, inferior indeed to that of the Queen in numbers, but formidable from the military talents o f Moray, Morton, the Laird of Grange, and others, who had been trained from their youth in foreign and domestic wars. In these circumstances, it was the obvious policy o f Q ueen Mary to avoid a conflict, secure that were her person once in safety, the num­ ber o f her adherents must daily increase ; whereas, the forces o f those opposed to her, must, as had frequently happened in the previous history o f her reign, have diminished, and their spirits become broken. And so evident was this to her counsellors, that they resolved their first step should be to place the Queen in the strong castle o f Dumbarton, there to await the course o f events, the arrival o f succours from France, and the levies which were made by her adherents in every province o f Scotland. Accordingly, orders were given, that all men should be on horseback or on foot, apparelled in their armour, and ready to follow the Queen’s standard in array o f battle, the avowed determination being to escort her to the castle o f Dumbarton in defi­ ance o f her enemies. T h e muster was made upon Hamilton-moor, and the march com­ menced in all the pomp o f feudal times. Military music sounded, banners and pennons waved, armour glittered far and wide, and spears glanced and twinkled like stars in a frosty sky. T he gallant spectacle o f warlike parade was on this occasion dignified by the presence o f the Queen herself, who, with a fair retinue o f ladies and household attendants, and a special guard o f gentlemen, amongst

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whom young Seyton and Roland were distinguished, gave grace at once and confidence to the army, which spread its ample files before, around, and behind her. Many churchmen also joined the cavalcade, most o f whom did not scruple to assume arms, and declare their intention o f wielding them in defence o f Mary and the Catholic faith. Not so the Abbot o f Saint Mary’s. Roland had not seen this prelate since the night o f their escape from Lochleven, and he now beheld him, robed in the dress o f his order, assume his station near the Queen’s person. Roland hastened to pull o ff his basnet, and beseech the Abbot’s blessing. “Thou hast it, my son !” said the priest; “I see thee now under thy true name, and in thy rightful garb. The helmet with the holly branch befits your brows well— I have long waited for the hour thou shouldst assume it.” “Then you knew o f my descent, my good father !” said Roland. “I did so, but it was under seal o f confession from thy grandmother ; nor was I at liberty to tell the secret, till she herself should make it known.” “ Her reason for such secrecy, my father?” said Roland Avenel. “ Fear, perchance, o f my brother— a mistaken fear, for Halbert would not, to ensure himself a kingdom, wrong an orphan; besides that your title, in quiet times, even had your father done your mother justice, which I well hope he did, could not have competed with that o f my brother’s wife, the child o f Julian’s elder brother.” “They need fear no competition from me,” said Avenel. “ Scotland is wide enough, and there are many manors to win, without plunder­ ing my benefactor. But prove to me, my reverend father, that my father was just to my mother— shew me that I may call myself a legitimate Avenel, and make me your bounden slave for ever.” “Ay,” replied the Abbot, “I hear the Seytons hold thee cheap for that stain on thy shield. Something, however, I have learnt from the late Abbot Boniface, which, if it prove sooth, may redeem that reproach.” “T ell me that blessed news,” said Roland, “and the future service o f my life”— — “Rash boy!” said the Abbot, “ I should but madden thine impatient temper, by exciting hopes that may never be fulfilled— and is this a time for them? Think on what perilous march we are bound, and if thou hast a sin unconfessed, neglect not the only leisure which heaven may perchance afford thee for confession and absolution.” “There will be time enough for both, I trust, when we reach Dum ­ barton,” answered the page. “Ay,” said the Abbot, “thou crowest as loudly as the rest— but we

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are not yet at Dumbarton, and there is a lion in the path.” “Mean you Moray, Morton, and the other rebels at Glasgow, my reverend father? Tush ! they dare not look on the royal banner.” “Even so,” replied the Abbot, “speak many o f those who are wiser than thou.— I have returned from the Southern shires, where I left many a chief o f name arming in the Queen’s interest— I left the lords here wise and considerate men— I find them madmen on my return— they are willing, for mere pride and vain glory, to brave the enemy, and to carry the Queen, as it were in triumph, past the walls o f Glasgow, and under the beards o f the adverse army.— Seldom does heaven smile on such mistimed confidence. We shall be encountered, and that to the purpose.” “And so much the better,” replied Roland, “the field o f battle was my cradle.” “Beware it be not thy dying-bed, ” said the Abbot ; “but what avails it whispering to young wolves the dangers o f the chace ? You will know, perchance, ere this day is out, what yonder men are, whom you hold in rash contempt.” “Why, what are they?” said Henry Seyton, who now joined them; “have they sinews o f wire, and flesh o f iron?— Will lead pierce and steel cut them?— If so, reverend father, we have little to fear.” “They are evil men,” said the Abbot, “but the trade o f war demands no saints.— Moray and Morton are known to be the best generals in Scotland. No one ever saw Lindesay or Ruthven’s back— Kirkaldy o f Grange was named by the Constable Montmorency the first soldier in Europe— M y brother, too good a name for such a cause, has been far and wide known for a soldier.” “T h e better, the better,” said Seyton triumphandy, “we shall have all these traitors o f rank and name in a fair field before us— our cause is the best, our numbers are the strongest, our hearts and limbs match theirs— Saint Bennet, and set on !” T h e Abbot made no reply, but seemed lost in reflections; and his anxiety in some measure communicated itself to Roland Avenel, who ever as their line o f march led over a ridge or an eminence, cast an anxious look towards the towers o f Glasgow, as if he expected to see symptoms o f the enemy issuing forth. It was not that he feared the fight, but the issue was o f such deep import to his country, and to himself, that the natural fire o f his spirit burned with a less lively, though with a more intense glow. Love, honour, fame, fortune, all seemed to depend on the issue o f one field, rashly hazarded perhaps, but now likely to become unavoidable. When, at length, their march came to be nearly parallel with the city o f Glasgow, Roland became sensible, that the high grounds before

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them were already in part occupied by a force, shewing, like their own, the royal banner o f Scotland, and on the point o f being supported by columns o f infantry and squadrons o f horse, which the city gates had poured forth, and which hastily advanced to sustain those troops who already possessed the ground in front o f the Queen’s army. Horseman after horseman galloped in from the advanced guard, with tidings that Moray had taken the field with his whole army; that his object was to intercept the Queen’s march, and his purpose unquestionably to hazard a battle. It was now that the tempers o f men were subjected to a sudden and a severe trial ; and that those who had too presumptu­ ously concluded that they would pass without combat, were some­ thing disconcerted, when, at once, and with little time to deliberate, they found themselves placed in front o f a resolute enemy.— Their chiefs immediately assembled around the Queen, and held a hasty council o f war. Mary’s quivering lip confessed the fear which she endeavoured to conceal, under a bold and dignified demeanour. But her efforts were overcome by painful recollections o f the disastrous issue o f her last appearance in arms at Carberry-hill; and when she meant to have asked them their advice for ordering the battle, she involuntarily enquired whether there were no means o f escaping with­ out an engagement. “Escaping?” answered the Lord Seyton; “When I stand as one to ten o f your Highness’s enemies, I may think o f escape— but never while I stand with three to two !” “Batde ! batde !” exclaimed the assembled lords ; “we will drive the rebels from their vantage ground, as the hound turns the hare on the hill side.” “Methinks, my noble lords,” said the Abbot, “it were as well to prevent his gaining the vantage ground.— Our road lies through yon­ der hamlet on the brow, and whichever party hath the luck to possess it, with its little gardens and enclosures, will attain a post o f great defence.” “T he reverend father is right,” said the Queen. “ O, haste thee, Seyton, haste, and get thither before them— they are marching like the wind.” Seyton bowed low, and turned his horse’s head.— “Your Highness honours me,” he said; “I will instandy press forwards, and seize the pass.” “Not before me, my lord, whose charge is the command o f the van­ guard?” said the Lord o f Arbroath. “Before you, or any Hamilton in Scodand,” said the Seyton, “hav­ ing the Queen’s command— Follow me, gentlemen, my vassals, and kinsmen— Saint Bennet, and set on !”

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“And follow me,” said Arbroath, “my noble kinsmen, and brave men-tenants, we will see which will first reach the post o f danger. For God and Queen Mary !” “ Ill-omened haste, and most unhappy strife,” said the Abbot, who saw them and their followers rush hastily and emulously to ascend the height, without waiting till their men were placed in order.— “And you, gentlemen,” he continued, addressing Roland and Seyton, who were each about to follow those who hastened thus disorderly to the conflict, “will you leave the Queen’s person unguarded?” “ O, leave me not, gentlemen !” said the Queen— “Roland and Sey­ ton, do not leave me— there are enough o f arms to strike in this fell combat— withdraw not those to whom I trust for my safety.” “We may not leave her Grace,” said Roland, looking at Seyton, and turning his horse. “ I ever looked when thou wouldst find out that,” rejoined the fiery youth. Roland made no answer, but bit his lip till the blood came, and spurring his horse up to the side o f Catherine Seyton’s palfrey, he whispered in a low voice, “I never thought to have done aught to deserve you ; but this day I have heard myself upbraided with coward­ ice, and my sword remained still sheathed, and all for the love o f you.” “There is madness among us all,” said the damsel; “my father, my brother, and you, are all alike bereft o f reason. Ye should think only o f this poor Q ueen, and you are all inspired by your own absurd jeal­ ousies— T h e Monk is the only soldier and man o f sense amongst you all.— M y Lord Abbot,” she cried aloud, “were it not better we should draw to the westward, and wait the event that God shall send us, instead o f remaining here in the highway, endangering the Q ueen’s person, and cumbering the troops in their advance ?” “You say well, my daughter,” replied the Abbot, “had we but one to guide us where the Queen’s person may be in safety— Our nobles hurry to the conflict, without casting a thought on the very cause o f the war.” “Follow me,” said a knight, or man-at-arms, well mounted, and attired completely in black armour, but having the visor o f his helmet closed, and bearing no crest on his helmet, or device upon his shield. “W e will follow no stranger,” said the Abbot, “without some war­ rant o f his truth.” “ I am a stranger and in your hands,” said the horseman; “if you wish to know more o f me, the Queen herself will be your warrant.” T h e Queen had remained fixed to the spot, as if disabled by fear, yet mechanically smiling, bowing, and waving her hand, as banners were lowered and spears depressed before her, while, emulating the

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strife betwixt Seyton and Arbroath, band on band pressed forward their march towards the enemy. Scarce, however, had the black rider whispered something in her ear, than she assented to what he said; and when he spoke aloud, and with an air o f command, “Gentlemen, it is the Queen’s pleasure that you should follow me,” Mary uttered, with something like eagerness, the word “Yes.” A ll were in motion in an instant, for the black horseman, throwing off a sort o f apathy o f manner, which his first appearance indicated, spurred his horse to and fro, making him take such active bounds and short turns as shewed the rider master o f the animal ; and getting the Queen’s little retinue in some order for marching, he led them to the left, directing his course towards a castle, which, crowning a gentle yet commanding eminence, presented an extensive view over the country beneath, and, in particular, commanded a view o f those heights which both armies hastened to occupy, and which it was now apparent must almost instantly be the scene o f struggle and dispute. “Yonder towers,” said the Abbot, questioning the sable horseman, “to whom do they belong?— and are they now in the hands of friends?” “They are untenanted,” replied the stranger, “or, at least, they have no hostile inmates.— But urge these youths, Sir Abbot, to make more haste— this is but an evil time to satisfy their idle curiosity, by peering out upon the battle in which they are to take no share.” “The worse luck mine,” said Henry Seyton, who overheard him ; “I would rather be under my father’s banner at this moment than be made Chamberlain o f Holyrood, for this my present duty o f peaceful ward well and patiently discharged.” “Your place under your father’s banner will shortly be right danger­ ous,” said Roland Avenel, who, pressing his horse towards the west­ ward, had still his look reverted to the armies ; “for I see yonder body o f cavalry, which presses from the eastward, will reach the village ere Lord Seyton can gain it.” “ They are but cavalry,” said Seyton, looking attentively; “they can­ not hold the village without shot o f harquebuss.” “Look more closely,” said Roland; “you will see that each o f these horsemen who advance so rapidly from Glasgow, carries a footman behind him.” “Now, by Heaven, he speaks well !” said the black cavalier; “one o f you two must go carry the news to Lord Seyton and Lord Arbroath, that they hasten not their horsemen on before the foot, but advance more regularly.” “Be that my errand,” said Roland, “for I first marked the stratagem o f the enemy.”

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“But, by your leave,” said Seyton, “yonder is my father’s banner engaged, and it best becomes me to go to the rescue.” “ I will stand by the Queen’s decision,” said Roland Avenel. “What new appeal ?— what new quarrel ?” said Queen Mary— “Are there not in yonder dark host enemies enough to Mary Stuart, but must her very friends turn enemies to each other?” “Nay, madam,” said Roland, “the young Master o f Seyton and I did but dispute who should leave your person to do a most needful mes­ sage to the host. He thought his rank entitled him, and I deemed that the person o f least consequence, being myself, were better per­ illed”— “Not so,” said the Queen; “if one must leave me, be it Seyton.” Henry Seyton bowed till the white plumes on his helmet mixed with the flowing mane o f his gallant war-horse, then placed himself firm in the saddle, shook his lance aloft with an air o f triumph and determina­ tion, and striking his horse with the spurs, made towards his father’s banner, which was still advancing up the hill, and dashed his steed over every obstacle that occurred in his headlong path. “M y brother ! my father !” exclaimed Catherine, with an expression o f agonized apprehension— “they are in the midst o f peril, and I in safety!” “Would to G od,” said Roland, “that I were with them, and could ransom every drop o f their blood by two o f mine !” “D o I not know thou dost wish it ?” said Catherine— “Can a woman say to a man what I have well nigh said to thee, and yet think that he could harbour fear or faintness o f heart ?— There is that in yon distant sound o f approaching battle that pleases even me, while it affrights me. I would I were a man, that I might feel that stem delight, without the mixture o f terror!” “ Ride up, ride up, Lady Catherine Seyton,” cried the Abbot, as they still swept on at a rapid pace, and were now close beneath the walls o f the castle— “ride up, and aid Lady Fleming to support the Queen— she gives way more and more.” They halted and lifted Mary from the saddle, and were about to support her towards the castle, when she said faintly, “Not there— not there— these walls will I never enter more !” “Be a Queen, madam,” said the Abbot, “and forget that you are a woman.” “ O , I must forget men much more,” answered the unfortunate Mary, in an under tone, “ere I can look with steady eyes on these wellknown scenes !— I must forget the days which I spent here as the bride o f the lost— the murthered” “This is the Castle o f Crookstone,” said the Lady Fleming, “in

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which the Queen held her first court after she was married to D arnley.” “ Heaven,” said the Abbot, “thy hand is upon us !— Bear yet up, madam— your foes are the foes o f Holy Church, and God will this day decide whether Scotland shall be Catholic or heretic.” A heavy and continued fire o f cannon and musketry, bore a tre­ mendous burthen to his words, and seemed far more than they to recal the spirits o f the Q ueen. “T o yonder tree,” she said, pointing to a yew tree, which grew on a small mount close to the castle ; “ I know it well— from thence you may see a prospect wide as from the peaks o f Schehallion.” And freeing herself from her assistants, she walked with a deter­ mined, yet somewhat wild step, up to the stem o f the noble yew. T h e Abbot, Catherine, and Roland Avenel followed her, while Lady Fleming kept back the inferior persons o f her tram. T h e black horse­ man also followed the Queen, waiting on her as closely as the shadow upon the light, but ever remaining at the distance o f two or three yards — he folded his arms on his bosom, turned his back to the battle, and seemed solely occupied by gazing on Mary, through the bars o f his closed vizor. T h e Queen regarded him not, but fixed her eyes upon the spreading yew. “Ay, fair and stately tree,” she said, as if at the sight o f it she had been rapt away from the present scene, and had overcome the horror which had oppressed her at the first approach to Crookstone, “there thou standest, gay and goodly as ever, though thou hearest the sounds o f war, instead o f the vows o f love. All is gone since I last greeted thee — love and lover— vows and vower— king and kingdom.— How goes the field, my Lord Abbot?— with us I trust— yet what but evil can M ary’s eyes witness from this spot!” Her attendants eagerly bent their eyes on the field o f battle, but could discover nothing more than that it was obstinately debated. The small inclosures and cottage gardens in the village, o f which they had a full and commanding view, and which lately lay, with their lines o f sycamore and ash-trees, so still and quiet in the mild light o f a May sun, were now each converted into a line o f fire, canopied by smoke ; and the sustained and constant report o f the musketry and cannon, mingled with the shouts o f the meeting combatants, shewed that as yet neither party had given ground. “Many a soul finds its final departure to heaven or hell, in these awful thunders,” said the Abbot; “let those that believe in the Holy Church join me in orisons for victory in this dreadful combat.” “Not here— not here,” said the unfortunate Queen ; “pray not here, father, or pray in silence— my mind is too much torn between the past

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and the present, to dare to approach the heavenly throne— Or, if ye will pray, be it for one whose fondest affections have been her greatest crimes, and who has ceased to be a queen, only because she was a deceived and a tender-hearted woman.” “Were it not well,” said Roland, “that I rode somewhat nearer the hosts, and saw the fate o f the day?” “D o so, in the name o f G od,” said the Abbot; “ for if our friends are scattered, our flight must be hasty— but beware thou approach not too nigh the conflict, there is more than thine own life depends on thy safe return.” “O, go not too nigh,” said Catherine; “but fail not to see how the Seytons fight, and how they bear themselves.” “Fear nothing, I will be on my guard,” said Roland Avenel; and without waiting further answer, rode towards the scene o f conflict, keeping, as he rode, the higher and uninclosed ground, and ever looking cautiously around him, for fear o f involving himself in some hostile party. As he approached, the shots rung sharp and more sharply on his ear, the shouts came wilder and wilder, and he felt that thick beating o f the heart, that mixture o f natural apprehension, intense curiosity, and anxiety for the dubious event, which even the bravest experience when they approach alone to a scene o f interest and o f danger. At length he drew so close, that from a bank, screened by bushes and underwood, he could distinctly see where the struggle was most keenly maintained. This was in a hollow way, leading to the village, up which the Queen’s vanguard had marched with more hasty courage than well advised conduct, for the purpose o f possessing themselves o f that post o f vantage. But they found the hedges and inclosures already occupied by the enemy, led by the celebrated Kirkcaldy o f Grange, and the Earl o f Morton; and not small was the loss which they sus­ tained while struggling forward to come to close with the men-atarms on the other side. But, as the Queen’s followers were chiefly noblemen and barons, with their kinsmen and followers, they had pressed onwards, contemning obstacles and danger, and had, when Roland arrived on the ground, met hand to hand at the gorge o f the pass with the Regent’s vanguard, and endeavoured to bear them out o f the village at the spear-point; while their foes, equally determined to keep the advantage which they had attained, struggled with the like obstinacy to drive back the assailants. Both parties were on foot, and armed in proof; so that, when the long lances o f the front ranks were fixed in each other’s shields, corslets, and breast-plates, the struggle resembled that o f two bulls, who, fixing their frontlets hard against each other, remain in that

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posture for hours, until the superior strength or obstinacy o f the one compels the other to take to flight, or bears him down to the earth. Thus locked together in the deadly struggle, which swayed slowly to and fro, as one or other party gamed the advantage, those who fell were trampled on alike by friends and foes; those whose weapons were broken retired from the front rank, and had their place supplied by others ; while the rearward ranks, unable otherwise to take share in the combat, fired their pistols, and hurled their daggers, and the points and truncheons o f the broken weapons, like javelins against the enemy. “ God and the Q ueen!” resounded from the one party; “God and the K ing!” thundered from the other, while, in the name o f their sovereign, fellow-subjects shed each other’s blood, and, in the name o f their Creator, defaced his image. Amid the tumult was often heard the voices o f the captains, shouting their commands; o f leaders and chiefs, crying their gathering words; o f groans and shrieks from the falling and the dying. T he strife had lasted nearly an hour, the strength o f both parties seemed exhausted, but their rage was unabated, and their obstinacy unsubdued, when Roland, who turned eye and ear to all around him, saw a column o f infantry, headed by a few horsemen, wheel round the base o f the bank where he had stationed himself, and, levelling their long lances, attack the flank o f the Queen’s vanguard, closely engaged as they were with the conflict on their front. T h e very first glance shewed him that the leader who directed this movement was the Knight o f Avenel, his ancient master, and the next convinced him that its effect would be decisive. T h e result o f the attack o f fresh and unbroken forces upon the flank o f those already wearied with a long and obstinate struggle, was, indeed, instantaneous. T he column o f the assailants, which had hitherto shewn one dark, dense, and united line o f helmets, surmounted with plumage, was at once broken and hurled in confusion down the hill, which they had so long endeavoured to gain. In vain were the leaders heard calling upon their followers to stand to the combat, and seen personally resisting when all resistance was evidently vain. They were slain, or felled to the earth, or hurried backwards by the mingled tide o f flight and pursuit. What were Roland’s feelings on beholding the rout, and feeling that all that remained for him was to turn bridle, and endeavour to ensure the safety o f the Queen’s person! Yet, keen as his grief and shame might be, they were both forgotten, when, almost close beneath the bank which he occupied, he saw Henry Seyton forced away from his own party in the tumult, covered with dust and blood, and defending himself desperately against several o f the enemy who had gathered

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around him, attracted by his gay armour. Roland paused not a moment, but pushing his steed down the bank, leaped him amongst the hostile party, dealt three or four blows amongst them, which struck down two, and made the rest stand aloof, then reaching Seyton his hand, he exhorted him to seize fast on his horse’s mane. “W e live or die together this day,” said he ; “keep but fast hold till we are out o f the press, and then my horse is yours.” Seyton heard and exerted his remaining strength, and, by their joint efforts, Roland brought him out o f danger, and behind the spot from whence he had witnessed the disastrous conclusion o f the fight. But no sooner were they under shelter o f the trees, than Seyton let go his hold, and in spite o f Roland’s efforts to support him, fell at length on the turf. “Trouble yourself no more with me,” he said ; “this is my first and my last battle— and I have already seen too much o f it to wish to see the close. Hasten to save the Queen— and commend me to Cath­ erine— she will never more be mistaken for me nor I for her— the last sword-stroke has made an eternal distinction.” “Let me aid you to mount my horse,” said Roland, eagerly, “and you may yet be saved— I can find my own way on foot— turn but my horse’s head westward, and he will carry you fleet and easy as the wind.” "I will never mount steed more,” said the youth; “farewell— I love thee better dying, than ever I thought to have done while in life— I would that old man’s blood were not on my hand— Sancte Benedicte, ora pro me— Stand not to look on a dying man, but haste to save the Queen.” These words were spoken with the last effort o f his voice, and scarce were they uttered ere the speaker was no more. They recalled Roland to the sense o f the duty which he had well-nigh forgotten, but they did not reach his ears only. “T h e Queen— where is the Queen?” said Halbert Glendinning, who, followed by two or three horsemen, appeared at this instant. Roland made no answer, but turning his horse, and confiding in his speed, gave him at once rein and spur, and rode over height and hollow towards the Castle o f Crookstone. M ore heavily armed, and mounted upon a horse o f less speed, Sir Halbert Glendinning fol­ lowed with couched lance, calling out as he rode, “Sir, with the hollybranch, halt, and shew your right to bear that badge— fly not thus cowardly, nor dishonour the cognizance thou deservest not to wear! — Halt, sir coward, or by Heaven, I will strike thee with my lance on the back, and slay thee like a dastard— I am the Knight o f Avenel— I am Halbert Glendinning.” But Roland, who had no purpose o f encountering his old master,

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and who besides knew the Queen’s safety depended on his making the best speed he could, answered not a word to the defiances and reproaches which Sir Halbert continued to throw out against him ; but making the best use o f his spurs, rode yet harder than before, and had gained about a hundred yards upon his pursuer, when coming near to the yew-tree where he had left the Queen, he saw them already getting to horse, and cried out as loud as he could, “ Foes ! foes !— Ride for it, fair ladies— Brave gentlemen, do your devoir to protect them.” So saying, he wheeled his horse, and avoiding the shock o f Sir Halbert Glendinning, charged one o f his followers, who was nearly on a line with him, so rudely with his lance, that he overthrew horse and man. He then drew his sword and attacked the second, while the black man-at-arms, throwing himself in the way o f Glendinning, they rushed on each other so fiercely, that both horses were overthrown, and the riders lay rolling on the plain. Neither was able to arise, for the black horseman was pierced through and through the body with Glendinning’s lance, and the Knight o f Avenel, oppressed with the weight o f his own horse and sorely bruised besides, seemed in little better plight than he whom he had mortally wounded. “Yield thee, Sir Knight o f Avenel, rescue or no rescue,” said Roland, who had put a second antagonist out o f condition to combat, and hastened to prevent Glendinning from renewing the conflict. “I may not chuse but yield,” said Sir Halbert, “since I can no longer fight, but it shames me to speak such a word to a coward like thee.” “ Call me not coward,” said Roland, lifting his visor, and helping his prisoner to rise ; “but for old kindness at thy hand, and yet more at thy lady’s, I had met thee as a brave man should.” “T h e favourite page o f my w ife!” said Sir Halbert, astonished; “Ah ! wretched boy, I have heard o f thy treason at Lochleven.” “Reproach him not, my brother,” said the Abbot, “he was but an agent in the hands o f Heaven.” “T o horse, to horse !” said Catherine Seyton ; “mount and be gone, or we are all lost. I see our gallant army flying for many a league— T o horse, my Lord Abbot— T o horse, Roland— M y gracious Liege, to horse ; ere this, we should have ridden a mile.” “Look on these features,” said Mary, pointing to the dying knight, who had been unhelmed by some compassionate hand; “look there, and tell me if she who ruins all who love her, ought to fly a foot farther to save her wretched life.” T h e reader must have long anticipated the discovery, which the Queen’s feelings had made before her eyes confirmed it. It was the features o f the unhappy George Douglas, on which death was stamp­ ing his mark.

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“Look— look at him well,” said the Queen, “thus has it been with all who loved Mary Stuart!— T he royalty o f Francis, the wit o f C h atelet, the power and gallantry o f the gay Gordon, the melody o f Rizzio, the portly form and youthful grace o f D arnley, the bold address and courtly manners o f Bothwell— and now the deep-devoted passion o f the noble Douglas— nought could save them— they looked on the wretched Mary, and to have loved her was crime enough to deserve early death! No sooner had the victim formed a kind thought o f me, than the poisoned cup, the axe and block, the dagger, the mine, were ready to punish him for casting away affection on such a wretch as I am.— Importune me not— I will fly no farther— I can die but once, and I will die here.” While she spoke, her tears fell fast on the face o f the dying man, who continued to fix his eyes on her with an eagerness o f passion, which death itself could hardly subdue.— “Mourn not for me,” he said faintly, “but care for your own safety— I die a Douglas, and I die pitied by Mary Stuart !” He expired with these words, and without withdrawing his eyes from her face ; and the Queen, whose heart was o f that soft and gentle mould, which, in domestic life, and with a more suitable partner than Damley, might have made her happy, remained weeping by the dead man, until recalled to herself by the Abbot, who found it necessary to use a style o f unusual remonstrance. “W e also, madam,” he said, “we, your Grace’s devoted followers, have friends and relatives to weep for. I leave a brother in eminent jeopardy— the husband o f the Lady Fleming— the father and brother o f the Lady Catherine, are all in yonder bloody field, slain, it is to be feared, or prisoners. We forget the fate o f our own nearest and dearest, to wait on our Queen, and she is too much occupied with her own sorrows to give one thought to ours.” “ I deserve not your reproach, father,” said the Queen, checking her tears ; “but I am docile to it— where must we go ?— what must we do ?” “We must fly, and that instantly,” said the Abbot; “whither is not so easily answered, but we may dispute it upon the road— Lift her to her saddle, and set forward.” They set o ff accordingly— Roland lingered a moment, to command the attendants o f the Knight o f Avenel to the Castle o f Crookstone, and to say that he demanded from him no other condition o f liberty, than his word, that he and his followers would keep secret the direc­ tion in which the Queen fled. As he turned his rein to depart, the honest countenance o f Adam Woodcock stared upon him with an expression o f surprise, which, at another time, would have excited his hearty mirth. He had been one o f the followers who had experienced the weight o f Roland’s arm, and they now knew each other, Roland

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having put up his vizor, and the good yeoman having thrown away his barret-cap, with the iron bars in front, that he might the more readily assist his master. Into this barret-cap, as it lay on the ground, Roland forgot not to drop a few gold pieces, (fruits o f the Queen’s liberality,) and with a signal o f kind recollection and enduring friendship, he departed at full gallop to overtake the Queen, the dust raised by her train being already far down the hill. “It is not fairy-money,” said honest Adam, weighing and handling the gold— “And it is Master Roland himself, that is a certain thing— the same open hand, and, by Our Lady!— (shrugging his shoulders) — the same ready fist!— M y lady will hear o f this gladly, for she mourns for him as if he were her son. And to see how gay he is ! But these light lads are as sure to be uppermost as the froth to be on the top o f the quart-pot— Your man o f solid parts remains ever a falconer.” So saying, he went to aid his comrades, who had now come up in greater numbers, to carry his master into the Castle o f Crookstone.

Chapter Twelve My native land, good night ! Byron

M a n y a b i t t e r t e a r was shed during the hasty flight o f Queen

Mary, over fallen hopes, future prospects, and slaughtered friends. T h e deaths o f the brave Douglas, and o f the fiery but gallant young Seyton, seemed to affect the Queen as much as the fall from the throne, on which she had so nearly been again seated. Catherine Seyton devoured in secret her own grief, anxious to support the broken spirits o f her mistress ; and the Abbot, bending his anxious thoughts upon futurity, endeavoured in vain to form some plan which had a shadow o f hope. T he spirit o f young Roland, for he also mingled in the hasty debates held by the companions o f the Queen’s flight, continued unchecked and unbroken. “Your Majesty,” he said, “has lost a battle— Your ancestor, Bruce, lost seven successively, ere he sat triumphant on the Scottish throne, and proclaimed with the voice o f a victor, in the field o f Bannockburn, the independence o f his country. Are not these heaths, which we may traverse at will, better than the locked, guarded, and lake-moated Castle o f Lochleven?— We are free— in that one word there is com­ fort for all our losses.” He struck a bold note, but the heart o f Mary made no response. “ Better,” she said, “ I had still been in Lochleven, than seen the

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slaughter made by the rebels among my subjects, who offered them­ selves to death for my sake. Speak not to me o f further efforts— they would only cost the lives o f you and the friends who recommend them — I would not again undergo what I felt, when I saw from yonder mount the swords o f the fell horsemen o f Morton raging among the faithful Seytons and Hamiltons, for their loyalty to their Queen— I would not again feel what I felt when Douglas’s life-blood stained my mantle for his love to Mary Stuart— not to be empress o f all that Britain’s seas enclose. Find for me some place where I can hide my unhappy head, which brings destruction on all who love it— it is the last favour that Mary asks o f her faithful followers.” In this dejected mood, but still pursuing her flight with unabated rapidity, the unfortunate Mary, after having been joined by Lord Herries and a few followers, at length halted, for the first time, at the Abbey o f Dundrennan, nearly sixty miles distant from the field o f battle. In this remote comer o f Galloway, the Reformation had not yet been strictly enforced against the monks; a few still lingered in their cells unmolested, and the Prior, with tears and reverence, received the fugitive Queen at the gate o f his convent. “I bring you ruin, my good Father,” said the Queen, as she was lifted from her palfrey. “ It is welcome,” said the Prior, “if it comes in the train o f duty.” Placed on the ground and supported by her ladies, the Queen looked for an instant at her palfrey, which, jaded and drooping its head, seemed as if it mourned the distresses o f its mistress. “ Good Roland,” said the Queen, whispering, “let Rosabelle be cared for— ask thy heart, and it will tell thee why I make this little request even in this awful hour.” She was conducted to her apartment, and in the hurried consulta­ tion o f her attendants, the fatal resolution o f the retreat to England was finally adopted. In the morning it received her approbation, and a messenger was dispatched to the English warden, to pray him for safe-conduct and hospitality, on the part o f the Queen o f Scotland. On the next day, the Abbot walked in the garden o f the Abbey with Roland, to whom he expressed his disapprobation o f the course pur­ sued. “It is madness and ruin,” he said ; “better commit herself to the savage Highlanders or wild Bordermen, than to the faith o f Elizabeth — a woman to a rival woman— a presumptive successor to the keeping o f a jealous Q ueen !— Roland, Herries is true and loyal, but his coun­ sel has mined his mistress.” “Ay, ruin follows us every where,” said an old man, with a spade in his hand, and dressed like a lay-brother, o f whose presence, in the vehemence o f his exclamation, the Abbot had not been aware— “ Gaze

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not on me with such wonder !— I am he who was the Abbot Boniface at Kennaquhair, who was the gardener Blinkhoolie at Lochleven, hunted round to the place in which I served my noviciate, and now ye are come to rouse me up again?— A weary life I have had for one to whom peace was ever the dearest blessing!” “W e will soon rid you o f our company, good Father,” said the Abbot ; “and the Queen will, I fear me, trouble your retreat no more.” “Nay, you said as much before,” said the querulous old man, “and yet I was put forth from Kinross, and pillaged by troopers on the road. — They took from me the certificate that you wot of— that o f the Baron— ay, he was a moss-trooper like themselves— You asked me o f it, and I could never find it, but they found it— it shewed the marriage o f— of— my memory fails me— now see how men differ!— Father Nicolas would have told you an hundred tales o f the Abbot Ingelram, on whose soul God have mercy!— He was, I warrant you, fourscore and six, and I am not more than— let me see— — ” “Was not Avenel the name you seek, my good Father ?” said Roland impatiently, yet moderating his tone for fear o f alarming or offending the infirm old man. “Ay, right— Avenel, Julian Avenel— You are perfect in the name— I kept all the special confessions, judging it held with my vow to do so— I could not find it when my successor, Ambrosius, spoke on’t— but the troopers found it, and the Knight struck his breast, till the target clattered like an empty watering-can.” “ Saint M ary!” said the Abbot, “in whom could such a paper excite such interest? What was the appearance o f the Knight, his arms, his colours?” “Ye distract me with your questions— I dared hardly look at him— they charged me with bearing letters for the Queen, and searched my mail— This was all along o f your doings at Lochleven.” “I trust in G od,” said the Abbot to Roland, who stood beside him, shivering and trembling with impatience, “the paper has fallen into the hands o f my brother— I heard he had been with his followers on the scout betwixt Stirling and Glasgow.— Bore not the Knight a hollybough in his helmet?— Canst thou not remember?” “ O, remember— remember,” said the old man pettishly; “count as many years as I do, if your plots will let you, and see what, and how much you remember— Why, I scarce remember the pear-mains which I graffed here with my own hands some fifty years since.” At this moment a bugle sounded loudly from the beach. “ It is the death-blast to Queen Mary’s royalty,” said Ambrosius; “the English warden’s answer has been received, favourable doubt­ less, for when was the door o f the trap closed against the prey which it

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was set for?— Droop not, Roland— this matter shall be sifted to the bottom— but we must not now leave the Queen— follow me— let us do our duty, and trust the issue with God— Farewell, good Father— I will visit thee again soon.” He left the garden, followed by Roland, with half-reluctant steps. T he Ex-Abbot resumed his spade. “I could be sorry for these men,” he said, “ay, and for that poor Queen, but what avail earthly sorrows to a man o f fourscore ?— and it is a rare dropping morning for the early colewort.” “He is stricken with age,” said Ambrosius, as he dragged Roland down to the sea-beach; “we must let him take his time to collect himself— nothing now can be thought on but the fate o f the Q ueen.” They soon arrived where she stood, surrounded by her little train, and by her side the Sheriff o f Cumberland, a gentleman o f the house o f Lowther, richly dressed and accompanied by soldiers. T h e aspect o f the Q ueen exhibited a singular mixture o f alacrity and reluctance to depart. Her language and gestures spoke hope and consolation to her attendants, and she seemed desirous to persuade even herself that the step she adopted was secure, and that the assurance she had received o f kind reception was altogether satisfactory; but her quivering lip, and unsettled eye, betrayed at once her anguish at departing from S co tlan d , and h er fears o f con fid in g h e r s e lf to the d ou b tfu l faith o f

England. “Welcome, my Lord Abbot,” said she; “And you, Roland Avenel, we have joyful news for you— our loving sister’s officer proffers us, in her name, a safe asylum from the rebels who have driven us from our own— only it grieves me we must here part from you for a short space.” “Part from us, madam !” said the Abbot; “is your welcome in Eng­ land, then, to depend on the abridgment o f your train and dismissal o f your counsellors?” “Take it not thus, good Father,” said Mary; “the Warden and the Sheriff, faithful servants o f our Royal Sister, deem it necessary to obey her instructions in the present case, even to the letter, and can only admit me with my female attendants. An express will instantly be dispatched from London, assigning me a place o f residence ; and I will speedily send to all o f you whenever my Court shall be formed.” “Your Court formed in England ! and while Elizabeth lives and reigns ?” said the Abbot— “that will be when we shall see two suns in one heaven !” “D o not think so,” replied the Queen; “we are well assured o f our sister’s good faith. Elizabeth loves fame— and not all that she has won by her power and her wisdom will equal that which she will acquire by

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extending her hospitality to a distressed sister!— not all that she may hereafter do o f good, wise, and great, would blot out the reproach o f abusing our confidence.— Farewell, my page— now my knight— fare­ well for a brief season. I will dry the tears o f Catherine, or I will weep with her till neither o f us can weep longer.” She held out her hand to Roland, who, flinging himself on his knees, kissed it with much emo­ tion. He was about to render the same homage to Catherine, when the Queen, assuming an air o f sprightliness, said, “Her lips, thou foolish boy ! And, Catherine, coy it not— these English gentlemen should see, that, even in our cold clime, Beauty knows how to reward Bravery and Fidelity!” “W e are not now to learn the force o f Scottish beauty, or the mettle o f Scottish valour,” said the Sheriff o f Cumberland courteously— “I would it were in my power to bid these attendants upon her who is herself the mistress o f Scottish beauty, as welcome to England as my poor cares would make them. But our Queen’s orders are positive in case o f such an emergence, and they must not be disputed by her subject.— May I remind your Majesty that the tide ebbs fast?” T h e Sheri ff took the Queen’s hand, and she had already placed her foot on the gangway, by which she was to enter the skiff, when the Abbot, starting from a trance o f grief and astonishment at the words o f the Sheriff, rushed into the water, and seized upon her mande. “She foresaw it!— she foresaw it!” he exclaimed— “she foresaw your flight into her realm; and, foreseeing it, gave orders you should be thus received. Blinded, deceived, doomed Princess ! your fate is sealed when you quit this strand.— Q ueen o f Scotland, thou shalt not leave thine heritage !” he continued, holding a still firmer grasp upon her mande ; “true men shall turn rebels to thy will, that they may save thee from captivity or death. Fear not the bills and bows whom that gay man has at his beck— we will withstand him by force. O, for the arm o f my warlike brother!— Roland Avenel, draw thy sword.” T h e Queen stood irresolute and frightened; one foot upon the plank, the other on the sand o f her native shore, which she was quitting for ever. “What needs this violence, Sir Priest?” said the Sheriff o f Cumber­ land ; “I came hither at your Queen’s command, to do her service, and I will depart at her least order, if she rejects such as I can offer. No marvel is it if our Queen’s wisdom foresaw that such chance as this might happen amidst the turmoils o f your unsettled State ; and, while willing to afford fair hospitality to her Royal Sister, deemed it wise to prohibit the entrance o f a broken army o f her followers into the English frontier.” “You hear,” said Queen Mary, gently unloosing her robe from the

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Abbot’s grasp, “that we exercise full liberty o f choice in leaving this shore ; and, questionless, the choice will remain free to us in going to France, or returning to our own dominions, as we shall determine— Besides, it is too late— Your blessing, Father, and God speed thee !” “M ay He have mercy on thee, and speed thee also !” said the Abbot, retreating. “But my soul tells me I look on thee for the last time !” T h e sails were hoisted, the oars were plied, the vessel went freshly on her way through the Frith, which divides the shores o f Cumber­ land from those o f Galloway; but not till the vessel diminished to the size o f a child’s frigate, did the doubtful, and dejected, and dismissed followers o f the Queen cease to linger on the sands; and long, long could they discern the kerchief o f Mary, as she waved the oft-repeated signal o f adieu to her faithful adherents, and to the shores o f Scotland.

If good tidings o f a private nature could have consoled Roland for parting with his mistress, and for the distresses o f his sovereign, he would have received such comfort some days subsequent to the Queen’s leaving Dundrennan. A breathless post— no other than Adam Woodcock— brought dispatches from Sir Halbert Glendinning to the Abbot, whom he found, with Roland, still residing at Dundrennan, and in vain torturing Boniface with fresh interroga­ tions. T h e packet bore an earnest invitation to his brother to make Avenel Castle for a time his residence. “T h e clemency o f the Regent,” said the writer, “has extended pardon both to Roland and to you, upon condition o f your remaining a time under my wardship. And I have that to communicate respecting the parentage o f Roland, which not only you will willingly listen to, but which will be also found to afford me, as the husband o f his nearest relative, some interest in the future course o f his life.” T h e Abbot read this letter, and paused, as if considering what were best for him to do. Meanwhile, Woodcock took Roland aside, and addressed him as follows :— “Now, look, M r Roland, that you do not let any papist nonsense lure either the priest or you from the right quarry. See you, you ever bore yourself as a bit o f a gentleman. Read that, and thank God that threw old Abbot Boniface in our master’s way, as two o f the Seyton’s men were conveying him toward D un­ drennan here.— W e searched him for intelligence concerning that fair exploit o f your’s at Lochleven, that has cost many a man his life, and me a set o f sore bones— and we found what is better for your purpose than our’s.” T h e paper which he gave, was, indeed, an attestation by Philip, subscribing himself unworthy Sacristan, and brother o f the House o f

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Saint Mary’s, stating, “that under a vow o f secrecy, he had united, in the holy sacrament o f marriage, Julian Avenel and Catherine Græm e; but that Julian having repented o f his union, he, Father Philip, had been sinfully prevailed on by him to conceal and disguise the same, according to a complot devised betwixt him and the said Julian Avenel, whereby the poor damsel was induced to believe that the ceremony had been performed by one not in holy orders, and having no authority to that effect. Which sinful concealment, the undersigned conceived to be the cause why he was abandoned to the misguiding o f a water-fiend, whereby he had been under a spell, besides being sorely afflicted with rheumatic pains ever after. Where­ fore he had deposited this testificate and confession, with the day and date o f the said marriage, with his lawful superior Boniface, Abbot of Saint Mary’s, sub sigillo confessionis.” It appeared by a letter from Julian, folded carefully up with the certificate, that the Abbot Boniface had, in effect, bestirred himself in the affair, and obtained from the Baron a promise to avow his mar­ riage ; but the death o f both Julian and his injured bride, together with the Abbot’s resignation, his ignorance o f the fate o f their unhappy offspring, and, above all, his listless and inactive disposition, had suffered the matter to become totally forgotten, until it was recalled by some accidental conversation with the Abbot Ambrosius concerning the fortunes o f the Avenel family. At the request o f his successor, he searched for it; but, as he would receive no assistance in looking among the few records o f spiritual experiences and important confes­ sions, which he had conscientiously treasured, it might have remained for ever hidden amongst them, but for the more active researches o f Sir Halbert Glendinning. “ So that you are like to be heir o f Avenel at last, Master Roland, after my lord and lady have gone to their place,” said Adam; “and as I have but one boon to ask, I trust you will not nick me with nay.” “Not if it be in my power to say yes, my trusty friend.” “Why then, I must needs, if I live to see that day, keep on feeding the eyasses with unwashed flesh,” said Woodcock sturdily, yet as if doubting the reception that his request might meet with. “Thou shalt feed them with what you list for me,” said Roland, laughing; “I am not many months older than when I left the Castle, but I trust I have gathered wit enough to cross no man o f skill in his own vocation.” “Then I would not change places with the King’s falconer,” said Adam Woodcock, “nor with the Queen’s neither— but they say she will be mewed up and never need one— I see it grieves you to think o f it, and I could grieve for company, but what help for it— fortune will

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fly her own flight, let a man hollo himself hoarse.” T h e Abbot and Roland journeyed to Avenel, where the former was tenderly received by his brother, while the lady wept for joy to find that in her favourite orphan she had protected the sole surviving branch o f her own family. Sir Halbert Glendinning and his household were not a little surprised at the change which a brief acquaintance with the world had produced in their former inmate, and rejoiced to find, in the petted, spoiled, and presuming page, a modest and unassuming young man, too much acquainted with his own expecta­ tions and character, to be hot or petulant in demanding the considera­ tion which was readily and voluntarily yielded to him. T he old Major Domo Wingate was the first to sing his praises, to which Mrs Lilias bore a loud echo, always hoping that God would teach him the true gospel. T o the true gospel the heart o f Roland had secretly long inclined, and the departure o f the good Abbot for France, with the purpose o f entering into some house o f his order in that kingdom, removed his chief objection to renouncing the Catholic faith. Another might have existed in the duty which he owed to Magdalen Græme, both by birth and from gratitude. But he learned, ere he had been long a resident in Avenel, that his grandmother had died at Cologne, in the perform­ ance o f a penance too severe for her age, which she had taken upon herself in behalf o f the Queen and Church o f Scotland, so soon as she heard o f the defeat at Langside. T h e zeal o f the Abbot Ambrosius was more regulated, but he retired into the Scottish convent o f , and so lived there, that the fraternity were inclined to claim for him the honours o f canonization. But he guessed their purpose, and prayed them, on his death-bed, to do no honours to the body o f one as sinful as themselves; but to send his body and his heart to be buried in Avenel burial-aisle, in the monastery o f Saint Mary’s, that the last Abbot o f that celebrated house o f devotion might sleep among its ruins. Long before that period arrived, Roland Avenel was wedded to Catherine Seyton, who, after two years residence with her unhappy mistress, was dismissed, upon her being subjected to closer restramt than had been at first exercised. She returned to her father’s house, and as Roland was acknowledged for the successor and lawful heir o f the ancient house o f Avenel, greatly increased as the estate was by the providence o f Sir Halbert Glendinning, there occurred no objections to the match on the part o f her family. Her mother was recently dead when she first entered the convent; and her father, in the unsettled times which followed Q ueen Mary’s flight to England, was not averse to an alliance with a youth, who, himself loyal to Queen Mary, still

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held some influence, through means o f Sir Halbert Glendinning, with the party in power. Roland and Catherine, therefore, were united, spite o f their differ­ ing faiths ; and the White Lady, whose apparition had been infrequent when the House o f Avenel seemed verging to extinction, was seen to sport by her haunted well, with a zone o f gold around her bosom as broad as the baldric o f an Earl. T HE END

ESSAY ON TH E TE X T

I. THE GENESIS OF THE A B B O T

2. THE COMPOSITION OF THE

: the timetable; the Manuscript; from Manuscript to First Edition 3. t h e l a t e r e d i t i o n s : H istorical Romances; the Interleaved Set and the Magnum 4. t h e p r e s e n t t e x t : verbal emendations [wrong omissions and insertions, misreadings, substitutions, names, miscellan­ eous]; punctuation and orthography. The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript: deletions are enclosed ‹thus› and insertions ↑ thus ↓. Edit­ orial comments within quotations are designated by square brackets [thus]. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants between the printed editions.

abbot

I . THE GENESIS OF

THE A B B O T

The Abbot was published on 2 September 1820, almost exactly six months after the appearance of The Monastery. The fly-titles and the opening pages of each volume carry the description, ‘The Abbot; being the sequel o f The Monastery’ . It was the first and last time Scott linked two novels so closely: despite the collective titles and framing devices of Tales o f My Landlordor Chronicles o f the Canongate, the stories and novels which make up these series can stand alone. The relationship between The Monastery and The Abbot, on the other hand, is so close that an account o f the genesis o f The Abbot must begin by considering the two works as one. This view contradicts that of Scott’s biographers,1 who have taken their lead from Scott’s own introduction to the Magnum edition of The Abbot, written in 1829-30: From what is said in the Introduction to the Monastery, it must necessarily be inferred, that the Author considered that romance as something very like a failure. . . being naturally unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay in myself, I was at least desirous to know o f a certainty, whether the degree o f discountenance which I had incurred, was now owing to an ill-managed story, or an illchosen subject. .. I was tempted to try whether I could not restore, even at the risk o f totally losing, my so called reputation, by a new hazard.2 This is undeniably an attractive story. Scott, with what Edgar Johnson calls ‘his usual freedom from vanity’, is dissatisfied with The Monastery, his first clear failure, and so decides to have a second crack at the troublesome subject-matter: ‘he therefore resolved to write a sequel to The Monastery . . . seeing if he could n o t . . . transmute his resistant material into gold’.3 Thanks to this second attempt, the initial failure is,

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in H. J. C. Grierson’s words, ‘in great part redeemed’.4 Unfortunately this story is fiction, not fact. In contrast to later biographers, Scott’s son-in-law J. G. Lockhart, though often a zealous inventor of legends and falsehoods concerning Scott, is discreetly silent concerning the genesis of The Abbot. He cau­ tiously describes it as ‘the continuation, to a certain extent, of The Monastery’,5before referring his readers to Scott’s own introduction for information concerning the earlier novel. O f The Abbot itself he says little, and instead launches into a long digression concerning the ‘BlairAdam Club’. This informal group of successful Edinburgh men (in­ cluding Scott and his close friends Adam Ferguson and William Clerk) met in 1817, and frequently thereafter, at Blair-Adam in Kinross-shire, the home of William Adam.6The meetings were normally held in June, as close to the summer solstice as possible, in order to have the max­ imum amount o f daylight for sight-seeing; the members of the ‘Club’ would arrive from Edinburgh on the Friday in time for dinner, and remain until the Tuesday morning. The significance of Blair-Adam in this context is its location, overlooking Lochleven and its castle, scene of much of The Abbot. Lockhart states that ‘Sir Walter owned to myself at the time, that the idea of The Abbot had arisen in his mind during a visit to Blair-Adam’; Lockhart then claims that the visit in question was ‘that of the dog-days of 1819’ .7 It is significant that he does not report Scott himself as placing this visit in 1819, for in fact Lockhart must be mis­ taken: Scott could not have attended in the summer of 1819, when for much of the time he was acutely ill with gall-stones. Although he was well enough on 16 June to travel from Edinburgh to Abbotsford, he then had a relapse, and wrote to James Skene on 26 June that he had been ‘miserably ill’.8He seems to have stayed at Abbotsford throughout the summer. This undermines not only Lockhart’s assertion, but that of William Adam, who states that Scott ‘was so pleased with our meetings, that he never missed attending them from 1817 to 1831’.9 Adam too must be mistaken: although Scott visited Blair-Adam in 1817, and referred to what he had seen there in his correspondence,10 there is no evidence that he again attended (or indeed that the club met at all) until 1821. From 1821-30 he visited Blair-Adam annually, while in 1831 he was again unable to attend.11 But notwithstanding Lockhart’s confusion over dates, there is no reason to doubt his statement that Scott told him that he first conceived The Abbot ‘during a visit to Blair-Adam’ : the date simply has to be pushed back to that long week-end in the mid-summer of 1817. Thus far from being an afterthought, a response to the failure of The Monas­ tery, the idea for TheAbbot (or at least for a novel set in part in the vicinity o f Blair-Adam, and presumably dealing with Queen Mary’s imprison­ ment in Lochleven Castle) had come to Scott almost three years before. Indeed, Scott’s preoccupation with the subject-matter o f The Abbot

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reaches back further still. As early as 10 August 1802, writing to Lady Anne Hamilton about his poem ‘Cadzow Castle’, Scott revealed his fascination with the confrontation between Mary and Lord Lindesay : Your Ladyship will recollect that this caitiff was the agent employd by Murray’s faction as the most unrelenting of the party to force Mary when imprisond in Lochleven Castle to sign a deed abdicat­ ing the throne: he executed his office with the most savage brutality and even pinchd with his iron glove the arm of his weeping sover­ eign when she averted her eyes from the fatal parchment which she was compelld to sign.12 Despite Scott’s assertion, no source for this ‘pinching’ of Mary’s arm has been traced— it appears to be his own invention. But this only confirms the imaginative hold the scene had over him: the same incid­ ent is transformed into the climax of the central scene of The Abbot. Thus Mary’s plight at Lochleven had fascinated Scott for almost twenty years; the idea of writing a novel about it had been in his mind since 1817. This, then, is the background to the letter from Scott to his agent John Ballantyne, dated 2 August 1819, in which he first outlined the novel which was to become The Monastery. Typically, though the idea had been in his mind for so long (he calls the subject ‘quite ready’),13 Scott waited for a financially opportune moment before an­ nouncing it. In July he was busy with Ivanhoe, but also looking to the future, writing to Ballantyne that ‘something must be done on the back of this same Ivan’ .14 At this stage he expected Ivanhoe to appear in the first two weeks of September; a deal for its successor could then be struck. However, although the manuscript progressed rapidly (on 2 August he had ‘only a volume & a half of Ivanhoe to write’), it had become clear that problems with paper-supply (Ivanhoe was the first of Scott’s novels to be published in octavo format) would delay the novel’s appearance. Scott was himself short of ready money, thanks to the costs of the extension of the Abbotsford estate, and of equipping and main­ taining his eldest son Walter, who had received his army commission on 4 July;15 more urgently, James Ballantyne & Co., in which Scott was sole partner, was hard pressed both by the delaying of Ivanhoe, and by the costs of printing the octavo Tales and Romances.16Then on 2 August he received the unpleasant news that the banks had refused to discount ‘£850 o f Constables Bills & £800 of mine’ .17 No more money would come in from Ivanhoe until the novel itself was published, so he pro­ posed ‘adopting the plan just nom which we thought of for September’. This plan was to offer ‘A New Novel of the right cast— 3 volumes— the subject is quite ready & very interesting— to be divided into 3 shares— Longman to be manager’ . The author’s profits (half of the total) on an edition of 12,000 would be £450o;18 Ballantyne was instructed to nego­ tiate for an advance o f half this sum, in Longman & Co.’s bills. In other words, though Longmans were buying from Scott only a one third share

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in the work (the other thirds would go to the Ballantyne brothers, and to Constable if he should take it), they were to manage the whole— which meant they were to be initially responsible for the entire author’s ad­ vance. They would then receive bills from the holders of the other thirds, who would thus be buying their shares from Longmans; if Con­ stable did not accept these terms, his third would revert to Longmans.19 In this way, as Scott put it on 13 August, both the Ballantynes and Constable would ‘be clear of the plague of Scotch bills just now’. There would be an infusion o f good credit from London; the ‘Scotch bills’, which the Edinburgh banks were refusing to discount, would be sent down south in exchange. In the same letter Scott gave Ballantyne per­ mission to ‘mention the title of the work namely The Monastery’ .20 But Ballantyne had already reached a preliminary agreement in Lon­ don with Longmans, whose commission ledger for 11 August records the granting of bills for £1000 to John Ballantyne, under the heading ‘New Novel by the Author of Waverley &c’.21 However, Ballantyne had made this deal under a misapprehension: Scott had written on 2 August that O n these shares should be an advance of £800 at the least but £1000 will do much better’. What he meant was an advance of this order on each of the shares, rather than on the whole edition. The fact that John was under the impression that the £1000 advance covered the whole edition is confirmed by the Longmans commission ledger, which, also on 11 August, records the receipt of a bill for £333 6s. 8d. (that is, exactly one third of £1000) from James and John Ballantyne, who, as holders of a one third share, were responsible for advancing one third of the author’s profits.22 Scott’s letters of 12 and 13 August cleared up the misunderstanding, and John then re-negotiated the deal with Long­ mans, whose commission ledger records, on 17 August, the granting of further bills to John Ballantyne, adding up to another £2750 (and in exchange, further bills from the Ballantynes for £916 13s. 4d., which added to the earlier £333 6s. 8d. made a total of £1250). He had written to Scott with the news on 16 August. Ballantyne, described admiringly by Scott as ‘a devil for what boxers call a rally’ ,23 had in fact managed to exceed Scott’s expectations by securing an advance o f the entire author’s profits, rather than merely half. Longmans, however, had stipulated that the edition should be of 10,000 rather than 12,000: hence the author’s profits would come to £3750 rather than £ 4500. But the short-term gain outweighed the long-term loss. Constable soon accepted his third, and receipt of his bills for £1250 was recorded in the Longmans commission ledger on 8 September. What then was to go into this novel, to be called The Monastery? On 23 August Scott wrote to Lady Louisa Stuart, a close literary confidante, that Ί am trying an antiquarian story I mean one relating to old English times which is a great amusement to me. I have laid aside a half-finished story on the dissolution of the Monasteries. When I print them I shall

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put them into different shapes and publish them with different people and so run one against the other. I am rather curious to know if I can be detected in both instances.’24 So by late August Scott had worked out the subject-matter of what was to become The Monastery (the Reforma­ tion, the dissolution of the monasteries); it is clear that for some years he had had in mind the subject-matter of The Abbot (Queen Mary, Lochleven). A t this stage Scott apparently intended to deal with both subjects in a single novel. T o return to the letter to Lady Louisa Stuart. There are elements which are puzzling: Scott appears to imply that the ‘story on the dissolu­ tion of the Monasteries’ had been begun before Ivanhoe, which is un­ true; nor can it be true that this story was ‘half-finished’ by 23 August. As recently as 19 August he had written to James Ballantyne that Ί have finishd the 2d. volume I[vanho]e and am determined to let it rest since the paper is not come & take to the other to save time’ . He must, then, have begun The Monastery on or about 20 August. Although Graham Tulloch has tried to reconcile these letters, explaining Scott’s reference to the ‘half-finished’ Monastery by the suggestion that he must have worked on it for a few days (between 19 and 23 August) before return­ ing to Ivanhoe,25 this editor is unconvinced; instead he offers two other possible explanations. The first is deliberate falsehood: Scott appar­ ently wanted Lady Louisa to believe that the juxtaposition of Ivanhoe and The Monastery (their appearance so close together, in different formats, and under different publishers) was a deliberate part of the game of anonymity, an attempt to play a trick on readers and reviewers. This disguised the fact that there was little honesty in negotiating with two publishers at once, and perhaps endangering Constable’s investment in Ivanhoe by rushing out a successor so hastily. The second explanation is straightforward error: Scott simply mixed up the two novels, and what he meant to say was that he had ‘laid aside’ Ivanhoe, and taken up The Monastery. Bizarre though such an error would be, it seems more likely that he would describe The Monastery as a ‘great amusement’ than Ivan­ hoe: in February 1820 Scott was to comment on the ‘relief’ he had felt in turning to The Monastery, and ‘the scenery most familiar to me’;26 fur­ thermore, such an error would not be unique— in another letter he refers to ‘a Second part o f I[vanho]e’, when he means the second part of The Monastery.27 However the letter to Louisa Stuart is explained, there is no doubt that in autumn 1819 Constable was preoccupied by the threat posed by the too rapid appearance of a successor to Ivanhoe: on 23 October he wrote to his partner Robert Cadell that ‘Blackwoods Magazine an­ nounces the Monastry as forthcoming. . . to injure Ivanhoe', and on 4 November that Ί much fear that the Author will injure all— if he brings out the Monastry early in the year’. Then on 30 November, by which time the first pages o f TheMonastery were in print (while Ivanhoe still had

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not appeared), Constable complained that ‘it is too bad in short is infamous that the Monastry should be already in progress’, while on 6 December he worried that ‘the Monastry should it come out soon being cheaper may be equally popular & come in the way of Ivanhoe there never existed such a set of men’.28 Despite his outrage, two days later Con­ stable agreed to purchase (in addition to his own third share) John and James Ballantyne’s third share of the first edition of The Monastery; though not before John had attempted to sell the share to Longmans.29 Meanwhile, Scott’s plans had matured, and on 8 November the separate existence of what was to become The Abbot was proposed to John Ballantyne for the first time. Again financial problems supplied the immediate stimulus: James cannot get out I[vanho]e till the next month— even then not early and what is worse he cannot get out the M[onaster]y untill february by an exertion so that large [sic] fund forJanuary (a very heavy month) is stopd... Now I am led to expect I[vanho]e will please the public because it is uncommon. It is almost all finishd and in the transcribers hands and the M[onaster]y is begun and will proceed rapidly. Now the fact is that the M[onaster]y will run either to four volumes or which is much better will make two parts o f three volumes each & I think when a volume or two of Part I is printed it would be easy to make a bargain for Part II with Longman to be accepted for inJanuary... If this can be done it would... make a fund ofbetween £4000 & £5000 forthcoming at a time when it will [be] most convenient.. .3° From this letter it emerges that Scott had originally intended to write a single novel dealing with the Reformation, and presumably with the reign o f Q ueen Mary, which was to be called The Monastery. But as is typical o f Scott, his imaginative instincts went hand in hand with finan­ cial opportunism: his awareness that he had enough material for at least a four volume novel, and if need be for two novels of three volumes, coincided with his realisation that an extra novel, to be sold to Longmans in January 1820, would offer a way out of his financial troubles, adding altogether ‘£8000,, and more to the funds’ .31 We perhaps owe the inde­ pendent existence of The Abbot more to commercial than to aesthetic considerations. One consequence of this plan was that John Ballantyne, now back in Edinburgh, but very ill, might have to return to London in order to negotiate with Longmans. Scott proposed to accompany him: ‘The worst is this may perhaps cost you a flight to London in the end of December in which case you might go up with me as I must be there or lose the light o f the Regents countenance altogether.’ On 22 November John Ballantyne noted in his journal his agreement, ‘if health permitted to Accompany W Scott to London on the 24th December’ .32 However, the plan was overturned on 15 December: after recording that he had

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‘read last night the admirable introductions to the Monastery’, Ballantyne continued, ‘Evening. T o day W Scotts mother was struck with palsy, & her brother D r Rutherford died. How far this may derange our plans I know not, but fear I shall have to go to London alone which would be very disagreeable.’33 Given Ballantyne’s fragile health, it was unreasonable for him to have to make the journey alone, and on 21 December he recorded that Ί do not go to London at Christmas’ .34 He wrote to Longmans instead, offering the new novel, which was speedily accepted: the details were added to the commission ledger entry for The Monastery on 29 December— bills totalling £3750, due at between two and nine months, sent to John Ballantyne, for The Monastery ‘second Class’ .35 On i January 1820 Ballantyne recorded that ‘Longman’s bills arrived for the 2d Branch Monastery: a good beginning for the year’.36 Again the sum advanced was equivalent to the entire author’s profits (half of total profits) on an edition of 10,000 (rather than the 12,000 which appear to be envisaged by Scott’s original reference to ‘between £4000 & £5000’). The possibility of a further edition of 2000 was left open. Also on 1 January Ballantyne noted that Longmans were offering to buy his own and his brother’s third share for ‘first and 2d Branches Monastery’; but the first having been sold to Constables on 8 December 1819, Ballantyne could only offer ‘2d Branch Monastery’ for £2400.37 This offer was later endorsed ‘refused’. Another offer, made to Con­ stable on 10 January, was also refused, probably because while Ballan­ tyne repeated the terms o f 8 December as far as ‘ ist Branch’ was concerned (that is to say, bills due at ten, twelve, fourteen and sixteen months), he required bills for ‘2d Branch’ due at four, five, six, and eight months. This was too short credit. It appears that Ballantyne then looked for other buyers, which would have brought a third party, in addition to Longman and Constable, into the publication. The reaction to news of this was a long and indignant letter from Robert Cadell on 14 January, outlining the folly of hawking Scott’s novels about so indis­ criminately: you ruin the Book utterly— you make many possessors of it you make it to be had at various places and you will inevitable [sic] prevent a reprint so soon as if possessed by one House. .. you the Author and us will all suffer for this and dearly too, and not find it till it is too late for I assure you . . . that if there are three interests subscribing the Book, the Second Set will fall betwixt the Stools...38 Later the same day Cadell responded to a reply from Ballantyne, with the assurance that his ‘allusion could never apply to Longman & Co who are as respectable as any House whatever M y allusion was to a third (firm) person or house coming into the field’.39 Cadell’s protest achieved the desired effect: on 15 January John Ballantyne made a revised offer to Constable, of his share of both ‘Branches’ combined, in

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exchange for seven bills due at between nine and fifteen months.40This was accepted, and a formal agreement was signed on 18 January, setting aside earlier agreements relating only to ‘the first branch’, whereby Constable bought ‘Shares of Monastery both Branches’ from John and James Ballantyne, amounting to a third of the total.41 Two important facts emerge from the complicated negotiations of November 1819 to January 1820. The first, which has a bearing on Scott’s later dealings with his publishers, and thus the financial collapse o f 1826, is that although one o f the objects he had in view was to bring Constable to heel by holding out a threat to his monopoly on the man­ agement of the novels, while in the process achieving an infusion of good credit from Longmans, he was only partially successful. While Long­ mans ‘managed’ the novels, they only had to sell their own one third share of the books— two thirds still went to Constable. The result was unsatisfactory: on 28 March Scott wrote to James Ballantyne that Long­ mans were selling The Monastery at ‘subscription price because they have the first o f the market, & only one third of the books; so that, as they say with us, “They let them care that come ahint.’” This method of pro­ ceeding, on which the poor sales of both The Monastery and The Abbot were in part blamed, in turn strengthened Scott’s reliance on Con­ stable’s management: Ί say now as I always said that Constables man­ agement is best. . . &, had we not been contrould by the nervousness o f discount, I would put nothing past him’ .42 When Kenilworth was pub­ lished in 1821, the association with Constable & Co., and their London connections Hurst, Robinson & Co., which was to lead to Scott’s ruin in 1826, was cemented. The second fact is specifically relevant to The Abbot: throughout the negotiations it is referred to as either the second ‘part’, ‘branch’ or ‘class’ of The Monastery. Indeed, John Ballantyne’s final agreement to sell his share of the novel to Constable treats the two novels as one: on 18 January John and James Ballantyne each agreed to sell 3333 copies, which together represented their one third share, that is to say 6666 copies in total, or one third of the 20,000 copies printed o f The Monastery and The Abbot combined. In other words, while Scott was in the process o f writing The Monastery, its successor The Abbot was being sold, not as a separate novel, but as part of the same work. As late as 7 March its title, as a distinct novel, was uncertain; Constable had suggested ‘The Nunnery’, but Scott replied, ‘The only objection I know to your proposal (if it be an objection) is, that there is neither Nun nor Nunnery mentioned in the affair from beginning to end.’43 Constable apparently then suggested the title which was finally adopted: on 29 March he claimed that ‘the Second branch is to be called The Abbot & has its new name from the advice and Sugges­ tions of the writer o f this letter’ .44 With this uncertainty contrast, for instance, Kenilworth, which was being referred to by name as early as

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1 7 F e b ru a ry 1 820, at least six m onths before Sco tt began to w rite it.45 T h is leads one back to the sto ry told b y S co tt in the introd u ction to the M a g n u m edition o f The A bbot. It is clearly an invention. W h ile later biograp h ers have b y and large accepted it as fact, the silence o f L o c k h a rt concerning the origins o f the novel is significant. L o c k h art m u st have know n the truth , b u t he w as also the protector, in p art the creator, o f S co tt’ s reputation— hence his silence on the subject. I f S co tt h im self, in 1 830, w as asham ed to adm it that the decision to split The M on astery into tw o w as at least in part an op p ortu n istic response to a shortage o f ready cash, it is not su rp risin g that L o c k h a rt should have gone along w ith him . 2.

T H E C O M P O S IT IO N OF THE A B B O T

T h e T im e t a b le . W e know relatively little o f the progress o f the com ­ p osition o f The A bbot. T h e L o n g m a n letter-books fo r the first h a lf o f 18 2 0 are m issin g, w h ile the C onstable correspondence is patchy— though it does include m an y o f C o n stable’ s reports to H u rst, R o b in son & C o ., his L o n d o n agents. The M onastery appeared in the b egin n in g o f M a rc h 18 2 0 , b u t S co tt alm ost certain ly d id not proceed im m ed iately w ith its successor. O ne can on ly speculate on w hat form The A bbot m igh t have taken had S co tt follow ed his original plans— w h at p art Q ueen M a ry w ould have p layed; w h eth er a new hero, R o lan d G ræ m e , w ould have been introduced. W hat is clear is that before b egin n in g The A bbot S co tt re-organised h is su bject-m atter in such a w ay that the novel w ould be able to stand alone. In the In tro d u cto ry E p istle the ‘A u th o r o f W aver­ le y ’ adm its to ‘retren ch m ents’ , in clu d in g the abandonm ent o f the W h ite L a d y (the supernatural bein g w h o had caused offence to readers and review ers o f The M on astery). T h e re m ust have been enough d elay be­ tw een the publication o f The M on astery and the com position o f The A bbot fo r S co tt to gauge the ‘ p u b lic taste’ , and respond accord ingly. M o reo ve r, the first h a lf o f 18 2 0 was a b u sy period. L o c k h art tells us that ‘A t the risin g o f his C o u rt on the 12 th o f M a rc h , S co tt p roceeded to L o n d o n , for the p u rpo se o f receivin g his baronetcy’ .46 S co tt apparently w rote little in L o n d o n , w ritin g to C onstable on 5 A p r il that ‘I find it im po ssible to get on w ith w o rk here; perhaps it is as w ell not, fo r I am distracted b y noise and visito rs. I tru st to set forw ard b y the 20th or 2 1 s t , m arry m y dam sel o ff, and take to the oar m an fu lly .’47 H o w e ve r, he m u st have found tim e to get som e w o rk done, fo r on 2 2 A p ril C o n stable w as able to rep ort to H u rst R o b in so n that ‘ the A b b o t is alread y in som e p ro g ress’ .48 M ean w h ile the baronetcy had been announced on 2 A p ril, and S co tt left L o n d o n on 2 5 A p ril, reaching E d in b u rg h in tim e to celebrate the w ed d in g o f his daughter S o p h ia to L o c k h a rt on the 29th, b efo re the start o f the ‘ u n lu ck y m onth ’ o f M a y .49 S o S co tt began the n ovel in the second h a lf o f A p ril; fo r m ost o f M a y and Ju n e he was in E d in b u rg h , and C onstable w as able to rep ort on 7 M a y that ‘the A u th o r is n ow engaged ardently I am told on the A b b o t’ .50

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N everth eless, S co tt does not seem to have m ade m uch progress in M a y , for on 1 Ju n e he w rote to L a d y A b erco rn that reports she had heard about the first volum e w ere ‘ erroneou s’ , since ‘not above one h a lf is w ritten ’ .51 T h e sim ple statem ent ‘A ll going on w ell & ra p id ly ’ , in a letter to Jo h n B allan tyn e o f 1 8 Ju n e , p robably refers to the com position o f The A bbot ,52 and on 8 J u l y C onstable reported that ‘T h e A b b o t proceeds fa ir ly the 2d V o l all in types & the third advanced a little’ .53 T h is p robably refers to p roo fs; b y 20 J u ly L o c k h art had read the printed sheets for the first vo lu m e in their final or near-final state, and he w rote to com plim ent S co tt,54 w ho rep lied on 25 J u l y that ‘Ja m e s B allan tyn e, a good specim en o f a certain class o f readers, likes the second volum e better than the first’ .55 In a letter to Ja m e s B allan tyn e dated b y G rierso n 1 A u g u st S co tt w rites that ‘T h is m atter is now ve ry nigh done you w ill receive a dozen m ore pages on yo u r retu rn so you m ay cru sh on b o ld ly ’ .56 T h e novel was then announced in the Edinburgh E ven in g C ourant on 3 A u g u st as to be pu blish ed ‘ in the m onth o f A u g u st’ . A sligh t delay m ay have been caused b y the o ver-lo n g th ird volum e: in an undated letter, also to Ja m e s B allan tyn e, S co tt w rites that ‘W hat you say o f the E p iso d e is ve ry tru e b u t I do not like to cut the train o f Q ueen M a r y ’ s vestm ent. I fear the volu m e w ill run to 3 7 0 p ag es.’ 57 T h e volum e finally cam e out at 36 7 pages, around tw enty pages lon ger than norm al, and in the In tro d u ctory E p istle (the last part o f the novel to be w ritten), S co tt alludes to the risk that the novel m igh t have ‘ ru n w ell n igh to a fourth volum e, as m y p rin ter assures m e’ .58 N everth eless, on 10 A u gu st S co tt was able to w rite to C on stable that ‘T h e G re a t A is so far as I am concernd finishd w ith in a d ays w ork and the p ress labou rin g h ard ’ .59 It is thus lik ely that he finished penning the novel (w ith the p ossible excep­ tion o f the In tro d u ctory E p istle) on 1 1 A u gu st. B y 20 A u g u st S co tt had finished w ith the final p roofs, fo r he was p reparin g to start w ork on K en ilw orth , and looking forw ard to the p ublication o f The A bbot: Ί w ill be h appy to hear how A . goes off. I hope L o n g m a n ’ s people w ill do better than last tim e.’60 T h e novel, priced at 245. for its three volum es, was d u ly announced as ‘ this day p u b lish ed ’ in the Edinburgh E ven in g C ourant on 2 Sep tem b er; it appeared in L o n d o n tw o d ays later (M orn in g C hronicle). T h e M a n u sc rip t. T h e m an u script o f The A bbot is incom plete. T h e bu lk o f what su rvives (com prising 14 2 leaves in all, not in clu d in g titles and one blank recto, out o f a lik ely total length o f 18 6 )61 is bound together in a volu m e ow ned b y the p u blish ers Jo h n M u rra y , L t d , and bought b y Jo h n M u rr a y in 18 6 7 . T h e w hereabouts o f six additional leaves, together w ith a fragm ent o f a seventh, are know n; their location is given in note 65. G illia n D y so n records the sale o f fu rth er in d ivid u al leaves, m ostly in the late nineteenth and early tw entieth centuries, but these have not been traced .62 T h e m an uscript, w h ich was given b y Sco tt

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to C onstable in 18 2 3 , was broken up at an early date;63 leaves were probably given as souvenirs to visitors to Ballantynes throughout the early 18 2 0 s, though it is also possible that som e leaves w ere m islaid after being copied. T h e In tro d u ctory E p istle is m issing; as the last section o f the novel to be w ritten, p robably on ly ju st before p ublication,64 it is possible that it was never added to the com plete m an u script.65 T h e appearance o f the m an uscript is typical for Scott: the leaves are about 26 .5 b y 20 .5 cm , form ed b y tw ice cutting in h a lf sets o f dem y sh eets.66 T h e rectos are den sely covered, w ith very narrow m argins, and ty p ically contain betw een 850 and 10 5 0 w ords. S co tt’ s w ritin g increases m arkedly in den sity as the novel progresses. T h e m an u script o f The A bbot dem onstrates S co tt’ s astonishing flu­ ency. T h e re is nothing to suggest that he significantly changed direc­ tion, or had radical second thoughts, at any stage; indeed in the entire su rvivin g m an u script there are on ly two deletions o f m ore than two lines: the m otto o f V o lu m e 3, C h apter 7 was crossed out (but only in ord er to be re-u sed for C h apter 8), and in the description o f the escape from L o c h le ven three lines w ere deleted in order to postpone the ex­ planation o f R o la n d ’ s sudden dash back to the castle. B u t despite this flu ency there are m an y local corrections and im provem en ts, m ade for the m ost part as S co tt w rote. A n alysis o f ff. 4– 5 ( 8 .13 – 1 1 . 3 7 ) reveals 18 deletions, 18 occasions on w h ich Sco tt has replaced m aterial, either b y w ritin g over the first version or b y crossin g it out and inserting an alternative, and 1 5 additions to the first version; 6 o f these additions are on the verso, and vary in length from 4 to 1 1 4 w ord s. T h e various alterations cannot be categorised w ith certainty, bu t are bro ad ly o f two sorts: those m ade in the process o f w ritin g the first version, and those w h ich S co tt m ade on re-read in g the m anuscript, and w h ich m igh t thus be called the first stage o f textual revision. In to the first category fall a num ber o f occasions w h ere S co tt sim ply w rote the w ro n g w o rd , m is-sp elt it, or else got ahead o f h im se lf and m issed a w ord or w o rd s out, but each tim e at once corrected him self. T h u s w hen he w rote ‘b y ’ instead o f ‘ be’ he sim p ly w rote over the error: ‘ it m u st b〈 y 〉 e y o u rs’ (10 .3 9 ). In d escribing W o lf’ s exit S co tt m issed out a few w ords b u t corrected h im se lf alm ost at once: he ‘ follow d the 〈 apartm 〉 dom estic out o f the apartm ent’ ( 1 1 .3 5 ) . In the next exam ple S co tt p robably caught h im se lf on the point o f repeating ‘ sh ore’ (from 8.40), and deleted it w h ile thinking o f an alternative (though as it happened this too began w ith ‘sh ’ ): ‘ they ran like yo u n g faw ns along the 〈 sh〉 sh in gly ve rg e ’ (8 .4 1). O ther changes, though also m ade as Sco tt w rote, show him re-stru ctu rin g sentences, either b y focu sing m ore closely on a scene or b y introd u cing a fresh idea. T h u s he decided to define m ore p recisely the sounds heard b y the L a d y (sounds w hich then trigger her m em ories o f G len d earg ), and this in tu rn m eant going back to rem ove a repetition o f ‘lo w ’ : ‘T h e 〈 low and〉 deep 〈 c ry 〉 low ing o f the

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cow s’ ( 8 .1 4 - 1 5 ) . M a r y ’ s reflections on H alb e rt’ s d estiny are m ade m ore specific, and as a resu lt S co tt has to go back and in sert a w ord above the line: ‘ w hat avails the blood w h ich H alb ert has shed and the 〈 stru ggles〉 ↑ dangers ↓ w h ich he 〈 m akes〉 encounters’ (8.28– 29). S u ch changes are often m ade even before S co tt has had tim e to w rite out his first thought: he alters a general reference to ‘ the L a d y ’ to b rin g out h er relationship w ith W o lf, w ho ‘ follow d 〈 the〉 his m istress into the apartm ent’ ( 1 1 . 1 4 - 1 5 ) . M a ry view s R o la n d ’ s accident w ith ‘ great 〈 d istr〉 agony’ (9.24). W e are told that R o lan d is tow ed ‘ tow ards the 〈 shore〉 causew ay’ ( 10 .16 ) . In the next, m ore com plicated, exam ple, S co tt recasts a sentence befo re com pleting it, in ord er to b rin g out a rhetorical contrast betw een ‘ te rro r’ and ‘ jo y ’ , in the p rocess u sin g the verso to introduce a new clause: ‘ she w as agitated b y (the) terror ↑ arisin g from the danger ↓ in w h ich he had been ju st placed and b y 〈 the scene w h ich 〉 jo y at his u nexpected d eliverance’ ( 10 .4 3 – 1 1.2 ) . In to the second category o f changes fall those m ade as S c o tt re-read the text . t h e d ivid in g line betw een th is category and the first is im pre­ cise, fo r in m an y cases he m u st have looked back o ver w h at he had w ritten alm ost im m ediate ly and changed a w o rd , in sertin g a better alternativ e above the line. t h e follow in g change links R o la n d ’ s ‘ deli­ riu m ’ to the predicam ent from w h ich he has ju st escaped: ‘he l a y . . . h a lf (bu ried) ↑ drow nd ↓ in the m eanders o f a flu ctuatin g d eliriu m ’ ( 1 1 . 3 1 ) . E a rlie r w e are told that R o lan d disentangled the toy boat ‘ from the (w eeds) ↑ flags ↓ ’ (9.40), and on the n ext line that he ‘ raised h im se lf su d den ly from the w ater and 〈 cried 〉 ↑ scream d ↓ alou d ’ (9.42). H o w ever, another change to the sam e sentence w as m ade in a d ifferen t pen— w hen S c o tt re-read the passage, either at the end o f his d ay’ s stin t, or the next d ay, he noticed and corrected a rep etition o f ‘ scarce’ (at 9 .4 1): ‘ it so happend that ↑ w h e n ↓ he had 〈 scarce〉 d isem ­ barassd the little p layth in g’ (9.39). T h e verso insertions sh ow how S c o tt could incorporate fresh ideas and m aterial into the m an u scrip t . T h e longest o f them is 1 1 4 w o rd s (‘ I t w as launched . . . t h e ch ild less L a d y o f A ve n e ' , 8 .36 – 9 .2 ); b u t it m u st be n early contem poraneous, fo r in it S c o tt describes the ‘ r a c e ... round the lake’ w h ich is then referred to again at 9.28– 29. In the first versio n S co tt’ s attention w as n arro w ly focused on the L a d y , h er lam ent fo r her childlessness, b u t in the revised versio n there is a m u ch closer and m ore m ovin g relationship betw een h er feelings and the ex ternal scene. S c o tt also develops the m oti f o f a ch ild ’ s sh ip sailing into the unknow n , w h ich is am ong the m ost poignant and personal in the novel (see n ote to 9.26). t w o other verso insertions sh ow S c o tt realisin g the details o f a scene m ore fu lly . t h e first adds a realistic touch to the d escrip tion o f W o lf, ‘ p aw in g upon his m istress ↑ h is caresses renderd still m ore trou blesom e b y his lon g sh aggy h air b ein g so m uch & th oro u gh ly w ette d ↓ ’ ( 1 1 . 2 5 – 26). t h e second, in serted later in a d ifferen t pen, ad ds to the

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relativ e ly anonym ous ‘ deep and savage gro w l’ w h ich W o lf d irects at R o lan d the strik in g detail that h e '↑ cu rld up his nose and lip s sh ow in g his fu ll range o f w h ite and sharpend teeth w h ich m igh t have m atchd those o f an actual w o lf ’ ( 1 1 . 3 2 – 34). T h e se exam ples are typ ical o f the m ethod o f com position revealed in the m an u scrip t . t h e y show how w ith in lim its the novel took shape as it w as bein g w ritten, rather than strictly ob eyin g a preconceived plan. A n yo n e w ho exam ines S c o tt’ s m an u scrip ts, w h ile m arvellin g at their consistency and coherence, is lik ely also to endorse S c o tt’ s ow n account o f his free-w h eelin g approach to n o vel-w ritin g, given in the In tro d u cto­ ry E p is tle to T he F o rtunes o f N ig e l. N o thorough revision o f the w hole m an u scrip t w as attem p ted. In stead packets w ere sent o f f regu larly for cop yin g as he w ro te; som etim es m aterial w as dispatched alm ost as soon as it was w ritten, fo r several pages, on w h ich S c o tt’ s in sertions are cram m ed in to the narrow le ft m argin, testify to the absence o f the p reced ing versos. t h is m ode o f com position, m aking cro ss-ch eckin g im possible, d ou btless contrib u ted to a few anom alies. W h at, fo r ex­ am ple, happens to the token so pointed ly entru sted to R o lan d b y his grandm other (12 6 .9 )? W h ere was R o lan d and A d am ’ s servant ( 12 9 .2 0 ; 1 7 5 .2 5) w hen he w as needed m ost ( 13 9 .4 1) ? O ne m ajor anom aly, the character o f D ry fe sd a le , d eserves to be explored in m ore d etail. In the In tro d u ctory E p is tle to t h e F o rtunes o f N ig e l the ' A u thor o f W averley’ confesses that ‘ W h en I ligh t on such a character as B ailie Ja rv ie , or D a lg e tty , m y im agination b righ tens, and m y conception be­ com es clearer at e ve ry step w h ich I m ake in his com pany, alth ough it leads m e m an y a w eary m ile aw ay from the regu lar road ’ (e e w n 13, 10.31–34). T he m an u scrip t o f T he A bbot show s h ow som eth in g sim ilar happened to D ry fe sd a le . A t his first appearance there is noth in g to su ggest that he is an A n ab ap tist, let alone a poisoner: he m entions ap p ro vin g ly the P re sb y terian H en d erson ’ s service o f the ‘ tru e evangele’ (217.39). S c o tt’ s in terest in the character on ly really cam e to life in V o lu m e 3, and h is im aginativ e aw akening can be seen in ff. 124-25 (296.36-301.35) o f the m an u scrip t. S co tt o rigin ally ended C h ap ter 5 w ith R o lan d ’ s declaration that M a r y w ished ‘ to be d istu rb ed neither b y v isits nor m essages’ (297.21). T he m an u scrip t continu es, ‘ 〈 W ith this answ er the A g e d S tew ard gru m b lin g & disatisfied as he w as found h im se lf u nder the necessity o f retu rn in g〉 ’ . H av in g finished h is stin t, S c o tt w rote ‘ C h a p te r’ underneath. B u t b y the tim e he again took u p his pen, p robably the n ext day, h is conception o f D ry fe sd a le had changed. H av in g deleted the sentence qu oted above, he replaced it w ith D ry fe s ­ dale’ s om inous re p ly to R o lan d (‘ “ I conjure you in the nam e o f G o d . . . pow er on h er!” ’ ), befo re startin g the n ext chapter. B y this stage the outlines o f D ry fe sd a le ’ s character w ere clear, and they are revealed in the opening pages o f C h a p ter 6. E v e n so, details continu ed to expand, and f. 124v contains six insertions, o f betw een 14 and 177 w o rd s, w h ich

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it is clear, from errors in their nu m bering and changes o f pen, represent at least tw o stages o f fu rther revision. T h e lon gest o f these insertions is the passage ‘ G o to the w estern tu rret . . . alarm ed and in ’ (30 0 .2 0 -3 4 ), w h ich was added largely for the sake o f D ry fe sd a le ’ s vivid declaration o f his fatalistic ind ifference to death or im prison m en t: ‘m an does nought o f h im self. H e is 〈 the〉 b u t the foam on the billo w w h ich rises bu bbles and b u rsts not b y its ow n effo rt b u t the m igh tier im pu lse o f fate’ . S c o tt’ s new th ought was to have D ry fe sd a le sent to the w estern tu rret, there to aw ait his fate . T h e recto reference to the tu rret at 3 0 1 .7 show s that the thought m u st have occurred to him w ith in a m atter o f m inu tes, b u t even so, in changing his m ind he in ad vertently d estroyed the nar­ rative contin u ity o f the first versio n .67 t h e L a d y ’ s orders (300.5– 10 ), o rigin ally given to D ry fe sd a le , had now to be execu ted b y som eone else; so on the verso S c o tt cavalierly inserted befo re ‘ send o f f ’ (300.5) the w ord s, ‘ sum m on R and al h ither instantly — R an d al here is a foul & evil chance befallen’ . ‘In stantly ’ h ard ly did ju stice to the speed w ith w h ich D ry fe sd a le m u st have left the room , found R an d al, and returned w ith him , all in the space o f a single dash. L a d y L o c h le v e n ’ s orders w ere now issued to R an d al; bu t R and al was never m ore than nom inally present in the scene, w h ich rem ained essentially (as it was in the first version) a conversation betw een the L a d y and D ry fe sd a le — an im pression confirm ed b y the unchanged first d raft at 30 0 .34 – 38 , in w h ich R an d al was apparently given the sam e in stru ctions all o ver again. In other w ord s, w h ile one cannot regret the com bination o f in sp iration and flexib ility w h ich allow ed S co tt to develop D ry fe sd a le ’ s character so m em orably, a b y -p ro d u ct o f his creativ e im provisation w as occasionally tortuous narrative confusion. F o r the w ay in w h ich the p resent ed ition attem pts to resolve this confusion, see below , 407. F r o m M a n u s c rip t to F ir s t E d itio n . T h e process b y w h ich The Abbot evolved from m an u script to first edition u nd ou bted ly conform ed in outline to that described in the G en eral In tro d u ction. P ackets o f m anu­ scrip t (o f betw een three and ten folio pages) w ere d ispatched b y S c o tt in ord er to be transcribed; this tran scrip t w as then used as p rin te r’ s c o p y.68 t h e re is no clear evidence to show w ho transcribed The Abbot (no part o f this— or any other— tran scrip t has su rvived), b u t occasionally S c o tt’ s verso additions have been inserted above the line on the recto, and from these cram ped specim ens the h andw ritin g appears to be that o f G e o rg e H u n tly G o rd o n , one o f S c o tt’ s regu lar transcrib ers. I t m ay be that another transcrib er was in volved , p ossibly one o f the B alla n tynes. T h e transcrip t w ould have been passed to Ja m e s B alla n tyn e ’ s com ­ positors for typ esetting, and they w ould also have su pp lied pu nctuation, corrected obvious m inor erro rs, and standardised the sp e llin g . T h e first proofs w ere probably read against the tran scrip t (the original m an u-

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scrip t w as apparently not referred to again); the second proofs w ere read and p artially corrected b y B allantyne, and then sent on, w ith his com m ents and su ggestions, to S co tt. S co tt m ade fu rther corrections and changes to the p roofs (and dealt w ith B allan ty n e ’ s com m ents) before retu rn in g them to B allan tyne, who then copied ou t the corrections and revision s onto a fresh set o f p roofs, w hich was in tu rn passed on to the com positors. R e vise s w ere prepared, bu t w ere n orm ally seen and cor­ rected b y Ja m e s B alla n tyne alone. T hus several stages o f d evelopm ent intervened betw een m an uscript and first edition, b u t fo r on ly one o f these (the correction o f proofs) was S c o tt personally responsible. W h ile the m ore im po rtant verbal changes are lik ely to be S c o tt’ s, num erically the vast m ajority o f the alterations m ade to the m an u scrip t text (o f the order o f 50,000 in total) w ere the w ork o f the ‘ in term ediaries’— the cop yist, the com positors, the p roof­ readers, and Ja m e s B alla n ty n e . T h e evidence fo r the w ay these altera­ tions cam e about is fragm entary. O n ly one gatherin g o f proofs su rvives, w ith corrections and revisions b y S co tt and B allan tyne; it corresponds to pages [ 1 ] - 2 4 o f V o lu m e 1 . F u r ther usefu l evidence is provid ed b y tw o A m erican ed itions o f 18 2 0 , published b y M . C a re y & S o n (Ph il­ adelphia), and b y S . H . P ark er (B oston). T h e last sections o f both these editions (3 4 8 .19 to the end) are based on p re-p u b lication texts: C a re y ’ s edition on uncorrected second p roofs, P ark er’ s edition on the uncorrec­ ted revise (that is to say, before B allan tyne edited the text for a second tim e). U n fo rtunately the m an uscript for this p art o f the novel is m issing; nevertheless, analysis o f the A m erican editions casts ligh t on the later stages o f prod u ction. A n alysis o f the sam e tw o folio pages (ff. 4– 5, correspon ding to 8 .1 3 – 1 1 . 3 7 ) discussed above reveals 326 variants betw een the m anu­ scrip t and first edition tex ts. M o s t o f these are punctuational: 16 6 com m as w ere added, 1 2 sem icolons (1 rep lacin g a m an u scrip t colon), 1 1 fu ll stops (3 rep lacin g m an u script dashes), 6 h yph ens, 6 exclam ation m arks ( 1 replacing a dash, 1 a fu ll stop), and 5 sets o f speech m arks (an untyp ically low figu re, as m ost o f this section is narrative); 12 new paragraphs w ere opened. V erbal changes are also num erous: S co tt’ s spelling o f the past tense was norm alised 53 tim es (thus ‘ stro lld ’ becam e ‘ stro lled ’ ); spellin g w as standardised 8 tim es (so ‘ vessell’ becam e ‘ ves­ sel’ ); the am persand was expanded to ‘ and’ 5 tim es; 5 capitals w ere introduced, 2 rem oved. M o s t o f these ro u tine changes are already pre­ sent in the u ncorrected second p ro o fs. T h e y w ere entru sted largely to the com positors and in-h ouse proof-readers, w ho for the m ost p art did a com petent jo b in p rod u cin g a version o f the novel w h ich could be presented to the general public. T h e changes w h ich w ere then m ade to the p roofs b y Ja m e s B allan tyne and S c o tt reveal a m ore thoughtfu l and critical appraisal, in w hich the closeness o f their w o rkin g relationship is clear. B alla n ty n e’ s corrections

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are m ostly those o f a good p roof-reader: he in serts a com m a after ‘ cram p’ (9.38), and deletes one after ‘ L a d y ’ ( 10 .2 5 ) ; he changes a question m ark to an exclam ation m ark (9.6). H e corrects an allu sion at 10 .2 8 t o R o la n d ’ s ‘lon g curled fair’ to ‘ lon g cu rled h air’ (in fact the m an u scrip t had read ‘lon g curled fair h air’ , b u t the erro r was u ltim ately fo rtunate, since R o lan d ’ s hair is d escribed at 16 6 .18 as ‘black’).69 B a l­ lantyn e used crosses to indicate problem s fo r S c o tt to deal w ith, such as repetitions o f ‘and alas’ (8.27– 28) and ‘ sid e’ ( 1 0 . 1 1 ) ; S c o tt responded b y deletin g the first ‘ alas’ , and changing the second ‘ sid e’ to ‘ p oin t’ (w hich as it happened was the original m an u scrip t read in g). T h e re is also a frie n d ly dialogue between the tw o m en. A t 9.29 S c o tt had sim p ly w ritten that R o lan d ‘did not hesitate a m om ent to p lu n ge into the w ate r’ . In the m argin B alla n tyne queried, 〈 H ad he his clothes on or off?〉 Is it a probable th in g that a b o y w d plu nge vo lu n tary in to the w ater w ith his clothes on? w hen there was no especial hurry? t h e re are few b o ld er or b etter sw im m ers than m y se lf, b u t I dou bt this. S c o tt respond ed d rily , Ί have seen it’ ; nevertheless he took the p oint, so that the p assage now reads ‘ did not h esitate a m om ent to strip his w y liecoat, p lu n ge in to the w ate r’ , and so on. H e also, at 1 0 . 1 5 , changed ‘ cassock’ to ‘ u n d er-d ress’ , to confirm R o la n d ’ s now p artia lly -clo thed state. A t 1 1 . 5 - 6 , w hen R o lan d refers to his dead m other, B allan tyn e w rites ‘I forg et w hat H alb ert did w ith poor C a th arin e’ s ch ild ’ . S c o tt does not answ er, presu m ably leaving B allan tyn e to find ou t fo r him self. S c o tt m ade fu rther changes unp rom p ted b y B alla n tyne. H e rem oved padding: ‘ the 〈 m ore〉 im m ediate vicin ity ’ (8 .14 ). H e corrected rep eti­ tion: ‘they 〈 ran〉 ↑ spran g ↓ like yo u n g faw n s’ (8 .4 1). H e altered w o rd order, ch anging ‘I am n ever doom ed’ to 'I am doom ed n ever’ (9.6). H e m ade a reasonable attem pt to correct a tran scrib er’ s error: ‘ere it could be unm oored and 〈 m oved 〉 ↑ got u nd er w ay ↓ ’ ( 10 .5 ; the m an u scrip t in fact reads ‘m an d ’ , w h ich the e e w n restores, n orm alisin g the spellin g as ‘m anned’). H e changed the yo u n g R o la n d ’ s gender from neuter to m asculine: ‘the ch ild . . . opened 〈 its〉 ↑ h i s ↓ e y es’ ( 10 .3 4 ; B allan tyn e subsequently restored consistency b y then correctin g ‘ its’ to ‘ h is’ on tw o fu rther occasions). T h e differences betw een m an uscript and first edition show that sty l­ istic p o lish in g o f this kind occurred th ro u gh ou t the novel. H o w e ve r, not all o f it can be confidently ascribed to S c o tt, fo r there are significant differen ces betw een the corrected p roofs and the first edition w h ich m u st be attrib u ted to B allan tyn e’ s contin u in g revision . In a case referred to above, the rep etition o f ‘ and alas’ , B alla n tyn e w as clearly d issatisfied w ith S c o tt’ s deletion o f the first ‘ alas’ , and so he changed the second ‘ and’ to ‘b u t’ , perhaps w eakening the rh etorical force o f the passage. A t 9 .3 ‘ continu ed she’ was transposed; at 9 .19 ‘ w as’ was changed to ‘ w ere’ ; at 9.26 B allan tyne changed ‘w h ich ’ to ‘ that’ in ord er to avoid rep etition.

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H is correcti o n o f ‘its’ to ‘h is’ has alread y been m entio n e d . I t w ill be clear that w h ile som e o f these changes w ere entirely appropriate, others w ere less so. In addition, the punctuation w as fu rther strengthened: 10 com m as w ere added, w h ile others w ere m oved; 4 exclam ati o n m arks w ere in troduced, rep lacing various less em phatic alternati v e s ; an attem pt w as m ade sy stem atically to capitalise ‘L a d y ’ w hen used to refer to the L a d y o f A ven el. In all, fo r these 10 pages o f the first-ed ition te x t, there are 32 variants betw een the corrected p roofs and the first editi o n . S o m e m ay have been added b y B allan tyn e w hen he copied out the corrections on the p roof; m ost w ere probably m ade w hen he cam e to check the revise. T his in terp retation is confirm ed b y the evidence supplied b y the C a re y and P ark er editions. I t has been know n fo r som e tim e that p re­ p u blicati o n m aterial was used in the preparation o f som e early A m erican ed itions o f S c o tt’ s n o vels.70 C o m p etition in the A m erican m arket was fierce, and in ord er to give them selves a head start, i f on ly o f a few d ays, p u blish ers w ere read y to p ay fo r p re-p u blication cop y o f the final gathe­ rin gs to be sh ipped over the A tlantic . T h e best docum ented arrange­ m ent w as that m ade b y M . C a re y & S o n o f Ph ilad elp hia, w ho regu larly obtained uncorrected second p ro o f cop y, n orm ally from J . O. R o bin son , one o f the partners in C o n stables’ L o n d o n agents, H u rst, R o bin son & C o . T his arrangem ent was clearly in place fo r The A bbot: fo r the section o f the novel from 3 4 8 .19 to the end, C a re y ’ s edition contains 10 0 verbal variants (a figu re w h ich excludes typ ograp h ical errors or variant spell­ in gs p robably d erivin g from the A m erican com positors). M o s t o f these variants are o f the ty p e already discussed: repetitions found in C a re y ’ s edition w ere subsequently corrected (thus at 3 0 8 .15 ‘m ilita ry ’ becom es ‘ w arlik e’ ; at 356 .8 ‘beard ’ becom es ‘brave’ ); redundancy was cut ou t (at 36 7 .4 , ‘ a few gold pieces, (fru it o f the Q ueen’ s liberality,) 〈 w h ich he had about h im ,〉 ’); gram m ar and syn tax w ere ti g h tened (those 〈 w ith 〉 w hom yo u grace ↑ w ith ↓ yo u r p resence’ at 34 8 .34 – 3 5 ); nonsense, w h ich m ay have resu lted from m isread in g o f the m an u scrip t, was corrected (at 349.9– 10 , ‘ “ a cold reception am ongst them w ere an insu lt— and a kind one y e t m ore (considerable) ↑ h u m iliatin g ↓ ” ’ ). T h e on ly m ajor addi­ tion to be m ade to the p roofs at this stage cam e on the final page, w here S c o tt, even b y his standards, had h uddled up the ending w ith excessive haste (e e w n text): S h e returned to h er father ’ s house, a n d ... There occurred no objections to the m atch on the p art o f h er fam ily. t h e y w ere u n ited, and the W h ite L a d y ... w as seen to sport b y h er haunted w ell, w ith a zone o f gold around h er bosom as broad as the b ald ric o f an earl. C le a rly som e acknow ledgem ent o f the b arriers in the w ay o f the m ar­ riage w as felt to be necessary, and the first ed ition is accord in gly m ore expansive.

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C a re y was not alone in obtaining p re-p u b lication cop y o f The A bbot. S . H . P ark er o f B o ston, b y m eans w h ich are as yet unknow n, acquired the revises o f this sam e section o f the n o vel.71 t h e particu lar in terest o f this source is the ligh t it casts on the contin u in g in p u t o f B alla n tyne, at a stage after S c o tt’ s ow n final in terventio n . T h e re are 93 variants b etw een P a rk er’ s edition and the first edition, 20 o f w h ich can be attrib u ted to P ark er’ s com positors. O f the rem aining changes, the m ost strik in g are punctuational: 18 com m as are added, 6 deleted; 4 dashes are rem oved , 2 added; 7 exclam ation m arks replace com m as or fu ll stops, w h ile another replaces a question m ark. M o s t o f these changes, w h ich taken together p roduce a significantly m ore h eavily pu nctuated tex t, m ay be taken as m erely a fu rther stage in the im plem entation o f the ‘ standing o rd ers’ . B u t there are also 5 verbal changes, none o f w h ich is clearly ju stified. I t could be argued that tex tual deterioration (so ob viou s in the later h istory o f the novel) began even b efo re publicatio n .72 O ne fu rther category o f change, w h ich is evidenced b y the d ifferen ces betw een m an u scrip t and first edition, m u st be m entioned. In re ferrin g back to his sources, S c o tt w ou ld occasionally com e across h istorical inaccuracies, w h ich he corrected w h ere possible. S o m etim es this w as straigh tforw ard: for instance in the m an u scrip t R u th ven is described as travellin g to L o c h le ven ‘ from P e rth ’ ( 18 6 .3 4 ; f· 7 2 ); S c o tt m u st then have d iscovered that R u thven w as in fact in E d in b u rgh around this tim e, for the reference to P e rth w as deleted from the proof, and a passage was in troduced ( 17 9 .2 3 – 24) w h ich w as in tended to im p ly that R u th ven had in fact set out from E d in b u rg h . A second exam ple o f such revisio n is m ore com plex. S c o tt, follow in g a m islead in g passage in W illiam R o b e rt­ son’ s H istory o f S co tla n d ,73 origin ally in troduced G e o rg e D o u g la s as the son o f L a d y L o ch le ven (w hich he was) and gave h er as a husband S ir W illiam D o u glas (first edition, 2 .1 7 6 . 1 ; e e w n 18 5 .3 8 – 39). S h e w as in fact a w id ow (as at 3 2 3 .2 8 ), and S ir W illiam w as her son, G e o rg e ’ s elder b ro ther .74 In try in g to solve one inaccu racy (S ir W illiam ’ s relationship w ith his m other) he cam e up against another (he had alread y m ade G e o rg e S ir W illiam ’ s son), w h ich he tried to reconcile b y m ak in g G e o rg e the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n ’ s grandson. P ro o f corrections w ere m ade at 1 9 7 .1 6 – 1 7 , 2 10 .2 4 and 2 1 1 . 1 8 in ord er to establish this rela­ tionship; not until 2 1 2 .3 5 does the m an u scrip t, in a verso in sertion, refer to G e o rg e as ‘ the gran dson o f the L a d y L o c h le v e n ’ . H o w e v e r, for the rest o f the novel S c o tt still p eriod ically referred to a m oth er-son relatio n sh ip.75 In ad dition S c o tt could n ot overcom e a problem inh erent in the w ay his novels w ere com posed and p repared fo r pu blication: becau se his w ork w as being p rin ted at the sam e tim e as it was b ein g penned, at any given tim e on ly tw o relativ e ly sm all sections o f the novel cou ld b e act­ iv ely w orked on— that p ortion o f the m an u scrip t w h ich S c o tt had n ot ye t sent to the transcriber, and that section o f proofs w h ich he happened to

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have on hand fo r correction. S o fast was the prod u ction process that these tw o ‘ activ e ’ sections seem to have been no m ore than 50– 70 pages o f first edition text apart (20– 30 pages o f e e w n text). T his can have m eant the p assing o f at m ost a w eek betw een S co tt p enning a passage, and its arrival in the form o f p ro o fs.76 t hus after he realised his error w ith G e o rg e D o u glas (apparently w hen he m ade the m an u script inser­ tion at 2 1 2 .3 5 ) , he w as able to correct the proofs for 19 7 .16 – 17 . H o w ­ ever, the proofs fo r 18 5 .3 8 – 39 had p resu m ably been already corrected and returned to the p rin ter, and the irreconcilable narrative inconsist­ ency w h ich they create w as d u ly en shrined in the first editio n . T h e handling o f D ry fe sd a le reveals a sim ilar pattern o f w ork. A s stated above, S c o tt’ s in terest in him w as aroused as he w ro te V o lu m e 3, C h . 6 (beginning at 297). H e w as able to m ake fu rther changes to those p ro o f sheets w hich he had on hand; thus p assag es w hich foreshadow his attem pt at assassination, and enhance his sinister character, w ere added to the proofs at 2 7 8 .2 1 – 2 3 , 2 8 2 .3 – 4 and 286.6– 7. B u t thе text o f earlier p arts o f the novel had already been finalised, and as a resu lt the ill-n atured b u t otherw ise unrem arkable D ry fe sd a le o f V o lu m e 2, w ith his endorsem ent o f P re sb y terian form s o f w orship, su rvived in tact. 3 . T H E L A T E R E D IT IO N S

T h e stem m a, or fam ily tree o f editions, is given below . I t show s that the line o f developm ent in the p rin ted text o f The A bbot runs from the first edition, through the octavo (8vo) H istoric a l Rom ances, w h ich w as used as the basis fo r the In terleaved S e t revised b y S c o tt in 18 2 9 -3 0 , to the M agn u m O pus editio n . T h e duodecim o ( 1 2m o) and 18 m o H istoric a l Rom ances are textual dead ends. A lthough a second edition, or ‘ ex ten­ sion’ , o f 2000 copies w as contem plated, in the event sales o f the first edition did not ju stify its p rod u ctio n .77

H istoric a l R o m a n c e s. F o r an account o f the prod u ction o f the three editions o f H istoric a l Rom ances (com prising Ivan h oe, t h e M onastery, The A bbot and K en ilw o rth) the reader is referred to J . H . A lex a n d e r’ s edition o f K en ilw o rth , e e w n 1 1 , 409– 1 2 . T h e first o f these editions, the 8vo, appeared in Ju n e 18 2 2 , p riced at £ 3 12 s. for its six volum es. D iffic u lties in prod u ction m eant that V b lu m es 5 and 6 (com prising T h e A b bo t, 2 39 .5 t o the end, and the w hole o f K en ilw o rth) w ere not p rin ted b y

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B allan tynes. In stead V o lu m e 5 bears the im p rin t o f W alker & G r e ig o f E d in b u rg h . T h e re are in all som e 930 variants b etw een the first and 8vo editions, the d en sity increasing as the novel p rogresses. O f these 78 are verbal, and som e 19 0 are attem pts to m od ernise or standardise spellin g; the rem ainder o f the changes are to p u n ctuation and capitalisation. t h e re are m arked differen ces in the w orkm anship o f the tw o p rin tin g houses in v o lve d . T h e section p rin ted b y W alker & G r e ig (app ro xim ­ ately the final th ird) contains on ly 4 o f the 78 verbal varian ts. I t is, h ow ever, h eavily revised in n o n-verb al m atters, w ith large n u m bers o f com m as added, deleted, or changed to sem icolons, and m an y in itial letters raised or lo w ered . T h e tendency is tow ard s a m ore gram m atical sty le o f pu nctuatio n . T h e B alla n tyn e section, on the other hand, is m arked ly less sy stem atic in its treatm en t o f p u n ctuation, and (as is typ ical o f w ork done b y B allan tyn e & C o .) in co rp orates large num ­ bers o f verbal variants, m ost o f w h ich can be classed as d eterio rative. So m e are clear erro rs, creatin g nonsense (at 1 0 7 .1 9 ‘ d ism ayed ’ becam e ‘ d ism issed ’); others are sim ple om issions (at 2 3 0 .3 0 the adjectiv e in ‘ a sligh t sm ile’ was lost); others are attem p ts to tid y up or m od ern ise (at 14 9 .3 2 th e archaic ‘ c lip ’ w as changed to ‘ clasp ’ ). N o n e o f the changes dem onstrates authorial in volvem en t . T h e 1 2m o edition o f the H istoric a l Rom ances appeared in eigh t vo l­ um es in O ctober 1 8 2 2 . The Abbot occupies V o lu m es 5 and 6. V o lu m e 5 carries no im p rin t, w h ile V o lu m e 6 (corresp on din g to 18 5 .2 6 to the end) carries that o f Ja m e s B allan tyn e & C o . T h e re are som e 10 5 0 variants b etw een the first and 1 2m o editions, 67 o f w h ich are verbal (46 o f them in the volu m e p rin ted b y B alla n tynes). M o s t o f these are either errors (for in stance an entire line is om itted at 2 8 .3 6 – 37 ) or trivial attem p ts at tidin ess; som e, though, reveal c ritical alertness: ‘ G o d had blessed ’ (for ‘ G o d blessed ’ ) at 19 9 .9 restores a lost m an u scrip t read ing, as does ‘ p rin cess’ fo r ‘ p rin ces’ at 2 3 2 .2 3 ; ‘ d re w ’ fo r ‘ app roach ed ’ at 2 4 0 .1 1 neatly avoids rep etition; ‘ u nq u estio n ab ly’ fo r ‘ u n q u estionable’ at 3 5 7 .8 restores the read ing found in C a re y ’ s ed ition. N o n e o f these, how ever, is beyond the capacity o f an in telligen t com po sitor. O f other changes, som e 15 0 are attem p ts to norm alise sp ellin g (such as ‘ ch oose’ fo r ‘ ch u se’ , ‘ gro u p ’ fo r ‘ gro u p e’ ); about 2 30 com m as are added and 85 deleted; there is considerable ad ju stm en t o f h yph en s, dashes w hen com bined w ith speech m arks, and capitals. T h e m iniatu re form at i8 m o edition w as p u blish ed in 18 2 4 , in six volu m es, o f w h ich T h e A bbot takes up V o lu m e 4 and the first p art o f V o lu m e 5. B o th these volu m es w ere p rin ted b y J . M o y e s o f G re v ille S treet, L o n d o n . T h e re are o f the ord er o f 2 30 0 varian ts fro m the first edition. A lm o st h a lf o f these are accounted fo r b y the sy stem atic low er­ in g o f u p p er case in itial lette rs. T h e re are also o v er 300 variants in sp ellin g. T h e re are som e 40 verbal variants, 18 o f w h ich (all in d ivid u a lly trivial) coincide w ith variants found in that p art o f the 8vo ed ition

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p rin ted b y B alla n tyne. O ther discrepancies sh ow that the 1 8m o w as set from the first edition, not the 8vo, so the sim ilarities su ggest that the sam e co p y o f the first edition w as used both tim es, and that B allan tyn e ’ s p rin ter, w h en w o rk in g on the 8vo, had entered som e o f his changes on h is c o p y -text. N o n e o f the variants in the 1 8m o cou ld be called creative, though som e are corrections (for exam ple ‘ w as’ fo r ‘ w ere’ at 12 3 .3 0 ). T h e I n te rle a v e d S e t a n d th e M a g n u m . T h e idea fo r a collected edi­ tion o f S c o tt’ s n o vels, to be accom panied b y S c o tt’ s ‘ illu stratio n s’ (that is, annotations), w as first p u t forw ard b y A rch ib a ld C o n stable in M a rc h 1 8 2 3 .78 A lth ough S c o tt in itially rejected the idea, b y the end o f 18 2 5 he had agreed, and noted as m uch in his Jo u rn a l (25 D ecem b er 18 2 5 ). t h e se plans w ere in terru p ted b y the financial crash o f Ja n u a ry 18 2 6 , b u t it is conceivable that C o n stable had in the m ean tim e prepared the In ter­ leaved S e t, u sin g in the case o f T he A bbot a co p y o f the 8vo H istoric a l Rom ances.79 t h e schem e w as resu rrected in late 18 2 7 b y C o n stable’ s successor R o b e rt C a d ell, and becam e feasible after C ad ell and S c o tt (w ith the app ro val o f his tru stees) w ere able to purch ase the outstanding co p yrigh ts o f the n ovels on 19 D e cem b e r.80 S c o tt’ s tru stees gave their final app roval to the schem e (and the in itial outlay it entailed) in Ju n e 18 2 8 . S c o tt w orked system atically th rough the novels; he had finished w ith T he A bbot b y 26 Ja n u a ry 18 3 0 , w hen C a d ell in his d iary recorded receivin g notes and in tro d u ctions fo r both The A bbot and K en ilw o rth .8l C ad ell ‘re vise d ’ the novel (in other w o rd s, copied out S c o tt’ s changes, and p robably m ade fu rther changes o f his ow n) b etw een 8 M a rc h and 26 A p ril, w h en he began w ork on K en ilw o rth .82 t h e tw o volu m es (20 and 2 1 ) w ere typ eset and stereoty p e plates prod u ced in the sum m er o f 1 830, and they w ere p u blish ed on 1 Ja n u a ry and 1 F e b ru a ry 1 8 3 1 .83 The A bbot in the In terleaved S e t in co rp orates an in tro d u ction and 2 2 2 alterations to the novel its e lf. T h e m ost im p o rtant, as far as the im pact on the reader goes, are the 39 notes ad d ed . T h e y va ry in size from glosses o f single w ord s (for exam ple ‘flaunes’ ), to len gth y com m entaries on ‘R o b in H o o d and L i ttl e Joh n’ and ‘T h e B a ttle o f L a n g s id e ’ . A note on the ‘B u ria l o f The A bbot’ s H ea rt in the A ve n e l A is le ’ also allow ed S c o tt to elaborate fu rther the fictitious account o f the n o vel’ s genesis contained in the in tro d u ction. O f the 18 3 changes m ade to the tex t o f the novel itself, the large m ajority are verbal. O n som e 16 7 occasions the existin g text is replaced, corrected, o r n ew te x t is ad ded . T h e final total is reached w ith 9 dele­ tions, and 7 changes to pu nctuation or form at . In ad dition, there are 5 occasions on w h ich S c o tt has deleted an alteration, after realisin g he has m ade an error. T h e verbal changes to the novel va ry in ch aracter. O n a num ber o f occasions S c o tt corrected errors. S o m e tim es this am ounted to a belated p roo f-read in g, in w h ich m istakes m ade b y the origin al tran scrib er or

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com po sitor o f the first edition w ere picked up: thus ‘crash a pot’ becam e ‘cru sh a p ot’ ( 1 4 7 .1 4 ) , ‘d rin k ’ becam e ‘ d in k ’ ( 1 8 3 .4 1) , ‘ stepped . . . in to’ becam e ‘ stopped . . . in ’ (19 0 .3 5 ), ‘knapsack’ becam e ‘ knap scap ’ ( 3 3 8 .4 1) . In all these cases m an u scrip t read ings w ere restored. A t other tim es, S c o tt noticed errors he h im se lf had m ade in the m an u scrip t: thus in em en d in g the fo llow in g passage he corrected the im pressio n that the bad ge o f the A ven el fam ily (the h olly-bran ch ) belonged to G le n d in ­ ning: ‘ the lad y recognised the lo fty p lu m e, bearin g the m in gled colou rs o f h er ow n liveries, ↑ and those o f G le n d o n w y n e ↓ blend ed w ith the h o lly -b ra n ch ’ (2 1.2 4 ). In the n ext exam ple (2 2 4 .2 5 – 26), w h ile S c o tt corrects a nonsensical repetition created in the 8vo te x t, he fails to h it on the origin al reading: the first edition’ s ‘ you m u st w ill to rem ain till m y uncle w ills to d ism iss yo u ’ , had becom e ‘ yo u m u st w ill to rem ain till m y u ncle rem ains to d ism iss y o u ’ . S c o tt corrects to ‘ yo u m u st w ill to rem ain till m y u ncle consents to d ism iss y o u ’ , w h ich is an im p rovem en t, b u t fails to restore the rh etorical em phasis o f the original version. S u c h corrections reveal S c o tt’ s critical alertness. M o re n u m erou s, and m ore varied in character, are the ad ditions and sty lis tic changes m ade to the tex t. M a n y o f th ese are m ore or less m echanical: rep etition is rem oved , sentence stru ctu re p olish ed , speech attrib u tion in serted (th ou gh th is last category is rare in The A bbot, occu rrin g on ly 4 tim es). O ther changes dem onstrate m ore im aginative engagem ent, attem p ts to d evelop an idea, or in troduce a new on e. T hus the sold ier in H o ly ro o d is now tin ged w ith cow ardice: ‘ w ith fro w n in g b ro w ↑ loo kin g a habitual defiance o f danger w h ich perhaps w as not alw ays m ade good ↓ ’

(146.13). S o m e o f S c o tt’ s in terleaved revision s reveal the p roblem s inh erent in an attem p t to re visit the w ork so lon g after its com positio n . T h e m anu­ scrip t its e lf contains passages th row n in to confu sion b y S c o tt’ s attem p ts to m ake changes, perhaps at a d istance o f less than tw en ty -fo u r h ours from th e in itial act o f com position— a d istance great enough, h ow ever, fo r h im to have lost the thread o f contin u ity w h ich held together the first version . S u c h problem s w ere in evitab ly w o rse w hen the d istance was one o f alm ost ten years. A d m itted ly the revision s attem p ted in the In ter­ leaved S e t are ligh t, so the occasional im aginativ e discontin u ities are n ot glarin g; they are, h ow ever, su fficient to cast d ou b t on the notion o f an auth o r’ s final ‘im provem ents’ to a tex t . I t is not that S c o tt’ s im agination had ceased to be active; it is ju st that it w as no lon ger in step w ith the im agin ativ e activ ity w h ich prod u ced the novel in the first p la ce . T hus in the fo llo w in g exam ple S co tt entertain in gly expand s a m etaph or w h ich in the o rigin al version was undeveloped: ‘ the consciousness that she w as tread in g up on delicate ground at once occu rred to her, and ind u ced h er to take the m o st natural, b u t the w o rst o f all courses on such occasions, ↑ w h ether in conversation or in an actual b o g, nam ely ↓ that o f stop p in g su d d en ly sh ort in the illu stration w h ich she had com m enced ’ (28 .27).

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T h e p roblem here, o f course, is that in breath in g life in to the m etaphor, S c o tt has failed to link it coherently to the conclusion o f the sentence. A sim ilar problem arises in a later conversation betw een R o lan d and L in d e s a y ( 1 8 s .1 2): “ thou w ilt have little enow to do w ith h orse〈 s〉 ↑ saddle or b rid le ↓ fo r ten years to com e, ↑ — T hou m ayst take the halter an thou w ilt — it m ay stand thee in a tu rn .” ↓ “ I f I th ought so ,” said R o lan d — H e re R o la n d ’ s answ er links to the first version (‘ ten years’ ), not the second (L in d e sa y ’ s grim joke about the halter). A n o ther passage show s that S c o tt had not ye t got over his confusion about the relationship betw een G e o rg e D o u glas and L a d y L o ch le ven : ‘ “ I a m ... disin h erited b y m y 〈 father 〉 ↑ m other ↓ , and laid u nder 〈 h is〉 ↑ her ↓ m alediction” ’ (3 4 8 .38 ).84 O nce or tw ice S c o tt’ s revisions are sim p ly redundant: ‘ “ a learned p rofesso r at ↑ the fam ous U n iv e rsity o f ↓ L e y d e n ” ’ , says W ard en (38 .34 ). A s m entioned above, C ad ell transcribed the In terleaved S e t em enda­ tions and ad ditions befo re p assing them on to the p rin ter. H o w e ve r, the am b igu ou s w ord he h im se lf uses in his d iary, ‘ revised ’ , indicates the latitu d e h e allow ed h im se lf in his task o f transcrip tion. W h ile the M a g ­ nu m incorp orates all b u t a handfu l o f the em endations m ade b y S co tt in the In terleaved S e t, in exclu d in g or changing eigh t o f them C ad ell d em onstrated his readiness not on ly to correct errors, b u t also to im pose h is ow n literary ju dgm en ts on S c o tt’ s w o rk . T hus the follow in g barbed com m ent on the m otives o f the P ro testant ru lers was excluded: ‘ they cannot see that w e are w o rkin g the w ork o f reform ation in destro y in g the palaces o f zealous P ro testants ↑ — that is their ow n ↓ ’ ( 149. 19 ). A n ­ other som ew hat id io syn cratic in sertion, ‘ ↑ d isrespective ↓ in su lt and abu se’ (28 5.7 ), also fails t0 appear in the M agn u m . C a d e ll’ s readiness to ‘ im p ro ve’ the tex t is revealed b y the verbal d ifferen ces, som e 5 3 5 in nu m ber, b etw een the In terleaved S e t and the M a g n u m . I t is possible that S c o tt exam ined the p roofs, and therefore that som e o f these changes are h is, b u t the greater part o f them are certain ly C a d ell’ s. W h ile there are corrections o f repetition or erro r, o f the kind the in term ediaries had alw ays u nd ertaken, the general tend­ en cy o f C a d ell’ s revision is tow ard s a tid ier, m ore ‘correct’ and often stu ffier sty le . T hus ‘ had prod u ced no ch ild ren ’ becom es ‘ had not been blessed w ith ch ild ren ’ (6.2); ‘ the reader k now s’ becom es ‘ the reader is alread y aw are’ (6.20); ‘ get inh abitants’ becom es ‘ p rocure inhabitants’ ( 6 .3 1 ) . T h e se exam ples are taken from ju st one page o f e e w n tex t, b u t su ch changes are com m on throu gh ou t . W h en the various stages o f transm ission are added up, and the occa­ sions on w h ich errors in the 8vo H istoric a l Rom ances are reversed are taken in to account, there are about 350 0 variants from first edition to M a g n u m . T h e largest p o rtion o f this total is m ade up o f som e 2700

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changes betw een In terleaved S e t and M a g n u m . A p a rt from the verbal changes already d escribed , there w as e x ten sive revision o f the p u n ctu ­ ation. S om e 36 5 com m as are added, about 1 5 5 are rem oved ; m an y com m as and fu ll stop s are in tensified to exclam ation m arks. T h e ou t­ com e is a far m ore h eavily and lo g ically p u n ctuated text than at an y previou s stage. 4 . T H E P R E SE N T T EXT

T h e re are o n ly tw o versions o f T h e A bbot w h ich could be considered authorial: the first edition and the M a g n u m O pu s ed itio n . T his ed itor ’ s analysis o f these and other editions has em phatically endorsed the gen­ eral p olicy o f the E d in b u rg h E d ition o f the W averley N o v e ls, w h ich is that the first edition, the earliest fu lly -a rticulated versio n o f the n o vel, should be adopted as base-tex t fo r a new ed ition. C o u n tless read ers have read S co tt in the M a g n u m e d ition, o r in the inn um erable V ic torian and tw entieth -cen tu ry ed itions w h ich w ere based on it : the M a g n u m ’ s place in literary h istory cannot be challenged. B u t textu ally it is c o rru p t, incorporatin g m an y layers o f fallib le in terven tion, w h ich o ften con fu se or replace w hat S c o tt actu a lly w ro te. In the case o f T h e A b bo t, the M a g n u m incorporates R o b e rt C a d ell’ s aston ish in g ly free revisio n o f the In terleaved S e t; that in tu rn in co rp orates revision s b y S c o tt w h ich sh ow him not to have been im aginativ e ly in step w ith the w o rd s he had w ritten ten years earlier— in m an y cases they are inh arm on iou sly fitted in to the tex t, or are attem p ts to solve n o n -existent problem s. B u t the te x t on w h ich he w as w o rkin g w as its e lf co rru p t, incorporatin g alm ost a th ou ­ sand variants w hen com pared w ith the first edition; and the first e d itio n , w h ile it is an im p ressive p u b lish in g achievem ent, incorp orates m an y m istaken or ind efensible alterations o f the m an u scrip t tex t . A s D a vid H e w itt has su ggested, it could w ell be argued ‘that the B allan tyn e business w as too com m itted to p rod u ction to care abou t accu racy’ .85 I t certain ly und ervalu ed the im po rtance o f fid elity to the auth o r’ s w o rd s. T h e d ifferen ces b etw een the final section o f S . H . P a rk er’ s edition (the revise) and the first edition, fo r in stance, are strik in g ly sim ilar in freq u en cy and ty p e to those w h ich occu r th ro u gh o u t betw een the first ed ition and the 8vo H istoric a l Rom ances. I t is as i f B alla n tyn e and h is em p loyees cou ld not resist the tem p tation to m ed d le, w ith the resu lt that in their h ands the te x t is alw ays flu id , n ever som e­ th in g constant. W h y , fo r exam ple, should ‘ unquestio n ab ly’ (P a rk er’ s edition) h ave been changed to ‘ un q u estionable’ (3 5 7 .8 ; first editio n , 3 .3 14 .2 4 )? W h y should ‘m en m u ch m o re’ (36 0 .39 ; fou nd in C a re y ’ s ed ition, and p rob ab ly the m an u scrip t reading) have been ch anged suc­ cessively to ‘m u ch m ore’ (P arker), ‘m u ch m uch m ore’ (first ed ition), and finally ‘m uch, m u ch m ore’ (8vo)? t h e im pact o f the w orkm an­ ship o f B allan ty n e ’ s p ress is so con sistently deteriorativ e that the first edition its e lf appears m ore like a snapsh ot w h ich freezes one m om en t

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in a process o f contin u o u s flu x, than a coherently thought-o u t achieve­ m en t. t h us one is forced to conclude not on ly that the first editi o n should b e taken as base-text, b u t that it too m ust be handled w ith alert scepti ­ cism , and w ith an aw areness that on ly the m an u script is fu lly ‘ auth oritat­ iv e ’ , in that one can be sure its readings d erive from S c o tt. A h ybrid b etw een M a g n u m and first editi o n is not really d efensible. I t w ould in e ffect m ean o ften balan cin g the m an uscript against the M a gn u m , and there are sim p ly too m an y in tervening layers fo r this to be possible. W h ile one m ay regret the loss o f certain M a g n u m readings (especially those w h ich avoid glarin g repeti tion or sty listi c stum bles), it w ould be im practicable to d evise ru les on w hen and how they should b e included. t h e present editi o n inclu d es M agn u m readings o n ly w h ere the first ed iti o n has been ju d g ed m an ifestly con fu sin g o r erroneous. t h e first edition has been carefu lly scru tin is e d . A ll its tens o f thou­ sands o f variants fro m the e x tant porti o n o f m an u scrip t have been w eigh ed u p ; w h ere the m an u scrip t is m issing, the first editi o n has not o n ly been appraised in isolati o n , b u t has been com pared w ith the other ed itio n s p u blish ed in S c o tt’ s life tim e (including, fo r the final section, the C a re y and P a rk er editio n s ) , so as to b rin g to ligh t an y tex tual prob­ le m s. T h e need to analyse d ifferences betw een first editi o n and m anu­ sc rip t tex ts o f S c o tt is v iv id ly confirm ed b y the exam ple o f R edgauntlet, fo r w h ich a fu ll set o f p ro o fs, w ith S co tt’ s and B allan tyn e ’ s revisions, su rvives. H a v in g exam ined th is excep tio n a lly com plete array o f evid ­ ence, the editors o f the e e w n R edgauntlet have been able to discover and correct o f the ord er o f 800 verbal alteratio n s,86 m ade either through e rro r o r th rou gh m isap p lication o f the standing o rd ers. T his figure tallies closely w ith the nu m ber o f verbal em endations m ade to the cur­ ren t ed iti o n o f The A bbot, w h ere on ly one gatherin g o f p roo fs su rvives. B u t even that one gatherin g (though the opening o f the novel, w here S c o tt’ s h andw riti n g is at its largest and m ost legible, and w here the p rod u cti o n p rocess w as at its least pressurised) reveals that 1 1 verbal variants, not in accord w ith standing ord ers, appeared betw een the m an u scrip t and the p roof: ‘ S o u thern ’ w as m isread as ‘ S o u th ro n ’ (6.8), ‘ un less’ w as changed to ‘ excep t’ ( 1 1 . 1 5 ) , ‘ had’ w as changed to ‘ w ou ld h ave’ ( 13 .2 ) , the rh etorical repeti ti o n o f ‘ it sh all’ (19 .2 0 ) was rem oved , and so o n . T w ice these errors w ere corrected b y S c o tt in a w ay w h ich restored the m an u scrip t reading, and on tw o other occasions the p ro o f correcti o n m ade a retu rn to the m an uscript unn ecessary. T h e n 10 n ew verbal variants w ere in troduced, p robably b y B allan tyn e, to the p ro o f as it had been corrected b y S co tt: 5 o f these w ere le gitim ate execu ti o n s o f stan d in g ord ers, b u t 5 w ere not, and have led to em enda­ ti o n s in this editi o n . T h is m akes a total o f 12 verbal em endati o n s fo r one gatherin g, w h ere read ings dem onstrab ly approved b y S c o tt have been restored. S u ch a figu re p rovid es reassurance that the em endati o n s m ade

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to the rest o f the e e w n edition o f T h e A b bo t w ill p redom inantly be corrections o f errors m ade b y the in term ed iaries. W h ile som e changes in troduced b y S c o tt to the proofs w ill no d ou b t have been in ad vertently reversed , taken as a w hole the tex t is as close as it is now p ossible to get to that w h ich S c o tt w ould have w ished to appear in S e p tem ber 1 820. V e r b a l E m e n d a tions. S om e 900 verbal em endations h ave been m ade fo r th is editio n . T h e y fall ro u gh ly in to five categories, th ou gh in m any cases the d ivid in g lines betw een the categories are app ro xim ate. In ap p raisin g the figures, readers should bear in m in d that about one fifth o f the m an u scrip t is m issing. 1 ] W rong omissions an d insertions. T h e in term ed iaries om itted m anu­ scrip t m aterial som e 14 5 tim es, and on som e 15 0 occasions inserted m aterial either inadvertently , or in needless attem p ts at clarification. S o m e tim es the effect is sligh t : for instance, th e titles ‘ L a d y L o c h le v e n ’ and ‘L a d y o f L o c h le v en ’ are m ore or less in terchangeable in the m anu­ scrip t; equ ally, the first editio n ’ s departu res fro m S c o tt’ s form s are capriciou s, and have been em ended. O ther o m issio n s are m ore signific­ ant . T h e process o f c op yin g in evitably generated e rro rs, the eye o f the co p yist slip p in g over w o rd s or lines; o ften th is w as becau se he either overlooked or w as d istracted b y a verso in sertion. A t 2 0 2 .2 0 a tongu ein-ch eek footnote, b y the ‘A n tiquarian S o c ie ty o f K e n n a q u h air’ , was m issed , and now appears fo r the first tim e. In ad dition pages w ere som etim es transcribed and p u t aw ay, not to be looked at again, before the n ext packet o f m an u scrip t arrived fro m S c o tt. W h en this happened verso in sertions w ere necessarily lost . E x a m p le s now restored inclu d e ‘ am ongst ↑ a crow d consistin g ch iefly o f ↓ the in h abitants o f the H ali­ d om e’ (10 8 .3 6 ), and the d etail o f the statesm an ’ s ‘ lon g beard ’ at 14 6 .10 . A n o ther ty p e o f m istake generated b y verso te x t w as the tend ency o f the tran scrib er’ s eye, w hen retu rn in g to the recto , to skip a line. A t 1 1 3 -3 3 _”3б a sentence o f tw o lines was m issed in this w ay: ‘t h e revel­ lers resu m ed . . . could have d esired ’ . A t 3 2 7 . 1 2 - 1 3 M a r y ’ s revealin g asid e to C a therine was om itted because th e tran scrib er’ s eye ju m ped fro m the deleted w ord ‘L o v e ’ (w hich the verso in sertion had replaced) to the rep etition o f the w o rd a line low er dow n : ‘ “ A h , C a therin e, tim e w ill teach thee, I fear, h ow little tru th there is in that sam e C h ro n icle o f L o v e .” ’ O ther su bstantial om issions o f m an u scrip t tex t in clu d ed p sych olo­ gically revealin g or characteristic com m ents b y b o th L in d e s a y ( 1 9 4 .2 1 – 2 2) and L a d y L o c h le ven (2 9 9 .4 3 -3 0 0 .1). In d ivid u a l w o rd s w ere also lost : in the present edition a h orse’ s tail is not cu t ‘ so ↑ square ↓ as’ R o lan d likes ( 3 4 .1 1 ) ; the brid gew ard is q u eru lou s w ith ‘ ↑ h abitual ↓ ill-h u m o u r’ (12 9 .2 8 ); M o ra y has a ‘ keen ↑ falcon ↓ e y e ’ (17 6 .4 ); W in gate is condem ned as ‘a ↑ m ere ↓ t im e -se rv e r’ ( 5 2 .1 9 - 2 0 ) . T h e

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last exam ple dem onstrates how fu rther changes could be generated b y tran scrib er’ s error: on reading the proofs either S co tt or B allan ­ tyn e clearly felt that ‘ little better than a tim e -serve r’ was a weak w ay to end a chapter, and so inserted a phrase to strengthen the sentence: ‘ little, i f any th ing, better than a tim e-server’ . T h e m an u script text has now been restored. W h ile om issions w ere o ften accidental, insertions w ere m ore likely to be deliberate attem p ts to fill perceived lacunae in the text. S u ch tinker­ in g w as p articu la rly com m on in The A bbot, frequ ently occu rring w here there w as no lacuna to fill. T hus w hen W in gate reflects, ‘ for ton g u e . . . breaketh b ones’ ( 3 5 .1 5 ) , he repeats a com m on form o f the p roverb; the in sertion o f the definite article before ‘ ton gu e’ w as a m istake. W hen H alb e rt refers to ‘ the C o n gregation’ (12 0 .4 3 ) the capital show s that he is u sin g the p rop er nam e given to the P ro testant p arty o f the 1 560s; there w as no need to change this to ‘ the reform ed congregatio n ’ . D ry fe sd a le ’s claim that D o u glas has been ‘ carried b y ’ M a ry ( 3 1 9 .1 2 ) is a legitim ate six teenth -cen tu ry idiom (see O E D , ca rry, verb, 20), and does not requ ire the first edition’ s insertion o f ‘ aw ay’ . W h ere w o rd s w h ich are deleted in the m an u scrip t appear in the first ed ition, the m istake is lik ely to have been m ade b y the tran scrib er. T hus the rhetorical balance o f ‘ b y te r r o r ... b y jo y ’ ( 10 .4 3 – 1 1 . 1 ) is lost b y the restoration o f a deleted ‘the’ before ‘te rro r’ . A phrase w hich is ponder­ ous how ever one looks at it, the ‘bunch o f the im plem ents o f their restraint’ ( 3 3 7 .3 6 – 37 ), is not im proved b y the in sertion o f the deleted w ord ‘iro n ’ : ‘b u nch o f iron, the im plem ents o f their restraint’ . A n o ther tend ency o f the in term ediaries w as to add w o rd s or phrases at the ends o f speeches; in p articu lar they liked to em phasise interru p tions b y in tro d u cin g the first w ord o f a new clause: thus at 3 1 6 . 1 7 the insertion o f ‘ since’ at the end o f D ry fe sd a le ’ s ram bling reflections on predestina­ tion in ad vertently im plies a logical stru ctu re q u ite alien to his thinking, as w ell as in tro d u cin g a clash w ith L a d y L o c h le v e n ’ s first w ord, ‘ S ilen ce ’ . S o m e tim es passages w ere in troduced to the p ro o f because the punctuation had been m isin terp reted. A t 4 9 .2 2 - 2 3 it is clear from the m an u scrip t that L ilia s in terru p ts W in gate, bu t because the interru p tion w as m issed his sentence was thought to be incom plete, and a redundant clause was in trod u ced to finish it : ‘ “ another favou rite to chuse for h erself, and be assured she w ill not lack one” ’ (m anuscript, ‘her­ s e l f " — — ’ ). 2] M isreadings. T h e se abound in the p ublished te x t o f The Abbot, and som e 280 m isread ings have been corrected in the present edition. S e v ­ eral o f S c o tt’ s letters look alike, and there is confusion through out the n o velb etw e e n ‘ these’ / ‘ those’ , ‘ w h ere’ / ‘w h en’ , ‘ fu rther ’ / ‘ farther ’ , ‘ the’ / ‘ h er’ / ‘h is’ , ‘ o n ’ / ‘in ’ . A lm o st as com m on is the m isread ing (in this case m erely careless) o f plu ral fo r singu lar, or vice versa. In the space o f 25 pages o f V o lu m e 1 o f the first edition, w e have (m anuscript reading first,

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m isread ing second): ‘ exercises’ / ‘ exercise’ (29.40); ‘thou gh ts' / ‘ th ou gh t’ ( 3 1 .1 8 ) ; ‘ corn ers’ / ‘corn er’ (35.2 9 ); ‘m isdem eanou rs’ / ‘m isd em ean o u r’ ( 3 6 .1) ; ‘ h u m o u rs’ / ‘ h u m o u r’ ( 3 7 .13 ) . O ccasionally such slip s w reck the sense o f a passage, as w hen C a therine is m ade to speak o f h er m other ’ s ‘h igh sp irit’ , rather than her ‘ high sp irits’ (2 15 .3 0 ) . M o re glarin g m isreadings o f in d ivid u al w o rd s have been revealed . In the present edition the Ph arisee’ s ‘ heart’ , not his ‘head’ , is as h igh as the top o f the t em p le ( 4 1 .4 1) ; The Abbot o f U n reaso n ’ s paun ch is ‘ facti­ tio u s’ , not ‘fictitio u s’ ( 1 1 3 .7 ) ; M a ry , in one o f the rh etorical clim axes o f the n ovel, refers to ‘ tw o sligh t and unsolid p led ges’ , not ‘ too sligh t . . . pled ges’ (20 4 .23); the stricken jester reels from the ‘ fair d o n o r’ , not fro m the ‘ pardon er’ ( 2 5 2 .2 1) ; m arty rs are greeted w ith ‘ p alm and son g’ , not the tautologou s ‘ p salm and son g’ (26 2 .39 ); R o la n d ’ s head stands ‘ seem ly’ rather than ‘ secu rely’ on h is sh ou ld ers (2 8 7 .19 ), and he enthu­ siastically ad dresses his m istress as ‘ D iv in e st’ , not ‘D e a re st’ C a th erine ( 2 9 0 .1) . T h e se exam ples show h ow in his m isread in g o f the m an u scrip t the tran scrib er alm ost in variably fell back on w eaker, m ore con ven tional (and occasionally nonsensical) alternatives. W h ile the slip s described above prod u ced at least su perficially p lau s­ ible read ings, others created p roblem s w h ich w ere noticed and cor­ rected w h en the proofs w ere checked. In such cases tw o au th o rially app ro ved readings have to be set against each other, b u t i f it can be p lau sib ly argued that the second o f these w as a response to e rro r in tran scrip tion, the m an uscript read in g is given p rio rity .87 T h us at 2 1 . 2 2 - 2 5 H alb e rt is described in the m an u scrip t as m o vin g ‘ slo w ly along’ , w ith a ‘ steady dem eanour’ . In the first edition this w as changed to ‘ stead ily along’ and ‘ dignified d em ean our’ . T h e lik ely explan ation is that ‘ slo w ly ’ w as m isread as ‘ stead ily’ , so that repetition w as generated w h ich S c o tt corrected b y substitu tin g ‘ d ign ified ’ fo r ‘ ste ad y ’ . S u c h a change w ou ld not have been n ecessary had the tran scrip tio n been accu rate, and the e e w n restores the m an u scrip t reading. 3] Su bstitutions. S u b stitu tions o f one w o rd fo r another are em ended som e 290 tim es. S co tt’ s lin gu istic and literary know led ge w as far greater than his in term ediaries’ , and o ften the su bstitu tions arose becau se obscu re, obsolete or idiom atic w ord s and phrases, or arch aic form s o f w ell-k n ow n w o rd s, w ere not u n d erstood or w ere erro n eou sly standardised. N o rm a lly a less v iv id , m ore conventional alternativ e was su bstitu ted. E xam p les include ‘ 〈 flit〉 ↑ fly ↓ ’ ( 1 6 .3 1 ) , ‘ 〈 stage〉 ↑ sta­ tion ↓ ’ (4 5.25 ), ‘ 〈 am use〉 ↑ m islead ↓ ’ ( 1 1 5 . 13 ) , ‘ W hat 〈 a〉 ↑ the ↓ d e v il’ ( 1 2 8 . 2 ) , ‘ 〈 arch -h eretic〉 ↑ a rc h -fie n d ↓ ’ ( 1 4 2 . 1 4 - 1 5 ) , ‘ 〈 b a r e them 〉 ↑ b o re them se lv e s ↓ ’ ( 1 4 3 .1 0 ) , ‘ 〈 d esignd 〉 ↑ designated ↓ ’ ( 1 5 4 .1 2 ) , ‘ 〈 d iv e l〉 ↑ d e v il ↓ ( 15 7 .2 6 ), ‘ 〈 fleaing〉 ↑ fla y in g ↓ ’ ( 1 6 1 . 1 7 ) , ‘ 〈 scon n er〉 ↑ take o ffe n c e ↓ ’ ( 1 8 3 . 3 3 ) , ‘ 〈 im p lo y〉 ↑ im p ly ↓ ’ (19 9 .3 4 ), ‘ 〈 tra vise 〉 ↑ tr a v e r s e ↓ ’ (2 0 2 .1) , ‘ 〈 partie〉 ↑ m atc h ↓ ’ (2 3 7 .2 2 ), ‘ 〈 foin 〉 ↑ fe n c e ↓ ’ ( 2 4 3 .13 ) , ‘ 〈 com plices〉 ↑ acco m p lice s ↓ ’ (284.8), ‘ 〈 them se lf〉 ↑ them s e lv e s ↓’’

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(28 4 .33), ‘ 〈 nigrom ancer〉 ↑ n ecro m an cer ↓ ’ (3 10 .2 ) , ‘ 〈 fagend〉 ↑ latter days ↓ ’ ( 3 15 .4 3 ) . I t w ill be clear from these exam ples that the p resent edition o f the novel is lin gu istically m ore d iverse and adventurou s than any w h ich has appeared hitherto . A n o ther com m on reason fo r su bstitu tion w as the m echanical applica­ tion o f the standing order to rem ove S c o tt’ s frequent repetition o f w o rd s in close p ro x im ity . O n several occasions deliberate and rhetorical rep etition w as rem oved, and w hat F o w le r and F o w le r call ‘elegant variatio n ’ appeared in stead: ‘〈 w alk〉 ↑ and tra v e l ↓ ’ ( 1 3 .1 9 ) , ‘ 〈 cen serbearers〉 ↑ dispensers o f incense ↓ ’ ( 10 0 .2 8 , w h ere the eagerness to avoid repetition led to a w holesale restru ctu rin g o f the sentence), ‘ 〈 b u rst〉 ↑ r i s e ↓ ’ ( 10 0 .3 1 ) , ‘ 〈 joind 〉 ↑ unite d ↓ ’ (20 3.38 ), ‘ 〈 hoped〉 ↑ b e lie v e d ↓ ’ (22 9 .39 ), ‘ 〈 sound〉 ↑ be w in d e d ↓ ’ ( 2 6 1 .1 5 ) , ‘ 〈 chuse〉 ↑ are p le a se d ↓ ’ (334 .4 2). A t other tim es, repetitions in tended to add em phasis or to enhance characterisation w ere sim p ly om itted: ‘I t shall 〈 it shall〉 ’ ( 1 0 .4 1 ) is an exam ple o f im passioned repetition; M o ra y ’ s needless rep etition o f his instru ctions to R o lan d (17 8 .6 ) reveals his m istru stfu l, M a cb e th -lik e insecu rity (w hich R o lan d h im se lf com m ents on at 1 8 1 .3 7 ) . In ad dition, on a few occasions m an u scrip t repetition has been p referred to first-e d ition alternatives w h ich drastically change the sense, such as ‘ 〈 m adm en〉 ↑ ruffians ↓ ’ ( 1 1 6 .2 3 ) , w here S c o tt h im se lf w as d issatisfied enough to m ake a fu rther change to the In terleaved S e t . A n o ther stand ing ord er w h ich could be m isapplied was that w h ich called fo r characters to be referred to ex p licitly , rather than b y pronoun, the first tim e they w ere m entioned in a paragraph. A t 2 79 .2 4 D o u glas says that he has ‘been at the d oor o f 〈 h is〉 ↑ the page’ s ↓ apartm ent’ . T h is literal-m inded substitu tion not on ly destroyed the m yste ry o f the scene, b u t generated a fu rther change a few lines later: ‘R o lan d . . . 〈 m ore than suspected〉 ↑ w as fu lly aw are ↓ that he was h im se lf the su bject o f their conversation’ (279.34 ). In ad dition there are num erous sw itches betw een ‘u p on ’ and ‘ on ’ , ‘am o n g’ and ‘am ongst’ , ‘ w as’ and ‘ w ere’ , and so o n . T h e re is noth in g to su ggest a clear p olicy u n d erlyin g these changes; in p articu lar, the inter­ m ed iaries seem to have fiddled aim lessly w ith S co tt’ s use or m isu se o f the su b ju n ctiv e . T hus at 9 .19 ‘ as i f she w as’ (the m an uscript and p ro o f reading) w as changed to ‘ as i f she w ere’ , w h ile at 1 0 3 .3 1 ‘as i f there w ere’ (m an uscript) was changed to ‘as i f there w as’ . In such cases the p resent edition, p referrin g S c o tt’ s inconsistency to the interm ed iaries’ , follow s the m an u scrip t. 4] N am es. S c o tt o ften had d ifficu lty w ith the nam es o f his characters, som etim es changing them com pletely, som etim es sim p ly b ein g unable to settle on a preferred spelling. O ccasionally these changes are the resu lt o f deliberate experim entation: L u n d in ’ s C h ristian nam e w as ori­ gin ally ‘J o h n ’ (239.8 ; ‘M a s ter Jo h n ’ at 240 .26 ), b u t h avin g decided to m ake the character into a doctor S c o tt deleted ‘Jo h n ’ and inserted

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the nam e ‘L u k e ’ , or ‘D o c tor L u k e ’ , allu d in g to the E va n g e list . O ther changes seem m erely forg etfu l: from m id -w a y th rou gh the second vol­ um e S c o tt fluctuates b etw een callin g h is hero ‘R o la n d ’ and ‘R o n ald ’ . t h e interm ediaries righ tly corrected the m an u scrip t to ‘R o la n d ’ on all b u t one occasion. T h e present ed ition gen erally standardises the spell­ in g o f prop er nam es, correctin g the one rem aining ‘R o n ald ’ to ‘R o la n d 5 ( 3 6 2 .13 ) , and settlin g on the first editio n ’ s p referred spellin g o f ‘L in d e ­ say’ rather than ‘L in d s a y ’ (3 tim es). T h e spellin g ‘M o r a y ’ is p referred to the first editio n ’ s ‘M u rr a y ’ . S c o tt began b y w ritin g ‘M o r a y ’ in the m anu­ scrip t, bu t B allan tyn e lodged an objection on the p ro o f, p ro testin g that ‘t h e E a rl o f M u rra y is so m uch m ore kenspeckle than the E a rl o f M oray ' (proof, p. 4). L a ter in the novel S c o tt d u ly adopted B alla n ty n e ’ s pre­ ferred spelling, b u t the p resent edition restores his in itial preference, and in so doing establishes consistency w ith T he M on astery, in which ‘M o r a y ’ is the p revailin g sp ellin g in both m an u scrip t and first ed ition. In ad dition ‘ N ich o la s’ has been em ended to ‘N ic o la s’ (w hich occu rs once in The A bbot, b u t is the p referred sp ellin g in T he M onastery) on three occasions. A m ore problem atic case is D ry fe sd a le , w h ose first nam e is given once as ‘R o b ert’ (308 .34 ) and once as ‘Ja s p e r’ ( 3 1 5 .6 ) . T h e only edition to correct this inconsisten cy in S c o tt’ s life tim e is the M agn u m . H o w ever, in a note added to the In terleaved S e t S c o tt gave the character his h istorically tru e nam e, ‘Ja m e s ’ ,88 and excep tionally, in the absence of any sign o f S co tt’ s p reference fo r either o f the form s fou n d in the novel, ‘Ja m e s ’ has been adopted editorially in the present editio n . T w o fu rther inconsistencies in nam ing have not been altered: the sp ellin gs ‘ C h a ste­ let’ (28 2.39) and ‘ C h atelet’ (36 6.2) are both found in S c o tt’ s sources, and as the nam e is used in speech the possible d ifferen ce in phonetic value has been p reserved ; ‘ K irk a ld y ’ (356 .24 ) and ‘ K irk c a ld y ’ (362.29) are not standardised in any edition pu blish ed in S c o tt’ s life tim e, and as there is no p ossibility o f confu sion, and no basis fo r p re fe rrin g one form over the other, the inconsistency is allow ed to stand. 5] M iscellaneous. In the present edition attem pts h ave been m ade tc resolve the n o vel’ s tw o m ajor areas o f confusion or incoherence (sec above, 389– 9 0 ,3 9 4 ) . T h e relationships w ith in the D o u g la s fam ily have been m ade in ternally consistent . T h e m anner in w h ich the confusion arose in the first edition has alread y been discussed; the te x ts published thereafter in S c o tt’ s life tim e (and indeed after his death) m ade n o attem pt to sort out the relationships. N o r can any clear, con sistent p reference be detected in the m an u scrip t. I t is evid en t that S c o tt was concerned to achieve h istorical accu racy, b u t the w ay the text had evolved m eant that he w as forced to choose b etw een tw o h istorically inaccurate versions; the resu lt w as m u dd le, w ith S co tt unable to settle consistently on either. G iv e n , then, that no solu tion w as fo rthcom ing from either m an u scrip t or publish ed texts, this editor has, excep tion­ ally, follow ed h istorical fact : L a d y L o c h le v en w as the w id o w o f S ir

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R o b ert D o u g la s; G e o rg e D o u glasw as her th ird son, and thus M o ra y ’ s h alf-b ro ther; the L o r d o f L o c h le ven was G e o rg e ’ s eldest legitim ate bro ther, W illia m . T o achieve consistency according to th is outline num erous editorial em endations have been requ ired. In the second area o f confusion, the scene betw een L a d y L o c h le ven and D ry fe sd a le , the L a d y ’ s sum m ons to R and al (300.5) has been edito­ rially d eleted; the resu ltin g passage, i f not entirely satisfactory , now m akes reasonable sense on the assum ption that the L a d y , h avin g given h er ord ers to D ry fe sd a le , changes h er m ind w hen sen ding him to the ‘w estern tu rre t’ . R e lig io u s o v er-sen sitiv ity or pedantry insp ired a num ber o f changes to the m an u scrip t . Irre ve re n t allusions to P ro testantism , or statem ents o f C a th olic faith , w ere qualified or deleted even w hen placed in the m ou ths o f d evou tly C a th olic characte rs t hus C a therin e’ s ty p ic a lly im ­ passioned ‘ traitors and heretic s’ and ‘ heretic cu rs’ both becam e sim ply ‘ heretic s’ ( 2 2 8 .1 1 ; 296.40), and M agd alen ’ s chains ‘ w h ich , riv e tted on earth, are riv e tted in H eaven ’ ( 1 0 8 .2 1 - 2 2 ) , becam e chains ‘ w hich, b ein g riv e tted b y the ch u rch on earth, are rive tted in H eaven ’ . O ther changes o f this sort, w h ich have now been reversed, inclu d e ‘ (m eddle m uch w ith) ↑ fav o u r ↓ th e new religion ’ ( 1 5 . 1 1 ) ; the reference to R o ­ land’ s ‘ ↑ form o f ↓ religio n ’ ( 13 1.4 4 ) ; ‘ the 〈 preach er〉 ↑ coun sellor ↓ o f good o rd er’ ( 1 7 1 .2 4 ) ; ‘ w e w ill try at least to save thee fro m ↑ the ↓ tem ptation ↑ of o p p ortu n ity ↓ ’ ( 2 3 9 .3 4 -3 5 : D ry fe sd a le ’ s echo o f the L o r d ’ s P ra y e r has been obscured). E rro rs in the novel h ave been corrected (either editorially or b y u sin g readings fro m LATER EDITIONS or the In terleaved S e t) w h erever it has been possible to do th is w ithout generatin g fu rther p roblem s or inconsistencies. T h e se in clu d e errors o f fact : the abbey at M elro se , on w h ich K e n n aq u h air is based, has a great w estern, not eastern, gate (9 7 .37); the d au gh ter o f the king o f E g y p t rescued b y S t G e o rg e was S ab ra, not Sab æ a ( 1 0 5 .1 ) ; M a ry rode from Je d b u rg h , not H aw ick , to H e rm itage ( 2 0 2 .1 1 ) ; the title o f W illiam S o m ervile ’ s w ork is R u ra l G am es, not R u ra l S p o rts (24 0 .22). In ternal inconsistencies have been rectified w h ere p ossible; fo r instance, M agd alen is R o la n d ’ s grand­ m other, not his m other ( 7 5 .15 ) . C lear lin gu istic errors have also been corrected. P u n c tu a tio n a n d O rth o g ra p h y . T h e in term ediaries faced a m assive task in translatin g S c o tt’ s ligh tly pu nctuated m an u scrip t in to a present­ able form . A large m ajority o f the 50,000 or so changes m ade to the m an u scrip t te x t in vo lved the insertion o f punctuation m ark s. T h e w ork was on the w h ole done com petently , and produced a tex t w h ich was h eavily pu nctuated, b u t m ore flu id ly and less log ically so than the M a g n u m or than V ic torian editions o f the n o vel. T h e sty le w as typ ical o f S c o tt’ s tim e, and readers o f the present edition should treat the

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pu nctuation as indicativ e rather than p rescrip tiv e, in accordance w ith the general custom o f the period. W h ile the punctuation o f the first edition has n o rm ally been accepted, it is clear that the interm ediaries w ere m ore proficient in their h andling o f narrativ e than o f speech. S c o tt’ s p u n ctuation o f narrativ e, though lig h t, is conventional and generally consistent. T h e first tw o paragraphs o f the first chapter, fo r exam ple (5.8– 6 .3), con tain 8 sentences. O n 7 occasions S c o tt signalled this in the m an u scrip t w ith a fu ll stop and a fo llo w in g capital; the one exception is the end o f the first sentence, w h ere he clearly changed his m ind w hen loo kin g o v er the tex t, su perim ­ p osin g a capital on the original low er case ‘ a’ ( 5 .10 ) , b u t neglectin g to add a fu ll stop . T h e on ly other punctuation in the m an u scrip t is one dash ( 5 . 1 1 ), w h ich appears in the p rin ted text. T h e rest o f the pu nctuation, 29 com m as and 2 sem icolons, was the w o rk o f the in term ediaries, and is u n excep tionable. In the present edition narrativ e pu nctuation has been gen erally accepted; it has been em ended on ly w h ere it is clearly m is­ lead in g (e.g. 250 .29 ), or w h ere S co tt’ s m an u scrip t sentence d ivision s have been ignored (e.g. 2 5 0 .13 ) . S c o tt’ s pu nctuation o f speech is less conventional, and created m ore problem s fo r the in term ediaries. H ere his p referred punctuation m ark is the dash, w h ich is frequ ently follow ed b y a lo w er case letter (thereb y indicatin g not on ly a pause, b u t also a conn ectedness o f th ought or rh etoric). In their inconsistent h andling o f these dashes, the interm ed i­ aries o ften d istorted the rh y th m , balance and sense o f speech, and w h ere they have introduced new sentences to replace dash p lu s low er case the present edition has norm ally restored th e m an u scrip t. T h e fol­ lo w in g xam p le (229 .27– 39) illu strates these p roblem s (given as in the EEW N , w ith first edition variants in square brackets): “ D o yo u d en y it?” replied C a therin e; “ do yo u not adm it that yo u have d ru n k the poison w h ich yo u sh ou ld h ave dashed from yo u r lips?— do [lips?— D o ] you d en y that it no w ferm en ts in y o u r veins, i f it has not altogether corru p ted the sp rin gs o flife ? — do [life?— D o ] yo u d en y that you have y o u r d ou bts, as yo u p ro u d ly term them , respectin g w hat popes and councils h ave declared it u n law fu l to d oubt of?— Is not y o u r faith w averin g, i f n ot o v erthrow n?— D o es not the heretic preacher boast his conquest ?— does [conquest ?— D o es] not the heretic w om an o f this p rison -h ou se hold up th y exam ple to others?— D o not the Q u een and the L a d y F le m in g b elieve in th y fallin g away?— and [aw ay?— A n d ] is there any excep t one— yes I w ill speak it out, and th ink as lig h tly as yo u please o f m y good w ill— is there one except m y s e lf that h old s even a lin g erin g hope that yo u m ay ye t prove w hat w e once all hoped o f yo u ?” T h e heigh tening p rovid ed b y the repeated q u estion m arks (none o f w h ich appears in the m an uscript) is acceptable; the p roblem is w ith the treatm ent o f dash plu s low er case and dash p lu s u p p er case. S c o tt clearly

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d ivides the questions into groups: fo u r connected questions beginn ing ‘ do yo u ’ , tw o beginn ing ‘ does not’ , and so o n . T h e u niform use o f dash p lu s u p per case in the first edition underm ines the rhetorical stru c­ tu re, w h ich is now restored fo r the first tim e. A passage a few pages later show s how S c o tt could also use dashes to sig n ify hesitancy and to enhance em otional dram a. A t the clim ax o f her exh o rtation C a therine prom ises, ' I . . . w ill— yes— I w ill love yo u better — than ever sister loved b ro ther ’ (2 3 0 .4 1 – 4 2 ). T h e first edition changed this to ' I . . . w ill— yes I w ill, love yo u better than ever sister loved b ro ther ’ . T his punctuation so clearly dissipates the intensity o f the speech that w hen p reparin g the In terleaved S e t S co tt reintroduced the m an u scrip t dash betw een ‘bette r’ and ‘ than’ . H e also used punctuation to discrim in ate betw een the speech patterns o f particu lar characters. t his is clearest in the character o f D ry fe sd a le , w hose ram bling, m ono­ tonous m ed itations, linked b y strin gs o f dashes and low er cases, d efy, and are in tended to d efy, rational an alysis. T h e in term ediaries, under­ standably, felt a desire to use p u nctuation in o rd er to im pose a coherent stru c tu re (notably at 3 1 5 .3 0 – 39), b u t the present edition restores, as far as possible, D ry fe sd a le ’s id io syn cratic rh y thm s o f speech. In co n sistency in the h andling o f the dash accounts fo r m ost em enda­ tions o f punctuation in speech. E m en d ations have also arisen w h ere S c o tt in the m an u script uses a question m ark or exclam ation m ark to indicate the inflection o f a speech w h ich w ould otherw ise be unclear; w h ere in terru p tion or su spension o f speech is indicated b y a lon g dash follow in g or preceding speech m arks respectiv e ly ; and w here the open­ in g o f a new sentence has been ignored. In all som e 530 em endations have been m ade to the punctuation o f speech. T h e first edition does not im pose consistent orth ograph y on the n o vel, and nor does the present tex t . E x c e p tions to this ru le are m ade in the follow in g circu m stances: w h ere the first edition spells w ord s in a w ay u n su p po rted for the period b y the O E D , in w h ich case they have been treated as typograph ical erro rs; w h ere S c o tt in the m an u scrip t clearly attem p ts to im itate obsolete spellin g (as in the rh ym es on 2 5 1) , or to con vey S c o ts dialect (e.g. 2 4 5 .14 ) ; w h ere foreign w ords have been m issp elt b y the com positors, unless they are u sin g anglicised form s cu rren t in the period (thus ‘ a m o i’ is em ended to ‘ à m o i’ ( 2 9 5 .13 ) , b u t ‘ tete-a -tete’ (8 9 .19 ), a form recorded b y the O E D , is not em ended). E m en d ations have also been m ade w here the first edition, in deviatin g from the m an uscript, changes the phonetic value o f a w ord. I t is clear that S c o tt tended to w rite w ord s as he heard them , particu larly in dia­ lo g u e . T his is apparent in his spellin g o f the past tense: w hen the ending ‘ ed ’ is not pronounced as a separate syllab le he elided the ‘e’ (‘calld ’ , ‘ lookd ’ , etc.), b u t w here the final syllab le w as pronounced (‘ devoted ’ ) or the p reced in g syllable w ould be d istorted (‘ com posed ’), he w rote it in f u ll. T his edition attem p ts, w h erever possible, to take account o f the

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phonetic value o f the form s he u sed . T hus in the ex tant m an u scrip t o f T he A bbot S c o tt n ever w ro te ‘b u rn t’ , b u t alw ays ‘b u rn d ’ , ‘b u rn ed ’ or once, in error, ‘b u rd ’ . S im ila rly he w ro te ‘d ream d ’ , b u t n ever ‘ dream t’ . In such cases the substitu ted form s found in the first edition have been rejected. H e also seem s to have taken his readersh ip into account on occasion: thus he carefu lly w rote ‘asso ilyie’ , not ‘ assoilzie’ (9 3.2 5), and ‘m enyie’ , not ‘m enzie’ (2 9 1.3 8 ). H ere the pronu nciation is u naffected, bu t it seem s S c o tt realised that h is readers m igh t be m isled b y the S co ts ‘z’ , and spelt the w ords acco rd in gly; his spellin gs have been restored. O ther exam ples o f S co tt’ s spellin gs, now restored on grou nd s o f phon­ etic value, include ‘ rochet’ ( 1 0 6 .2 1) fo r ‘ rocket’ , ‘ h ollow ’ ( 1 1 3 .3 0 ) fo r ‘ halloo’ , ‘ stone-w alls’ ( 1 1 5 .9 ) fo r ‘ stone w alls’ , ‘ v iv re s’ (16 0 .2 7 ) for ‘ v iv e rs’ , ‘ tro d ’ (207.29) for ‘ tro d e’ , ‘ vial’ ( 2 5 2 .14 , etc.) fo r ‘ p h ial’ , and ‘ rathe’ (27 2.39 ) fo r ‘ rath ’ . A n o ther task entru sted to the in term ediaries w as the lo w erin g or raising o f initial letters. W h ile their w ork has n o rm ally been accepted, on occasion the first edition is in error. A t 4 1.2 0 the ‘M o rn in g S tar’ is L u c ife r, and the change to ‘m orn in g-sta r’ w as a m istake. O ther capital­ ised w ords w hose significance w as u nrecognised in clu d e ‘B le ssed ’ (referrin g to the V irg in M a ry , 2 0 7 .3 2 ), and personifications such as ‘t reason’ (206.25). N O T ES A ll m an u scrip ts referred to are in the N a tional L ib r a r y o f S c o tland (n l s ) unless otherw ise stated. 1 S e e , fo r exam ple, E d g a r Jo h n so n , S ir W alter S c o tt: The G rea t U nknow n (L o n d o n , 19 7 0 ; hereafter c ited as Jo h n so n ), w h ich is qu o ted b elo w , and Jo h n S u therlan d, th e L ife o f W alter S c o tt (O xfo rd , 19 9 5 ), 2 3 7 - 3 9 . 2 M ag n u m , 20.[iii]—v . 3 Jo h n so n , 700. 4 H . J . C . G rie rso n , S ir W alter S c o tt, B a rt. (L o n d o n , 19 3 8 ), 19 9 . 5 J . G . L o c k h a rt , M em oirs o f the L ife o f S ir W alte r S c o tt, B a rt. , 7 vols (E d in ­ b u rgh , 18 3 7 – 38), 5 .19 . 6 W illiam A d am , R em arks on the B la ir-A d a m E sta te (B la ir-A d a m , p riv a tely p rin ted, 18 3 4 ), [ix]. L o c k h a rt gives the yea r o f th e first m eetin g as 1 8 1 6 , b u t as A d a m ’s ow n accou nt is L o c k h a rt’ s sou rce, fro m w h ich he q u o tes e x ten sively, this is an erro r. C o p ies o f this rare w o rk can be fo u n d in the N a tional L ib r a r y o f S c o tland and the B r itish L ib r a r y . 7 L o c k h a rt, 5 . 2 1 , 2 3. 8 T h e L e tters o f S ir W alter S c o tt, ed. H . J . C . G rie rs o n an d others, 1 2 vols, (L o n d o n , 19 3 2 - 3 7 ) , 5.400 ; h ereafter cited as L e tters. 9 W illiam A d am , R em arks on the B la ir-A d a m E sta te , x iii. 10 S e e L e tters, 5 .9 3 and 5 .2 4 4 -4 5 . 11 S ee L e tters, 1 2 . 1 8 - 1 9 , 2 2 . 12 L e tters, 1 . 1 5 1 . T h e sam e an ecdote is told in a note to the p u b lish ed poem (see M in strelsy o f the S c o ttish B o rd er, e d . T . F . H en d erso n , 4 vols (E d in ­ b u rgh , 19 0 2 ), 4 .19 8 ).

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L e tters, 5 .4 4 2 -4 6 . Jo h n B alla n tyn e w as at this p eriod in L o n d o n and B r ig h ton , n o m in ally fo r his health, thou gh his presence there w as u sefu l fo r negotiation s w ith the L o n d o n pu blish ers. L e tters, 5 .4 16 . Jo h n so n , 680. S e e L e tters, 5 .4 15 . L e tters, 5.4 4 2. B ills w ere essentially p ro m isso ry notes, fa llin g due on a specified date . T h e se b ills w ou ld be sold to the banks at a disco u n t (the banks w o u ld , in effect, be len d in g the m o n ey; the d isco u n t represen ted the in terest on th is loan), and the granters o f the b ills w o u ld becom e liable to the bank fo r the total am ou nt on the due dates. C le a rly C o n stable’s cred it, alon g w ith that o f S c o tt and the B a lla n tyn es, w as o v e r-stretched in the eyes o f the ban ks, w h o w ere therefo re u n w illin g to d isco u n t his bills. ‘P ro fit’ is not used in the m odern sense o f n et p ro fit. In stead it w as the incom e received fro m the sale o f the cop ies, less the m an u factu rin g costs. S c o tt’s estim ate is based on 1) a sale price (that is, the p u b lish ers’ price to retailin g booksellers) o f 185., as w as the case fo r Iva n h o e, and 2) an ed ition o f 1 2,000. O n this basis the gross incom e w o u ld be £ 10 ,8 0 0 ; S c o tt estim ­ ates m an u factu rin g costs o f £ 1 50 p er 10 0 0 cop ies, or £ 18 0 0 in tota l. T h e resu ltin g ‘ p ro fit ’ o f £ 9 0 0 0 w o u ld be eq u ally d iv id ed b etw een au thor and p u b lish er, tho u gh out o f this sum each had to m eet an y fu rther overheads— w h ich in S c o tt’s case in volved the paym en t o f one th ird o f his ‘ pro fit ’ to Jo h n and Ja m e s B a lla n tyn e, fo r their w o rk as agent and ed itor resp ectively. In the ev en t the m an u factu rin g costs fo r T he A bbot cam e to £ 16 7 5 7 s., w h ile the fact that the novels w ere p u blished in 1 2 m o fo rm at m ad e them cheaper than Iva n h o e, w ith a sale price o f o n ly 16 s.; th u s S c o tt’s share o f the pro fits tu rn ed o u t to be m ore than half. L e tters, 5 .4 4 4 ,4 5 7 . L e tters, 5.457,458. T h e L o n g m a n A rc h iv e s are held at R e a d in g U n iv e r sity L ib r a r y . T h e com ­ m issio n led ger en tries fo r The M onastery and T he A bbot are in L o n g m a n I .1 9 .5 2 . T his m eant that they w ere b u yin g from S c o tt a rig h t to one th ird o f p u b ­ lish ers’ p ro fits; b u t out o f his auth o r’s pro fits S c o tt w as to give one th ird to the B a lla n tyn e b ro thers as p aym en t fo r their services as ed itor and agent. t his circu lar arrangem ent w o u ld be avoid ed w h en the B a lla n tyn es sold their cop ies to C o n stables fo r £ 2 4 0 0 , w h ich covered their ad van ce to S c o tt and their share o f m an u factu rin g costs (c. £ 500), leavin g them a n et p ro fit o f som e £ 6 5 0 in ad d ition to w hat they w ere paid b y S c o tt. L e tters, 5.4 65. L e tters, 5.4 74 . S e e Iva n h o e, ed. G ra h a m t u lloch, eew n 8 , 4 1 1 – 12 . L o c k h a rt , 4 .35 0 . L e tters, 6 .7. ms 3 1 9, ff. 1 7 7 v , 200r , 2 5 2 v , 2 6 1v. T he M onastery w as ‘ ch eap er’ than Iva n h o e thanks to its sm aller du odecim o fo rm at, p riced at 8 sh illin gs per volu m e rath er than 10 . A cop y o f the agreem ent can be fo u nd in m s 3 1 9 , f. 2 7 1 r . T h e price (for 3 3 3 3 cop ies at the sale price o f 1 6 s ., m inu s 10 per cen t) w as £ 2 4 0 0 . S e e

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also Jo h n B alla n ty n e ’s jo u rn al, ms 1 8 1 2, f. 29v: th is is a photocop y o f the original, w h ich is in the P ierp o n t M o rg a n L ib r a r y , N e w Y o rk . L e tters, 6.6– 7. L e tters, 6 .7. A s w ell as au th o r’s p ro fits this figu re ap parently in clu des the m o n ey w h ich w ould be paid to B a lla n tyn e & C o . (in w h ich S c o tt w as sole partner) fo r p rin tin g and p aper, and the m o n ey the B a lla n tyn es w ou ld receive fo r the sale o f their th ird share o f the copies. ms 1812, f. 25v. ms 1 8 1 2 , f. 30 r . S c o tt’ s m o ther died on 2 4 D ec em b er 1 8 1 9 . ms 1812, f. 3 1v. ‘ C la ss’ appears to be the w o rd used in the L o n g m a n led ger to describe the second ‘ part’ or ‘bran ch ’ o f the n o vel; it is, h o w ever, cram ped and d ifficu lt to read. ms 1812, f. 39v. ms 1 8 1 2 , f. 38 r. ms 790, p. 746. ms 790, p .7 4 9 .

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L e tters, 6 . 1 59– 60. L e tters, 6 .14 5 . W h en S c o tt cam e to w rite the n o vel, b o th nu n and n u n n ery d u ly appeared in V o lu m e I. ms 2 3 6 19 , f .2 5 r . S e e K en ilw o rth , ed. J . H . A lexan d er, eewn 1 1 , 396–97. L o c k h a rt, 4.360. L e tters, 6 . 1 7 1. ms 2 3 6 19 , ff.3 9 v – 40r. L o c k h a rt, 4.36 6 ; L e tters, 6 .18 0 ; L o c k h a rt, 4 .3 7 4 , 36 6 . T h e S c o ttish su p erstition that it w as u n lu ck y to m arry in M a y is allu ded to in The A bbot (20 3.37 ).

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57 58 59

60 61

L e tters, 6 .19 9 . L e tters, 6 .2 12 . ms 2 3 6 19 , ff. 70v– 7 1 r. Ms 3 8 9 1, f. 10 0 r. L e tters, 6.244. L e tters, 6 .2 5 1. L e tters, 6.250. S e e above, 3 . 1 4 – 1 5 . L e tters, 6 .2 2 3. D a ted 10 J u l y b y S c o tt, and in L e tters; ho w ever, the letter (ms 7 4 2 , ff. 2 03– 04) is p o stm arked 1 1 A u g u s t 18 2 0 in G alash iels, an d is en dorsed 1 1 A u g u st b y R o b e rt C a d e ll. T his d atin g m akes the lapse o f tim e b etw een com pletion o f the m an u scrip t and pu b lication m ore cred ible: com pare R edgauntlet, w h ere S c o tt sign ed o f f the m an u scrip t o n 2 Ju n e , and p u blication follow ed on 1 4 Ju n e 18 2 4 (see R edgauntlet, ed. G . A . M . W ood w ith D a v id H e w itt, eew n 1 7 ,3 8 3 ) . T o A rch ib a ld C o n stable: L e tters, 6 .26 2. T h is is an estim ate, as o n ly the first 44 pages o f the final volu m e su rv iv e: i f S c o tt continu ed to w rite at the sam e den sity , he w o u ld have needed another 1 3 pages to com plete the v o lu m e. T his figu re is con firm ed b y a calculation

N O T ES

62 63

64

65

4 13

visib le on f. 38 (38 added to 19 , g ivin g 5 7 ). T h ese totals exclu d e the In trod u ctor y E p is tle, title pages, and the blank recto in V o lu m e 3. G illia n D y so n , ‘ t h e M a n u scrip ts and P r o o f S h eets o f S c o tt’s N o v e ls ’ , E dinburgh B ib lio g ra p h ica l S o ciety T ransactions, 4 . 1 ( 1 960), 15 . T h e m an u scrip t w as in its cu rren t state (though ad dition ally m issin g f. 3 1 , w h ich w as p u rchased b y Jo h n M u rra y in 18 9 3 ) w hen it w as described in the ‘ In v en tor y o f M a n u scrip ts b y the A u thor o f W av erly, dep osited w ith t hom as t hom son’ (ms 683, f. 82v; 2 Ju n e 1827). t h e In tro d u ctory E p is tle is absent fro m the C arey edition (Philad elph ia, 18 2 0 ), the last section o f w h ich is based on u ncorrected p r o o f sheets; w hile it is present in the P a rk er ed ition (B o ston, 18 2 0 ), the last p art o f w h ich appears to be based on revises, in the co p y in the W id en er L ib r a r y , H arvard (the only cop y to be exam in ed), it is glu ed like a cancel to the first gatherin g o f the novel proper. A few copies o f the first edition also lack th e E p is tle, w h ile in one cop y seen (n l s : G ils o n 1 – 3 , an u n cu t cop y in original boards) it is bo un d in to V o lu m e 3 . T his su ggests that not o n ly w ere all the p ro ofs o f V o lu m e 3 corrected before S c o tt com posed the E p is tle, b u t B alla n tyn e had begun sen d in g the earlier volum es to the binder. T h e foliation o f the boun d m an u scrip t is as follow s:

Scott

Consecutiv e

Features

Volume 1 None None 2–6 [8]

[f.1 ] [f.2] [ff.3–7] [f.8]

T itle (motto to Ch. 1 on verso) Start of Ch. 1

54-68

[ff.9–30] [f–31] [ff.32–46]

Volume 2 None

[f.47]

9–30

51

1–5

45

[ff. 48– 52] [ff. 53–70] [ f f 7 1–82] [f.83]

46–62

[ff. 84– 100]

Volume 3 None 1–30 None 31–44

[ f.10 1] [ f f .102–31] [f.132] [ff 133–46]

1 1 –28 32–43

Top corner tom away; page apart (8 cm wide) inserted on verso ( 17.40.3-18.7) Purchased separately by John Murray in 1893 End of Volume 1 T itle (motto to Ch. 1 and additions to f. 48r on verso)

T his follows on, but has been misnumbered by Scott; the page was later renumbered ‘44’. Follows on without a break to end of Volume 2. A page apart, with motto, faces f. 84r T itle (verso additions to f. 102r) Blank recto; verso additions to f. 1 33r

O ther leaves w h ich have been located and exam in ed are as follow s: five leaves (co rrespo n d in g, in S c o tt’s nu m berin g, to V o lu m e 1 , ff. 38 and 4 5, and V o lu m e 2 , ff. 29– 3 1 ) are p rivately ow n ed; one leaf, corresp on d in g to V o lu m e 1 , f. 7 , is in the R o b e rt H . T aylo r collection, P rin c eton U n iv e rsity; a fragm ent o f another leaf, co m p risin g the lo w er part o f V o lu m e 1 , f. 48, is in the S te rlin g collection, U n iv e rsity o f L o n d o n .

414

E S S A Y

O

N

T H

E

T E X T

66

In the first tw o volum es it is possible to distin gu ish the tw o halves o f a crow n ed horn crest w ith the date 1 8 1 7 (com pare H eaw o o d , 17 7 4 ), and the cou n term ark ‘V a l l e y f i e l d w ith the sam e d ate . T h e chain lines are 2 .4 cm apart . T his paper was m an ufactu red b y A . C o w a n and S o n , at their V alleyfield w o rk s. T h e sequence in w h ich the d iffe re n t parts o f w aterm ark and cou nterm ark o ccu r show s that the original d em y sheets w ere tw ice fold ed and cu t in tw o, and the qu arter-sh eets stacked in fo u r separate piles. In V o lu m e 3 a d iffere n t batch o f paper is used in ad d ition, sh ow in g the bottom o f a sim ilar horn crest and the letters ‘B M ’ (prob ab ly sh o rt fo r B an k M ill— com pare th e t a le o f O ld M o rta lity , ed. D o u g la s M a c k , eew n 4b, 38 9 ). T h e chain lines o f this paper are on average 2 .3 cm ap art . 67 t h e original version o f the con versation (that w ritten on the rectos) w as as follow s: from the b egin n in g o f C h a p ter 6 to 14 9 .2 ; 1 4 9 . 1 1 – 1 4 9 .19 (‘A n d hold— ’ ); 14 9 .2 1 - 1 50 .3 (‘ send o f f ... S a in t S e r f ’ ); 15 0 .7 – .20; 1 5 1 .2 1 (‘ 〈 T h e castle w as b y this tim e all〉 in co n fu sio n ’) o n w ard s. T h e reader w h o cares to reconstru ct this passage w ill find that it is p erfec tly coherent, as S c o tt’s first thoughts alm ost in v ariab ly are. 68 A paym ent o f £ 3 1 1os. ( £ 3 1 .5 0 ) fo r tran scrib in g w as reco rded in the L o n g m a n led ger on 19 A u g u st 18 2 0 . 69 t h e exam ple o f A m y R o b sart, how ever, show s that u n certainty as to hair colour w as typ ical o f S c o tt (see J . H . A le x a n d e r’s acco u n t in K en ilw o rth, eew n 1 1 ,4 2 6 ). S c o tt is also sketch y about C a therin e S e y ton ’s ph ysical appearance in The A bbot, in itially m ore o f a ‘ H e b e ’ than a ‘ S y lp h ’ (in other w o rds, bu xo m ), she becom es slim m er as the n o vel pro gresses, d ev elo p in g a ‘ fa iry fo rm ’ ( 2 3 1 .1 5 ) , and u ltim ately trip p in g t ike a sy lp h ’ ( 3 3 9 .3 6 ). T h e fragm en tary pro ofs o f The A bbot are in м s 3 4 0 1. 70 S e e K en ilw o rth, eew n 1 1 ,4 0 3 . 7 1 P ark er m ay have had regu lar access to revises, fo r J . H . A lexan d er con firm s that the final section o f the P ark er edition o f K en ilw o rth (B o ston, 1 8 2 1 ) also appears to derive fro m the revise. H o w ev er, there are fu rth er com ­ plications in the case o f K en ilw o rth, and con sid erable w o rk rem ains to be done before the relation sh ip s betw een A m erican ed ition s, an d the m eans w h ereb y pre-p u b lication cop y was obtained, w ill be fu lly u n d erstood. 7 2 D e s p ite the haste evid en t in the p ro d u ction o f the n o vel, the te x t o f the first ed ition is fa irly stable. In the 2 1 copies exam in ed v ariation has em erged in the press figu res in 10 o f the 48 gatherin gs o f the n o vel; fo u r te x tu ally sign ificant varian ts have been discovered , th o u gh o n ly two o f th ese corres­ pond to variant press figu res in the relevant gatherin g (page and line references are to the first ed ition, w ith eew n referen ce belo w in brackets):

Reference

Readings

Press figures

1 .ii.10

travellers traveller

2 (1.iii) None

It is ... redemption, he said, which.. . sacrilege! “ It is ... redemption,” he said,“which.. . sacrilege!”

No variation

(62.36–38) 2.349.11 (246.23)

womens’ women’s

None

3.132.18– 19 (294.16)

thebride[-]groom the groom

No variation

( 3 .18)

1.171.13-17

6 (2 .3 5 0 )

N O T ES

73

74

75

76

77 78 79

80 81

82 83 84

85 86

87

4 15

I t is clear that correction s or im provem ents w ere m ade in the cou rse o f p rin tin g, and the eew n fo llow s the second readin g in each case (in the last in stance a m an u scrip t readin g was restored, and rep etition sim u ltaneously rem o ved ). T h e re is, how ever, no w ay o f k now in g w h y in tw o cases the p rin ters resp on sible changed the press figu res, bu t d id not in the tw o others, w h ere m ore su b stantial resettin g o f the typ e o ver tw o or three lines w as requ ired . I t rem ains a p o ssibility that there are fu rther, so far und etec­ ted, varian ts in the first ed ition tex t . t h e H istory o f S c o tla n d (1 7 59 ; repr. 2 vols, O xfo rd , 18 2 5 ), 1 . 3 5 1 : R o b e rt­ son calls W illiam D o u g las the ‘o w n er’ , and says he had ‘m arried the earl o f M u r r a y ’ s m o ther ’ . H o w ev er, a few pages later he describes G e o rg e D o u g ­ las as M a r y ’s ‘ k eeper’s b ro ther ’ ( 1.36 6 )— S c o tt w as no t alone in his confu­ sion. R o b e rtson ’s erro r is po inted out in another o f S c o tt’s sou rces, G eo rg e C h a lm ers’ s th e L ife o f M a ry , Q ueen o f S co ts (L o n d o n , 1 8 1 8 ) , 1 . 2 3 1 , note. S c o tt’s in itial m istake, and his attem p t to rectify it, dem on strate how regu­ la rly he referred to his sources as he w ro te. F o r the presen t editio n ’s reso lu tion o f these incon sisten cies, see below , 406– 07; fo r the first ed ition te x t o f the passages m entioned see the E m en d a­ tion L i s t . S u c h speed m ay seem incred ible, b u t is borne ou t, fo r in stance, b y the fact that the p rin tin g o f K en ilw o rth w as com plete on 5 Ja n u a ry 1 8 2 1 , only 9 days after Jo h n B alla n tyn e noted ‘ K e n ilw o rth finished w ritin g this d a y’ (K en il­ w orth, EEWN 1 1 , 3 9 7 – 98). L o n g m a n I . 1 0 1 , no.28. S ee Ja n e M illg a te, S c o tt 's L a st E d ition (E d in b u rg h , 19 8 7 ), 4. M illg a te gives the fu llest account o f the m aking o f the M ag n u m O pu s. T h e likelihood that C o n stable prepared the In terleaved S e t is stren gthened b y the paper used fo r the in terleavin g both o f The A bbot and o f other volu m es, w h ich bears w aterm arks o f 18 2 2 and 18 2 4 (M illg a te, 57). M illg a te, 7– 8. m s 2 10 2 0 , f. 6v. m s 21020, ff. 1 2 v , 19v. M illg a te, 24. T his In terleaved S e t em endation has been ad opted in the present ed ition: fo r the EEW N ’ s reso lv in g o f S c o tt’s con fu sion o ver the D o u g las fam ily see below , 406– 0 7 . T h e A n tiqu a ry, ed. D a v id H e w itt, eew n 3 , 3 8 1 . T h e 800 is a rou gh estim ate, based on the tottin g u p o f the vario us cat­ egories o f em en dation discu ssed in the ESSAY ON THE TEXT o f R edgauntlet, eew n 17 . I t is possible that som e o f the m ore pu zzlin g su b stitu tion s w ere the resu lt o f p r o o f correction o f m isreadin gs, though in the absence o f the proofs one is forced to speculate on such changes. C a re y ’s ed ition , h o w ever, show s how this m ig h t happen : w hen D o u g las com plains that a kind recep tion from his ancestral en em ies ‘ w ere ye t m ore con sid erable’ (see 3 4 9 .10 ), it seem s v ery u n lik ely that this is w h at S c o tt w ro te. A possible con jectu re is that ‘ un­ en du rable’ w as m isread as ‘ con sid erable’ . H o w ev er, as the first ed ition ’s readin g (‘ h u m iliatin g ’ ) is pro bably an authorial p ro o f-co rrection, it has

416 E S S A Y

88

O

N

T H

E

T E X T

been retained . A n o ther exam ple is the m eaningless com poun d ‘ m u ster­ w a y ’ (see 3 7 2 .3 4 – 3 5 ), em ended to ‘ w a y’ in the first ed ition. H ere the con jectu re that S c o tt w ro te ‘m asters w a y’ in the m an u scrip t, an d that this w as m isread, has been accepted, and the eew n reads ‘m aste r’s w a y ’ . In terleaved S e t, 1 7 . 1 2 7 . In the M a g n u m version o f the note ( 2 1.2 3 8 ) , ‘Ja m e s ’ has been changed to ‘Ja s p e r ’ , the fo rm ad opted, p resu m ab ly b y C ad ell, in the te x t o f the novel.

E M E N D A T IO N L I S T

T h e b ase-tex t fo r this edition o f The A bbot is a specific cop y o f the first edition, ow ned b y the E d in b u rgh E d ition o f the W averley N o vels. A ll em endations to th is b ase-text, w hether verbal, orth ographic, or punctu­ ational, are listed below , w ith the exception o f certain general categories o f em endation described in the next paragraph, and o f those errors w h ich resu lt fro m accidents o f p rin tin g such as a letter d ropp ing out, p ro vid ed alw ays that evidence fo r the ‘correct’ read ing has been found in at least one other cop y o f the first edition. I t has been ju d ged d esirable that the spellin g o f prop er nam es in th e A bbot should be consistent w ith that in T he M onastery. F o r this reason M u rra y (the sp ellin g in the first edition) has been em ended th roughout to M o ra y , the p referred spelling in the first p art o f the m an uscript and in The M onastery; other less com m on nam es w h ich have been standardised are recorded in the list (see ESSAY ON THE TEXT, 406). In v e rted com m as are som etim es found in the first edition fo r d isplayed verse quotations, som etim es not; t h e p r e s e n t t e x t has standardised the inconsistent practices o f the b ase-tex t b y elim inatin g such in verted com m as, except w h ere they occu r at the beginnings or ends o f speeches. T h e typo­ grap h ic p resen tation o f m ottoes, volum e and chapter headings, dis­ p layed q u otations, and the opening w ords o f chapters and volum es, has been standardised. I t is clear that Ja m e s B alla n tyn e & C o . had on ly one italic ligatu re for b o th ‘ æ’ and ‘ æ’ ; the tw o are d ifferen tiated in this edition. A m b igu o u s en d -o f-lin e hyphens in the base-text have been in terp reted in accordance w ith the follow in g auth orities (in descending ord er o f p rio rity): predom inant first edition usage; octavo, duodecim o and 1 8m o H istoric a l Rom ances ', M agn u m ; M S . E a c h entr y in the list below is keyed to the text b y page and line nu m ber; the reference is follow ed b y the new e e w n reading, then in brackets the reason fo r the em endation, and after the slash the base-tex t read in g that has been replaced. T h e great m ajo rity o f em endations are d erived from the m an u script . M o s t m erely in vo lve the replacem ent o f one read ing b y another, and these are listed w ith the sim ple explanation ‘ (m s ) ’ T h e spelling and p u n ctuation o f som e em endations from the m an u scrip t have been nor­ m alised in accordance w ith the p revailin g conventions o f the base-tex t . A n d alth ough as far as possible em endations have been fitted into the e x istin g b ase-te x t p u nctuation, at tim es it has been necessary to p rovid e em endations w ith a base-text style o f pu nctuation. W h ere the m anu­ scrip t read in g adopted b y the e e w n has requ ired editorial intervention to norm alise spellin g or punctuation, the exact m an u scrip t reading is given in the form : ‘ (m s actual reading)’ . W h ere the new reading has requ ired editorial in terp retation o f the m an u scrip t, in the p rovision o f

418

e m e n d a t io n

l is t

p u n ctuation for exam ple, the explanation is given in the form ‘ (m s d erived : actual reading)’ . O ccasionally, som e explanation o f the editor­ ial th inking behind an em endation is req u ired , and this is p rovid ed in a b r ie f note. T h e follow in g conventions are used in tran scrip tions from S c o tt’ s m an u scrip t : deletions are enclosed 〈 th u s〉 and in sertions ↑ t h us ↓ ; an in sertion w ith in an insertion is indicated b y d ouble arrow s ↑ ↑ th u s↓ ↓ ; su p e rscrip t letters are low ered w ithout com m ent; the letters ‘ N L ’ (new line) are S c o tt’ s ow n, and indicate that he w ish ed a new paragraph to be opened, in sp ite o f run ning on the text, w hereas the w ord s ‘ [new para­ grap h ]’ are ed itorial and indicate that S c o tt opened a new p aragraph on a new line. In sp ite o f the care taken b y the in term ediaries, som e local confusions in the m an u scrip t persisted in to the first edition. W h en straigh tening these, the editor has studied the m an u scrip t contex t so as to d eterm ine S c o tt’ s original in tention, and w h ere the original in tention is d iscernible it is o f course restored. B u t from tim e to tim e such confusions cannot be rectified in this w ay. In these circu m stances, S c o tt’ s ow n corrections and revision s in the In terleaved S e t h ave m ore auth ority than the pro­ posals o f other editions, b u t i f the autograph p o rtions o f the In terleaved S e t have noth in g to offer, the read ing from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solu tion is adopted as the neatest m eans o f rectify in g a fau lt . R ead in gs fro m the later editions and the In terleaved S e t are indicated b y ‘ (8vo)’ , etc., ‘ ( IS e t)’ or ‘ (M agn u m )’ . E m e n d a tions w h ich have not been anticip ated b y a contem poraneous ed ition are in d icated b y ‘ (E d itorial)’ . E rro rs or confusions have also been em ended in those p ortions o f the novel fo r w h ich the m an uscript is m issin g. In such cases the In terleaved S e t and the later editions have been em p loyed and cited accord ing to the p rin cip les outlined above. In ad dition, in the final section o f the novel use has been m ade o f tw o A m erican editions o f 18 2 0 , p u blish ed b y M . C a re y & S o n (Philadelphia) and S . H . P ark er (B o ston ). T his section o f C a re y ’ s e d ition was based on u n co rrected second p roofs, w hile the sam e p o rtion o f P a rk er’ s edition appears to have been based on revises (see E s sa y o n th e T e x t, 393–94). R ead in gs d erived from these ed itions are ind icated either b y ‘ (C arey)’ , w h ich signifies a p ro o f reading, or b y ‘ (C a re y ; P ark er)’ , w hich signifies a read in g p resen t in b o th p ro o f and revise. W h ere editorial in terp retation o f the C a re y readings has been n ecessary, it is indicated in the form ‘ (E d itorial; C arey: actual read­ in g )’ . 6 .16 6 .24 8.6 8 .2 1

8 .2 3 8 .2 7 8.28 9 .3 9 .1 2

S o u thern (ms ) / S o u thron im p regn able, (ms ) / im pregn able unless (ms ) / excep t m elan ch o ly— “ W h y (ms m elan ch o ly “ W h y) / m elancholy, [n ew para­ graph] “ W h y T h e com po sitors tried to avoid pages w ith o u t a paragrap h break. be!— H alb ert (ms be— H a lb e rt) / be! H a lb e rt had d iv id ed (m s ) / w ou ld have d ivid ed A n d (m s ) / B u t contin u ed she (ms ) / she continu ed her gestu re (m s ) / the gestu re

E M E N D A T IO N L I S T 9 .19 9.29 10 .5

10 .4 1 1 0.4 3 1 1 .6 1 1 .24 1 1 .25

1 2 .4 12 .1 7

12.20 1 2 .2 1 12 .2 2 1 2 .2 4 1 2 .3 2 1 2 .3 2 1 2 .3 7 1 3 .4 13 .19 13 .2 0 1 3 .2 5 1 3 .2 7 13 .2 8

4 19

she w as (m s ) / she w ere strip h is (p r o o f correction) / strip o f f his m an ned (ms m and) / got u n d er w ay A n in term ed iary m isread the contraction; the p ro o f reads ‘ m o ved ’ , w h ich S c o tt th en corrected. I t shall, it shall (m s I t shall it shall) / It shall b y terro r (m s b y (the) terror) / b y the terro r dream ed (m s dream d) / dream t attracted: (ms ) / attracted; caresses ren d ered (ms caresses renderd) / caresses b ein g rendered t h e in sertion is presen t in Ja m e s B alla n ty n e’ s hand on the proof, b u t is u nn ecessary. in stin ct ,” said the lad y; (8vo) / in stin ct;” said the lady, N e ig h b o u r (m s ) / neighbou r stren g th— the (m s ) / stren gth . T h e qu alification. W e (ms ) / qualification— w e o u rs e lf— A s (ms our s e lf— A s) / o u rself; as us— H ere (ms ) / us. H ere lavish (m s ) / bestow t ain t w h ich (m s ) / taint o f sin w h ich excess” (m s ) / excess.” — do g— displease (ms d erived : d o g displease) / dog.— D isp lease w alk fo rth (m s ) / and travel fo rth and far (m s ) / thou gh far old m an (ms ) / good m an t h u s (m s ) / this w ay feelings, but believe (ms derived: feelings but believe) / feelings; but,

believe alert at (ms ) / acu te in 14.30 nurse (m s ) / grandmother 1 5 .1 1 m ed dle m u ch w ith (ms ) / favo u r 1 5 .2 7 b u rn ed ( E d itorial) / b u rn t (ms m issing) In su rv iv in g section s o f the m s S c o tt alw ays uses a ‘d ’ in the past tense o f the verb ‘ b u r n ’ . 1 5-35 refu ge— A n d (ms d erived : refu ge A n d ) / refu ge.— A n d 1 6 .1 2 yo u , the (m s d erived : yo u the) / yo u ; the 1 6 .1 5 persevered (ms pu rseverd ) / p u rsu ed 1 6.20 up to her full height, and (ms up to her full height and) / up, and 16 .2 6 m eal— W ou ld (m s ) / meal? W ou ld 16 .2 7 t rain w h en (ms ) / train w h ile 16 .2 9 b ids— a (m s ) / bids?— a 14 .9

16.31 1 6 .4 1 17 .10 17 .2 4 17 .2 5 1 7 .3 4 1 7 .3 5 17 .3 7 18 .7 18 .14 1 8 .2 1 1 8 .2 1 1 8.24

flit (M S ) / fly said she (m s ) / she said m u rtherer (m s ) / m u rd erer onw ard— the (m s ) / onw ard , the on— it (m s ) / on, it en ou gh: I (ms ) / enough. I m ission— I (m s ) / m ission. I on your (m s ) / in your ever (m s ) / well G ræ m e once m ore— F a rew ell, (m s G ræ m e once m ore— F a rew ell— ) / G ræ m e. O nce m ore, farew ell. lockeram ?— go (m s lockeram — go) / lockeram ?— G o w om an— know (m s ) / w om an. K n o w a ’b o d y (m s ) / ev ery b o dy

E M E N D A T IO N L I S T

420 18 .3 6 1 8.38

1 9.20 1 9 .2 1 19 .2 9

20.1 3 2 0 .1 7 2 0 .1 8 2 0 .2 5 2 0 .4 1 21. 2 1 .2 2 2 1 .24

2 1 .25 2 2 .3 8 2 3 .6 2 3 .18

23.18 2 3 .2 2 2 3 .3 1 2 3 .3 4 2 3 .38 2 3 .3 9 2 3 .4 1 2 4 .1 3

2 4 .1 9 2 4 .2 2 2 4 .4 1 2 4.43

2 5 .3 2 5 .5 2 5.9

25.12 2 5 .1 5 2 5 .1 8

25.19

amongst them (m s ) / among them am ongst the (m s ) / am o n g the became at once (m s ) / was at once established C astle. H o w ( ms) / C a stle H o w t h e m aid en (ms) / her m aiden shouldered and ported, or sloped, his pike (ms shoulderd and ported or sloped his pike) / shouldered or ported or sloped pike w h at ( ms) / who attendance on her m istress ( m s ) / attendance get ( ms) / make in it (ms) / in them high er (ms) / high slo w ly (ms) / stead ily liveries and those o f G le n d o n w y ne, blen ded ( IS e t) / liv eries, blended S c o tt corrected an erro r: the h o lly branch is the em blem o f A v en el, not o f H alb ert G le n d in n in g . T h e ms reads: liveries 〈 and b len d ed 〉 . stead y ( ms) / dign ified M isread in g o f ‘slo w ly ’ ( 2 1.2 2 ) led to rep etition , u n n ecessarily corrected. rem arked, “ Y o u (ms rem arkd “ Y o u ) / rem ark ed, [new paragraph] “You O u r (ms) / S ir t rim m ed (ms trim d) / tu rn ed moustaches (ms) / mustachios councillor (ms) / counsellor S ir H alb ert ( ms) / H alb ert N a y then (ms) / N a y , then been fo r several ( ms) / been several A broad? ( m s ) / A b ro ad ! love?” (8vo) / lo v e,” (ms lo v e” ) called ‘ rise ’ (ms derived : calld rise) / called to rise A n inelegant change (p rom p tin g a fu rther change in I S e t), w h ich w ou ld have been m ade u nn ecessary b y the ad d ition o f in v erted com m as. secu rity: ( ms ) / secu rity; people?” said the la d y; “ A r e (ms people?” said the L a d y “ A re ) / peo p le,” said the lad y, “ are t hose (ms) / these in d u striou s (ms) / in d u strio u s F le m in g t h e ms read in g m akes sense as a general statem en t : p ro b ab ly an in term ed iary felt im p elled to m ake it m ore specific. sou ght ( ms ) / seek t rod (ms) / tread w h ich (ms) / that hand, and heart (m s hand and heart) / heart, and hand slo w ly. “ M y ( m s derived : slo w ly, “ m y) / slo w ly ; “ m y L in d e s a y (ms) / L in d s a y be the emergence passed (ms be the emergence passd) / let the emer­

gence be passed 2 5 .3 2 t h e re (ms) / that there 2 5 .3 4 and that ( ms ) / and reg retted that 2 5 .3 7 such unworthy (ms) / any unworthy 2 5 .3 7 retain any permanent (ms) / retain permanent 26 .8 said, “ su ffer (8vo) / said “ su ffer (ms as E d 1 ) 26.9 uphold— yo u (ms d erived : u phold yo u ) / uphold? Y o u , 26. 10 counsel (ms) / council 26.1 5 fear, that (ms fear that) / fear, and that

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2 6 .2 1 boasted ( ms) / famed 2 6 .2 1 were— the (ms derived: were; the) / were, the 2 6 .2 2 exertion (ms) / exertions 26 .24 hence ( ms ) / before 26 .26 ‘D a rk grey m an ’ (ms “ D a rk grey m an” ) / “ dark grey m an” 2 6 .35 claim ( ms ) / claim s 2 7.9 savage. S o ( ms ) / savage— S o 2 7 .1 1 o beyed , and (ms derived : obeyd and) / o beyed; and 2 7 .1 9 o f a ( ms ) / o fk e e p in g a 2 7 .2 5 atten dant— Y e t (ms) / attendant .— Y e t 2 7 .4 2 child?— go kiss (ms child— go kiss) / child? G o , kiss 2 8 .2 ad ded ( ms ) / said 28.8 his lad y ( ms) / the lady 2 8 .16 B u t I (ms) / B u t, I 2 8 .19 but my (ms) / but, my 2 8 .2 0 d esign ed (ms designd) / in tended 2 8 .2 3 em inence ” (ms) / em inence?” 2 9 .7 t h e M a s ter o f the H ou seh o ld ( ms) / the stew ard , or m aster o f the household 29.40 exercises (ms) / exercise 3 1.18 th o u gh ts ( ms ) / thou ght 3 1 . 1 8 t h e la d y ( ms ) / their lady 3 2 .1 7 ye (ms) / you 3 2 .1 8 h o od ie-crow ?— b y the m ass, and (M agn u m ) / h o od ie-cro w , b y the m ass? and T h e M a g n u m restores the stru c ture im plied by the ms p u n ctuation: ‘ ho od ie-cro w — by the m ass an d ’ . 3 2 .1 8 has (ms) / hast 3 2 .2 0 crag ( ms ) / craig 3 2 .2 0 her (M agn u m ) / him (ms as E d i) S c o tt ap pears to have changed his m ind about the sex o f the b ird as he w ro te (see 3 3 .5 ) , b u t o n ly the M ag n u m ap plies his final decision con­ sistently. 3 2 .3 0 and parcel ( ms ) / and a parcel 3 2 .4 1 S e e yo u , the (ms see yo u the) / S ee how the 3 3 .1 yo u , and I (m s yo u and I) / you . I 3 3 .1 her (M agn u m ) / him (ms as E d i) 3 3 .3 C h ild ( ms) / child 3 3 .1 0 t hy(ms)/ the 3 3 .13 boot ? and (ms boot and) / boot ?— and 3 3 .1 4 sh ort?— A n d (ms sh ort— A n d ) / short ?— and 3 3 .17 the fo u l ( ms ) / thee, foul 3 3 .2 3 minted (ms) / offered 3 4 .11 so square as ( m s )/ so as 3 4 .2 3 w ay ( ms) / sw ay 3 4 .2 5 person , o f (E d itorial) / person o f (ms as E d 1 ) 3 4 .3 1 n o u gh t I ( m s ) / n o u gh t that I 3 4 .3 2 but ( m s ) / save 3 4 .3 3 d ro w n in g. ” [new paragrap h] “ I (ms dro w n in g. ” — “ I) / d row n in g. ” A n d h ere M a s ter W in gate m ade a pause, [new paragrap h] “ I t h e m s dash in d icates no m ore than a change o f speaker, b u t seem s to have been m isin terp reted as ind icatin g suspen ded speech. 3 4 .39 p rithee peace ( ms ) / p rithee, peace 3 5 .5 durk ( m s ) / dirk 3 5 .7 upstart— I (ms) / upstart?— I

E M E N D A T IO N L I S T

422 3 5 .1 5 3 5 .2 0 3 5 .2 4 3 5 .2 9 3 5 .3 2 3 5 .3 4 3 5 .4 3 3 5 .4 3 36.1 3 6 .2 36 .6 t 3 6 .1 4 3 6 .1 4 36 .30 3 6 .3 2 36 .4 2 3 7 .5 3 7 .6

37.9 3 7 .1 0 3 7 .1 3 3 7 .1 6 3 7 .4 3 3 8 .2 3 8 .3

38 .4 39 .2 6 3 9 .3 2 3 9 .3 2 39 .4 2 40.8 4 0 .1 6

40.25 4 0 .34 4 1.2 0 4 1 .3 5 4 1 .4 1 4 1.4 3 42.1 4 2 .3 4 2.6 4 2 .1 4 4 2 .2 5

4 3 .2 3 4 3 .3 6 44 .3

for tongue (ms) / for the tongue “ that shou ld ( ms) / “ shou ld laid— i f (ms) / laid. I f corners (ms) / corner mystical-importance (ms) / mystical importance y o u .” (ms y o u / ) / y o u !” G o d I am (ms) / G o d , I am G o d I n ever ( ms) / G o d , I n ever m isdem eanours ( ms) / m isdem eanour G o d there ( ms) / G o d , there h an k fu l” [new p aragrap h] “ N a y , (ms th an k fu l” — “ N a y ) / thank­

fu l fo r.” [new paragrap h] “ N a y , help— b u t ( ms ) / h elp ; b u t may be it ( m s )/ may be, it h u rt?— and (ms h u rt— and) / h u rt ? and H e (ms) / he doubtless (ms) / doubless h ither— ye ( ms ) / h ither. Y o u long absences— I ( ms ) / lo n g and repeated absences. I lady,” (1 2mo) / lady!” (ms lady” ) say. Y o u r (ms) / say: yo u r h u m o u rs (ms) / h u m o u r me I (ms) / me, I con dition , to (ms con d ition to) / con dition, or to cub, delighted (m s derived: cub delighted) / cub; delighted gambols; you (ms derived: gambols, you) / gambols, you T h e ms com m a needs to be stren gthened in p ro p o rtion to the p u n c tu­ ation in trod u ced elsew h ere in the sentence. disp o sition— you (m s d erived : disp o sition you) / d isp o sition. Y o u striketh (ms 〈 sword 〉 ↑ striketh ↓ ) / strik eth w o rd sword com preh en d ed ( 1 2m o) / w o rd, sw o rd , com prehend ed (ms w o rd sw o rd com prehend ed) descriptions of the weapon (ms) / descriptions I hold m ore esp ecially to (ms) / m ore especially, I h old to is in ven ted ( ms) / w as in v en ted natu res ( ms) / natu re o ppo site w all (E d itorial) / o p p o site side o f the w all (ms as E d 1) S c o tt ap pears to have changed his m in d as he w ro te, b u t failed to tid y the passage fu lly. pale; he (ms derived: pale, he) / pale, he t h e unusual MS com m a in d icates a sign ificant pause. M o rn in g S tar ( ms) / m o rn in g -star tem p tations ( ms ) / tem p tation heart ( ms ) / head or (ms) / and om nipotent w isdom ( ms) / O m n ip o tent W isd o m m ed itation ( ms ) / M e d itation D iv in e G ra c e ( ms) / d iv in e grace t h e y have had ( ms) / they had paid to religio u s ad m o n ition in ( IS e t) / paid in (m s as E d 1) T h e ms sentence is in com p lete, and has been im p erfectly co rrected ; I S e t p ro vid es a neat so lu tion. su rely ( ms ) / S u re ly t o give ( ms) / fo r yo u W as ( ms) / W h at ! is

E M E N D A T IO N L I S T 44 .3 4 4 .1 1 44 .39 44.40 45.1

4 5 .2 45.6 4 5 .16 4 5 .18 4 5 .2 5 4 5 .3 3 4 5 .36 4 5 .4 1 46.4 46.9 4 6 .1 1 4 6 .1 8 4 6 .2 1 46 .2 2 46 .25 46.28 46 .34 46 .34 4 6 .37 46.43 4 7 .2 4 7 .1 7 4 7 .2 1 4 7 .2 5 4 7 .2 5 4 7 .3 3 48 .2 4 8 .2 2 48.24 48.26 4 8 .27

4 8 .33 4 8 .33 4 8 .35 49 .2 49.9

423

her(ms) / the or(ms) / nor noth in g— I ( ms ) / nothing. I much— I ( ms) / much. I w h en yo u w ill, to (ms derived : w hen you to) / i f you are w illin g, to A m ore m o d est change m akes sense o f the ms om ission, and better p reserves the m o vem ent o f the speech. him — and ( ms ) / h im , and it then that (ms) / it that t his? (ms) / this! ora(ms) / orofa stage ( ms ) / station pard on m o st d u tifu lly , m adam (ms pardon m ost d u tifu lly M ad am ) / pard on , m o st honourable m adam or(ms) / nor L ilia s. “ H e (ms L ilia s. H e) / L ilia s, “ he blood— m y ( ms) / blood. M y obtain all th e resp ect ( m s ) / exp ect all the regard noble, ( ms) / noble? w h istle— Y o u ( ms ) / w h istle. Y o u t h e in su lt ( ms ) / this in su lt sir— leave (ms S ir leave) / sir. L e a v e t hat ( ms) / those m istress ” (E d itorial) / m istress— ” A 2 -em dash is norm al fo r suspended speech. t em p er. “ t hink (8vo) / tem p er “ t hink (ms tem p er “ think) E d 1 has space fo r the m issin g p u n ctuation m ark. here— it ( m s ) / here; it y o u ’— I (ms y o u ” — I) / y o u .’ I aggrieved — yo u ( m s ) / aggrieved . Y ou w h ere ( ms ) / w hen su p p o rt— take ( m s ) / su p p o rt; take I shall o n ly ( m s ) / I o n ly w ilfu ln ess— b u t (ms w illfu ln ess— bu t) / w ilfu ln ess; b u t gold— yo u ( ms) / gold , you faint . B u t ( ms) / fain t ; b u t household— F ra n c is, [end o f line] (ms household— F ra n cis [end o f line]) / hou sehold , F ra n cis, [end o f line] t h e m , to give (m s them to give) / them fo r givin g h im s e lf— A n d ( ms ) / h im self, and liftin g too ( m s ) / liftin g, too M is tress ( m s ) / M r s S c o tt is not con sisten t in his use o f the titles ‘ M r s ’ and ‘ M r ’ . H ow ever, he uses the exp an d ed fo rm s ‘ M is tre ss’ and ‘M a s te r’ o ften en ough to ind icate that th is is h ow the contracted fo rm s shou ld be pronounced; in o rd er to c larify this the eew n restores the exp and ed fo rm s w henever they are em p lo yed in the m an u script . M is tress ( m s ) / M r s rejo ice ( ms ) / rejo icin g althou gh ( ms ) / th o u gh M is tress ( ms ) / M r s last ev en in g ( IS e t) / this m o rn in g (ms this m o m ) A lthou gh it is not im p o ssible that L ilia s cou ld have alread y seen her m istress ‘ this m o rn in g ’ , the likelihood is that S c o tt m ade a m istake o f chro n ology, w h ich he corrected in the I S e t.

424 E M

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4 9 .1 1 see and (ms) / see, and 4 9 .1 1 t hat m y (ms) / that, m y 4 9 .14 no harm (ms) / no m ore harm 4 9 .1 9 A n d therefo re ( m s ) / A n d , therefo re 49.22 gone, and so (ms gone and so) / gone; since S e e n e xt en try. 4 9 .22 h e r s e lf"— — ( m s ) / h erself, and be assured she w ill not lack o n e.” T h e lo n g ms dash sign ifies in te rru p tion. P ro b ab ly the p u n ctu ation was m isin terp reted, and so the sentence in the p r o o f w as deem ed in com plete. 4 9 .25 d ru n k ( ms ) / drank 49 .26 o f frien d (ms o f frein d ) / o f a frien d 4 9 .3 1 like ( ms) / likes 4 9 .38 S eig n io r (ms) / S ig n o r 49 .39 Q ueen— t h e se ( ms) / Q ueen ; these 49 .42 W in gate— and ( m s ) / W in gate, and 50.1 household— there ( m s ) / h o u seh o ld . T h e re 5 0 .1 be pap istrie am ongst ( m s ) / be a pap istrie am on g 5 0 .3 beads— I (ms) / beads? I 5 0 .14 M is tress (ms) / M r s 50 .2 6 M is tress ( m s ) / M r s 5 0 .39 H e re ( ms ) / t h e re 5 1.2 C a tholic— and ( ms ) / C a th o lic; and 5 1.5 w o rld — A n d (ms) / w o r ld ; and 5 1.16 ben edicites (ms) / ben edicities 5 1 .26 again , and (m s d erived : again and) / again ; and 5 1 .26 his shou lders— and ( m s ) / his ow n shou lders. A n d 51 .27 patron, and (ms derived: patron and) / patron; and 51 .41 t ale-pyot (ms) / tale-pyet T h e w o rd is carefu lly form ed in the m s , and the sp ellin g is ap p ro p riate to th e 1 6th centu ry. 5 1 .42 sw an .” ( ms) / sw an. 5 2 .2 i n (ms) / on 5 2 .1 9 little better (ms) / little, i f an y th in g, b etter 5 2 .1 9 a m ere tim e-server (ms a m ere tim e server) / a tim e-server 5 2 .3 0 his en d (ms) / its end 5 2 .3 5 m arks (ms) / m ark 5 3.1 R o la n d — abroad ( m s ) / R o la n d , abroad 5 3 .2 1 rep lied ( ms ) / said 5 3 .2 2 b u t w ere (ms) / b u t, w ere 5 3 .2 7 folk— b u t as I said— fo r ( ms ) / folk; b u t, as I said, fo r 54.8 our (ms) / old 5 4 .2 7 bread— thou gh ( ms ) / b read, thou gh 5 4 .36 head— A n d ( ms ) / head; and 54 .38 w o rd or ( ms) / w o rd , or 54 .38 blow, why, you (ms blow why you) / blow, you 54.40 again— com e ( m s ) / again. G om e 5 5 .4 syn e— w h at! not (ms syn e— w h at no t) / syn e.— W h at! not 5 5 .5 it— A (ms) / it— a 5 5 .6 way, and so farewell, and (ms derived: way and so farewell and) / way

— and so, farewell, and 5 5 .8 5 5 .1 3 5 5 .1 5

G o o d -m o rro w , go o d -m o rro w (ms d erived : G o o d m o rro w good m o r­ row ) / G o o d -m o rro w — go od -m o rro w in tim ate ( ms ) / inm ate felt stunned (ms felt stund) / seemed stunned In correctin g the rep etition, the person al fo rce o f the v erb w as lost:

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consequently the eew n lets the repetition stand. 5 5 .1 9 fo rw ard s ( ms ) / forw ard 5 5 .2 1 and then ( ms) / when 5 6 .1 8 p rid e, ra lly in g (M agn u m ) / p rid e rallyin g (ms m issing) 5 7 .6 hound.” (8vo) / hound, (ms missing) 5 8 .2 1 t h e n w ill ( 1 2m o) / t h e n , w ill (ms m issing) 6 1 .2 2 d estru c tion (8vo) / d istru ction (ms m issing) 6 2 .1 1

6 3 .3 9

6 4 .1 3

64.27 6 6 .4 1 6 7.1 6 7.8 6 7 .1 5 6 7 .1 7 6 7 .18 6 7 .2 1

6 7 .3 1 6 7-33

7 1 .36 7 3 .2 2 7 4 .4

7 5 .1 5 7 5 .3 4 7 6 .2 6

7 7 .3 3 7 8 .3 1

79.1 3 79.14 7 9 .3 2

80.1 0 8 1 .7

S a in t (E d itorial) / S t (m s m issing) S c o tt alw ays w rites ‘ S a in t’ in fu ll in the su rv iv in g m an u script . C o m pare S a in t R onan ’s W ell, eew n 1 6 ,4 1 6 . t ell h im that m y se lf,” an sw ered R o lan d . “ I (E d itorial) / tell h im ,” an­ sw ered R o la n d , “ that m yself. I (ms m issin g; M agn u m : m y s e lf tell him that,” an sw ered R o la n d . “ I) T h e M a g n u m w as ju stified in changin g the aw kw ard w o rd ord er, b u t d id so w ith u nn ecessary in trusiven ess. share in ad van cin g ( IS e t) / share o f ad van cin g (m s m issing) t h e O E D su p p o rts S c o tt’s I S e t em endation. accursed (8vo) / acursed (ms missing) it— fro m ( ms ) / it. F r o m b o d y , fro m m e stren gth (ms d erived : b o d y fro m m e stren gth) / b o dy— fro m m e, stren gth jealou s ( ms ) / zealous G ræ m e — sleep (ms) / G ræ m e , sleep t hou— I ( ms ) / thou! I H e r ( ms ) / t h e partin g (M a gn u m ) / m eetin g (ms as E d i ) T h e M a g n u m m akes a plau sible em en dation: S c o tt ap pears to have anticip ated ‘ m eet’ later in the sam e line. m e as ( ms ) / m e natu rally, as be— I ( ms ) / be. I I will (8vo) / “ I will (ms missing) C a s tle (8vo) / C a stel (ms m issing) w ere ( E d itorial) / w as (m s m issing) S c o tt qu o ted W ord sw orth correctly w h en w ritin g these lines as the m o tto (later replaced) fo r the p revio u s chapter. gran d m o ther (E d itorial) / m o ther (ms m issing) A n u n corrected error. B en edicti qu i veniu nt (M agn u m ) / B en ed iciti qu i ven tent (ms m issing) d au gh ter, M ag d a len ( E d itorial; I S e t daugh ter, sister M agd alen ) / d au gh ter M ag d a len (ms m issing) A com m a is needed to rem o ve the am b igu ity , thou gh in I S e t S c o tt n eed lessly ad ded an ad d itional ‘ siste r ’ . M a r y ’s. C onju raveru nt (M agn u m ) / M a r y ’s, C onju raveru nt (m s m iss­ ing) t h o u gh t th u s ( E d itorial) / spoke th u s (m s m issing) T h e M a g n u m (w h ich reads ‘ thu s reso lv ed ’) d rew atten tion to an erro r, b u t in terfered m ore than w as n ecessary in correctin g it. strewed (m s strewd) / spread it and exhibited (ms) / it, which exhibited co n versatio n — A n d (ms derived : con versation— and) / con versation. — And t h e E d 1 capital correctly sign ifies a change o f ad dressee, b u t the fu ll stop is in trusive. m atron (m s M a tron) / m atrons t end (M agn u m ) / ten ds (ms m issing)

4 2 6

8 1 .36 82.5 82; 1 5 8 3 .3 2 8 4 .2 2 8 6 .22 86 .24 86 .27 88.5

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other’s (8vo) / others (ms missing) H eatherg ill (M agn u m ) / H eather - G ill (m s m issing) less ( IS e t) / m o re (m s m issing) replied, “ A ( 1 8mo) / replied, [new paragraph] “ A (m s missing) forbod e (E d itorial) / forebod e (m s m issing) slack: the ( ms) / slack— the cou n tenance (ms) / cou ntenances on (ms) / at b igo tted ; w h ile (M a g n u m b igo ted; w hile) / b igo tte d . W h ile (ms m is­ sin g) 9 1 . 1 3 t h e m (E d itorial) / it (ms m issing) 9 2 .1 6 sh ou ld er ( ms) / shou lders 9 2.28 fo rw ard s ( ms) / fo rw ard 9 2 .3 2 brok e ( ms) / b roken 9 2 .3 3 malignity, (ms) / malignity; 9 2 .3 5 we never (ms) / we may never 9 3 .1 2 prep aration ( ms) / p reparations 9 3 .1 5 m u rm u rin g in ( ms ) / m u rm u rin g , in 9 3.2 0 t hat ere ( ms ) / that , ere 9 3 .2 2 or (ms) / and 9 3 .2 5 assoilyie ( ms) / assoilzie A lthou gh there is no pro n u n ciation d ifferen ce, S c o tt has ca re fu lly w rit­ ten ‘ y ’ , p resu m ab ly to avoid m islead in g the reader. 93-33 on h im (ms) / o f an hou r 9 3 .3 5 once (ms) / are 9 3-35 continu e ( m s ) / continues 9 3 .3 8 “ t o (ms) / t o 9 3 .3 8 w a y ,” (ms w a y” ) / w ay, 93-39 “ t hat ( ms) / t hat 9 3 .4 1 A m b ro se— A t ( m s ) / A m b ro se;— at 9 3.4 3 relation— A t ( m s ) / relation— at 9 3.4 3 t his w itch in g ( m s ) / the w itch in g 94.1 sm ile ” H e ( ms) / sm ile.— H e 94.6 han ds ( ms) / hands, 94 .7 t o (ms) / A n d T his is the catch -w o rd at the bottom o f f. 3 1 — the n e xt page o f the MS is m issing. 94 .34 she had (1 8mo) / he had (ms missing) 96.1 whither (8vo) / whether (m s missing) 9 7 .1 8 lintel ( ms ) / door-post 9 7 .3 0 fo r as ( ms ) / fo r, as 9 7 .3 7 w estern (E d itorial) / eastern (m s as E d 1) A m istake: the gate at M elro se is to the w est o f the ch urch . C o n fu sio n as to p o in ts o f the com pass is com m on in S c o tt. 98.9 w ith ou t, bu t (ms d erived : w ithou t b u t) / w ithou t; b u t 9 8 .13 m i ( ms) / mei 9 8 .16 father?” (8vo) / fath er ;” (ms father ” ) 98.40 he (ms) / he 99.1 sainted ( ms) / S a in ted 99 .3 knew ( ms ) / know 99 .3 t o ld it m e (ms) / told m e 9 9 .1 1 m arshal (ms) / m arshall 9 9 .22 amongst (ms d erived : amongs) / among 99 .25 d ev o tion, w here (M agn u m ) / d evo tion w h ere (ms as E d 1 ) 99.28 niches (ms) / stations

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99.30 99.36 99.43

been now (ms) / now been in their (ms) / in this N ico las (ms) / N ich o las 10 0 .4 P h ilip (M agn u m ) / P e ter (ms as E d 1 ) 100.7 One had dared (ms) / one dared 100.14 E v e n (ms) / even 100.27 dalmatique... raised, his (m s dalmatique and cope and 〈 cos〉 crosier his ↑ hoary ↓ crossbearers and 〈 incense〉 his juvenile 〈 incen〉 censerbearers, the venerable train of monks behind him to the supreme authority over whom he was now raised, his) / dalmatique and crosier, his hoary standard-bearers and his juvenile dispensers of incense pre­ ceding him, and the venerable train of monks behind him, with all besides which could announce the supreme authority to which he was now raised, his

100.30 100.31 10 1.33 102.1 5 102.39 1 03.6 103.13 103.1 5 1 03.20 103.21 103.22

T h e in term ediaries, in their e ffo rts to avoid the deliberate rep etition, lost the rh etorical fo rce o f the ms versio n . T h e deleted ‘ in cen ’ is con­ jectural. Ju b ila te (ms) / ju b ilate burst (ms) / rise for which (ms) / to which consort—the (m s derived: consort the) / concert; the which the danger (ms) / which danger youth, looking (8vo) / youth, looking (ms youth looking) reply to (ms) / reply, to weapon—if (ms) / weapon;— if louder, and (m s derived: louder and) / louder; and A b b o t m oved w ith ( ms) / A b b o t, w ith precipitate, towards (ms precipitate towards) / precipitate, moved

towards 103.26 church, and (m s derived: church and) / church; and 103.27 open (ms) / opened 103.31 were (ms) / was 103.32 not to know, your (ms derived: not to know your) / not, to know your 103.38 t h ird . “ A n d (ms) / th ird , “ and 103.40 A y — A y — O u r (m s d erived : A y e A y e O ur) / A y , ay, our 103.43 hammers, which (ms hammers which) / hammers, to which 104.1 have soon (ms) / soon have 104.1 way to. (ms) / way. 104.7 t his (ms) / the 1 0 4 .1 1 lantern -kail (m s lantern kale) / lanten-kail ‘L a n te rn ’ is correct fo r 1 6 th -cen tu ry S c o ts.

1 0 4 .1 1

S o i f (ms) / S o , i f

104.23 composure (ms) / devotion 104.26 but, much contrary (ms but much contrary) / but, contrary 104.28 A hall!— a hall (ms A hall, a hall) / A halt!— a halt 104.35 before, and (ms before and) / before him, and 104.39 drama, and (ms derived: drama and) / drama; and 104.41 t h e formidable (ms derived: the transform(ed)idable) / the more for­ midable 10 5 .1 1 0 5 .3 1

105.41

S c o tt changed his m in d , b u t fo rgo t to delete the first syllable, w h ich was then m isread. S a b ra (E d itorial) / Sabæ a (ms as E d 1 ) A n u n corrected error: o n ly the fo rm ‘ S a b ra ’ is used in S c o tt’s sources. hand; (ms) / hand, sacred: (ms) / sacred;

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10 6 .2 B u t w h en ( ms ) / B u t, w h en 10 6 .3 changed, w h en ( ms ) / changed— w hen 1 0 6 .1 1 t h e y therefo re ( m s ) / th ey , therefo re 10 6 .2 1 rochet ( ms) / rocket 10 6 .2 3 t hose (ms) / these 106.26 Saint (ms) / St 106.27 caricatura (ms) / caricature 10 7 .3 bearing thus the (ms bearing ↑ thus ↓ the) / bearing the 10 7 .8 M isru le , the (ms M is ru le the) / M isru le , and the 10 7 .9 U n rea so n !” A n d th e (ms U n rea so n ” A n d the) / U n rea so n !” [n ew paragraph] t h e 1 0 7 .1 3 capered, clashing his (ms derived: capered clashing their) / capered,

and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their

1 0 7 .1 4 10 7 .2 4

1 07.40 10 8 .5

10 8 .6

10 8 .7 1 0 8 .1 5 10 8 .1 8 1 0 8 .1 9 10 8 .2 1 1 0 8 .2 1

I t was recalled that there w as o n ly one h o b b y-h orse, and a n ew clause was in trod uced to acco u n t fo r the plural. In the pro cess the p o in t o f the equine im ages in the rest o f the sentence w as lost . C h a n g in g the pro­ nouns to the sin gu lar solves the problem . his en ergetic ( E d itorial) / their en ergetic (ms as E d 1) populace (M a gn u m ) / m etrop olis (ms M e trop olis) S c o tt ap paren tly m ade a sim ple m istake; The M agnum o ffers a reason­ able alternative. m ad cap.” — “ A b b o t (m s m ad cap” — “ A b b o t) / m adcap— A b b o t ch ild ren ” said ( E d itorial) / ch ild ren ” — said (ms ch ild ren ” said) A 2 -em dash is used to sig n ify in terru p tion, b u t on th is occasion there was in su fficien t space in the line. “ A n d ( ms ) / “ M y ch ild ren too,— and T h e A b b o t o f U n rea so n ’s b aw d y inn uen do w as either m isu n d erstoo d or deliberate ly d isgu ised. and they ( ms ) / an d it is w ell they m ention in g— A n d ( ms ) / m en tion in g; and u tterm ost . S h e (ms d erived : u tterm ost Sh e) / u tterm o st; she ye t a d istinct ( ms ) / ye t d istin ct patrim on y!— B in d (m s p atrim on y— B in d ) / patrim on y! B in d which, rivetted on earth, are (ms which rivetted on earth are) / which,

being rivetted by the church on earth, are 10 8 .2 4 10 8 .2 5 10 8 .2 6 10 8 .2 8 10 8 .2 9 10 8 .3 5

10 8 .4 1 10 9 .3 10 9 .1 5 10 9 .2 5 10 9 .28 10 9 .28 10 9 .3 7 10 9 .3 7 109 .40

S ee Essay o n th e T ext, 407. t h e e peace ( ms ) / thee, peace am (ms) / shall be N a y , nay, h o ly (ms N a y n ay holy) / N a y , m y h o ly b rethren” (ms b re thren— ) / b reth ren !” nay, reverend brother!” (ms nay reverend brother” ) / nay!” am ongst a c r o w d . . . The (ms am on gst ↑ a crou d con sistin g ch iefly o f ↓ the) / a m o n g s t the A verso ad d ition (on f. 59V) has been om itted: f. 59 w as the last sheet o f a packet, and w as p u t aw ay before the n e xt packet arriv ed fro m S c o tt. U n reaso n once again, “ d ig h t (ms U n reaso n once again “ d ig h t) / U n ­ reason, “ once again d ig h t w ould w in ( ms) / cou ld gain religio u s ( ms ) / religio n ru le, as I (ms rule as I) / ru le in this ch u rch w h ere I p ray w h en ( ms ) / p ray w h ile jovial, w ake (ms d erived : jo vial wake) / jovial— w ake L ig h t of the L a n d ( ms ) / ligh t of the land prayer, that (ms p ray er that) / p rayer is, that ligh t , ( ms) / ligh t ?

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1 10.2 1 1 1 .5 1 1 1 .6 1 1 1 .11

1 12.7 1 1 2 .1 4 1 1 2 .1 9 1 1 2 .20 1 12 .2 4 1 12 .3 0 1 1 2 .3 2 1 1 2 .3 5 1 1 3 .7 1 13 .13 113 .13 1 1 3 .3 0

113 .33

1 1 3 .3 7 1 1 3 .3 9 1 1 3 .4 1 1 14 .2 1 14 .9 1 1 4 .1 0 1 1 4.43 1 1 5 .5 1 1 5.6

1 1 5.7 1 1 5.9 1 1 5. 1o 1 1 5 .1 1 1 15 .13 115 .18 115 .2 4 1 1 5 .3 4 1 1 5.40

1 16.10 116 .11 1 1 6 .1 7 1 16 .2 2 1 16 .2 3

1 1 6.28

116.28

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G o d an d o u r L a d y , and h o ly saints, (ms G o d and ↑ o ur lad y & ↓ ho ly saints) / G o d , o ur L a d y , and the H o ly S a in ts, p ilg rim , abbess (m s pilgrim abbess) / p ilgrim , or abbess m ill-d am — w e (m s d erived : m ill-d am we) / m ill-dam . W e pu rpo se— W h en (m s derived : pu rpo se W hen) / p u rp o se, w h en of our own mind; and (ms of our own mind and) / of his own

mind, as before; and come (ms) / came th e y will (ms) / it will b rin g back ( m s ) / b rin g them back N ico las (E d itorial) / N ich o las (ms as E d 1 ) dam e— I (m s D am e— I) / dam e, I Y e t stay— W h at ( ms) / Y e t, stay— w hat A ven el?— they (m s A v en el— they) / A ven el? t h e y factitious (ms) / fictitious h is m onks ( ms ) / the m onks coast (ms) / court ho llo w ( ms ) / halloo d e s ire d ... T h e y (ms d esire d . T h e revellers resu m ed their parts shou ted w h oo pd hollow d and soon w ro u gh t them selves in to as m erry and m isch ievo u s a disp o sition as their leader cou ld have d esire d . T h ey) / d esire d . T h e y T h e co p yist, d istracted b y a verso insertion , ju m ped tw o lin es. T h e rep etition o f ‘d esire d ’ w o u ld ideally have been corrected , bu t there is no reason to o m it the m s tex t . bu rn ed (m s b u rn d) / b u rn t sang (ms) / sung hand ( ms ) / hands vio len ces ( ms ) / violen ce have ( ms ) / heave am on gst ( m s ) / am o n g m asters! ( m s ) / m asters? “ that they (E d itorial) / that they (ms as E d 1 ) S e e n e x t en try. d estru c tio n .” (ms d estru ction— ” ) / destru c tion. T h e in v erted com m as su ggest S c o tt heard th is as in d irect speech. masters ( ms) / friends stone-w alls?— take (m s stone-w alls— take) / stone w alls? t ake stone-w alls— A b a te ( m s ) / stone w alls— abate excess, an d (m s excess and) / excess; and amuse (ms) / mislead o f our (ms) / in our me (ms) / myself lou red (ms lou rd ) / looked fly .” (m s derived: fly— ” ) / fly .” F or (ms) / for backw ard ( ms ) / backw ards thy (ms) / the A n d ( ms ) / and m ad m en ( ms ) / ru ffian s M o re is lost b y correctin g the repetition than is gained. S c o tt’s dissatis­ faction w ith E d i w as show n b y a fu rther ad dition in the I S e t : ‘ ↑ bu ffoons or ↓ ru ffian s’ . B ro w s te r’s ( m s ) / B re w s te r’s Draw (ms) / draw

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1 1 6.30 M o v e (E d itorial) / m ove (ms as E d 1) A capital is used to in d icate a change o f ad dressee. 1 1 6 .3 1 W h at ( ms ) / w h at 1 1 7 .4 B r in g (E d itorial) / bring(ms as E d 1 ) 1 1 7 . 1 0 sends u s such (ms) / sends such 1 1 8 .1 0 him . H e ... h o u r. T h e (ms him . H e then d ism issd his other fo llow ers tellin g them to be read y w h en he shou ld w in d his horn to take to horse w h ich m ig h t be the in the space o f an h o u r. T h e ) / h im . T h e 1 1 8 .1 4 M a r tin the ostle r-w ife ’s (ms B ro w s ter th e O stle r-w ife ’s) / M a r tin ’ s, the hostle r’ s w ife 1 1 8 . 1 9 notice— I (ms) / notice;— I 1 1 8.20 out— I ( ms) / out . I 1 1 8.22 some things (ms somethings) / something 1 1 8.24 hath picked (ms hath pickd) / had picked 1 18 .2 5 relative ( ms ) / relation 1 18 .2 6 hast sh ew n ( ms ) / d id st shew 1 1 8.29 in ju stice (ms) / u ngenerous 1 19 .9 O r m u st ( ms ) / or, m u st 1 1 9 .1 9 sp irit. ( ms ) / sp irit, 1 1 9 .2 1 be so utte rly (ms) / be u tterly 1 1 9 .2 2 o bservation as ( m s ) / observation , as 1 1 9 .2 5 it ” he (ms) / it.” H e 1 1 9.26 G len d in n in g ; “ large ( 1 8m o) / G le n d in n in g , “ large (m s G len d in n in g “ large) 119.32 offered?” (ms offerd— ” ) / offered you?” 1 2 0 .1 5 t h e re rem ains ( m s ) / th e re still rem ains 1 2 0 .1 8 and beseem s (ms) / an d, as such , beseem s 120.21 when we (ms) / where we 1 2 0 .2 4 and w ere (ms) / an d, w ere 12 0 .2 4 m ethinks a (ms) / m ethinks, a 12 0 .2 7 B u t let ( ms ) / B u t, let 120.33 over, and (ms derived: over and) / over; and 1 2 0 .34 w oods or pastu res or corn-field s— n eith er (m s w oods or pastu res or cornfields— neither) / w oods, nor pastu res, n o r corn -field s;— n either 12 0 .3 6 ended, and (ms derived: ended and) / ended; and 1 20.43 t h e C o n gregation ( m s ) / the refo rm ed con gregation 1 21 .4 require whatever consideration I can preserve (ms) / demand whatever

consideration I can acquire 12 1.8 12 1.11

12 1 .21 12 1.2 3 1 2 1 .2 6 1 2 1 .26 12 1.3 1 1 2 1.3 2 12 1.3 7 1 2 1 .40 1 2 2 .5

1 22.6 1 2 2 .3 7 1 2 3 .5 12 3 .8

123.12 1 2 3 .1 2

A m b ro se ( ms) / A m b ro siu s m in e ( ms) / m y in d ivid u al p ro tection presence— Peace (ms) / presence. Peace m y an sw er (ms) / to m ake m e an sw er n o w I (ms N o w I ) / now , I p ilgrim er fo r (ms) / p ilgrim er, fo r or heresy (ms) / nor heresy A n tich rist ( ms) / antich rist grou n d ( ms ) / grou n ds m ind— thanks ( m s ) / m in d . T hanks his (ms) / the dissention (ms) / disagreement refresh m en t— leave (ms) / refresh m en t . L e a v e N ico las (E d itorial) / N ich o las (ms as E d i ) grows.” (ms) / grows” veniam (ms) / Veniam w ith trem b lin g (ms) / w ith a trem b lin g

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1 2 3 . 1 8 reason in tu rn , The Abbot shook (E d itorial) / reason, The Abbot, in tu rn , shook (m s reason The Abbot shook) T h e w o rd s ‘ in tu rn ’ w ere pro b ab ly added to the p ro of, b u t w ere w ro n gly p laced, p erh ap s because an in term ed iary m isu n d erstood ‘do him reason ’ . 1 2 3 .2 3 E d w a rd ,” replied (8vo) / E d w a rd , replied (ms E d w a rd replied) 12 3 .2 7 y e t each, con fident (M agn u m ) / y e t, each con fident (ms ye t each con fident) 12 3 .3 0 was ( 1 8m o) / were (ms as E d 1 ) 1 2 3 .3 5 glance ( ms ) / glim p se 123.39 inclined (ms) / induced 12 4 .7 issue— — ” (ms) / issue.” A n em p hatic m s dash im plies a m elodram atic suspen sion o f speech. 1 2 5 .1 9 “ t h e re (E d itorial) / t h e re (ms as E d 1 ) 1 2 5 .1 9 again ,” (ms again” ) / again, 12 5 .2 0 “ I (ms) / I( ms as E d i ) 12 5 .2 0 green ( IS e t) / b u ff S c o tt realised that ‘ b u f f was m ilitary attire (com pare 1 4 6 . 1 1 ) , and so inap p rop riate in th is conte x t. A lso see 1 6 6 .1 8 , w h ere R o lan d is de­ scribed as w earin g a ‘ green jacket’ . 1 2 5 .2 1 will (ms) / may 12 5 .2 4 h allo w in g ( ms ) / hallooing 1 2 5 .2 4 scram b lin g up a ( ms ) / scram blin g a 12 5 .2 5 nest.” (ms) / nest. 12 5 .2 6 p reju d ices leaning (ms) / p reju d ices, leaning 12 6 .4 fo rgo t ( ms ) / fo rget 1 26 .7 exh o rtation ( ms ) / exh o rtations 12 6 .2 4 seein g ( ms ) / rejo in in g 1 2 6 .2 5 im agination. A n d (m s derived : im agination ↑ A n d ↓ ) / im agination; and 1 26.28 adventure (ms) / adventures 1 2 6 .3 3 amongst (ms) / among 12 6 .3 9 his sense ( ms ) / the sense 12 7 .8 R o la n d ,” ( m s d erived : R o la n d ” ) / R o la n d ?” 12 8 .2 W hat a d evil ( ms) / W h at the d evil 12 8 .3 o u t ? yo u (ms out yo u ) / out ? Y o u 1 2 8 .1 2 have all tim e ( ms) / h ave tim e 1 2 8 .1 4 A y , and (ms d erived : A y e and) / A y ; and 1 2 8 .2 2 natu re o f a vassal ( ms) / character o f a retain er T his m ay have been changed in pro of; i f so, m istaken ly, fo r the refer­ en ce to ‘ v assal’ provokes R o la n d ’s later qu ib b le ( 12 8 .2 9 ) on w hether G le n d in n in g is his ‘ feu d al su p erio r’ . 1 2 8 .2 2 A v e n e l’s ( ms ) / A v en el 12 8 .2 6 in, until ( ms) / in until 12 8 .3 0 au th o rity ” — — ( m s ) / au th o rity — — ” 12 8 .3 4 steel— as ( ms) / steel, as 1 2 8 .3 5 Pure— b u t ( ms) / p u re, b u t 1 2 8 .36 C ap p erlaw ( ms ) / C ap p erlaw e 1 28 .36 gate— fo r ( ms ) / gate fo r 12 9 .1 b rid ge— rid e ( ms ) / b rid ge. R id e 1 2 9 .1 0 t h e e— cu rb ( ms ) / thee. C u rb 1 29.1 0 tem p er, be (m s d erived : tem p er be) / tem p er. B e 12 9 .2 8 and habitual ill-humour (ms and habitual ill humour) / and ill-humour 12 9 .3 4 R o m e, as (ms d erived : R o m e as) / R o m e— as 12 9 .3 5 pardons, and (ms derived: pardons and) / pardons; and 12 9 .3 5 passport ( ms) / passports

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1 29 .38 com panion; and then (ms com pan ion & then) / com panion; then 12 9 .3 8 d og, brid gew ard (ms dog, b rid ge-w ard ) / dog— B rid g e w ard 13 0 .6 days!— it (ms days— it) / days! I t 1 3 0 .7 and m ay (ms d erived : and i f m ay) / an d it m ay A ms erro r, best corrected sim p ly b y deletion. 1 3 0 .1 2 covered (m s coverd) / d isco vered 1 3 0 .4 1 S a in t ( m s ) / “ S a in t 13 0 .4 4 hay (ms) / hey 1 3 1 .1 0 ↓ t o u ch at (ms derived : I have I tou ch at) / I have a tou ch at S c o tt had a second thou ght , b u t fo rgo t to delete ‘ I have’ . 1 3 1 . 1 1 and I (ms) / an I 1 3 1 .2 0 hay (ms) / hey 1 3 1 .28 A y — if (ms A y e — if) / A y , i f 1 3 1 . 3 1 now w e (ms) / now , w e 1 3 1 .3 6 t h e m selves” ( m s ) / them selves ” 1 3 1 .40 candle-ends, their (m s candle-ends (and) their) / candle-ends, and

their 1 3 1 .4 4 13 2 .6 1 3 2 .1 2 1 3 2 .1 4 1 3 2 .1 5 1 3 2 .1 6 1 3 2 .1 7 13 2 .2 0 1 3 2 .2 2

1 32.23 132.25 1 3 2 .2 8 13 2 .3 8 13 2 .3 9

his religio n (ms) / his fo rm o f religio n and on the ( ms ) / and the L e g isla tion’s (ms L e g isla tions) / legislatio n ’s E d in b u rg h ,” (ms d erived : E d in b u rg h ” ) / E d in b u rg h ?” com m and (ms) / com m anded w h om ( ms ) / w h ich much, (ms) / much? w ild -d u ck . A y — yo n d er (ms w ild du ck. A y e — yon der) / w ild -d u ck s— ay, yo n der C a stle. A n d (ms) / C a stle; an d ground— that (ms) / ground, that page, but in (ms page but in) / page in w ell— they ( ms) / w ell, th ey blossom , and (ms d erived : blo sso m and) / blossom ; and w h istlin g— A n d all ( ms ) / w h istlin g , and to m ark all her, happiest (ms derived: her happiest) / her; happiest or a look (ms) / or look

1 32.40 132.40 133.3 She (ms) / she 133.3 ay—pomp (ms) / ay, pomp 13 3.11 not for my share, nor (ms not for my share nor) / not where, for my part, nor 1 3 3 .2 7 t h e se (ms thes) / those 1 3 3 .2 8 fu rther (ms) / farther 1 3 3 .3 7 bear ( ms) / hap to learn 1 3 3 .3 9 O ld (ms) / old 13 3 .4 0 ‘A y , is he in (ms 〈 an d 〉 aye is he in) / ‘A n d is he, in 13 3 .4 2 O ld (ms) / old 1 3 3 .4 3 1 3 4 .1 1 3 4 .5 1 3 4 .1 6 1 3 6 .2 3 1 3 9 .1 4 13 9 .2 3 1 4 2 .1 4 14 2 .2 6 1 4 2 .3 4

fo r I prom ise, you (m s fo r I p ro m ise yo u ) / fo r, I p rom ise yo u , yo u are as keen (ms) / are keen will see (ms) / shall see lip; (8vo) / lip, (ms missing) w h ile the others (M a gn u m ) / W h ile the others (ms m issing) w h at the ( 1 2m o) / w h at, the (ms m issin g) yoldring.” (8vo) / yoldring.’ (ms missing) arch -h eretic (ms) / arch -fien d provided (ms derived: proved) / afforded T his is the likeliest in terp retation o f the ms error. crim son lined ( ms) / crim so n , lined

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1 4 3 .1 0 bare them ( ms ) / bore them selves 1 4 3 . 1 7 a ffray, had b rou gh t (ms a ffray had b rou gh t) / a ffray, brou gh t 14 3 .2 9 him w ith ( ms ) / u s w ith 1 4 3 .3 3 fu rther ( ms) / farther 1 4 4 .1 0 w o u ld I knew ( ms) / w o u ld know 1 4 4 .1 0 th e e to mix in ( ms) / thee in 14 4 .2 8 on (ms) / in 1 4 4 .3 1 has (ms) / hast 14 5 .2 t h e e— thou ( ms) / thee . T hou 14 5 .4 squ ire— and ( ms) / squ ire; and 1 4 5 .2 1 t h e mselves, and (ms derived: themselves and) / themselves; and 14 5 .2 2 t h e refo re cock (ms t h e refo re cock) / therefo re, cock 14 5 .4 0 t hose (ms) / these 14 6 .3 w ild ly aroun d as ( ms ) / w ild ly as 1 4 6 .1 0 his lo n g beard , fu rred (ms his ↑ lo n g beard ↓ fu rd ) / his fu rred t h e insertion on the o ppo site verso w as overlooked. 1 4 6 .1 7 his road ( ms ) / the road 14 6 .2 2 d ispersio n ( ms ) / disp o sition 14 6 .3 7 t o corresp on d ( ms ) / o f a corresp on d in g colour 1 47.1 ’scapes yo u r B o rd er-d o o m (ms ’scapes yo u r B o rd e r doom ) / ’scapes B o rd er-d o o m 14 7 .6 w o rth y ( ms) / good 1 4 7 .1 1 t h e falcon ( ms ) / th y falcon 1 4 7 .1 1 high ( ms ) / h igh er 1 4 7 .1 4 crush (ms) / crash 1 4 7 .1 4 hood— he ( ms ) / hood, he 14 7 .2 0 now . O n ly (ms d erived : n o w O n ly) / now , o nly 1 4 7 .4 1 t arno w ay ( ms) / D a m o w a y 1 48.1 t h e se professional o bservation s ( m s ) / this professional o bservation 14 8 .5 ‘ fo r m y b ro ther ,’ said (M agn u m ) / fo r m y b ro ther ,” said (ms fo r m y bro ther said) E d 1 ap plies in v erted com m as to the rep o rted speeches incon sisten tly and co n fu sin gly, w h ile the ms su p p lies no in v erted com m as w ith in M ic h a e l’s sp eech . T h e M agn u m o ffers a con sistent alternative. 14 8 .5 ‘ shou ld (M agn u m ) / “ shou ld 14 8 .7 h ere,’ said he, ‘ the (M agn u m ) / h ere,” said he, “ the 14 8 .8 claim s ( ms ) / claim 1 4 8 .1 0 bu rn ed (ms b u m d ) / b u rn t 1 4 8 .1 1 outed ( ms ) / o usted 1 4 8 .1 2 p riests .’ A n d (M agn u m ) / p riests. A n d 1 4 8 .1 3 ‘t h e se (M agn u m ) / t h e se 1 4 8 .1 3 D o u g las (ms) / D o u g lass 1 4 8 .1 7 burned (ms) / burnt 1 4 8 .1 8 m essenger. ’ A n d (M a gn u m ) / m essenger. A n d 14 8 .2 2 again , and (ms derived : again and) / again— and 14 8 .2 3 him — so it (ms him — so (th e) it) / him . S o then it 14 8 .2 4 ‘t a k e (M a g n u m ) / t ake 14 8 .2 6 n o bles’— by (M agn u m ) / nobles— b y 14 8 .2 6 w o rds— ( m s ) / w o rds.— 14 8 .2 7 ‘ A n d b esid es,’ he said, ‘ he (M agn u m ) / A n d besides, he said, he 1 4 8 .30 w o rld .’ A n d (M agn u m ) / w o rld . A n d 1 4 8 .3 1 ‘ t u sh (M agn u m ) / t ush 14 8 .3 6 ju stic e .’— A n d (M agn u m ) / ju stice.— A n d 14 8 .3 6 presence, as (ms presence as) / place, and, as 14 8 .3 7 m alconte n t, as I tho u gh t, (ms m alco n ten t as ↓ tho u gh t— ) / m alcontent .

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1 4 9 .1 2 1 4 9 .1 5 1 4 9 .1 6 14 9 .2 2 1 4 9 .23 1 4 9 .3 1 14 9 .3 2 1 4 9 .32 14 9 .3 6 1 50 .7 1 50.20 1 50 .2 2 15 0 .2 5 1 50.26 1 5 0 .27

1 51 .4 1 51 .10 1 51.1 1 1 5 1 .12 15 1.18

1 51 .26 1 5 1 .30 1 5 1.3 3 1 5 1 .34 1 5 2.2 0 1 5 2 .2 3 1 5 2 .30 1 5 3· 1 7 1 5 3 .2 2 1 5 3 .2 3 1 5 4.3

1 54.8

1 5 4 .10 1 5 4 .1 2 1 5 4 .32

1 54.37 1 5 5.8 1 5 5 .1 8 1 5 5 .1 8

1 56.26 1 56.28

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A v en el, and (ms d erived : A v en el and) / A v en el. A n d pu rpo se— fo r ( ms ) / p u rp o se, fo r yo u r K n ig h t (ms) / yo u r lord o rd er ( m s ) / orders disco n certed ( ms) / disco n ten ted hat, i f the A b b e y w as in ju red , he exp ected yo u r (ms d erived : that he exp ected i f the A b b e y w as in ju red he exp ec ted yo u r) / that he exp ected, i f the A b b e y was in ju red , yo u r S c o tt’ s second th o u gh t shou ld have been follow ed in correctin g the rep etition. P e rth shires ( m s ) / P e rth [end o f line h yph en ] shires our (ms) / her now that ( ms ) / n ow , that house, som e (ms derived : house som e) / house— som e saints, w ere (E d itorial) / saints w ere (m s as E d 1) m aid en ( ms) / M aid e n she (ms) / she’ll neck once, yo u r (m s neck once yo u r) / neck, and yo u r one, b u t (ms d erived : one b u t) / one; b u t R e g e n t: (ms regen t :) / R e g e n t; m ayst ( m s ) / m ayest su n -b u rn ed (ms su n -b u rn d) / su n -b u rn t A rare (ms) / a rare played , and (m s derived : p layd & ) / p layed ; and get su n g ( ms ) / get it su n g ligh t, shot (M agn u m ) / lig h t shot (ms as E d 1) is, but (ms derived: is but) / is,— but it— blood (ms) / it. B lo o d avenged— the (ms) / av en g e d . T h e fo rw ard s ( ms) / fo rw ard packet. H is (ms derived : packet H is) / packet, his S a y yo u , m y (ms S a y yo u m y) / S a y yo u so, m y it time (ms) / it a time do yo u yo u r ( ms ) / do yo u r t h e L o r d R e g e n t ( ms ) / the R e g e n t lau gh in g ( ms) / sm ilin g still and pro fo u n d (ms ↑ still & ↓ pro fo u n d ) / s till p ro fo u n d o f A v en el (ms) / o f S ir H a lb e rt o f A v en el W hat, o f (ms d erived : w h at of) / W h at! o f d w elled (ms dw elld) / d w elt disco n certed ( m s ) / disco u raged chid in g, [new p aragrap h] W h en H yn d m a n had (m s d erived : chid in g, [n ew paragraph] W h en he had) / ch id in g. W h en he had T h e re was no reason no t to fo llo w the m s paragrap h d iv isio n , thou gh con vention dem ands that at the start o f a paragrap h H y n d m a n ’ s nam e shou ld be specified. page— “ Y o u r (ms) / page, [n ew p arag ra p h ] “ Y o u r designed (ms designd ) / design ated and haw k ( ms ) / an d to haw k aught that I (ms) / aught I speak ( ms ) / speaks w eigh t— it ( ms ) / w e igh t— I t said— E d w a rd ( ms) / said, E d w a rd not on her thinking and acting (ms) / not that she will think and act n ow ten t ( ms) / ten t n ow

14 8 .3 9 14 8 .4 0 14 8 .4 2 1 48.43 14 9 .6 14 9 .7 t

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w ith — — — ” h ere (ms) / w ith ” — — [new paragraph] H ere T h e re is no in te rru p tio n . T h e three dashes in the m s ap parently sig n ify three nam es. 15 6 .3 8 ear. [n ew p aragrap h] M o ra y (E d itorial) / ear. M u rra y (m s ear M u rra y ) B ecau se o f the p revio u s em endation, a new paragrap h is n eeded to in d icate a change o f speaker. 1 56.42 A y — w h ich (m s A y e — w h ich) / A y , w h ich 1 57.1 t aken ( ms ) / taken place 1 5 7 .3 an sw er— b u t ( ms ) / an sw er, b u t 1 5 7 .4 con cern ed— B u t (ms concernd— B u t) / con cern ed; b u t 15 7 .2 0 t ron (ms) / t ron e 15 7 .2 6 divel ( ms ) / devil 157-35 D o u g la s ,” said the R e g e n t, “ b u t these (ms D o u g las b u t these) / D o u g ­ la s,” said the R e g e n t ; “ these 1 57.38 amended, and (m s derived: amended and) / amended; and 1 58.2 H yn d m a n ” w h e n . . . G ræ m e. “ B y ( m s D o o rw ard — ” w h en su d d en ly his eye ligh ted on (G len d in n in g ) R o lan d G ræ m e. “ B y ) / H y n d m a n !” w h e n . . . G ræ m e— “ B y 15 8 .7 H ark (ms H eark ) / H eark en 15 8 .8 child— thou ( ms ) / child— t hou 1 5 8 .32 M o r ton ?” (m s M o r ton?— ” ) / M o r ton ?’ 1 58.43 H e re , thou, H yn d m a n (E d itorial) / H e re , thou H yn d m a n (ms H e re thou D o o rw ard ) E d 1 ’ s p u n c tu ation o f the ad dress is eccentric; h o w ever, it rig h tly cor­ rects the characte r’ s nam e, S c o tt h avin g w ritten ‘ H ere thou D o o rw a rd ’ . 15 9 .2 6 A sk s (ms) / asks 1 59.28 B u t h ey -d a y— w h at (ms B u t hey day— w h at) / B u t, h ey -d a y, w h at 16 0 .2 her(ms) / she 1 6 0 .16 hey-day! (ms heyday!) / hey-day, 1 6 0 .19 gold en ( ms) / gold 1 60.20 h aw k s’ p erch es (M a gn u m ) / h aw k’s perches (ms haw ks perches) 16 0 .2 1 on your (ms) / in your 16 0 .2 2 on m y ( ms ) / in m y 16 0 .2 7 v iv re s ( ms ) / v iv ers 1 6 1.6 con jectu red ( ms ) / con jectural 1 6 1 . 1 7 fleaing (ms) / flaying 1 6 1 .37 D an sk e ( ms ) / danske 1 6 1 .38 t u ck in g ( ms ) / stretch in g 1 6 1.4 3 [in d en t] H a s ( ms ) / [no in d en t] H as 1 6 1 .43 lan g” ( E d itorial) / lan g” — ( м s lan g) 1 6 2 .1 3 ballad, the (ms d erived : ballad the) / ballad— the 1 6 2 .2 3 en ou gh — out at ( m s ) / en ou gh, b u t throu gh 1 6 2 .2 3 m e, fo r (m s d erived : m e for) / m e; for 16 2 .3 6 than o ur ( ms ) / than one o f our 1 6 3 .2 1 feed ( ms ) / fed 16 4 .5 g o t — A n d (m s go t— A n d ) / got !— and 1 6 4 .1 2 loan in g— S h e ( m s ) / loan in g; she 1 6 4 .1 3 C i s ( ms) / C is sly 1 6 4 .1 7 wild blood ( ms ) / wild-blood 1 6 4 .32 recu san t .” t h e n ( ms ) / recu sant.” [new p aragrap h] t h e n 16 4 .4 2 d o ( ms) / do 1 65.4 t o .” [n ew p aragrap h ] M a s ter R o lan d (ms to” M a s ter R o lan d ) / to .” [n ew paragrap h] R o la n d 16 5 .5 hath (ms) / has 165.14 cared to communicate (ms card to communicate) / could communicate 1 5 6 .37

436 E M 1 6 5 .1 8 16 5 .3 2 16 5 .3 3 16 5 .3 5 16 5 .3 8 1 66.5 16 6 .18 1 66.40 16 7 .5 1 6 7 .2 3 16 7 .2 6 16 7 .3 6 1 6 7 .4 1 1 68.2 16 8 .9 1 6 8 .19 1 68.29 16 8 .3 5 16 9 .8 1 6 9 .1 1 1 6 9 .1 1 1 6 9 .1 2 1 69.30 16 9 .3 0 16 9 .3 0 17 0 .2 17 0 .4 17 0 .9 1 7 0 .1 0 1 7 0 .1 7 17 0 .2 0 1 7 0 .2 0 1 7 0 .3 1 1 7 0 .36 17 0 .3 6 17 1.12 1 7 1 .24 1 7 1 .25 17 1.2 7 1 7 1 .2 7 17 1.3 1 17 2 .1 17 2 .1 1 7 2 .7 1 7 2 .1 8 17 2 .2 0 17 2 .2 8 17 2 .4 0 1 7 3 .3 17 3 .2 0 17 3 .2 4 1 73. 3 1

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somewhat (ms) / а good deal astou nded (ms) / astonished S h e (ms) / she t h e cloak ( ms ) / her cloak rid in g-ro d too, as (ms rid in grod too as) / rid in g -ro d as R o la n d began (ms) / R o la n d G ræ m e began eyes, a green (ms eye s a green) / eyes, green shou ld hum ble h er tow ard s h im s e lf ( m s ) / shou ld com pel h er to hu m ble h e rs e lf tow ard s him Y o u S ir , H o lly -top (ms d erived : Y o u S ir h o lly -top) / Y o u , S ir H o lly top his usual ( m s ) / R o la n d ’ s usual h aw ks’ castings (M agn u m ) / h aw k’s castin g s (ms haw ks castings) p reced in g one ( ms ) / p reced in g eve t hou gh it ( ms ) / th ou gh, i f it leathern-fist’s (ms leathem-(fis)fist’s) / leathern fist’s and the ornaments (ms) / and ornaments send (ms) / sent “ fo r no good, and (m s “ fo r no good and) / “ and b u ffe t !” (ms b u ffe t— ” ) / b u ffe t ! H ere ( ms ) / here and one yo u (ms) / and m e, w h om yo u set eyes ( ms) / set yo u r eyes R o la n d , “ w ill (ms R o la n d “ w ill) / R o la n d G ræ m e , “ w ill [ind ent] H a th ( ms) / [no in d en t] H a th t o o (ms) / fu ll lo n g” — — (ms long— — ) / lo n g” — C h u rch ( ms) / ch urch dares ( ms) / darest [indent] H a th (ms) / [no in d en t] H a th unfortunately blinded himself (ms) / himself unfortunately blinded betw ix t ( ms ) / b etw ix t them gone. W h o ever thou art , if (ms derived : gone W h o ever thou art if) / gone, w h oever thou art; if art w h at ( ms) / b e’st w h at in stant (ms) / p resen t B ab ylo n — i f ( ms) / B ab ylo n . I f be the bangsters ( ms) / be bangsters on the hilt o f his ( m s )/ on his becom e the preacher o f ( ms) / becom e in tu rn th e cou nsellor o f dem eanour in tu rn — “ I (ms dem ean our in tu rn “ I) / dem ean our— “ I youth from getting (ms) / youth getting snares” (ms snares” — ) / snares— ” “ A n d (ms) / “ — A n d A d am , out (ms d erived : A d am out) / A d am ! o u t O u t ( ms ) / out b u t I w ill lend thee ( ms) / b u t I w ill len d yo u shemust (ms) / must she assurance!— the (ms assurance the) / assuran ce!— t h e go vern or, so (ms go vern or so) / go vern or o ver m e, so in nam e o f ( ms ) / in the nam e o f w h en ( ms) / w here an ( m s ) / A n were a (ms) / was a su n -b u rn ed (m s sun bu rd ) / su n -b u rn t

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an d, than k heaven m ore ( 1 2m o) / and th an k heaven, m ore (ms and thank heaven m ore) 1 7 3 .3 9 wild ( ms ) / wide 17 4 .4 p rithee ( ms ) / p r ’ y thee 17 4 .6 t h e y ( ms ) / t h e y 17 4 .8 damned (ms) / d— — d 1 7 4 . 1 3 falcon . A n d ( ms ) / falcon ; and 1 7 4 . 1 9 w h en ( ms ) / that is, w h en 17 4 .2 9 dun ( ms) / brown 17 4 .3 6 sta b le. T h e re ( ms ) / stable— t h e re 17 4 .4 0 qu alities” ( m s ) / qu alitie s.” 1 7 5 .8 N e v e r (ms) / n ever T h e m s capitals seem d esign ed fo r com ic effect; con sisten cy requ ires one at 1 7 5 .1 4 . 175.10 F ly (ms) / fly 1 7 5 . 1 2 retu rn ( ms ) / re-[en d o f lin e]retu m 1 7 5 . 1 4 B e w a re (E d itorial) / bew are (ms as E d 1 ) S e e entr y fo r 17 5 .8 . 1 7 5 . 1 6 in stan ce ( ms ) / in stances 175.26 th e m (ms) / him 17 6 .4 keen falcon eye ( ms) / keen eye 1 7 6 .1 8 to thee (ms) / toyou 1 7 6 .3 4 H e r (ms) / her 1 7 7 . 1 1 sin g u larly ap t and ap p reh en sive ( ms) / sin gu larly ap preh en sive 1 7 7 . 1 5 F id e lity ( ms ) / fidelity 1 77.1 7 communications (ms) / communication 1 7 7 . 1 8 w est, a n d ... faction— w ith (m s w est and dare to call them selves b y the nam e o f the Q ueen s faction— w ith) / w est— w ith 17 7 .2 9 com m u n ication s ( ms ) / com m u nication 1 7 7 .3 3 begone— i f ( ms) / begone. I f 1 7 7 .4 3 han dsom e— m in gle (m s d erived : handsom e m ingle) / handsom e. M in g le 17 8 .2 t h e y m in e ( ms ) / they do m in e 17 8 .2 cou n term ine— F o r the rest, all (ms cou n term in e— F o r the rest all) / cou nterm ine. F o r the rest, bear all 17 8 .4 one— A n d (ms derived : one A n d ) / one, and 17 8 .6 m e— P a rticu lars are m arked d o w n in the sched u le— A n d (ms m e— P a rticu lars are m arkd do w n in the sched u le— A n d ) / m e— and T his w as deleted as rep etition (from 1 7 7 . 1 3 ) , b u t such rep etition seem s in ten ded to co n vey M o r a y ’s in secu rity. 1 7 8 .1 7 jagged ( ms ) / rugged 17 8 .2 8 even (ms) / ever 17 9 .5 A b b e y -la n d s (ms d erived : A b b y lan d s) / A b b e y lands 17 9 .5 b ish o p s’ (m s derived : b ish o ps) / b ish o p ’s 17 9 .6 t h e sw o rd ( ms ) / their sw o rd 1 7 9 .2 7 acqu iescence ( ms ) / acqu iesen ce 1 80.4 w h ich totally ( ms ) / and totally 1 8 0 .2 1 person ( ms ) / person age 1 80.29 profession (ms) / professions 180.30 feathers (ms) / feather 1 8 0 .37 t en d en cy ( ms ) / tendence 181.32 it will (ms) / there will 1 8 1 . 3 3 K in g sm a n or Q u eensm an ( ms ) / kingsm an o r queen sm an 1 8 1 .3 5 B lin d B illy ( ms) / blin d B illy 1 8 1 .40 h er v e ry page ( ms) / her page

1 7 3 .3 3

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182.1 t h e ir (ms) / the 182.15 from him (ms) / from that topic 182.19 th e se gave (ms) / these subjects of meditation gave 1 82.20 S e y ton— w ho ( ms ) / S e y ton, w ho 1 8 2 .2 1 eyes (ms) / eye 1 8 2 .2 1 m in d , n o w (ms d erived : m ind now ) / m in d — n o w 1 8 2 .2 1 fo rm , n ow (ms d erived : fo rm now ) / fo rm — n o w 1 82.21 attire, now (ms derived: attire now) / attire— now 1 82.22 once, like (ms d erived : once like) / once— like 1 8 2 .3 2 gettin g him in to (ms) / gettin g in to 1 8 2 .3 3 upon (ms) / on 18 2 .4 0 w o rth y o f ( ms ) / w o rth 1 8 3 .7 plain s ( m s ) / plain 1 8 3 . 1 2 t rees, clu stered together near (M a g n u m ) / trees clu stered together, near (m s trees clu sterd together near) 18 3 .2 6 b y (ms) / to 1 8 3.2 8 L in d e s a y ( m s ) / L in d s a y 1 8 3 .3 3 sconn er ( ms ) / take o ffen ce 183.41 dink (ms) / drink 18 4 .1 grim ( ms) / old 1 8 4 .1 5 t o w ard s ( ms ) / tow ard 184.28 or had ( ms) / Or, had 1 84.36 w h ither, and S ir (ms w h ither and S ir ) / w h ith er— S ir 18 5 .5 t h ither ( ms) / h ither 1 8 5 .1 2 fo r these ten ( ms ) / fo r ten 1 85.1 8 manner nor matter (ms) / matter nor manner 1 8 5 .2 2 p ro p o rtion ; and (m s d erived : p ro p o rtion A n d ) / p ro p o rtion , and 1 85.23 space the boat arrived under (ms space 〈 he landed〉 ↑ the boat arrived

under ↓ under) / space he landed under

18 5 .3 8 18 5 .3 8

18 6 .1 1 86.7 1 8 6 .1 2 1 8 6 .14 1 86 .33 1 86.38 1 86 .39 18 6 .4 1 1 87.1

18 7 .2 7 1 8 7 .3 2 1 8 7.43 1 8 7.43 18 8 .2

T h e p revio u s page w as p ro b ab ly the last page o f a packet, an d had been p u t a w ay. T h e tran scrib er therefo re fo llo w ed the d eleted te x t rath er than the v erso correction. amongst (ms) / among R o b e rt (E d itorial) / W illiam (ms as E d 1) F o r this and fo llo w in g ed itorial em en datio n s, in ten ded to cla rify the relation sh ip s w ithin the D o u g las fa m ily, see E ssay o n th e T ext, 406– 07. w id o w (E d itorial) / w ife (ms as E d 1 ) delig h t, o f (ms delig h t of) / delig h t an d o f an (ms) / its upon (ms) / on w ith— ro w back, m ake (ms d erived : w ith— ro w back m ake) / w ith.— R o w back— m ake fem ale arriv ed ( ms ) / fem ale atten d an t arriv ed ye sterd ay— I ( ms ) / y e sterday. I R an d al— A n d ( ms ) / R a n d al— and S tan d in g o rd ers w ere fo r a capital to sig n ify a change o f addressee. and h av in g an (E d itorial) / and an (ms an d o rn am en ted b y an) In rem o vin g S c o tt’s rep etition o f ‘ orn am en te d ’ the in term ediaries con­ fu sed the sy n tax. F r o m 2 7 6 .19 it is clear th e w alls, rather than the garden , have the statues. t h e se (ms) / those i f to ( ms) / i f d esign ed to t h e se ( ms) / them sayin g, that is (ms derived : sayin g that is) / sayin g that it is its (ms) / her

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18 8 .7 H e r (ms) / her 1 8 8 .1 3 veil ( ms) / appearance 188.34 t his (ms) / an 1 8 8 .35 t ra in ,” (m otio n in g ... G ræ m e) “ a (ms train (m otion in g w ith her hand tow ard s R o la n d G ræ m e) a) / tra in ,” m otio n in g . . . G ræ m e; “ a 1 88.38 pardon, and (ms derived: pardon and) / pardon; and 1 88.42 L a d y L o c h le v e n ( ms) / L a d y o f L o c h leven 1 89.1 d o in g so w ill ( ms ) / d oings w ill 1 8 9 .1 4 yo u (E d itorial) / the good k n igh t yo u r husband (ms as E d 1 ) 1 8 9 .1 7 D o u glasses ( m s ) / D o u glases 1 8 9 .1 9 where ( ms) / when 18 9 .2 1 but my (ms) / but, my 1 89 .22 scru pu lo us. I ( ms ) / scru pu lo u s— I 1 8 9 .23 and this ( ms) / in this 189.27 no (ms) / No i 89.28 fem ales— and ( m s ) / fem ales; and 1 89 .36 L o c h le v e n , I (ms derived : L o c h le v e n I) / L o c h leven ; I 1 89 .39 com e? A n d ( ms) / com e— and 1 89.42 exp lain— A n d ( m s ) / exp lain — b u t 19 0 .7 t o n gue ( ms) / tongues 1 90.20 attendance? (ms) / attendance! 1 9 0 .3 1 anti-roo m (ms antiroom ) / o uter-room 1 90.3 5 stopped (ms stopp d ) / stepped 19 0 .3 5 in (ms) / in to 1 9 1 .7 call assistance ( ms) / call in assistance 1 9 1 . 3 1 bo w er, [ind ent] A n d (m s bo w er [indent] A n d ) / bo w er, [no ind ent] And 1 9 1 . 3 3 b efo re, [indent] L o o k (m s before [indent] L o o k ) / b efo re, [no ind ent] Look 1 91 .43 lady, in such depth of distress, wrought (ms lady in such depth of

distress wrought) / lady, wrought 1 92.6 1 9 2 .1 3 1 9 2 .1 4 1 9 2 .1 7 1 9 2 .2 0 1 9 2 .2 1 19 2 .2 4 1 9 2 .2 7 19 2 .4 0

1 92.41

T h e illogical com m a (prob ab ly added b y the am anuensis) suggests the com positor skip ped the clause. air.— In (ms air— in) / air. In M a y -p o le — I (ms m aypole— I) / M ay-p o le. I yo u — B u t (ms) / yo u ;— b u t t h e n keep ( ms ) / t h e n, keep G ræ m e , an y (m s derived : G ræ m e any) / G ræ m e; an y as to the (ms d erived : as the) / con cern in g the t h e e— i f ( ms ) / thee. I f yo u — rem em ber ( m s ) / you. R em em b er “ S h e (i2 m o ) / S h e (ms as E d 1 ) manner,” he thought; “ perhaps (ms manner” he thought— “ perhaps) /

manner, he thought; perhaps frieze-jacket (8vo) / freize-jacket (ms F reize-jacket) privacy.” ( 1 2mo) / privacy, (ms as E d 1 ) 19 3 .8 h im ( ms) / h im se lf 1 9 3 .3 2 mayst (ms) / mayest 19 3 .4 0 message ( ms ) / mission 1 93.1 193.5

19 4 .2 0 re tu rn ed .” [new paragraph] “ H e ... cerem on y.” [new paragraph] A t (m s retu rn d — ” “ H e too m u st bedizen h im se lf fo r the non ce” said L in d e s a y “ I have know n him p ress into her presence w ith less cere­ m o n y— ” A t) / descended, [n ew paragraph] A t 1 9 5 .1 4 necessary, ( ms ) / necessary? 1 9 5 .1 5 co u rtesy (ms) / cou rt

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1 9 5 .1 5 am — as I w e ll need to be— too ( ms ) / am , a s ... be, too 19 5 .2 4 rew ard — it ( ms ) / rew ard . I t 19 5 .2 8 well ( ms) / will 1 9 5 .3 1 A rc h b ald ( ms ) / A rc h ib a ld S c o tt u ses the arch aic sp ellin g fo u n d in h is sou rce, H u m e o f G o d s c ro ft . 196.11 t ell, my (m s tell my) / tell her, my 19 6 .2 4 at ( m s ) / to 1 9 6 .3 1 B u t y o u r (ms) / Y o u r 19 6 .3 4 t han to tell u s ( ms ) / to tell us than 1 9 7 .1 5 b ro th er (E d itorial) / son (ms as E d 1 ) 1 97.1 6 his b reth ren (E d itorial) / h is father an d b reth ren (ms as E d 1) 1 9 7 .1 7 C a stle, (m s C a s tle) / C a stle, u n d er the d irection o f the eld er L a d y L o c h le v e n , h is father ’ s m o th er. T h e d eleted te x t w as ad d ed to the pro of. S e e E ssay o n th e T ext, 394. 19 8 .2 son had ( ms ) / son also had 1 9 8 .1 2 a table, and writing materials on the table; (ms derived: a table and

writing materials on the table) / a table and writing materials; A n ed itorial com m a a fter the first ‘ table’ m akes sense o f the m s rep eti­ tion. 1 9 8 .13 his d u m b ( ms ) / h is m istre ss’s du m b 19 8 .4 2 t h e m ?” ( 1 8 m o ) / them .” (ms them — ” ) 19 9 .2 repeated ( ms ) / rep lied 19 9 .3 R e a d ( ms ) / read 1 99.8 v exed an d (m s v e x d and) / w earied o u t and 19 9 .9 G o d had b lessed ( ms ) / G o d blessed 1 9 9 .14 letters, o f (E d itorial) / letters o f (ms letter of) M isle a d in g ly p u n ctuated : in the o rigin al do cu m en t ‘ o f free go od w ill’ d escrib es M a r y , no t h er ‘ lette rs’ . 19 9 .2 5 S c o tlan d ” ( m s ) / S c o tla n d .” 19 9 .2 8 e x trao rd in ary?— an d (m s e x trao rd in ary— and) / e x trao rd in ary?— A n d 199.34 imploy ( ms) / imply 200.1 A n d is ( ms ) / A n d , is 200 .4 o ld— that I flin g (ms d erived : old— that flin g) / old— flin g 2 0 0 .33 p u t (m s 〈 p la〉 p u t) / clasped 2 0 0 .37 rig o u r— u n d er ( ms) / rigo u r. U n d e r 2 0 1.8 in stru c tion s— I ( ms ) / in stru c tions. I 201.16 head where (ms) / head on which 2 0 1 . 1 9 ye w ere ( ms ) / yo u w ere 201.20 t o this day that (ms) / till now, that 2 0 1 .2 7 and therefo re ( ms ) / an d, therefo re 2 0 1 .2 7 p rin ce to ( ms ) / p rin ce, to 2 0 1 .40 land, or (m s d erived : land or) / land; or 2 0 1 .43 w racked (m s w rack d) / w recked 202.1 t ravise ( ms ) / trave rse A n o bso lete fo rm , w ith th e stress o n the first syllable. 202.1 1 Je d b u r g h (E d itorial) / H aw ic k (ms as E d 1 ) A n erro r o f fa ct: see E x p la n a tor y N o te. 2 0 2 .1 7 said she ( ms ) / she said 2 0 2 .2 0 A n d re w s.* [note at fo o t o f page] I t a p p e a r s ... K en n a q u h a ir.) (ms A n d re w s.* ↑ N o te * I t ap p ears fro m the researches o f M r C h a lm ers that su ch a m atch w as actu ally sh o t fo r b etw ix t these d istin g u ish d parties 〈 H is tor y 〉 L if e o f M a r y v o l I. p .7 0 . W e have been m u ch con firm in o u r ↑ ↑ final↓ ↓ o pin ion resp ectin g the au then ti c i ty o f the le a m d B e n e d ic ti n e s m an u scrip t (w h ich in d eed at first w e w ere stro n g ly in clin d to d o u b t) b y fin d in g he agrees in m an y m in u te c irc u m stan ces w ith th e v e ry cu riou s

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2 0 2 .2 7 2 0 2 .2 7 2 0 2 .3 7 2 0 3 .1 0

203.11 203.1 3 2 0 3 .2 0 2 0 3 .2 2 2 0 3 .2 7 2 0 3 .3 8 2 0 3 .4 3 204 .9 2 0 4 .10 2 0 4 .2 3 2 0 4 .2 7 2 0 4 .36 20 4 .4 2 2 0 5 .5 2 0 5 .10 2 0 5 .3 8 20 6 .7 2 0 6 .7 206.8 2 0 6 .19 2 0 6 .2 2 2 0 6 .2 5 206 .28

206.34 2 0 7 .4 2 0 7 .1 2 2 0 7 .1 5 2 0 7 .2 3 2 0 7 .2 4 2 0 7 .2 8 2 0 7 .2 9 2 0 7 .3 2 2 0 7 .3 2 2 0 7 .3 5 2 0 7 .3 8

208.12 2 0 8 .14 2 0 8 .1 5 2 0 8 .2 0 2 0 8 .2 2 2 0 8 .35 2 0 8 .39

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w ork o f the great antiq u ary o f S c o tland.〈 "〉 N o te b y the A n tiquarian S o c iety o f K e n n a q u h air ↓ ) / A n d rew s. t h e note, ad ded on the verso page o f the ms , was p ro bably accidentally overlooked. you — I ( ms) / y o u .— I others— b u t ( m s ) / others. B u t in this ( ms ) / on this life!— yo u (ms life— you) / life!— Y o u state— and w h at (ms d erived : state and w hat) / state. W hat compliance?” ( 1 2mo) / compliance!” (m s compliance— ” ) t o ne ( ms) / tones lord— w h at (ms L o r d — w h at) / lord, w hat realms (ms) / realm join ed (ms jo in d) / u n ited but counsellors (ms but (these) counsellors) / but these counsellors w ere ( ms) / w ert yo u r ( ms) / th y t w o ( ms) / too abye it ( ms ) / abide b y it nam e: let ( ms) / nam e— let ru n g ( ms) / ran g h e r t0 (m s ) / h erto condemned, she (ms derived: condemned she) / condemned? her mistress. (8vo) / mistress (ms as E d 1 ) “ B y m y faith, fa ir one,” (ms “ B y m y faith fair one” ) / B y m y faith, fair one, “ and ( ms ) / and ignorant .” (ms ign o ran t— ” ) / ignorant . t hose ( ms) / these in ju stice— read ( ms ) / in ju stice. R ead t reason ( ms) / treason t hat whatever (ms) / that, whatever binding (ms) / valid have not ... day, and (m s have not been seen in our day and) / have

been seen in our day; and A nd yet ” ( ms ) / and y e t” here ” he ( ms ) / here” [new paragraph] H e say— that ( ms) / say, that sovereigns die (ms) / sovereigns often die B u t alas! (ms B u t alas) / B u t, alas! t rod (ms) / trade B lessed ( ms ) / blessed fo r it— and— I ( ms) / fo r the suspicion— I and yo u r son (E d itorial) / and son (ms as E d i) please you to do so (ms) / pleases you that I should do so Oh (ms) / oh t hou, an (ms thou an) / thou art an know S o v ereig n ( ms) / know a S o vereign barrier, w h en i f (ms barrier w h en if) / barrier! I f B u t yo u r ( ms ) / b u t yo u r t hose ( ms) / these crown (ms) / throne

T h e repeated stress on ‘c ro w n ’ stren gthens the echoes o f R ic h a rd I I . 2 0 8 .39 here— in ( ms ) / here, in 208.40 L o c h le v e n — w ith ( m s ) / L o c h leven , w ith

442 E M 2 1 0 .1 8 2 io . 1 8 2 1 0 .2 1 2 1 0.24 2 10 .3 6 2 10 .4 0 2 11.18 2 1 1 .22 2 1 1.3 1 2 1 1 .3 1 2 11.3 2 2 1 2 .3 5

2 1 2 .3 8 2 1 2 .3 9

2 1 2 .4 1 2 13 .10

213.13

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t h e e— an ( ms) / thee. A n had thou ( ms ) / had st thou M e lv ille — m ay st (m s d erived : M e lv ille m ay st) / M e lv ille . M a y s t m o ther ( m s ) / grand -d am e battle ( ms ) / qu arrel gau d ily b u t is ( ms ) / gau d ily, b u t it is son (ms) / grandson occu pation ( ms ) / em p lo ym en t b ro ther ( E d itorial) / fa ther (ms as E d 1 ) dream ed ( ms ) / d ream t upon (ms) / on D o u g las, w ith ( E d itorial: ms D o u g las ↑ alread y m en tion d as the grandson o f the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n and w h o actin g as seneschal repres­ en ted his fath er u pon this occasion. H e en terd ↓ w ith) / D o u g las, alread y m en tioned as the grand son o f the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n , and w ho, actin g as seneschal, rep resen ted, u po n th is occasion , h is father, the L o r d o f the C a s tle. H e en tered w ith T h e verso in sertion w as in ten ded to a d ju st the narrative at this po in t to the p rin ted tex t as it had em erg ed . T h e ph rase ‘ the L o r d o f the C a stle’ is not in the m an u scrip t . E arlie r em en dation s d ispo se o f the need fo r these ad d itions. S e e E ssay o n th e T ext, 3 9 4 ,4 0 6 – 0 7 . T h e re is an illegib le, blo tted w o rd b etw een ‘ a s’ and ‘ sen esch al’ . reveren ce; the (E d itorial) / reveren ce, the (ms reveren ce the) S e e the fo llo w in g em en dation. bow ed (m s bo w d (in g)) / ben d in g M isread : ‘ b o w d ’ is cram ped at the en d o f a lin e, the ‘ d ’ in serted a fter deletion o f ‘in g ’ on the n e xt line. D o u g las, raisin g (8vo) / D o u g las raisin g (m s as E d i ) farther (ms) / further dejection and melancholy, and (ms dejection and melancholy and) /

dejection, and 2 1 3 .3 9 2 1 4 .2 2 14 .10

O m itted on grou n ds o f tau tolo gy. H o w e v e r, S c o tt u ses the w o rd s in d iffere n t senses: see 1 0 1 .2 6 - 2 9 . fo r L o r d L in d e s a y ( ms ) / fo r L in d e s a y gentlem en ( ms) / gallants ewer and basin, and a napkin, (ms derived: ewer & bason with a

napkin) / ewer, basin, and napkin, 2 1 4 .2 2 spoiled (ms spoild) / sp o ilt 2 14 .2 8 captiv ity ( ms ) / inactiv ity 2 1 4 .37 G e o rg e o f D o u g la s ( m s ) / G e o rg e D o u g la s 2 1 4.38 on L o c h le v e n ( m s ) / in L o c h le v e n 2 14 .4 0 A (ms) / a 2 1 4 .4 1 W h y (ms) / w h y 2 14.41 his b ro thers (E d itorial) / his fath er o r his b ro thers (ms as E d 1) 2 1 5 .3 t h e re— w h en ( ms ) / th ere. W h en 2 1 5 .4 appurtenances, and (m s derived: appurtenances and) / appurten­ 2 1 5 .6 2 15 .13 2 15 .14 2 15 .15 2 15 .16 2 1 5 .2 0 2 1 5 .2 4

ances; and but few (ms) / but a few otherw ise .” (m s otherw ise— ” ) / otherw ise .’ “ S h e ... la d y ,” (ms “ S h e w ill challenge the other co u rt la d y ” ) / S h e . . . lady, “ she (ms) / she lists!” (ms lists .” ) / lists! t hat (ms) / who th e y (ms) / he

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215.24 give (ms) / gives 2 1 5 .2 8 “ Y o u (ms) / “ yo u 2 1 5 .3 0 sp irits ( ms) / sp irit 2 1 5 .3 0 t h e m !— th ey (ms them — they) / them! they 2 1 5 . 3 1 give m e b esid e ( ms) / give beside 2 1 6 . 3 1 help m e O u r (ms help our) / help m e, O ur 2 1 6 .3 3 when ( ms) / where 2 1 7 . 1 8 is this (ms) / is the 2 1 8 . 1 5 possessed good ( ms) / possessed o f good 2 1 8 . 1 6 t hose (ms) / these 2 1 8 . 1 9 have had ( ms ) / havealready had 2 18 .2 5 polem ical ( ms ) / p o litical 2 19 .2 0 and of modern time (ms) / and modern times 2 19 .2 4 graver (ms) / grave 2 1 9.42 bestowed for (ms) / bestowed, for 2 19 .4 3 m atter the ( ms ) / m atter, the 220.1 M o ther ( ms) / m other 220.8 interviews (ms) / interview 22 0 .8

renew d iscu ssio n (m s renew (the) discussion) / renew the discussion

220.10 or (ms) / nor 2 2 0 .19 am on gst ( ms ) / am ong 2 2 0 .2 8 w ro u g h t ( ms ) / w orked 2 2 0 .3 7 at (ms) / with abo rtiv e . T h e o p p o rtu n ity o f (ms) / abortive, [new paragraph] t h e o ppo rtu n ity , therefo re, o f T h e n ew paragrap h was in troduced m erely to im p ro ve the appearance o f the E d 1 page, and ‘ therefo re’ added to stren g then it. 2 2 1 . 2 1 son (E d itorial) / grandson (ms as E d 1 ) 2 2 1.3 9 t o w er ( ms) / t o w er 2 2 1 .42 allies. H e ( m s ) / allies, [new paragraph] H e 2 2 2 .5 speaking u p o n (ms) / treatin g 2 2 2 .1 4 saw — or th o u gh t he saw — m arks ( m s ) / saw , or th ou ght he saw , m arks 2 2 2 .1 7 matter ( ms) / matters 2 2 2 .3 6 be serving ( ms ) / be a serving 2 2 3 .1 1 acqu aintance, and (ms d erived : acquaintance and) / acquaintances; and 223.11 has means (ms has (the) means) / has the means 2 2 3 .2 0 room ( if ( ms ) / room , i f 2 2 3 .2 0 fou nd ) w h o ( ms ) / fou n d , w ho 2 2 3 .4 1 ab ru p tly ,— “ I (M agn u m ) / ab ru p tly, “ I (m s ab ru p tly. “ I) 2 2 4 .1 9 b ro ther (E d itorial) / uncle (ms as E d 1) 2 2 4 .2 6 b ro ther ( E d itorial) / uncle (ms as E d 1 ) 2 2 4 .2 7 as to a ( ms ) / a s a 2 2 4 .3 2 t h e R e g e n t ( E d itorial) / m y father, or uncle (ms m y father or uncle) 2 2 4 .3 2 E a rl o f M o r ton ( ms ) / earl 2 2 4 .3 4 w ou ld h an g ( ms) / w o u ld in such a case hang 2 2 4 .3 5 B u t ro w on tow ard s ( ms) / b u t row tow ards 2 2 5 .1 3 answ ered (ms an sw erd) / replied 2 2 5 .2 1 p ray to ( ms ) / p ray you to 2 2 5 .2 8 w ith in an y ( ms ) / w ith an y 2 2 5 .3 8 sport (ms) / spoil 2 2 6 .2 1 jeû n e ( ms ) / jeu n e 2 2 6 .39 and the rivers (ms) / and rivers 2 2 7 . 8 t o gether alone (ms) / alone together 2 2 7 .1 1 m u st have ( ms) / has 2 2 1.14

444 E M 2 2 7 .1 1 2 2 7 .2 6 228.1 2 2 8 .4 2 2 8 .1 1 2 2 8 .2 3 2 2 8 .3 5 2 2 9 .1 I 2 2 9 .8 2 2 9 .2 7 2 2 9 .2 8 2 2 9 .2 9 2 2 9 .3 0 2 2 9 .3 4 2 2 9 .3 6 2 2 9 .3 9 2 30 .1 2 3 0 .4 2 3 0 .9 2 30 .9 2 3 0 .1 4 2 3 0 .1 8 2 3 0 .2 0 2 3 0 .2 8 2 3 0 .2 8 2 3 0 .3 5 2 3 0 .3 6 2 30 .4 0 2 3 0 .4 1 2 3 1 .7 2 3 1 .1 0 2 3 1 .2 2 2 3 1 .3 3

2 3 1 .3 4 2 3 2 .2 3 2 3 2 .2 3 2 3 2 .2 3 2 3 2 .3 4 2 3 3 .9 2 3 3 .1 1 2 3 3 .2 1 2 3 3 .2 2 2 3 3 .3 6 2 3 4 .1 1 2 3 4 .1 2

2 3 4 .1 6

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has ( ms ) / m ay have fu rth er ( ms ) / farther C h u rc h ( ms) / church y o u r regard ( m s ) / yo u r ow n regard w ith traitors and heretics ( m s ) / w ith h eretics m o re, and (m s m ore and) / m ore n u m ero u s, an d at (ms) / of o r what (ms) / I d o , what m e?— has (ms m e— has) / m e?— H a s you deny (ms) / you yourself deny drunk ( ms) / drank lips?— d o (ms lips— do) / lips?— D o life?— do (ms life— do) / life?— D o con qu est ?— does (ms con qu est— does) / co n q u est?— D o e s aw ay?— and (ms aw ay— and) / aw ay?— A n d ho ped ( ms ) / b elieved p lace sin ce they ( ms) / place sin ce sin ce they death— i f (ms) / death. I f B u t fo r ( ms) / B u t, fo r Q u een— G o d ( ms) / Q ueen , G o d C a therin e S e y ton, c laspin g (m s C a therin e S e y ton clasping) / C a ther­ ine, clasp in g N a y , b u t (ms derived : N a y b u t) / N a y — b u t H e a r w h at (ms hear (b u t) w h at) / H e a r b u t w h at d ared— he (ms) / d ared, he m u rther (ms m u rthr) / m u rd er su b je c ts, fro m dispossessed c lerg y, fro m (m s d erived : su b jects from dispo ssessd clergy from ) / su b jects— fro m disp o ssessed c lerg y— fro m ages, w ith (ms derived : ages w ith) / ages— w ith A n d (ms) / and w ill— yes— I w ill love yo u b etter— than ( m s ) / w ill— yes I w ill, lo ve yo u b etter than it ” and ( ms ) / it .” A n d fo reh ead , stooped (ms forehead , stoop d ) / fo rehead— stoo ped chain (ms) / train as th e spo t (ms derived : as the place) / as a sp o t t h e m s ‘ p lace’ w as changed to avoid rep etition , b u t there w as no need to ch an ge the article. “ th ick -co m in g fancies” ( ms ) / th ick -co m in g fancies T h e phrase is a qu otation fro m M acbeth. p rin cess ( ms) / princes grace (ms) / favour seq u estrated (ms) / sequ estered unity (ms) / industry m an— Yet ( ms) / m an.— Y et palaces ( ms) / inhabitan ts atten d an t: (ms) / atten dant; n e verth eless” ( m s ) / n e vertheless ” em barrassin g; “ O ne (ms em b arassin g “ O ne) / em barrassin g, “ one k n ew w ell en ou gh how ( m s ) / knew how T h e m s ‘ w ell en ou gh’ is repeated , b u t it m akes m o re sense here. co u n tenance, calculated (E d itorial) / c o u n ten ance, w ell en ou gh calcu ­ lated (m s cou n tenance w ell en ou gh calcu lated) S e e p rev io u s em endation. feelin g ( ms ) / feelin gs

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2 3 4 .18 half-roused suspicion (ms) / half-raised suspicions 2 3 4 .2 2 occasion the b u rn in g (ms) / occasion b u rn in g 2 3 4 .2 3 evangele and u p -settin g ( m s ) / evan gele, and the u p -settin g 2 34 .2 6 son (E d itorial) / grandson (m s as E d 1) 2 3 4 .3 3 T h y m other m ay (E d itorial) / t h e m other o f th y father m ay (ms t h 〈 y〉 e m other o f th y father) T h e ‘T h e ’ b efo re ‘m other ’ o verw rites ‘T h y ’ : S c o tt’ s first im p u lse w as tow ard s historical correctness. 2 34 .4 0 b ro th er (E d itorial) / father (ms as E d 1 ) 2 3 4 .4 1 his ( ms ) / the 2 3 4 .4 1 m o ther (E d itorial) / grandm other (m s as E d 1) 2 3 5 .1 3 Q ueen— d u rin g (ms derived : Q u een d u rin g) / Q ueen. D u rin g 2 3 5 .1 5 doctrin e; and y e t (ms doctrin e and (I w o u ld ) y e t) / doctrin e; y e t 2 3 5 .1 6 m o tive (M agn u m ) / d esire (ms as E d 1 ) S c o tt m ade a m istake, repeatin g ‘ d esire’ . T h e M agn u m o ffers a plaus­ ible alternative. 2 3 5 .3 8 in the o rd in ary case (ms) / in o rd in ary cases 2 3 5 .4 1 G ra c e ” ( ms) / G ra c e ” 2 36 .1 W hat ( ms) / w h at 2 3 6 .7 L a d y L o c h le v e n ( ms ) / L a d y o f L o c h le v e n 2 3 6 .3 0 use these ( m s ) / u se, those 2 3 6 .3 2 b u t affo rd u s (ms) / affo rd us b u t 2 3 6 .4 1 erro rs!— hear (m s errors— hear) / erro rs! H ear 2 3 7 .1 8 w ro n g in ( ms) / w ro n g side in 2 3 7 .2 2 parti e ( ms) / m atch 2 3 7 .2 2 equal— yo u (ms) / equal. Y ou 2 3 7 .2 4 m e, I (ms d erived : m e I) / m e.— I E d 1 ’s p u n ctuati o n rem oves the in ten ded am b igu ity and delicacy o f her w ords. 2 3 7 .2 6 b u t not to ( ms) / b u t did not ex tend to 2 3 7 .2 9 blessin g and ( ms ) / b lessin g or 2 3 8 .2 t h e (ms) / an 2 3 8 .4 m ore qu ick silver ( ms ) / m ore than qu ick silver 2 3 8 .7 sum m ons— can (ms) / sum m ons! C an 2 38 .8 great (ms) / good 2 3 8 .1 9 elsew here— w e (ms) / elsew here. W e 2 3 8 .2 0 farther ( ms) / fu rther 2 3 8 .2 0 A n d (ms) / and 2 3 8 .2 7 am u sem ent— fail not to (ms d erived : ↑ am usem ent— fail not ↓ fail not to) / am u sem ent . F ail not— fail no t to ‘F a il not’ are the last w o rds o f a verso in serti o n (begin nin g at line 2 1 , ‘ take th is little p u rse’), w h ich , as usual, S c o tt linked to the original v ersio n on the recto, w ith no rep eti ti o n in tended. 2 3 8 .2 8 t h e m (ms) / it 2 39 .6 falsehood— b u t (ms) / falsehood; b u t 2 39 .9 acqu ain t w hat ( ms ) / acquaint thee w h at 2 3 9 .2 0 o rd ers ( ms) / ord er 2 3 9 .2 4 afforded, composed (ms derived: afforded composed) / afforded;

composed 2 3 9 .2 7

2 3 9 .2 8

block— and (ms d erived : block and) / b lock; and In try in g to ti d y u p this sentence, the in term ed iary in trod uced a new (and nonsensical) subject (see en tries fo r 2 39 .2 8 , below ). T his and the n e xt tw o em en dati o n s should help the reader to keep a grip on S c o tt’s in ten ded su b ject, Ro lan d. m an ner h u n g (ms) / m an ner, h u n g

446 E M 2 39 .2 8 2 3 9 .3 5 2 3 9 .3 6 240 .2 2 4 0 .2 2

24 0 .24 24 0 .24 240 .36 2 4 1 .36 2 4 2 .6 2 4 3 .1 2 2 4 3 .1 3 2 4 4 .14 2 4 4 .1 7 2 4 4 .2 2 2 4 4 .33 2 4 5 .10 2 4 5 .12 2 4 5 .1 3 2 4 5 .14 2 4 5 .16 2 4 5 .1 6 2 4 5 .17 2 4 5 .17 2 4 5 .2 1 2 4 5 .2 2 2 4 5 .3 2 2 4 5 .3 3 2 4 6 .2 4 6 .2 1

2 4 6 .25 2 4 6 .3 1 2 4 6 .3 1 24 6 .34 2 4 6 .37 246 .38 249 .20 2 5 0 .1 2 2 5 0 .1 3 2 50 .2 8

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b elt, added (ms d erived : b elt ad ded ) / b elt, his apparel, added fr om te m p tation. G o d (ms fro m tem p tation G o d ) / fro m th e te m p ta­ tion o f o p p o rtu n ity. G o d and (ms) / an black velvet (ms) / scarlet G am es (E d itorial) / S p o rts (m otto absent fro m m s ) S c o tt con fu sed S o m e rv ile ’s po em (w h ich is c ited correctly in th e n e xt ch ap ter) w ith Jo h n G a y ’s R u ra l S p o rts ( 1 7 1 3 ) . am o n gst (m s am ongs) / am on g on ( ms) / upon t urned his (ms) / turned around his prim ce vice (E d itorial) / prim oe vice H eaven hath sent ( ms) / H eav en sent vocation— you (ms d erived : vocation yo u ) / vocation. Y o u fo in ( ms ) / fen ce ye (ms) / you plagu e-h o sp ital— A n d ( m s ) / p lagu e-h o sp ital; and so, thou kn ave ( m s so thou knave) / so then, knave and eyes (ms) / and the eyes lived on ( ms ) / lived in M o n c r ie ff ( ms) / M o n c r ie f w hae ( ms ) / w ha wad (ms) / would wha(ms) / who frein ed (ms d erived : frein d ) / frien d ed nat (ms) / not at (ms) / in t h a t th e ( m s ) / th a t “ th e sh ou ld, as (m s shou ld as) / sh o u ld ,” as b ird s and (ms) / b ird s, and packets ( ms) / b u n d les pro d u ce ( ms ) / b rin g fo rth deserves— b u t I w ill n ever ( ms ) / d eserves; b u t n either w ill I T h e in term ed iary tried to co rrect rep etition o f ‘ n e ver’ , b u t lo st sig h t o f the fact that lines 2 0 - 2 1 are p aren thetical, and ‘ I w ill never b e lie v e ’ is L u n d in ’s continu ation o f line 1 9 . T h e eew n accepts the rep etition fo r the sake o f the sense. such stir (ms) / such a stir and that o f all (ms) / and all p artakers! (ms partakers.) / p a rtakers’ ! o f b rain -sick (m s o f brainsick) / o f the brain -sick d iascordiu m (M agn u m ) / d ia sc o rd u m (ms as E d 1 ) W hat-sh all-c all’u m ’s ( 1 8m o) / W h at-sh all-c all’um s (ms W h at shall call’ um s) farmers (ms) / yeomen green p lo t (ms) / green -sw ard p lo t t yrin g -h o u se . T h e sp ectators w ere ( m s ) / ty rin g-h o u se; the sp ec tators bein g bauble, or truncheon, terminated (m s bauble or truncheon terminated)

/ bauble, a truncheon terminated 2 50 .29 carved head wearing ( ms) / carved figure, wearing 2 5 0 .2 9 fo o l’s-cap , in (E d itorial) / fo o l’s-cap in (ms as E d 1 ) 2 5 0 .3 3 around it, prompt (ms around it.) / around, prompt 2 5 1 .2 b esid e ( ms) / behind 2 5 1 .5 looked on (ms lookd on) / beheld it

E M 2 5 1.13 2 5 1 .2 4

251 .26 2 5 1 .27 2 5 1 .28 2 5 1 .30 2 5 1 .3 5 2 5 1 .43 2 5 1 .4 5

251 .45 252.10 2 5 2 .1 4 2 5 2 .2 1 2 5 3 .3 2 5 3 .3 2 2 5 3 .3 8 2 5 4 .13 2 5 4 .14 2 5 4 .1 8 2 5 4 .2 7

254.34 2 5 4 .4 1 2 5 5 .1 8 2 5 5 .1 8 2 5 5 .3 2 2 5 5 .3 8 2 5 6 .5 2 5 6 .1 7

256.20 256.24

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once and ( ms ) / once, and vial (ms) / phial “ L i s tn eth (E d itorial) / L is tneth (ms as E d 1) B a b y lone— [new line] F ar (E d itorial) / B ab ylon e, [new line] F a r (ms B ab ylo n e [new line] F a r) estw ard ( ms) / eastw ard sé— [n ew line] In (E d itorial) / sé; [new line] In (ms sé [new line] I n) t ymes (ms) / times aside, [new line] P u tteth (E d itorial) / aside; [new line] P u tte th (ms aside [new line] P u tteth) nold , she shall (m s nold she (she) shall) / nold she, she shall snese.” (E d itorial) / snese, (ms a s Ed1) vial (ms) / phial vial (ms viol) / phial fair don or ( ms ) / pardoner A n d h ow (ms) / A n d , how at ( ms) / o f be certain (ms) / ascertain slips (ms) / slip watched so attentively (ms watchd so attentively) / watched attentively rites (ms) / rig h ts corbie-m essengers— so ( m s ) / corbie-m essengers. S o t his (ms) / the accosting, ( ms ) / accostin g her. been spectator ( ms ) / been a sp ecta tor modes (ms) / mode i f (ms) / w h ether G r æ m e (ms) / R o lan d sigh t ( ms ) / lig h t d o u blet .” (ms d o u b let— ” ) / dou blet. as— the (ms) / as the partner’s unruly disposition (ms partners unruly disposition) / part­

ner’s disposition 2 5 7 .4 w ere fo r an (ms) / w ere fo r fo r an 2 5 7 .7 character, ( m s ) / character 2 5 7 .9 men out of women (ms) / females men 2 5 7 .1 7 i f you are cajoled ( ms ) / I f yo u are cajoled 2 5 7 .1 9 i f yo u are b ribed (ms) / I f yo u are bribed 2 5 7 .3 8 J i l l ( ms) / G ill S c o tt’ s spellin g fo llow s that o f his source (see E x p lan atory N o te). 2 58 .9 have yo u (ms) / yo u have 2 5 8 .19 brow — and ( ms ) / b row , and 2 5 8 .1 9 m an— vassal ( m s ) / m an!— vassal 2 58 .4 2 maiden—and (ms derived: maiden and) / maiden, [new paragraph] And 2 5 9 .7 watch’d (8vo) / watch d (motto absent from ms) 2 5 9 .3 4 m u ch attention to (m s m u ch 〈 a ttention〉 ↑ regard ↓ to) / m u ch regard to S c o tt d eleted ‘a tten tio n ’ , in sertin g ‘regard ’ on the verso, b u t then real­ ised that this in trod uced an alm ost im m ed iate repetition, and so u nd er­ lined the original version . 2 6 0 . 8 seek’st (ms seekst) / seekest 2 6 0 .1 1 S h e now ( m s ) / she now 2 6 0 .1 1 t h e e, w h at seek’ st (m s derived : thee w hat seekst) / yo u w h at seekest

448 E M

2 6 0 .16 2 6 0 .2 3 2 6 0 .3 1 2 6 0 .36 2 6 1.1 1 2 6 1.1 5 2 6 1.16 2 6 1.19 2 6 1.2 0 2 6 1.2 3 2 6 1 .3 2 2 6 2 .10 2 6 2 .3 9 2 6 2 .4 2 26 3.4 0 26 4.26 2 6 4 .35 2 6 4 .38

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C o rre c ted on grou n ds o f rep etition ; b u t a com m a restores the in tended rh etorical em phasis. o r o f evasion, ( ms) / or evasion. S e e k ’st (ms Seek st) / seek’st revered (ms) / reveren d dream — A n d (ms derived : d ream A n d ) / d ream , and H eaven ! nor (ms) / H eav en , nor sou n d (ms) / be w in ded shall n ever ( ms) / w ill n ever can not (ms) / cannot h o rrib le (ms) / terrible what say I, the son of m y hope?— thou (ms derived: what say I the son of m y hope— thou) / what say I? the son of m y hope— thou it w ill be one day soon in ( ms ) / it m ay b e one day in b ro ther (E d itorial) / fath er (ms as E d 1 ) palm (ms) / psalm t o -n ig h t (E d itorial) / to-m o rro w n ig h t ( m s tom o rro w n ig h t) S c o tt m ade a chron ological m istake, w h ich the EE wn co rrects. youth (ms) / guided fo rtunes ( ms) / fo rtune

t his (ms) / the

fate?— ” said the page, “ A n d (m s fate?— ’’said the page “ A n d ) / fate ,” said the page,— “ and 2 6 4 .4 1 com plete !” (ms) / c om p lete !” 26 4 .4 2 “ Y e t (ms) / “ Y e s 2 6 5 .2 2 his b ro ther, and w h at to the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n ? ” said (E d itorial) / his father , an d w hat to the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n , w h o has been as a m o ther to him ?” said (ms his father and w h at to the L a d y o f L o c h le v e n w h o has been as a m o ther to h im ” said) 2 6 5 .2 4 both, both in (ms both both in) / both, in 2 6 5 .3 6 father ” said ( ms ) / fath er ,” said 266.1 us even o f ( ms) / u s o f 26 6 .7 its m o re poten t (m s ) / its p o ten t 26 6.9 ° f d o w n -trod den ( ms ) / o f the d o w n -trod den 2 6 6 .10 C a tholics (E d itor ia l) / C a tho lic (ms as E d ↓ ) t h e om ission o f the d efin ite article (266.9) an d the p lural pro n o u n s (266.1 1) m ake it clear that the m s sin gu lar is an erro r. 2 6 6 .1 2 hereafter— and ( ms ) / h ereafter. A n d 26 6 .29 yo u w ere ( ms ) / thou w e rt 2 6 6 .38 en em y. I t ( ms) / en em y: I t 26 7.1 t hine earth ly ( ms) / thine ow n earth ly 2 6 7.9 t h e y suggest (ms) / these suggest 2 6 7 .10 b elo n g ( ms) / belon ged 2 6 7 .1 1 m ay— A n d ( ms ) / m ay; and 2 6 7 .1 2 sin ce— as ( ms ) / sin ce, as 2 6 7 .1 2 case— they ( ms ) / case, they 2 6 7 .16 t h e e— as ye t— to ( ms) / thee, as y e t, to 2 6 7 .2 0 loves” (8vo) / loves” — (m s loves— ” ) A n em dash w as all that the com p o sitor co u ld fit in to his line. 267.21 does, and (ms derived: does and) / does; and 2 6 7 .2 7 vanities, I command thee, and (m s vanities I command thee and) /

vanities, and 268.8

W h at w ou ld yo u have o f (ms d erived : W h at yo u have of) / W h at have yo u requ ired o f S c o tt o m itted a w o rd . T h e EEWN re v e rts to h is pro bable in ten tion,

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w h ile rem ain in g closer to the ms . S ee also the n ext tw o entries. 2 6 8 .10 w o u ld have yo u be (ms) / w o u ld requ ire o f you to be 2 6 8 .1 1 “ and rem em b er (ms and rem em ber) / “ to rem em ber 2 6 8 .1 5 yo u p u t m ine. W hat ( m s ) / yo u have p u t m ine— W hat 2 6 8 .2 1 Q u e e n — G o d bless her— hath (m s queen— G o d 〈 beless〉 bless her— hath) / Q u een , G o d bless her, hath 2 6 8 .23 space ( ms ) / place 2 6 8 .24 b lo sso m ( ms ) / blossom s 2 6 8 .3 1 en d ( ms ) / issu e 26 8.38 A b b o t (m s A b b o t ) / A b b o t” 26 9.3 list. F o llo w ( ms ) / list .— F ollow 26 9.3 yo u n g ster— this ( ms) / yo u n gste r . T his 2 6 9 .19 K in g d o m ( ms ) / kingd om 2 6 9 .37 it— and (ms) / it, and 270. и o f childhood possess o ver m ore (m s ) / o f our childhood possess over o u r m ore 2 7 0 .2 5 gentleman, and trained (ms gentleman and traind) / gentleman trained 2 7 0 .30 su b ject— B u t ( ms ) / subject; bu t 2 7 1 . 1 5 seekin g yo u ( ms ) / seekin g fo r you 2 7 1 . 1 8 aq u avitæ. ( ms ) / aq u avitæ betw een them . 2 7 1 .30 unp alatable ( m s ) / unpalateable 2 7 2 .1 0 on an (ms) / toan 2 7 2 .2 0 p r a y (ms) / P ra y 2 7 2 .2 9 has long waited thee, long (ms has long waited thee long) / has waited 2 7 2 .3 9 2 7 2 .4 1 2 7 3 .4 2 7 3 .6 2 7 3 .1 9 2 7 3 .1 9 2 7 3 .2 2 2 7 3 .2 6 2 7 3 .3 8 2 7 3 .3 8 2 7 3 .4 2 2 7 3 .4 3 2 7 4 .15 2 7 4 .2 7 2 7 4 .2 7 2 74 .28 2 74 .40 2 7 5 .1 1 2 7 5 .1 2 2 7 5 .1 7 2 7 5 .2 4 2 7 5 .3 4 2 7 6 .2

thee long rathe (ms) /ra th

goodness— there ( ms) / good ness. T h ere reflectin g ( m s ) / m arvellin g ap artm ents ( m s ) / ap artm ent m an , retu rn ed (ms m an retu m d ) / m an, yo u are returned len gth?” — A n d (ms len gth?” and) / len gth?” [new paragraph] A n d raven — y e t ( ms ) / raven— Y e t fo r yo u r ( ms ) / on accou nt o f yo u r L a d y L o c h le v e n ( ms ) / lady o ffe r u s su ch ( ms ) / o ffer such w e (ms) / W e W ill ( ms) / w ill or to the (ms) / or the m eth o u gh t ( ms ) / M e th ou ght cou ld (ms) / m ay w ay even so ( ms ) / w ay so t hose (ms) / these m asq ue ( ms ) / m asq ues palace— the ( ms ) / palace. The t h o s e (ms) / these on (ms) / at t hose (ms) / these C a therin e S e y ton (ms d erived : C a therin e G ræ m e) / M agd a len G ræ m e A ltho u gh eith er nam e fits the con te x t, on the p revio u s ms page (f. 1 1 3 ) , in a d eleted passage, S c o tt had alread y m ade the m istake o f w ritin g ‘ C a therin e G ræ m e ’ (the nam e o f R o la n d ’s m o ther) fo r ‘ C a therin e S e y ton ’ . T h e likelihood is that he repeated the m istake. C o m p are also 2 8 1.8 . 276 .9 t hat (ms) / this

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2 7 6 . 1 2 [ind ent] G a t ( ms) / [no in d en t] G a t 2 7 6 .2 5 arriv ed ; it (m s d erived : arrived “ it) / arrived . I t 276.29 intimate, and secret (m s intimate and secret) / secret, and intimate 2 7 6 .4 1 had been now ( ms ) / had now 2 76 .4 3 ligh test ( ms ) / sligh test 2 7 7 .1 3 it ( ms ) / the shrin e 2 7 7 .2 7 rom ance: these (ms) / rom ance? t h e se 2 7 7 .3 1 fatigu e ( ms) / fatigues 2 7 7 .4 0 hasted ( ms ) / hastened 279.1 9 observation (ms) / observations 2 7 9 .2 4 his apartm ent (ms) / the page’s ap artm en t 2 7 9 .2 5 t h e re— or (ms) / there, or 2 7 9 .3 2 u po n , fo r— — ” here (ms u pon fo r” — — here) / upon— fo r” — — H ere A 2 -em dash befo re the in v erted com m as is used to in d icate suspen ded speech, w h ich is the nearest eq u ivalen t to the e ffe c t here. 2 7 9 .3 4 m ore than su sp ected ( ms ) / w as fu lly aw are 2 7 9 .36 stranger, speaking more (ms stranger speaking more) / stranger, more 2 7 9 .3 7 sid e alw ays p u t (ms) / side p u t 2 8 0 .10 said he (ms) / he said 2 8 0 .2 2 one (ms) / a 2 8 0 .39 grasp (ms) / grap 2 8 1 .28 G e o rg e D o u g las ( ms ) / G e o rg e o f D o u g las 2 8 1 .3 8 b ro th er ’s (E d itorial) / father ’s (m s fathers) 281 .42 were (ms) / seems to have been 2 8 2 .4 tru th .” ( 1 2m o) / tru th ” (absent fro m ms ) D ry fe sd a le ’s speech w as added to the p ro of, b u t w as im p erfec tly fitted in to its con te x t . In the ms te x t L a d y L o c h le v e n ’s p rec ed in g speech is in terru p ted b y her son; D ry fe sd a le ’s speech ap pears to be com p lete. 2 82.8 m ad?— speak (ms m ad— speak) / m ad? Sp eak 2 8 2 .10 rep lied he (ms) / he replied 2 8 2 .13 m atter— i f ( ms) / m atter. I f 2 8 2 .2 6 t ruth ( ms) / birth 2 8 2 .28 son ( E d itorial) / grand son (ms as E d 1 ) 2 8 2 .3 2 ever— chid e ( ms) / ever, chide 2 8 2 .39 ideot (ms) / idiot 2 8 2 .4 3 N o r (E d itorial) / n o r (ms as E d 1 ) 2 8 3 .2 vassal!— think (m s vassal— think) / vassal!— t hink 2 8 3.6 F a re w e ll then ( ms ) / F a re w e ll, then 2 8 3 .10 save ( ms ) / fo r 2 8 3 .2 6 b ro ther ’s (E d itorial) / father ’ s (ms fathers) 2 8 3 .3 9 b ro ther (E d itorial) / father (ms as E d 1 ) 2 8 3 .4 1 w as ( ms) / w ere 284. ↓ boat, which... castle, (m s boat which lay at a little distance from the

castle.) / boat from the castle, which lay at a little distance. 284.4 t his they ( ms ) / this tim e they 2 8 4 . 8 complices (ms) / accomplices 2 8 4 .1 1 hopes— yo u (ms) / hopes— Y ou 2 8 4 .15 w ill (ms) / w ould 2 8 4 .2 2 in presence ( ms) / in the presence 2 8 4 .3 2 k n o w (ms) / knew 2 8 4 .3 3 t h e m s e lf ( ms) / them selves A c c o rd in g to the O E D , ‘ them s e lf w as general to c. 1 540, and disap­ peared c. 15 7 0 . 2 8 4 .37 o f — w h ile ( ms) / of. W hile 284.43 F le m in g — w e ( ms) / F le m in g ; w e

E M 2 8 5.8 2 8 5 .9

2 8 5 .1 3 2 8 5 .16 2 8 5 .1 7 2 8 5 .2 4 2 8 5 .2 6 2 8 5 .4 1 2 8 6 .1 3 286 .29 2 8 6 .33 286.40 28 6 .4 2 2 8 7 .6 2 8 7 .19 2 8 7 .2 0 2 8 7 .2 6 2 8 7 .3 5

2 8 7 .38 2 88.4 2 8 8 .18 2 8 8 .33

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i f (ms) / I f dare!” (ms derived: dare” !) / dare.” S c o tt added the exclam ation m ark, b u t did not have space to in sert it b efo re the in verted com m as. m in io n (ms) / m inions fitted— b u t (ms) / fitted on— bu t deem it is one (ms) / deem it one apartment— i f (ms) / apartment. I f be (ms) / were D ryfesd ale— take ( m s ) / D ryfesd ale, take t o w ard (ms) / tow ards accept i t (ms) / accept o f it has (ms) / hast her— b u t settin g (ms) / her. B u t, settin g b ro ther ’s (E d itorial) / son ’s (ms sons) you think (ms) / ye think seem ly (ms) / secu rely builded (ms) / built find— it (ms) / find— I t forsook (M agn u m ) / forsooth (m otto absent fro m ms ) t h e EEWN does not norm ally correct S c o tt’s m isqu o tations. H ow ever, the sim ilarity o f S c o tt’s ‘ k ’ and ‘th ’ m eans that on this occasion the error p ro b ab ly arose from m isreading. L o c h le v e n , how ever (ms) / L o c h leven — h ow ever second, from (ms second from ) / second place, from t h e D o u glas ( m s ) / th e house o f D o u glas entered, and alone, contrary (ms derived: enterd and alone contrary) /

entered alone, contrary 289.4 en joy or rep ly (ms) / en joy, or to rep ly 289 .5 A n d first let (ms) / A n d , first, let 289.6 ru n ( ms) / been 2 8 9 .19 or at an y m om ent (ms) / or an y other m om ent 2 8 9 .2 5 pass— in (ms) / pass. In 2 89.29 before— there (ms) / before, there 290. ↓ D iv in e s t ( m s ) / D earest 290 .3 “ — i f (ms) / “ I f 290 .4 fo r the (ms) / fo r sin ce the 2 9 0 .16 ow n— no, n o t (ms d erived : ow n— no not) / ow n. N o — not 2 9 0 .34 hold out a (ms) / hold a 2 9 0 .36 replied (ms) / said 2 9 0 .4 1 he o ffsp rin g (ms) / he the o ffsp rin g 2 9 0 .4 1 w h o ( ms) / that 2 9 1 .7 “ I w o u ld (ms) / “ W ou ld 2 9 1.8 t hine— b u t (ms) / thine! B u t 2 9 1.9 rend ered u pon a (ms rend erd upon a) / rend ered h e rse lf u p on a 2 9 1 . 1 3 reso lu tion— K e e p ( m s ) / reso lu tion; keep 2 9 1 .1 8 his, “ w e (ms his “ we) / his grasp, “ w e 2 9 1.3 6 R o la n d , “ w h ich (m s R o lan d “ w hich) / R o la n d , “ fo r w h ich 2 9 1 .38 all her m en yie (ms) / all the m enzie 2 9 2 .7 emprize (ms) / enterprize 2 9 2 .8 or in som e (ms) / o r som e 2 9 2 .1 8 C a therine— or ( ms) / C a therin e, or 2 9 3 .1 t hat ( m s ) / the 2 9 3.9 him— but (ms) / him, but 2 9 3 .1 7 farther (ms) / fu rther

452

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2 9 3 .18 who (ms) / which 2 9 3.2 6 hearts— D a u g h ter ( ms ) / h earts. D a u g h ter 2 9 3 .2 7 K in g s ( ms ) / kings 2 9 3 .3 2 w h ile, ex ten din g (E d itorial) / w h ile e x ten d in g (ms as E d 1 ) t h e E d 1 pu n ctuation is m islead in g: a com m a m akes th e senten ce stru ctu re clear. 2 9 4 .1 6 groom ?— B u t (m s groo m — B u t) / groom ? b u t 2 9 4 .3 2 t h e e— yes ( ms ) / them . Y e s 2 9 4 ·33 cum ber (ms) / toil 29 4 .4 3 w as (ms) / w ere 2 9 5 .3 Seb a stian” ( m s ) / S e b a stian .” 29 5.9 so su d d en ly (ms) / th u s su d d en ly 2 9 5 .1 3 à m o i! à m oi! (1 8mo) / a m o i! a m o i! (ms A m oi a m oi) 2 9 5 .1 4 m u rthered (ms m u rtherd ) / m u rd ered 2 9 5 .1 5 rescue fo r ( ms ) / rescue! fo r 2 9 5 .18 W a m (ms) / w a m 2 9 5 .19 Sa d d le (ms) / saddle 2 9 5 .2 7 H u sb a n d ? (ms) / H u sb an d ! 2 9 5 .2 9 horseback— N o t ( ms ) / h orseback.— N o t 2 9 5 .3 1 said L a d y ( ms) / said the L a d y 2 9 5 .3 4 L a m b s (ms) / lam bs 295.35 fie (ms) / Fie 2 9 5 .38 S c o tland— W ill ( ms ) / S c o tland. W ill 2 9 5 .4 2 begone!— yo u (ms begone— yo u ) / begone! Y o u 2 9 6 .10 w o rd ( ms ) / w o rds 2 9 6 .1 8 lip s . T hat (ms) / lips— t hat 2 9 6 .2 4 m u rther ( ms ) / m u rd er

296.29

p a s s io n n o w , b u t ( m

s

p a s s io n n o w b u t) / p a s s io n , b u t

296 .40 heretic cu rs ( ms) / h eretics 2 9 6 .4 1 t h is ( ms) / the 296.41 state— which (ms) / state, which 2 9 6 .4 3 ‘the (ms “ the) / the 29 6 .43 P ro vid e n ce.’ ” (ms P ro vid e n ce— ” ) / Pro vid en ce. 2 9 7 .1 2 page (ms) / y o u th 2 9 7 .16 t h e L a d y (ms) / m y lad y 298.4 “ W h y ,” she said, “ sh ou ld (ms d erived : “ W h y she said shou ld) / W h y , she said, should 2 9 8 .10 does (ms) / D o es 2 9 8 .1 1 m ine ( ms) / m y 2 9 8 .12 su p p ly .” ( ms) / su p p ly. 2 9 8 .1 5 door, (ms) / door o f the room . 2 9 8 .2 1 D ry fe sd a le ; “ bu t (ms d erived : D r y fe s d a le B u t) / D ry fe sd a le , “ b u t 2 9 8 .34 h im se lf— “ this (ms) / h im self, “ this 2 9 8 .4 1 lady— the ( ms ) / lady. T he 29 8 .4 2 dare— ” — (ms dare— ” ) / d are?” — — 2 9 9 .1 it to you (ms) / it you 299.9 cru zad or ( ms ) / cru izu ed o r 2 9 9 .12 L in d e s a y ( 1 2m o) / L in d s a y (not in m s ) 299.1 5 his bonnet sits not a (ms does his bonnet sits not a) / does his bonnet sit

a S c o tt had second tho u gh ts, b u t fo rg o t to d elete ‘ do es’ . 2 9 9 .1 5 b ro w — W hat (ms) / brow ? W h at 2 9 9 .16 S c o tland bu t has had ( ms ) / S c o tlan d w h o has no t had 2 9 9 .19 vial ( ms) / phial 2 9 9 .19 one, a (ms) / one, and a

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2 9 9 .22 doest (ms) / dost 299 .43 gran tin g — B u t . . . A w a y (m s grantin g B u t unspeakable are the ju d ge­ m en ts o f H eaven thu s does the cu p avenge the pow d er-casks— A w ay) / gran tin g.— A w ay T h e tran scriber skip ped a lin e; ‘ th u s’ is a conjectu re, as the w o rd is illegib le in the m s . 30 0 .5 hold— send (E d itorial) / hold— sum m on R an d al h ither in stan tly .— R a n d al, here is a fo u l and ev il chance befallen— send (m s hold ↑ sum m o n R an d al hither in stan tly — R an d al here is a fo u l & ev il chance b efallen ↓ — send) S e e E ssay o n th e T ext, 407. 30 0 .7 fe tch ( ms ) / F e tch 300.8 ashes on (ms) / ashes in 300 .9 t ell ( ms ) / t ell 30 0 .2 5 h im self. H e (ms) / h im self; he 30 0 .36 fu rther ( ms ) / farther 3 0 0 .37 N icn e v e n (8vo) / N iv n e v e n (ms N in even ) 3 0 1 .20 D o u g la s (m s derived : D o u glass) / D o u g la s’s 3 0 1 .2 5 A b o v e ( ms ) / above 3 0 1 .3 4 son (E d itorial) / hu sband (ms as E d 1 ) 3 0 1 .3 6 o verta’en (m s o vertaen) / o vertaken 3 0 1 .3 7 servan t fo r (ms) / servan t o f 3 0 1 .3 9 w om an— I (ms) / w om an, I 3 0 1 .4 3 saints?— is (ms S a in ts— is) / saints? Is 3 0 2 .1 3 love— an d (ms) / love; and 3 0 2 .3 9 so (ms) / as 3 0 2 .4 1 shou ld ( m s ) / shou ldst 3 0 3 .3 agonies— L a d y ( ms) / agonies.— L a d y 3 0 3 .1 3 ch im n ey— or (ms) / c h im n ey or 3 0 3 .2 1 lab ou r-in -vain — I (ms) / labou r in vain. I 3 0 3 .3 4 her, and alleging (ms her and alleging) / her, alleging 3 0 3 .4 0 D ra n k (ms) / drank 30 4 .2 0 m u rtherers ( ms ) / m u rd erers 30 4 .2 5 m in d ( ms ) / m ind s 30 4 .2 9 Q ueen !” (ms) / Queen?” 3 0 4 .3 6 in case ( ms ) / able 30 4 .39 gen iu s ( ms ) / sp irit 3 0 5 .1 2 and th y bo ld ( ms) / and bold 3 0 5 .1 3 L o c h le v e n . S h e ( m s ) / L o c h le v e n — S h e 3 0 5 .1 4 c u rtain— and ( ms) / c u rtain, and 3 0 5 .1 5 actress— b u t (ms) / actress; b u t 3 0 5 .1 6 H a rk , they com e! (ms derived : H ark they com e!) / H ark! they com e. 3 0 5 .2 7 m u rthered ( ms) / m u rd ered 3 0 5 .2 9 S e y ton— F le m in g ( ms ) / S e y ton, F le m in g 3 0 5 .2 9 voice— w h o w aits?— call C o u rcelles (ms voice— w ho w aits— call C o u rçelles) / voice. W h o w aits?— C a ll C o u rselles 3 0 5 .3 7 G o o d (ms) / good 3 0 5 .3 7 t ru st now (ms) / now tru st 3 0 5 .4 1 t im e.” (m s d erived : tim e— ” ) / tim e?” 30 6 .2 m e— B u t ( ms ) / m e; b u t 30 6 .29 m e ,” said C a therin e to h erself, “ h ow (ms m e said C a therin e to h e rse lf how ) / m e!” said C a therin e to herself. “ H o w 3 0 7 .3 N o rw a y — O r (ms d erived : N o rw a y O r) / N o rw a y , or 3 0 7 .4 u n d ertaken .” (ms u n d ertaken— ” ) / u n d ertaken this tru st.” 3 0 7 .2 0 ass— b u t ( ms) / ass. B u t

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t o w ard s (ms) / tow ard and in my official (ms derived: and in official) / and official poisoned?— in (ms poisond— in) / evil-d isp o sed ?— In sublim ate, regu lu s (E d itorial) / sublim ate regu lu s (m s as E d 1) o f— or ( m s ) / o f, or discern ( m s ) / disco ver A n tidotis ( m s ) / A n tidotes lady. “ Sen d (ms L a d y “ Sen d ) / lad y; “ send disgu ise abandoned. S h e (E d itorial) / disgu ise. S h e (ms d isgu ize [new line] Sh e) In begin n in g a new line S c o tt fo rgo t to com plete his sen tence. 308.34 Ja m e s (E d itorial) / R o b e rt (ms as E d 1) S e e E ssay o n th e T ext, 406. 30 8 .35 con fess ( m s ) / C o n fess 30 8 .4 3 Y o u r (ms) / yo u r 309.1 5 hail, daughter (8vo) / hail dau gh ter (ms as E d 1) 3 0 9 .18 H e a r (ms) / hear 30 9 .20 first ” ( ms) / first,” 30 9 .2 3 M assy -m o re!— to (m s m assym ore— to) / M a ssy -m o re !— to 3 1 0 .2 nigrom an cer (ms) / necrom ancer 3 1 0 . 1 5 rejected (ms) / rejects 3 1 0 . 1 6 presented (ms) / present 3 1 0 . 1 7 on (ms) / from 3 1 0 . 1 8 waited for the words she was to utter as (ms) / waited as 3 1 0 .2 5 L io n e ss (ms) / lioness 3 10 .2 8 G o d (ms) / god 3 1 0 . 3 1 D efen d er o f the o n ly tru e F a ith ( ms ) / d efen d er o f the o n ly tru e fa ith 3 1 0 .3 2 S a in t P e ter ( ms) / S t P e ter 3 1 0 .3 5 t o w ers— no t ( ms ) / tow ers, not 3 1 0 .3 6 closed— in (ms) / closed— In 3 1 0 .4 1 lend thee its aid ( ms) / give thee its assistance 3 1 1 .1 H o u se (ms) / place 3 1 1 .1 0 forwards (ms) / forward 3 1 1 .20 L a d y L o c h le v e n ( ms ) / L a d y o f L o c h le v e n 3 1 1 . 4 2 like (ms) / likely 3 1 2 .1 4 knew ever the (ms) / knew the 3 1 2 .2 6 grate (ms) / gate 3 1 2 . 3 1 his (ms) / the 3 1 3 . 1 8 danger. A n d (ms) / danger; and 3 1 3 .2 2 A n d now (ms) / and now 3 1 3.2 6 b y apprehension ( ms) / b y the ap prehension 3 1 3 .3 6 metoposcopical (8vo) / metoscopical (ms as E d 1 ) 313.38 offered so gracefully, and by (ms offerd so gracefully & by) / offered by 3 1 3 .3 9 L a d y o f L o c h le v e n in terpo sed ( ms) / L a d y in terposed 3 1 3.40 C h am berlain stern ly, said (m s C h am b erlain ste rn ly said) / C h a m b er­ lain, said 3 1 4 .6 donor (ms) / dam e 3 1 4 . 2 1 hand— i f ( ms ) / hand. I f 3 1 4 .2 3 A n d (ms) / and 3 1 4 .2 4 honorarium . O (m s ) / h o norariu m — O 3 1 4.26 ægros (E d itorial) / ægros 3 1 4 .3 4 sick-beds, and prepares (ms sick beds and prepares) / sick-bed, mocks 3 1 5 .6 Ja m e s (E d itorial) / Ja s p e r (m s Ja sp a r) 3 1 5.8 t o the cold (ms) / to cold 3 1 5 .1 1 t ru st— hem — I ( ms) / tru s t !— hem .— I 3 0 7 .2 2 3 0 7 .3 6 30 7 .4 2 30 8 .4 3 0 8 .1 1 3 0 8 .1 3 3 0 8 .1 3 3 0 8 .1 5 3 0 8 .2 4

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w om an, a (ms d erived : w om an a) / w om an— a pap ist— i f (ms P a p ist— if) / p apist— I f pred estined— I ( ms ) / pred estined. I it— B u t (ms) / it; b u t at (ms) / in charge— there ( ms ) / charge— t h e re G e o rg e— then ( ms ) / G eo rg e ; then t o w er— the baillie— the (ms tow er— the B aillie— the) / tow er, the baillie, the 3 1 5 .3 5 clothes— to (ms cloath s to) / clothes . T o 315.36 clean (ms) / unthrifty 3 1 5 .3 7 household— to (ms) / h o u seh o ld. T o 3 1 5 .3 8 m en— I (ms) / m e n .I 3 1 5.4 3 fag-end (ms fagend) / latter days 3 1 6 .5 live— and ( ms) / live— A n d 3 16 .6 a-h un gered (ms a h u ngerd ) / hungered 3 1 6 .7 eating— yo u r (ms) / eating. Y o u r 316.8 feather-bed, and (ms derived: featherbed and) / feather-bed; and 3 16.9 frieze-jerkin (8vo frieze-jerken) / freize-jerkin (ms as E d 1 ) 3 1 6 . 1 1 Ju d g m e n t (m s Ju d g e m e n t) / ju dgm en t 3 1 6 . 1 3 but as (ms) / but, as 316.13 speaking you (ms) / speaking, you 3 1 6 . 1 4 saints— F o r (ms S a in ts— F o r ) / saints; for 3 1 6 . 1 7 predestin ed ” ( m s ) / p redestined, sin ce” 3 16 .2 0 H o u se?” (ms) / hou se” 3 1 6.21 born servant (ms) / born-servant 3 1 6 .2 2 year ( ms) / years 3 16 .2 9 th e e (ms) / you 3 1 6 .3 2 D o u g la s’ s ( m s d erived : D ou glasses) / D o u glasse s’ T h e ms read in g is S c o tt’ s norm al spellin g fo r the sin gu lar possessive o f this nam e. 3 1 6 .3 7 proceed on ( ms) / proceed in 3 1 7 .3 6 c o n ta i n , ” ( m s c o n t a i n ” ) / c o n ta i n , ’ 3 1 8 .5 t averns, and, i f (ms tavern s and if) / taverns; and w h o, i f 3 1 8 .5 oaths A n d re w ( ms ) / oaths w ere A n d rew 318.10 warrand (ms warran〈 t〉 d) / warrant 3 1 8 . 1 2 G o o d (ms) / good 3 1 8 . 1 2 R e g e n t— H o ( ms ) / R e g e n t— — H o 3 1 8 . 1 3 A u c h term u ch ty— raise ( m s ) / A u c h term u ch ty , raise 3 1 8 .2 7 Y o u n g m an (ms) / Y o u th 3 1 8.28 fo rgive— thou ( ms) / fo rg iv e . T hou 3 18 .2 9 one— and ( ms ) / one— A n d 3 1 8 .3 2 D o u g las, and (m s D o u g la s & ) / D o u glas; and 318.37 expiring?” (ms) / expiring!” 3 1 8.38 and I (ms and 〈 h e〉 ↑ I ↓ ) / and D ryfesd ale 3 1 9 .5 me! B a se po iso n er, w o u ld st (ms derived : m e B ase poisoner w o u ld st) / m e, base poisoner! W o u ld st 3 1 9 . 1 1 m o ther (E d itorial) / paren ts (ms as E d 1 ) 3 1 9 . 1 1 t h e K in g ( ms) / th y K in g 3 1 9 . 1 2 carried by ( ms) / carried away by 3 1 9 . 1 6 doest (ms) / dost 3 1 9 . 1 9 t h y house (E d itorial) / th y father ’s house (ms th y fathers house) 3 19 .2 0 ideot (ms) / idiot 3 1 9 .2 2 could (ms) / would 3 1 9.24 horrors— rep en t ( ms) / horrors— R ep en t

3 15 .18 3 15 .18 3 1 5 .19 3 15 .19 3 1 5 .2 6 3 1 5 .3 2 3 1 5 .3 3 3 1 5 .3 4

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S e y ton? ( ms ) / S e y ton! S e y ton? ( ms ) / S e y ton! eye (ms) / eyes t h e e?— stran ge (ms thee— strange) / thee? S trange S tran ge, that (ms S trange that) / W on d ro u s, that t h y house (E d itorial) / th y father ’s house (ms th y fathers house) t h e re ( ms ) / t h e re W e (ms) / w e now that he is deceased occupies my public room (ms) / occupies my

public room now that he is deceased 3 2 0 .3 1 3 2 0 .4 1

acciden ts ( ms ) / accou nts deed, but beware—not (ms

derived: deed but beware— not) / deed;

but beware, not 32 0 .4 3 b ro ther ( E d itorial) / father (m s as E d 1) 3 2 1 .1 E d in b u rg h — A n d ( ms ) / E d in b u rg h ; and 3 2 1 .4 e v er o u t .” ( ms ) / ev er cleanse out.” 3 2 1 . 1 7 make (ms) / made 3 2 1 .2 2 o f his h eaven ly (ms d erived : o f his heaven) / o f H e a v e n ’s t h e EEWN o ffe rs the likeliest in terp retation o f m s erro r. 3 2 1 .2 5 said D o u g la s ( ms) / said G eo rg e D o u glas 3 2 1 .2 6 N o — I ( ms ) / N o! I 3 2 1 .2 7 b ro ther ’s ( E d itorial) / father ’s (m s fathers) 3 2 1 .2 8 ↓ have to shed (ms) / I shed 3 2 1 .3 0 ridding such a miscreant from the earth ( ms ) / ridding the earth of such

a miscreant 3 2 2 .4 mayst (ms) / mayest 3 2 2 .1 9 go in g ( ms ) / h avin g gone 3 2 2 .2 0 shop ( ms ) / m erchant 3 2 2 .3 7 V ertu gard in s ( IS e t) / V ertg a d in s (ms a s E d 1 ) 3 2 3 .8 rep lied th e L a d y ( ms ) / replied L a d y 3 2 3 . 1 2 L o c h le v e n ,” she said; “ fo r (8vo) / L o c h le v e n ;” she said , “ fo r (m s L o c h le v e n she said for) 3 2 3 .1 6 com m and ( ms ) / com m ands 3 2 3 .2 1 w as p lain ( ms ) / becam e plain 3 2 3 .2 7 com p an y— I ( ms) / com pan y. I 3 2 3 .2 9 son (E d itorial) / grand son ( ms as E d 1) 3 2 4 .1 0 crave ( ms ) / claim 3 2 4 .1 2 m en tion ed (m s m en do n d ) / m en ti o n 3 2 4 .1 6 A n d (ms) / an d 3 2 4 .2 7 its (ms) / his 3 2 4 .3 7 care— I ( ms ) /care. I 3 2 4 .3 8 soul— b u t ( ms ) / sou l; b u t 3 2 4 .4 1 a step so h u rried an d a look (ms derived : a ↑ step so h u rried an d ↓ look) / a look T h e ms in serti o n on verso w as overlooked. A n e x tra in d efin ite arti c l e is requ ired . 3 2 5 .3 so (ms) / as 3 2 5 .9 stay ( IS e t) / slay T h e ms cou ld read either ‘ sta y ’ or ‘sla y ’ : S c o tt does n o t n o rm ally cross th e letter ‘ t’ . T h e context su p p o rts S c o tt’ s I S e t em en dati o n . 3 2 5 .1 0 like (ms) / sure 3 2 5 .1 4 spo iled (ms spoild) / despoiled 3 2 5 .2 4 p racti c e s ( ms ) / practi c e 3 2 5 .3 3 liberty — b lo o d -th irsty (ms lib erty — b lo o d th irsty) / lib erty . B lo o d ­ th irsty

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3 2 5 .3 5 t o F e rn ih e rs t (ms) / to the F e m ih e rs t 3 2 5 .3 6 east” — — (ms derived : w est” — — ) / east, an d” — — 3 2 5 .3 7 M e th in ks yo u fo rget, m adam , that (ms M e thinks yo u fo rget M ad am th at) / M e thinks, m adam , yo u fo rget that 3 2 5 .3 7 S e y ton ,” said (ms S e y ton said) / S e y ton ?” said 3 2 5 .3 8 w h ich n o w ( ms) / w h ich w as now 3 2 5 .4 2 h ave slain ( ms ) / has slain 3 2 6 .1 6 rep en tance— w e ( ms ) / rep en tance. W e 3 2 6 .2 1 know b est w h ether ( m s ) / know w h ether 3 2 6 .2 5 featu re ( ms ) / features 3 2 6 .2 7 yo u (ms) / ye 3 2 6 .4 2 quarrel, and (ms derived: quarrel and) / quarrel; and 3 2 7 . 1 2 d A m o u r— A h . . .L o v e .” (ms ↑ . . . d ’A m o u r ↓ — A h C a therin e tim e w ill 〈 te ll〉 ↑ teach ↓ thee I fear h ow little tru th there is in that sam e C h ro n icle o f L o v e ” — ) / d A m o u r.” T h e am anuensis looked to the verso to co p y the F re n c h title (w ith w h ich S c o tt had replaced a deleted ‘ C h ro n icle o f L o v e ’) and in return­ in g to the recto his eye skip ped a line to the u nd eleted repetition o f the E n g lish title. 3 2 7 .1 9 Q u e e n had passed ( m s Q ueen had passd) / Q ueen seefned to pass 3 2 7 .2 9 d isco v ery ; b u t he w as u n su ccessful, fo r (ms derived : d isco very. B u t he w as u n su ccessfu l for) / d isco very, b u t he w as u n su ccessfu l; fo r 3 2 7 .3 4 second, [n ew paragraph] B u t (ms) / second. B u t 3 2 8 .4 y o u .” (ms y o u ” ) / yo u ?” 3 2 8 .2 3 other— A ( ms ) / other— a 3 2 8 .3 1 sister, ( ms ) / sister? 3 2 8 .3 9 life-b lo o d (ms 〈 hearts〉 ↑ life 4 blood) / life ’s-blood 3 2 9 .7 m ay— b u t ( ms ) / m ay, bu t 32 9 .8 m ine— she ( ms ) / m ine, she 3 2 9 .1 4 d ep en d en t u pon ( ms ) / su b jected to 3 2 9 .1 5 like ( m s )/ likely 32 9 .2 9 aloud— ( m s ) / aloud, 32 9 .3 9 à (M a g n u m ) / a ( m s as £ d i ) 32 9 .4 0 go o d -w ill be (m s derived : good w ill be) / good be 3 3 0 .2 C a therin e, w ho ju st then en tered, “ I (M agn u m ) / C a therin e, “ I (m s C a th erin e I) 3 3 0 .1 2 atten d an ts ( ms ) / atten dant 3 3 0 .2 5 w e ( m s ) / W e 3 3 0 .3 9 d ifficu lty — h o w ( ms ) / d ifficu lty — H o w 3 3 1 . 1 3 ch u rlish (ms d erived : churlis) / c h u rl’s 3 3 1 . 1 4 blood— b u t ↓ (ms) / blood. H o w ev er, I 3 3 1 .26 lad y ( ms ) / dam e 3 3 2 .5 her.” (8vo) / her. (ms her) 3 3 2 .2 3 yet (ms) / but 3 3 2 .2 5 t h e se (ms) / those 3 3 2 .2 9 B u t ( ms ) / b u t 3 3 2 .3 9 R é v e ille z (M agn u m ) / R e v e ille z (m s as E d 1) 3 3 3 .2 3 O r (ms) / or 3 3 3 .2 5 H e r ( m s ) / her 3 3 3 . 3 1 S e e (ms) / see 3 3 3 .3 1 among (ms) / amongst 3 3 3 .3 7 heaven (ms) / H eaven 333-43 I have (ms) / h a v e l 3 3 4 .6 m ail-gard en er?” ( ms ) / m ail-gard en er.” 3 3 4 .1 1 com m u n ication w ith them — I (ms) / com m u nication— I

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again— our (ms d erived : again our) / again. O u r reserves ( ms) / reserved chuse (ms) / are pleased presence, madam,” said (m s presence madam” said) / presence,” said ch u se.” (ms d erived : ch u se” — ) / chuse ” T h e ms dash in d icates a change o f speaker, no t suspen sion. 335.3 was (ms) / were 3 3 5 .2 7 H o w lat ( ms) / H o w le t 3 3 6 .1 1 religio u s ( ms) / sp iritual 3 3 6 .16 astu cio u sly ( IS e t) / astu ceo u sly T h e ms spellin g is am bigu o u s; the I S e t correction is clear. 3 36 .4 2 lives— it ( ms ) / lives. I t 3 3 7 .3 Q ueen— better (ms qu een— better) / Q ueen . B e tter 3 3 7 .1 8 disco very. R o la n d (ms d isco very. R o n ald ) / d isco v ery ; R o lan d 3 3 7 .2 2 “ I may be foiled,” thought he, “ but (ms “ I may be foild thought he but) 3 3 4 .2 7 3 3 4 .3 7 3 3 4 .4 1 3 3 4 .4 1 334 .4 2

3 3 7 .2 3 3 3 7 .2 4 3 3 7 .3 2 3 3 7 .3 7

/ I may be foiled, he thought, but me.” (ms) / me. stood like ( ms) / stood, like cottages, th o u g h ... inclosu res. W ith (ms cottages thou gh now en tirely separated b y inclosu res— W ith) / cottages. W ith bunch of the implements (ms bunch of (iron) the implements) / bunch

of iron, the implements 3 3 8 .7 b u n d le ( ms ) / b u nch 338 .8 t u rn ed (ms tu rn d) / looked 3 3 8 .1 2 t hose ( ms) / these 338 .2 9 w ord ( ms ) / w ords 338 .4 0 lie (ms) / be 3 3 8 .4 1 knapscap ( ms) / knapsack 3 38 .4 3 said R o lan d . (E d itorial) / an sw ered C a therin e. T h e ms does not sp ec ify the speaker. H o w e v e r, the final w o rd s, an d the ms attrib u tion o f the fo llo w in g speech to C a therin e (see em en dation to 339 .4 ), m ake it clear that R o la n d is the speaker. 3 3 9 .2 need— B u t (ms) / need; b u t 3 3 9 .4 C a therin e ( m s ) / Q ueen M a r y 3 3 9 .1 2 N o w turn (ms) / N o w , turn 3 3 9 .1 4 resistance, (ms) / resistance 3 3 9 .19 o ff.” (ms o ff— ” ) / o f f again .” 339 .2 0 and profound (ms and (our) profound) / and our profound 3 3 9 .2 3 n igh t-w a tch— he ( m s ) / n ig h t-w a tch. H e 3 3 9 .2 4 b rin g do w n the ( m s ) / b rin g the 33 9 .3 9 stead ily on ( m s ) / stead ily fo rw ard 3 4 0 .1 5 and w ill m aintain ” (m s and w ill m ain tain ” — ) / and that I w ill m aintain .” 340 .29 boat . S h e ( m s boat— Sh e) / boat, [n ew p aragrap h] S h e 34 0 .35 w ay— ro w ( ms) / w ay— R o w 34 0 .38 had old (ms) / had no t old 3 4 1 .1 slu m bers ( ms ) / slu m b erin g 3 4 1 .2 heard— “ A (ms) / heard. “ A 3 4 1 .2 3 o f the reach ( ms ) / o f reach 3 4 1 .2 5 S e y ton ( ms) / S e a ton 3 4 2 .1 3 k ingd om ?” ( ms ) / kin gd o m !” 3 4 3 .1 m e (ms) / I 3 4 3 .3 I had rem ained (m s d erived : ↑ I had ↓ 〈 I f I had loved go ld 〉 I m ig h t have rem aind) / I m ig h t have rem ained S c o tt added a passage on the verso page (startin g w ith ‘and b esid es’ at

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3 4 7 .7 3 4 8 .3 7 34 8 .38 34 8 .39 34 9 .30 34 9 .39 3 5 1 .29 3 5 2 .5 3 5 2 .9 3 5 3 .2 3 5 3 .3 8 3 5 5 .2 1 3 5 5 .2 2 3 5 6 .2 1 3 5 6 .2 2 35 6 .2 9 3 5 6 .3 2 3 5 7 .8

3 5 7.2 9 3 5 7 -3 7 3 5 9 .3 6 36 0 .2 4 36 0 .2 7

36 0 .39

3 6 1 .4 1 3 6 2 .1 3 3 6 3 .1 8 36 4 .2 4

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3 4 2 .4 2 ), b u t o m itted to delete the last three w ords o f the replaced te x t; the EEWN fo llow s his second tho u gh ts. L a d y ! the (m s L a d y the) / L a d y ! t h e w i’ ( m s ) / w ith W h ere ( m s ) / W hen large (ms) / larger or fo r ( m s ) / and for m istress— or ( m s ) / m istress, or kind ( m s ) / kinds t o have pu rchased ( m s ) / to pu rchase language— and besides ( m s ) / language; and, besides lad y?” ( m s ) / la d y!” t h e Q u een ’ s le ft side (m s the Q ueen s le ft side) / the other side his care ( m s ) / the care o f N id d rie ( IS e t o f (W est) N id d rie) / o f W est N id d rie (m s o f W est N id d e ry ) A m s erro r, anticip atin g the ‘ W est’ o f ‘ W est L o th ian’ . atoned b y ( m s ) / atoned fo r b y I, a ( C a r e y ) / Iam a m o ther, and laid u nd er her ( IS e t) / father, and laid und er his S e e E ssa y o n th e T e x t, 399 and no te. kindred— b rin g (C arey d erived : k indred , brin g) / kindred , w ho brin g t h e p r o o f p u n ctu ation , rather than the m s tex t, w as at fau lt. R o la n d , yo u (C arey; P arker) / R oland? you queen— I (C arey; Park er) / queen .— I b lessin g .” (C arey; Park er) / b lessin g” disgu ises to (C arey; P arker) / d isgu ises, to fram e, (C arey) / fram e o f m ine, rest. L io n e ss (C arey; P arker) / rest .— L io n e ss t im e,— “ F o r (8vo) / tim e. “ F o r besid es that (C arey; Parker) / besides, that m o ther ju stice (C arey) / m o ther that ju stice reveren d (8 vo) / reveren t “ b u t ( 1 2 m o ) / bu t us— our (C arey) / us. O u r reflection s (C arey; Park er) / reflection u n q uestion ably (C arey; P ark er) / u nq uestionable T h e re w as no reason to change the readin g fou nd in both p r o o f and revise. I t is possible that the final letter d ro pped out o f the fo rm e, and w as erro n eou sly replaced. gainin g the v an tage grou n d. (C arey) / gainin g that ad vantage. fo rw ard s (C arey) / fo rw ard carries a fo o tm an (8vo) / carries a a footm an it ?” (8vo) / it?’ pleases even m e, w h ile (C a re y ; P ark er derived : pleases even m e w hile) / pleases m e even w h ile A n ed itorial com m a m akes sense o f the p r o o f readin g w ithout E d 1 ’ s in terference. fo rget m en m u ch (C arey) / fo rg et m u ch m u ch In P ark er (the revise) ‘m en ’ is deleted. P ro b ab ly B alla n tyn e then added a second ‘ m u c h ’ . O n ly thé C a re y (proof) readin g is clearly au thorial. C h u rch jo in (C arey; P arker) / C h u rch , join R o la n d (8vo) / R o n ald h o u r, the (C arey; Parker) / h o u r. T h e B en edicte (M agn u m ) / B en ed icite

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3 6 5 .1 6 t h rou gh and th rou gh the b o d y w ith (C arey) / th rou gh w ith 3 6 5 .2 6 rise; “ b u t (C arey: rise, “ b u t) / rise, “ sin ce b u t T h e in sertion o f ‘ sin ce’ seem s a resp on se to m isp u n c tu ation , no t a necessary em endation. 3 6 6 .10 him (C arey) / them 36 6.26 bro ther (M agn u m ) / b ro thers A t 3 6 0 .19 C a therin e refers to o n ly one b ro ther. H e is called th e ‘ M a s ter o f S e y ton ’, w h ich m eans he is the oldest . A s C a therin e and h er b ro ther are ‘ not m u ch past six teen ’ it is im pro bable th at she w o u ld also have a yo u n ger b ro ther in the battle. 3 6 7 .2 barret-cap (8vo) / b arret cap 368.1 b y ... subjects, w ho (C arey d erived : b y the reb els am o n g m y su b jects who) / b y m y rebels am on g the su b jects w h o t h e C arey p u n ctuation is at first sigh t o d d , b u t E d 1’s change to the w o rd in g is n eedlessly in tru siv e . T h e eew n in serts a com m a a fter ‘ sub­ jects ’ in ord er to c larify the sense. 36 8 .3 you and the (C arey) / yo u the 3 6 8 .16 h a d ... an d the (E d itorial) / not h av in g y e t been stric tly en fo rced against the m onks, a few still lingered in their cells unm olested ; an d the (C arey: had not y e t been stric tly en fo rced again st the m onks, a few still lingered in their cells unm olested; and th e) T h e sentence w as m isp u n ctuated in th e p ro o f, b u t sw itc h in g com m a and sem i-colon m akes E d 1 ’ s re -w ritin g u nn ecessary. 3 6 8 .3 7 E lizab eth— a (C arey) / E liza b eth. A 3 6 9 .16 see— — ” ( 1 2 m o see— ” ) / see.” T h e speech is unfin ished , b u t E d 1 has no space at the en d o f the line fo r a dash. 3 7 0 .5 H e le ft the (C arey) / H e was about to leave the 3 7 0 .2 4 A n d (E d itorial) / and A capital is u sed to sig n ify a change o f ad dressee. 3 7 0 .3 0 depend on (C arey) / com m ence w ith 3 7 1 .9 A n d (E d itorial) / and 3 7 1 .3 6 service, and (E d itorial) / service; and 3 7 1 .37 such as (C arey) / such aid as t h e insertion o f ‘aid ’ m ay have been pro vo k ed b y c o n fu sin g p u n ctu­ ation— ‘ such ’ clearly refers back to ‘se rv ice ’ . 3 7 2 .1 6 he w ou ld have received (C arey) / he received 3 7 2 .3 4 o ur m aste r’s w ay (C arey derived : o u r m u ster-w ay) / o ur w ay C a re y ’s reading m akes no sense, and p ro b ab ly derived fro m a m isread­ in g o f the ms . T h e pro bable exp lan ation is that S c o tt w ro te ‘m aste r’ or ‘m asters’ . 3 7 2 .3 5 con veyin g him tow ard (C a re y ; P a rk er; 8vo) / co n vey in g tow ard I t is u n lik ely that this erro r cou ld have ap peared b etw een the p r o o f and first ed ition stages o f the tex t : the A m eric an ed ition s, like the 8vo , pro b ab ly corrected it in d epen den tly. 37 2 .4 0 b y P h ilip (C arey) / b y F a ther P h ilip

E N D -O F -L IN E H Y P H E N S

A ll en d -o f-lin e h yph ens in th e p resen t text are soft unless included in the list b e lo w . T h e hyphens listed are hard and should b e retained w hen quoting.

6.22 draw-bridge 24.30 sea-shore 28.4 four-footed 31.5 single-minded 34.7 cock-sparrow 38.30 make-bate 39.23 well-known 39.32 back-sword 41.33 mill-stone 43.30 waiting-maid 49.5 waiting-woman 50.16 shoe-buckles 50.26 major-domo 51.7 Geneva-gowns 52.19 t ime-server 53.39 serving-man 54.25 peat-smoke 56.32 well-known 59.16 lily-white 67.2 pallet-couch 75.28 foot-path 77.25 self-devoted 81.35 t ale-book 83.6 blue-eyed 83.16 serving-women 84.1 gentleman-usher 85.30 mad-cap 90.4 self-denial 91.36 fellow-travellers 92.37 a-rolling 101.34 bare-footed 114.35 men-at-arms 115.20 kail-worm 1 16.21 t o -morrow 118 .14 ostler-wife’s 127.4 good-humoured 130.8 hail-stones 1 3 3 38 court-cattle 136.35 sword-and-buckler-men 141.28 counter-fleured 141.38 well-lighted 142.14 arch-heretic 146.40 Wing-the-wind 149.11 white-boys

15 0 .2 9 row el-h ead s 1 5 7 . 1 7 storm -b last 1 6 1 . 1 8 beef-b on es 1 6 3 .1 4 v in -d e -p ais 16 4 .2 2 p in t-p o t 16 6 .3 6 b ro w -b eaten 16 9 .2 2 brain -sick 17 0 .2 w o lf-b itch 17 9 .3 p u ller-d o w n 1 8 2 .18 h aw k -m ew s 18 3 .9 co u rt-y ard 1 8 3 .1 9 w ild -d rak e 18 7 .2 7 eye -b ro w s 1 9 6 .1 3 C a rb e rry -h ill 19 6 .3 4 B e ll- the- C a t 2 0 0 .32 b rok en -h earted 209 .42 n e w -falle n 2 1 3 .4 1 w e ll-n u rtu red 2 2 0 .2 2 priso n -h o u se 2 4 2 .3 2 p late-sleeves 2 4 4 .16 p lagu e-h o sp ital 245.9 sp ae-w ife 2 4 5 .10 B rie rie -b a u lk 2 4 5 .36 b o lt-h ead s 2 4 6 .37 W h at-sh a ll-c a ll’u m ’s 2 6 1.8 t ru e-h earted 2 6 4 .22 cast-a w ay 2 7 3 .3 ill-n atu red 2 8 4 .4 1 t o rc h -lig h t 3 0 8 .17 fin g er-jo in ts 3 16 .6 a-h u n gered 3 2 5 .1 5 K e ltie -B rid g e 3 2 5 .3 3 b lo o d -th irsty 3 2 5 .3 4 C la n -R a n a ld 3 2 8 .3 0 t w in -b ro ther 3 3 0 .4 ill-n a tu re 3 3 0 .2 0 t o -n ig h t 3 3 2 .2 1 presen ce-ch am b er 3 3 8 .1 0 corp se-can d les 3 4 2 .2 7 lo v ely-faced 3 4 5 .3 6 p ass-w ord 3 4 9 .2 1 priso n -cares 3 4 9 .37 cock -ch ick en s 3 5 4 .1 5 h ead -q u a rters

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E N D -O F-L IN E H YPH EN S 3 6 4 .37 3 6 9 .34

h o lly-b ran ch h o lly-b o u gh

H IS T O R IC A L N O T E

B a c k g ro u n d a n d S o u r c e s. T h e historical events described in T he A bbot took place in J u l y 15 6 7 and M a y 15 6 8 .1 O n 24 J u l y 15 6 7 M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts, im prisoned in L o c h le ven C a stle, was forced to resign her crow n, and to app oint the E a rl o f M o ra y , h er h alf-b ro ther, R e ge n t on b e h a lf o f h er infant son Ja m e s V I; in M a y 15 6 8 she escaped from L o ch le ven , on ly to be d efeated b y M o ra y at L a n g sid e on 1 3 M a y . M a ry then fled in to E n glan d , w here she was to rem ain im prisoned until her execu tion in 15 8 7 . H o w ever, S c o tt w as w ell aw are that M a r y ’ s defeat decided m ore than ju st her ow n d estin y. H e r conflict w ith M o ra y and his allies was religious as w ell as personal, and her defeat signalled the success o f the S c o ttish R efo rm ation. I t also m arked a fundam ental change in S c o ttish foreign p olicy, a m ove aw ay from the ‘old alliance’ w ith C a th olic F ran ce, and tow ards closer ties w ith P ro testant E ngland . t h e em ergence o f S c o ttish P ro testantism m ay be traced back as far as the 1 520s, and in 15 2 8 P a trick H am ilton becam e S c o tland ’ s first P ro t­ estant m arty r. P ro testants w ere on ly a sm all, i f active, m in o rity at this p eriod ,2 and they su ffered from the p ro -C a th olic p o licy o f tam es V . H is com m itm ent to a F re n c h alliance was dem onstrated b y his tw o m ar­ riages: first to M adelein e, the sh ort-lived daughter o f the F ren c h king, F ran ço is I, and then, in 15 3 8 , to M a ry o f G u ise , a m em ber o f the p ow erfu l and fiercely C a th olic G u ise fam ily. Ja m e s also antagonised the E n g lish king, H e n ry V I I I , to w hom the S co ttish P ro testants natu rally looked for su pp ort . Ja m e s ’ s p olicy reached a d isastrous clim ax w hen a S co ttish arm y, in tended to invade E n glan d , was rou ted at S o lw a y M o ss in N o vem b er 15 4 2 . Ja m e s died, rep u ted ly o f a broken heart, on 14 D ecem ber; a w eek earlier his one legitim ate su rvivin g ch ild , M a ry , had been born. Ja m e s ’ s death in itially strengthened the p ro -E n g lish , P ro testant party in S c o tland. H e n ry V I I I p roposed a m arriage betw een M a r y and his son E d w a rd , and in 15 4 3 the S c o ttish parliam ent agreed to start negoti­ ations tow ards this en d . T h e sam e parliam ent also auth orised the reading o f the scrip tu res in the vernacular. B u t althou gh a treaty w ith E n glan d was agreed in J u ly , H e n ry ’ s dom ineering b eh aviou r, dem and­ in g custod y o f the Q ueen and seizing S co ttish sh ipp in g, q u ick ly alien­ ated the S co ts, w ho rep u diated the treaty in D ecem b er and instead reaffirm ed the old alliance w ith Fran ce. H e n ry ’ s response w as to in itiate the ‘rough w o oin g’ , an attem pt to seize control o f S c o tland b y force. A series o f b ru tal raid s, led b y the E a rl o f H e rtford , began in M a y 15 4 4 and culm inated in the catastro ph ic defeat o f the S c o ts at the battle o f P in k ie in 15 4 7 . H e rtfo rd ’ s savagery, h ow ever, o n ly hardened S c o ttish resolve, and ensured the dom inance w ith in S c o tland o f a p ro -F re n c h p olicy, in w h ich for once both P ro testants and C a tholics con cu rred . T h e

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treaty o f H ad d in gton, agreed in 15 4 8 , confirm ed the F ren c h alliance: M a ry was to m arry the dauphin F ran ço is, and on 7 A u g u st she sailed fo r Fran ce. F ren ch troops w ere sent to S c o tland, and b y 15 5 0 had expelled the E n g lish from their S c o ttish fo rtresses. P eace w as finally agreed in M a rc h 15 5 0 . D e sp ite the triu m p h o f p ro -F re n c h policies in the 1 540s, the w ork o f P ro testant reform ers, m an y o f w hom p reserved close links w ith E n g ­ land, had continued: G e o rg e W ish art preached o p en ly in 15 4 4 – 45— though in 15 4 6 he was tried and bu rned at S t A n d re w s, an act o f repression w h ich led d irectly to the assassination o f C ard in al B ea ton, A rch b ish op o f S t A n d re w s, tw o m onths late r. T h e reform ers gained m ore strength in the 15 5 0 s , p artly thanks to the tolerant p o licy o f M a ry o f G u ise , w ho becam e R e g e n t in 15 5 4 . T h e death o f E d w a rd V I in 15 5 3 , and the accession o f his C a th olic sister M a r y t u d or, had d ep rived the reform ers o f E n g lish su pp ort, and they w ere apparently regarded as no threat. B u t at the sam e tim e the dom inance o f F ran ce , and the presence o f expensive F ren c h troops, started to arouse general resentm ent in S c o tland. E v e n ts in 15 5 8 - 5 9 bro u gh t the h ostility betw een the re­ form ers and the R egen t in to the open. In 15 5 8 the Q ueen m arried the F ren ch dauphin Fran ço is, w ho w as then aw arded the ‘crow n m atrim o­ nial’ , w h ich gave him the righ t to in h erit the S c o ttish throne in his ow n righ t should M a ry die w ithou t issu e. T h e n in A p r il 15 5 8 reform ers w ere outraged b y the b u rn in g o f W alter M y ln , w h ile in N o v em b e r o f the sam e year they w ere encouraged b y the accession o f the P ro testant E lizabeth to the E n g lish throne— an event to w h ich the F re n c h king, H en ri II, responded b y proclaim ing M a ry , his dau gh te r-in -la w , Q ueen o f E n g ­ land as w ell as S c o tland .3 A t alm ost the sam e tim e the lon g conflict betw een the tw o great C a th olic p ow ers, F ra n ce and S p a in , cam e to an end, g ivin g them the chance to tu rn their jo in t attention to the su pp res­ sion o f P ro testantism . T h e se events polarised P ro testants and C a tholics throu gh ou t E u r­ ope, and soon led to c ivil w ar in S c o tland. In M a y 15 5 9 Jo h n K n o x , n ew ly arrived in the country fro m a tw en ty -y e a r exile in F ran ce and G en eva, preached an inflam m atory serm on in P e rth; in the rio ts w h ich follow ed several abbeys w ere sacked, first in P e rth and later in tow ns through out central S c o tland. K n o x and his follow ers w ere su pp orted b y the ‘L o r d s o f the C o n gregatio n ’ ,4 led b y , am ong others, L o r d Ja m e s S tew art, bastard son o f Ja m e s V , and the E a rl o f M o r ton; they w ere opposed b y M a ry o f G u ise and h er F re n c h tro o p s. T h e conflict was even ly balanced u ntil F e b ru a ry 15 6 0 , w h en the P ro testants signed the treaty o f B erw ick , w h ich b ro u gh t them E n g lish reinforcem ents . T h e death o f M a ry o f G u ise , on 1 1 Ju n e 15 6 0 , confirm ed their triu m p h . In J u l y the treaty o f E d in b u rg h was agreed b y all p arties, and p rovid ed for the rem oval o f both F ren c h and E n g lish troops. F o r the next year the L o rd s o f the C o n gregation w ere the unch allenged ru lers o f S c o tland, and in the ‘R efo rm ation Parliam ent’ o f A u g u st 15 6 0 the P o p e’ s author­ ity was repudiated, and the M a ss outlaw ed .5 t his w as the state o f affairs w hen M a ry retu rn ed to S co tland in A u g u st 1 5 6 1 (her husband, h aving succeeded to the F ren c h throne in

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J u l y 15 5 9 , had died in D ecem b er 156 0 ). A t first she accepted the status q u o . T h e coun cil w h ich had governed in h er nam e w as unchanged, and she entru sted the governm ent largely to her h alf-b rother L o r d Ja m e s. In deed, in 15 6 2 she w ent so far as to grant him the E arld o m o f M o ra y , w h ich had h itherto belonged to her natu ral ally the C a th olic E a rl o f H u n tly . H u n tly rebelled, b u t died after h is defeat in O ctober; his son S ir Jo h n G o rd o n (a p u tativ e suitor to the Q ueen) w as beheaded. T hrough­ out th is period in w h ich she conciliated the P ro testants, it seem s that M a r y ’ s m ind w as set on secu rin g a guarantee o f the E n g lish succession, an am bition w h ich E lizab eth alw ays fru strated. M a r y ’ s other concern was to acquire a husband, p referably w ith the E n g lish Q ueen’ s b lessin g— th ough E lizab eth constantly th rew obstacles in M a r y ’ s w ay. E v e n tu ally, in 15 6 5 , M a ry m et and fell in love w ith H en ry S tu art, L o r d D a rn le y . D a rn le y w as in m an y w ays a su itable husband, descended fro m both Ja m e s I V and H e n ry V I I . H e w as, how ever, a C a tholic, and the hasty m arriage in fu riated not on ly E lizab eth, bu t som e o f the S c o ttish P ro testants, in clu d in g M o ra y and K n o x . O thers, includ­ in g M o r ton, rem ained loyal to M a ry , and as a resu lt M o r a y ’ s attem pted rebellion , know n m ockin gly as the ‘ C h aseabout R a id ’ , w as defeated w ithout a battle b ein g fou gh t . H o w e ve r, the Q u een’ s strong position in late 15 6 5 w as soon under­ m ined: D a rn le y turned out to be an irresp on sible d ru nk, and although M a r y becam e p regnant, the couple w ere q u ickly estranged. S h e placed less tru st in D a rn le y than in h er I talian secreta ry, D a v id R iccio , and this angered not on ly D a rn le y , b u t m an y o f h er n o b ility , w ho resented the influence o f a foreign er, esp ecially one thou gh t to be an agent o f the P o pe. A w id e-ran gin g consp iracy was form ed, in v o lvin g D a rn le y , M o r­ ton and his su pp orters (inclu d ing L o r d s L in d e sa y and R u thven), and even close ad visors o f the Q ueen such as W illiam M a itland. O n 9 M a rc h 15 6 6 R ic c io w as dragged from M a r y ’ s ow n cham ber and stabbed to death. M a r y ’ s response was im m ediate: she persuaded D a rn le y to abandon the m u rd erers, w ho w ithout his backing w ere q u ickly driven in to exile. M o ra y , on the other hand, w as fo rg iven and allow ed to retu rn from his exile in E n glan d . M a r y ’ s son Ja m e s w as born on 19 Ju n e 15 6 6 . D a rn le y , h ow ever, w ho had b y now m ade enem ies o f alm ost everyon e in S c o tla n d , becam e an in tolerable bu rden. M a ry placed increasing reliance on Ja m e s H ep b u rn , E a rl o f B o th w ell, w h o, though a P ro testant, had rem ained loyal both to h er and to h er m other th rough out his career. In N o v em b e r 15 6 6 she and h er cou n cillors m et at C raigm illar to d iscu ss w ays to dispose o f D a rn le y . A d ivo rce w as ruled out b y the threat it could pose to Ja m e s ’ s legitim acy; m u rd er soon becam e the p referred op tion, although it is uncertain w hat foreknow ledge either M a r y or M o r a y had o f these plans. M o r ton w as recalled in D ecem b er, and, along w ith B o th w ell, appears to have p layed a leadin g p art in the consp iracy, w h ich reached fru ition on the n igh t o f 9 / 10 F e b ru a ry , w hen the K ir k o f F ie ld , the house in w hich D a rn le y w as lodged, was blow n up. D a rn le y ’ s b o d y w as found in the garden. B o th w ell’ s gu ilt w as soon clear; bu t in stead o f d istancing h erself,

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M a ry continued to re ly on him , and m ade no effo rt to b rin g the m u r­ derers to ju stice. B o thw ell had no su pp ort am ong the n o bility at large, w ho refused to countenance his rise to pow er— a rise he planned to consolidate b y m arryin g the Q u een . M o ra y decided to avoid the im ­ pendin g crisis b y going to the continent in early A p ril. O n 24 A p ril B o thw ell seized the Q ueen, p robably w ith her consent; he d ivo rced his ow n w ife on 3 M a y ; on 1 5 M a y B o thw ell and M a ry w ere m arrie d . T h e lords rebelled, and on 1 5 Ju n e their arm y faced M a r y ’ s at C a rb e rry -h ill. t h rough out that day negotiations proceeded; M a r y ’ s soldiers grad u ally deserted, and eventu ally B o th w ell was forced to flee, u ltim ate ly in to exile, w h ile the Q ueen surrend ered to the lords. S h e refu sed to g ive u p B o thw ell (p ossibly because she was b y this stage pregnant b y h im )6 and the lords first decided to im prison h er in L o c h le ven C a stle, and then to depose her. A t this point S c o tt takes u p the story. I t is, h ow ever, also necessary to consider the afterm ath to the even ts dep icted in The Abbot, fo r w hat follow ed M a r y ’ s final d efeat and exile in 15 6 8 in m an y w ays d ictated h ow h er p ersonality and career w ere to be regarded at least until S c o tt’ s tim e, and argu ably until the p resen t day. t h e conflicts o f the 15 6 0 s b ro u gh t about the triu m p h o f a P ro testant, p ro -E n g lish party in S c o tland. M a ry had h e rse lf contrib u ted to th is triu m p h b y her conciliatory policies o f 1 5 6 1 – 6 5, w hen the R e fo rm a tion was bein g consolidated. H e r m arriage to D a rn le y , and h er later reliance on R iccio , had each in tu rn h elped to alienate h er nobility , w h ile the first W ar o f R eligio n in F ran ce (startin g in 15 6 2 ), in w hich the G u ise s w ere prom inent, contrib u ted to su spicion o f her lo n g-term in tentions. Y e t d esp ite these factors, E lizab eth, on w hom the rebels o f 15 6 7 relied fo r su pp ort, was extrem ely relu ctant to endorse the overth ro w o f a le g itim ­ ate m onarch— her refusal to help M o ra y in 15 6 5 had contrib u ted to the fiasco o f the ‘ Chaseabout R a id ’ . T hus M o ra y , now R e g e n t o f S c o tland, and his su pp orters, needed to ju stify their actions in a w ay w h ich d id n ot im p ly the righ t o f the su bject to rem ove the m onarch . T his w as p articu ­ la rly true after M a ry fled to E n gla n d in 15 6 8 , and appealed fo r E liz a ­ beth ’ s h elp . T h e ir strategy was as far as possible to avoid ad d ressin g d irectly the issue o f legitim a cy .7 In s tead they accused M a r y o f specific, punishable crim es: adulte ry w ith B o th w ell, and com plicity in the m u r­ der o f D arn ley. M a r y ’ s advocates responded b y accu sing M o r a y (rather im plau sibly) o f orchestratin g the m u rd er, u sin g B o th w ell as his tool. t h e se issues w ere debated at the conference o f Y o rk , w h ich opened in O ctober 1 568, and at w h ich the p rim e pieces o f evidence against M a ry , the ‘ casket letters’ said to have been w ritten b y h er to B o th w ell, w ere presente d . T h e sam e accusations and counter-accusations w ere en­ shrined in the P ro testant G e o rg e B u ch an an ’ s D etectioun o f the D uinges o f M a rie Q ueue o f S co ttes ( 1 5 7 1 ) , and the C a tholic Jo h n L e s lie ’ s D efence o f the H onour o f ... M a rie , Q ueene o f S co tlande (156 9 ). T h e se issues— the authen tic ity o f the casket letters, D a rn le y ’ s m u r­ d er, M a r y ’ s relationship w ith B o th w ell— obsessed h istorian s o f M a r y ’ s reign for over tw o centuries. In W illiam R o b e rtson’ s phrase, ‘ tw o d iffe r­ ent sy stem s’ (essentially B u ch an an ’ s and L e s lie ’ s),8 w ere advanced over and over again to explain D a rn le y ’ s m u rd er. O ne or other o f th ese rigid

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‘ sy stem s’ , so in tensely personalised and partisan (and alm ost equ ally incred ible), shaped v irtually every account o f M a ry ’ s reign: eigh teenth centu ry h istorians apparently did not realise that these w ere relativ ely m in o r, obsolete questions, w h ich took centre stage in the late 15 6 0 s m ain ly so that M o ra y and his allies could avoid givin g offence to E liz a ­ b eth . T h e m ajor constitu tional and religiou s issues raised in the 15 6 0 s w ere all b u t forgotten— or rather, they could on ly be debated through argu m ents over M a r y ’ s p ersonality , h er gu ilt or innocence. In w ritin g The A bbot S co tt m ade extensive use o f the large collection o f p u blish ed w orks relatin g to M a ry w h ich can be found in his lib ra ry at A b b o tsfo rd .9 t h e re are echoes o f the w orks o f polem icists o f both sides, such as B uch anan, L e slie , and Jo h n K n o x ,10 as w ell as o f less partisan ch ron iclers such as Ja m e s M e lv il, w hose b ro ther R o b ert plays an im ­ p o rtant p art in the n o v e l.11 In ad dition S c o tt exp loited eighteenth -cen­ tu ry collections o f original sources such as Sam u el Je b b ’ s D e V ita & Rebus G estis Seren issim a P rin cip is M a r ia S co torum R eg in a ( 17 2 5 ) and R o b e rt K e ith ’ s t h e H istory o f the A ffa irs o f the Church an d S ta te in S co tla n d (17 3 4 ). H e also tw ice in the course o f the novel acknow ledges G e o rg e C h alm ers’ s L ife o f M a ry , Q ueen o f S co tsy the appearance o f w h ich in 1 8 1 8 m ay have helped to focus his interest on M a r y ’ s reign. B u t d esp ite S co tt’ s rem arkable com m and o f this m aterial, perhaps the m ost strik in g ly original featu re o f his treatm ent o f history in The A bbot is his refu sal to address the question o f M a r y ’ s role in D a rn le y ’ s death. O ne c ritic has claim ed that for this reason the novel is ‘m ost unsatisfactor y ’ , and ‘ adds noth in g to h istor y ’ . 12 S c o tt’ s decision m ay, h ow ever, be in ter­ p reted m ore p ositiv ely : he realised that this question was irredeem ably tinged b y obsolete factionalism , and could never be finally resolved. In stead M a r y ’ s personality, h er crim es or m isfo rtunes, becom e in th e A bbot the stu f f o f rom ance and m y stery, rather than h istorical argum ent . B u t this p ersonality is seen against the background o f far-reaching, o ften con fu sin g h istorical change— change driven b y the conflict be­ tw een religiou s faiths and betw een E n glan d and S c o tland, b y the selfaggran disem ent o f the aristocracy, and b y the rise o f in d ivid u alism . T h e m oral confusion is h eigh tened b y both M a r y ’ s and M o r a y ’ s character­ istic m ix tu re o f self-d o u b t and equ ivocation— a m ix tu re em phasised b y the n o vel’ s m any echoes o f Shakesp eare’ s h istory p lays and o f M acbeth. T hus b y avoid ing the issue w h ich had m onopolised attention fo r so long, and in stead presentin g the figu re o f M a ry in the conte x t o f the stru ggle and u ncertainty w h ich led to the S c o ttish R efo rm ation (a contex t w h ich is stren gthened i f T h e M on astery is treated as an in tegral p art o f the fiction), S c o tt can be seen as at least opening the door to a fu ller, m ore accu rate understand ing o f the h istorical significance o f h er reign. P rin c ip a l C h a r a c ters. M a n y o f the characters in The A bbot are h istor­ ical. W h ile the d etails o f S c o tt’ s characterisation are im agined, he draw s e x ten sively on contem p orary accounts in d escribin g the actions and som etim es the w ord s o f M o ra y , L a d y L o ch le ven , M o r ton, L in d e sa y , R u thven and M e lv ille : his in d ebtedness to his sources is analysed th ro u gh ou t the ‘E x p la n a tory N o tes’ . 13 W h ile the character o f Q ueen

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M a ry is rom anticised and argu ab ly sanitised , even h er less significant characteristics (such as h er h ered ita ry p roneness to h y steria, or her fondness for em broidery) are authorised b y h is sources. O n the other hand S co tt takes great lib e rties in dep ictin g those characters w h o loiter on the frin ges o f h istory , and w h o o ften fo rm the link betw een h istorical and fictional events in his novels— characters w h o m ay be m entioned b y ch ron iclers in connection w ith specific events, b u t o f w h om little else is know n. G e o rg e D o u g la s, fo r in stance, w as a su itor to M a r y ,14 and assisted in her escape; on the other hand h e not on ly su rvived L a n g sid e , bu t w as still liv in g in 1 59 2. R o lan d G ræ m e is largely fictional, b u t his theft o f the keys and liberation o f Q ueen M a r y are based on the e x p lo its o f W illie D o u glas, an orph an belon gin g to the L o c h le v e n hou sehold , w ho subsequently follow ed M a r y in to E n g la n d , and rem ained in h er service u ntil h er death .15 C a therine S e y ton is the fictional d au gh ter o f an h istorical father: althou gh M a r y w as attended in L o c h le v e n and in E n glan d b y M a ry S e ton, one o f h er fo u r M a rie s, it is M a r y F le m in g , n ot C a therin e, w h ose piety and skill in h air-d ressin g seem to b e m odelled on those o f S e ton .16 Ja m e s D ry sd a le w as indeed a guard at L o c h le v e n , bu t beyond the fact that he hated W illie D o u g la s, alm ost noth in g is know n o f h im .17 T h e H alb e rt G le n d in n in g o f The Abbot m ay b e in tended to recall the m odestly -b o rn W illiam K irk c a ld y o f G ra n g e .18 T h e m ost im portant p u rely fictional characters in the novel are M a gd ale n G ræ m e, M a ry A ven el, and A m b ro se, The Abbot him self.

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A ll dates in the H isto rical N o te an d the E x p lan ator y N o tes are given acco rd in g to the m odern calen dar: th e n ew yea r is taken as b eg in n in g on 1 Ja n u a ry . T h e num erical stren gth o f th e P r o testa n ts is hard to gauge. I t certain ly varied con sid erably fro m regio n to region : as late as E a s ter 1 5 6 1 , in E d in ­ b u rgh , the attendance at Jo h n K n o x ’s com m u nion w as o n ly 13 0 0 , w h ich ‘ w o u ld account fo r less than a q u arter o f the ad u lt po p u lation o f the b u rg h ’ (M ich ael L y n c h , E dinbu rgh a n d the R eform ation (E d in b u rg h , 1 9 8 1 ) , 97). T h e ju stification fo r th is claim lay in the illeg itim acy o f E liza b eth: as H e n ry V I I I had never secu red P ap al b lessin g fo r h is d ivo rce fro m his first w ife , C a therin e o f A rago n , h is m arriage to h is second , E liza b eth ’ s m o ther A n n e B o le y n , w as not recogn ised. S e e note to 12 0 .4 3 . I t is no tew orth y , h o w ever, that the stru c tu re o f the C a tho lic c h u rch w as su bstantially u ntouched: ‘ th e m onasteries w ere no t su p p ressed , b u t le ft to w ither aw ay. T h e C a th o lic cle rg y , fro m b ish o p to p riest, contin u ed to en joy their reven u es’ (Je n n y W orm ald , M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts, A S tu dy in F a ilu re (L o n d o n , 1988 ), 10 9 ). T h e re w as, in contrast, no effec tive financial p ro v i­ sion fo r the refo rm ed ch u rch , its claim to the financial reven u es o f the C a tholic ch u rch h avin g been rejected in D ec em b er 15 6 0 . N o r w as ep is­ cop acy o fficially abolish ed: three C a tholic bish o p s w h o c o n verted to P r o t­ esta n tism in 1 560 w ere allow ed to rem ain in o ffice (see M ic h a e l L y n c h , S c o tland, A N ew H istory (L o n d o n , 1 9 9 1 ) , 199). T h u s the an om alou s p o si-

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it o n in the novel o f A m b ro se and o f The Monastery o f K en n a q u h a ir is historic ally plau sible. S h e su bseq uen tly m iscarried , pro b ab ly in J u ly : see A n tonia F ra s e r, M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts (L o n d o n , 19 6 9 ), 409– 1 1 . F o r an acco u n t o f this re-d e fin ition o f the grou n ds fo r rebellio n , see Je n n y W orm ald, M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts, 17 4 – 76. W illiam R o b e rtson , t h e H istory o f S c o tla n d (17 5 9 ; rep r. 2 v o ls, O x fo rd , 18 2 5 ), 2 .2 4 7 . S e e [J. G . C o ch ran e], C a talogue o f the L ib ra ry a t A bbotsfo rd (E d in b u rgh , 18 3 8 ), esp ecially 2 - 1 3 . In particu lar o f K n o x ’s t h e H istorie o f the R eform ation o f the C hurch o f S cotland( 15 8 7 ; rep r. L o n d o n , 16 44). S e e th e M em oirs o f S ir Ja m e s M e h il o f H a lh ill (pu blish ed 16 8 3 ; repr. L o n d o n , 17 5 2 ) . Ja m e s A n d erso n , S ir W alte r S c o tt a n d H istory (E d in b u rg h , 1 9 8 1 ) , 1 0 1 . S c o tt’s m ajor an ach ro nism in the novel is the in tro d u ction o f M o r a y as R e g e n t in J u l y 15 6 7 , w h ereas in fact he d id not retu rn to S c o tland u n til A u g u st, and w as p ro claim ed R ç g e n t on 2 2 A u g u st. T h e an ach ronism is clearly m otiv a ted b y S c o tt’ s d esire to con centrate h is m ajor in cid en ts and characters aro un d one central even t, M a r y ’s resign ation on 2 4 J u ly . H e had been fascin ated b y th is even t, an d M a r y ’s con fron tation w ith L in d e s a y , sin ce at least 18 0 2 : see L e tters, 1 . 1 5 1 . S e e note to 1 9 7 .1 5 . S e e A n tonia F raser, M a ry Q ueen o f S co ts, 4 2 5 -2 9 . F o r a fu ll acco u n t o f M a r y S e ton see G e o rg e S e ton , A H istory o f the F a m ily o f S eton , 2 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 18 9 6 ), 1 . 1 3 0 – 5 1 . S h e w as the sister rather than the dau gh ter o f L o r d S e ton , and w as a few years o ld er than the Q ueen. A n o ther o f the M a rie s w as in d eed called M a r y F le m in g , b u t she had m arried W illiam M a itland in Ja n u a r y 15 6 7 , and the M a r y F le m in g o f T he A bbot certain ly bears m ore resem blan ce to the h istorical M a r y S e ton. B u t h avin g alread y g iven the nam e ‘ S e y ton ’ to his heroin e, S c o tt n eeded to find an alternative fo r the Q u een ’s second atten dant . S ee note to 2 1 7 .4 2 . t his id en tification is o ffered o n ly te n ta tively: like G le n d in n in g , K ir k c a ld y w as not o n ly relativ e ly m o d estly -b o rn , b u t w as w id ely esteem ed fo r h is in tegrity and m ilita ry p ro w e ss. T hou gh a d evo u t P r o testant, he su p p o rted the rebels relu ctantly , and in fact a fter M a r y ’s exile becam e h er m ost im p o rtant su p p o rter in S c o tland. H e also played the d ecisive role in the battle o f L a n g sid e w h ich S c o tt ascribes to G len d in n in g .

EX PLA N A TO RY NOT ES

I n these no tes a co m preh en sive attem pt is m ade to id en tify S c o tt’s sou rces, and all qu o tation s, referen ces, h istorical even ts, and h istorical person ages, to exp lain p ro verb s, and to translate d iffic u lt or obscu re language. (P h rases are exp lained in the no tes w h ile sin gle w o rd s are treated in the glo ssary.) t h e no tes are b rief; they o ffe r in fo rm ation rather than critical com m en t o r exp o sition. W h en a qu o tation has n o t been recogn ised this is stated: a n y n ew in fo rm ation fro m readers w ill be w elcom ed. R eferen ces are to stan dard ed ition s, o r to the ed itions S c o tt h im s e lf u sed. B o o k s in th e A b b o tsfo rd L ib r a r y are id en tified b y referen ce to the ap p ro p riate page o f th e C a talogue o f the L ib ra ry a t A bbotsford. W h en qu o tations rep ro d u ce their sou rces accu rately , the referen ce is g iven w ithou t com m ent . V erb al d ifferen ces in the sou rce are in d icated b y a p re fa tor y ‘ see’ , w h ile a general rather than a verbal in d ebtedn ess is in d icated b y ‘ com p are’ . B ib lic a l referen ces are to the A u th orised V ersio n . P la y s b y Sh ak esp eare are cited w ith o u t au thorial ascrip tion , and referen ces are to W illiam Sh a k espea re: T he C om plete W orks, edited b y P e ter A lexan d er (L o n d o n and G la sg o w , 1 9 5 1 , freq u en tly rep rin ted). T h e fo llo w in g pu b lication s are distin gu ish ed b y ab b rev iation s, or are given w ithou t the nam es o f their au thors: ABD The A n cien t B r itish D ram a, [ed. D o d s le y , rev. W alter S c o tt,] 3 vo ls (L o n d o n , 1 8 1 0 ) : C L A , 43. B u ch an an G e o rg e B u ch an an , T he H istory o f S c o tla n d, 2 v o ls, tran slator u n ­ know n ( 15 8 2 ; rep r. L o n d o n , 17 6 2 ): C L A , 9. The C a n terbury T ales G e o ffre y C h au cer, T he C a n terbu ry t ales (w ritten c. 1 3 8 7 – 14 0 0 ), in T he R iversid e C haucer, 3 rd edn , ed. L a r r y D . B en so n (O xfo rd , 19 8 8 ); see C L A , 4 2 , 1 5 4 , 1 5 5 , 1 7 2 , 239 . C h a lm ers G e o rg e C h alm ers, T he L ife o f M a ry , Q ueen o f S c o ts, 2 vo ls (L o n d o n , 1 8 1 8 ) : C L A , 2. C L A [J. G . C o ch ran e], C a talogue o f the L ib ra ry a t A b b otsfo rd (E d in b u rg h , 18 38 ). D o u ce F ran cis D o u ce, Illu s tra tions o f Sh a k spea re, 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 18 0 7 ): C L A , 2 10 . H u m e D a v id H u m e o f G o d s c ro ft, T he H istory o f the H ouses o f D ouglas a n d A n gus ( 16 4 4 ; rep r. E d in b u rg h , 16 48): C L A , 3. K e ith R o b e rt K e i th , T he H istory o f the A ffa irs o f the C hurch a n d S ta te in S c o tla n d (E d in b u rg h , 17 3 4 ): C L A , 1 1 . K n o x Jo h n K n o x , T he H istorie o f the R eform ation o f the C hurch o f S c o tla n d ( 15 8 7 ; rep r. L o n d o n , 16 44): C L A , 2. L e tters T he L e tters o f S ir W alte r S c o tt, ed. H . J . C . G rie rs o n and others, 1 2 vols (L o n d o n , 19 3 2 – 37 ). L o c k h a rt J . G . L o c k h a rt, M em oirs o f the L ife o f S ir W alte r S c o tt, B a r t. , 7 vols (E d in b u rg h , 18 3 7 – 38). M a g n u m W alter S c o tt, W averley N o vels, 48 vols (E d in b u rg h , 18 2 9 – 33). M e lv il T he M em oirs o f S ir fa m e s M e lv il o f H a lh ill (p u b lish ed 16 8 3 ; rep r. L o n d o n , 17 5 2 ) : C L A , 8. M in strelsy M in strelsy o f the S c o ttish B o rd er, e d . T . F . H en d erso n , 4 v o ls (E d in ­ b u rg h , 19 0 2 ). 470

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O D E P T he O xford D iction ary o f English P roverbs, 3rd edn, rev. F . P . W ilso n (O xfo rd , 19 7 0 ). O E D T h e O xfo rd E n glish D iction a ry, 2n d edn , 20 vols (O xfo rd , 1989). P en n an t T hom as P en n an t, A t o u r in S c o tla n d ; M D C C L X IX and A Tou r in S co tlan d, a n d V oyage to the H eb rid es; M D C C L X X II , 3 v ols ( 1 7 7 1 – 7 6 ; repr. L o n d o n , 17 9 0 ): C L A , 4. P e rc y T hom as P e rc y , R eliqu es o f A n cien t E nglish P o etry , 4th edn , 3 vols ( L o n ­ don, 179 4 ): C L A , 17 2 . P o etic a l W orks t h e P o etic a l W orks o f S ir W alter S co tt, B a rt. , ed. J . G . L o c k h a rt, 1 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 3 3 – 34). Prose W orks T he P rose W orks o f S ir W alter S co tt, B a rt. , 28 vols (E d in b u rg h , 18 3 4 – 36). R a y [Jo h n R a y ], A Com pleat C o llection o f E n glish P roverbs, 3rd edn (L o n d o n , 17 3 7 ) : C L A , 16 9 . R o b e rtson W illiam R o b e rtson, T he H istory o f S co tla n d during the R eigns o f Q ueen M a ry a n d o f K in g fa m es V I. ( 17 5 9 ; rep r. 2 vo ls, O x fo rd , 18 2 5 ): com ­ pare C L A , 4. S tru tt Jo s e p h S tru tt, G lig-gam en a A n gel-D eo d ; or, the S p o rts a n d P a stim es o f the P eople o f E n g la n d (L o n d o n , 18 0 1) : C L A , 15 4 . W h itlock R ic h a rd W h itlock, Ζ Ω Ο Τ Ο Μ ΙΑ , or, O bservations on the Present M a n ­ ners o f the E n glish (L o n d o n , 16 5 4 ): C L A , 1 3 2 . 3 .5 C lu tterb u c k the nam e carries connotation s b o th o f u n tid in ess and o f a beau or d an d y. F o r C lu tterb u ck ’s accou nt o f his life, see the ‘ In tro d u ctory E p is tle ’ to T he M onastery, ed. P e n n y F ie ld in g , eew n 9 ,3 – 8. 3 . 1 0 - 1 1 th e M a n u s c r ip t o f y o u r frien d , th e B e n e d ic tin e fo r an account o f the B e n e d ic tin e’s m an u scrip t, on w h ich T he M onastery and The Abbot are sup posed to be based, and o f C lu tterb u ck ’s decision to en tru st it to the ‘A u thor o f W av erley’ , see T he M onastery, eew n 9 , 2 1 – 2 3. 3 .2 2 t h e W h it e L a d y the sp irit w h o, in The M onastery (fo r in stance, 1 1 3 – 19 ), p resid es o ver the destin y o f the A v en el fam ily. H e r role in that novel w as the su b ject o f m u ch c riticism fro m review ers. 3 .2 4 t h e p u b lic t a st e an allu sion to the poor review s and sales en joyed b y The M onastery. 4 .5 in m a n n e r o f ex t e n u at ion in the sam e w ay as i f in ex ten uation. 4 .1 3 - 1 5 th e q u a lity o f th e w in e . . . o f little co n seq u en ce allu d in g to the p ro verb , ‘ good w in e needs no b u sh ’ (R a y , 16 9 ; O D E P , 326). A b u sh , or bu n ch o f iv y , w as a com m on ta vern sign , pro b ab ly because iv y w as sacred to B acc h u s, god o f w ine. 4 .1 7 T ilb u ry C lu tte rb u ck ’s settin g u p o f a carriage, p resu m ab ly thanks to the profits o f h is w ritin g , echoes The M onastery, eew n 9 ,1 6 .3 6 – 40— though there C lu tterb u ck dream s o f a ‘blu e and scarlet’ livery. 4 .19 K e n n a q u h a ir fo r C lu tterb u ck ’s in terest in the ru in s o f K en n a q u h air, see The M onastery, eew n 9 ,7 – 8 . T he M onastery is based lo o sely on M elro se A b b e y , a C is tercian fo u n d ation o f 1 1 3 6 ; fo r in stance, the 1 4 th -cen tu ry archi­ tectu re o f K en n a q u h a ir (as d escrib ed at 9 9 .15 – 17 ) corresp on ds clo sely to that o f M elro se. F u r ther sim ilarities are in d icated in the no tes. 5 . 5 - 7 m o tto the L a tin (tho u gh gram m atically in correct) literally m eans ‘she stayed at hom e, she m ade w o o l’ . S c o tt was p ro b ab ly m isrem em b erin g the 2 n d -cen tu ry в c ep itap h o f a lad y called C lau d ia, w h ich in clu d es the phrase, ‘ do m u m serv av it, lanam fecit’ (‘ S h e kept the house, she m ade w o o l’ ): see n u m ber 10 0 7 in Corpus In scriptionum L a tinarum (B erlin , 18 6 3 ), 1 .2 1 8 . D e s p ite its attrib u tion to G a v in D o u g la s (c. 14 7 4 – 1 5 22 ), the S c o ts translation (m ean­ in g ‘ she stayed con stan tly in the house, and tu rn ed at the w h eel’ ) has not been traced, and is pro b ab ly b y S c o tt.

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5 .2 3 M o r a y Ja m e s S tew art (c. 1 5 3 1 – 7 0 ), E a rl o f M o r a y ( 15 6 2 ) , illegitim ­ ate son o f Ja m e s V an d M arg aret D o u g las, L a d y L o c h le v e n . F o r h is career, see HISTORICAL NOTE, 4 6 4 -6 6 . H e w as assassinated in Ja n u a r y 15 7 0 . 6 .2 A v e n e l the nam e o f a fam ily p ro m in en t in th e 1 2 th an d 1 3 th centuries. R o b e rt A v en el w as a ben efactor o f M e lro se A b b e y , w h o tow ard s the en d o f his life becam e a n o vice m onk there, d y in g in 1 1 8 5 . T h e last o f the m ale line w as R o g e r A v en el (d. 12 4 3 ). 6 .1 0 - 1 1 th e son o f a c h u r c h -v a s s a l H alb ert ’s father , Sim o n G le n d in n in g, w as a vassal o f th e abb ey o f S t M a r y ’s. S e e T he M onastery, ee wn 9, 38 – 39 , an d , fo r an account o f ch u rch vassals, 3 2 - 3 5 . 6 .16 m o s t o f th e S o u th ern c h ie fs . . . M o r a y fo r tw o exam p les, see no te to 14 8 .2 9 . 6 .2 1 b u ilt u p o n a n islet fo r a d escrip tion o f th e p o sition o f A v e n e l C a stle see The M onastery, eew n 9 , 2 1 3 – 14 . 7 .7 t h e s a c rific e o f th e m a s s a su b ject o f d isp u te b etw een R o m a n C a th­ o lics an d P ro testants: C a th o lics b elieved that C h r is t’s self-sacrifice at C a lv a ry w as re-en acted in the o ffe rin g o f his b o d y an d b lo o d (th e con secrated b read and w in e) in the E u c h arist; radical P ro testan ts d en ied C h r is t’s p resen ce in the bread an d w in e, argu in g that the cru cifixio n w as a u n iq u e an d all-su fficien t sacrifice. A lso see note to 7 .1 2 – 1 5 . 7 .8 T h e A b b o t E u s ta d u s E u s tace, one o f the m ain characters in T h e Mon­astery. F o r his election as A b b o t o f K en n a q u h air, see T he M onastery, eew n 9, 3 12 -14 . 7 .9 A n s w e r s . . . q u a d ru p lie s th e su ccessive stages in a fo rm al contro ­ v ersy: to an in itial assertion an answ er w o u ld be m ad e; th e first p arty w o u ld th en m ake a rep ly , to w h ich the other w o u ld resp on d w ith a d u p ly, an d so o n . T h e term s w o u ld have been fam iliar to S c o tt fro m their u se in S c o ts law . 7 . 1 2 – 1 5 th a t o f Jo h n K n o x . . . b ib lio g ra p h e r s Jo h n K n o x (150 5-72) w as the lead in g S c o ttish refo rm er; Q u in tí n K e n n e d y ( 1520–64) w as a pro m ­ inent d efen d er o f R o m a n C a th o licism , an d A b b o t o f C ro ssrag u el (a C lu n ia c ab b ey about 16 km S o f A y r) fro m 1547 u n til his death. A n acco u n t o f th eir p u b lic th ree-d ay debate in 1562 on t h ‘ sacrifice o f th e m ass’ (see no te to 7.7) w as p u blish ed b y K n o x u n d er the title H e ir F o llo w eth the C oppie o f the R essoning w hich was B e tu ix The Abbote o f C ro sra gu ell a n d Jo h n K n o x ( 1 563; rep r. E d in b u rg h , 1812). In th e cou rse o f the debate K n o x attacked ‘ th e great Id o le presen ted b y the P a p istes to be w o rsh ip p ed in there m asse’ (iir), also d escrib ­ in g the m ass as ‘idolâtrie, a bastard seru ice o f G o d ’ (B7v). T he Ressoning is exceed in g ly rare: K n o x ’s b iograp h er t hom as M ‘ C r ie stated that o n ly one p erfect co p y w as know n to e x ist ( t h e L ife of J ohn K n o x (E d in b u rg h , 1812), 267, note: C L A , 4). 7 -3 5 – 3 6 th e k n ig h t m u s t h a v e reso rt e d to a se c re t a r y H alb ert is p ro b ­ a b ly illiterate: his d islike o f read in g and w ritin g is describ ed in T he M onastery, eew n 9 ( 10 9 , etc.). 7 .4 2 - 4 3 h o p e d e la y e d b e g a n to m a k e th e h e a r t s ic k see P ro v e rb s 1 3 . 1 2 and O D E P , 384. 8 .2 L id d e s d a le a valley in S W S c o tland, ru n n in g alon g the b o rd er w ith E n glan d . 8.20 D a m e G le n d in n in g a n d T ib b T a c k e t tw o characters fro m T he M onastery. D am e E lsp e th G le n d in n in g is th e m o ther o f H alb ert an d E d w a rd G len d in n in g . F o r T ib b T acket, servan t to L a d y A v e n e l, M a r y A v e n e l’ s m o th er, see The M onastery, eew n 9 ,4 3 . 8 .2 1 G le n d e a rg the scen e o f m u ch o f th e acti o n o f T he M onastery, in som e resp ects corresp on d in g to the v alley o f the A lla n W ater, w h ich ru n s N fro m the t w eed near M elro se. S e e The M onastery, e e w n 9 ,3 6 – 3 7 . 9 .5 fin d th em in p ro vid e them w ith.

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9 . 1 0 - 1 1 w r itten ch ild le ss w ritten , b y im plicati o n , in the book o f fate: com pare Je re m ia h 2 2 .3 0 . 9.26 h a d st u ck a m o n g so m e t u f ts the incid ent seem s to be based on S c o tt’s m em ories o f the ch ildh o o d o f his son W alter. In J u l y 1 8 1 9 , shortly a fter W alter had left hom e to jo in the arm y , S c o tt w ro te to M a tthew W eld H a rtstonge that ‘m y fa m ily are b egin n in g to get fo rw ards. W alter— (you rem em ber m y w ad in g in to C au ld sh ield s L o c h to save his little frigate fro m w reck)— is n ow a C o m e t o f six feet tw o in ch es in y o u r Irish H u ssars’ (L e tters, 5 .4 2 1) . 9 .2 7 a r r o w -flig h t a d istan ce o f fro m 10 0 to 300 m etres, d ep en d in g on the typ e o f bo w and the sti l l o f the arch er. 10 .2 4 p ro fe sse d so m e m e d ic a l k n o w led ge com pare The M onastery, EEWN 9 ,2 0 6 .2 9 – 3 1 . 10 .38 – 39 to y o u r w ish e s in accordance w ith yo u r w ishes. 1 1 .8 – 9 S u re ly G o d h a s h e a r d m y w ish e s com pare L u k e 1 . 1 3 . 1 1 .3 8 a i l h i m a t cause h im to b e dissati s f ie d w ith. 12 .9 – 10 th e c r a c k lin g o f t h o rn s u n d e r th e p o t see E c clesiastes 7.6 . 1 2 .1 5 – 2 2 th e lo v e o f o u r M a k e r . . . lo v e o u r n e ig h b o u r a s o u r s e lf the tw o com m andm ents g iven b y C h ris t in answ er to the P h arisees (see M a tthew 2 2 .3 6 – 40). 12 .2 3 t h e g re a t c o m m a n d m e n t . . . u n to u s s e e L u k e 6 .3 1 . 1 2 .3 2 t h e L o r d o u r G o d is a je a lo u s G o d com pare E x o d u s 2 0 .5 and D e u teron om y 5.9. 1 2 .3 5 th a t o rig in a l t a in t o rigin al sin , the innate ev il o f hu m an natu re in h erited fro m A d am as a resu lt o f the F a ll, and thus d istin g u is h e d fro m actual sin , the sin em bodied in specific e v il acts. 1 3 .2 1 w h en I first m e t y o u r h u sb a n d s e e the M onaste ry , EEW N 9 , 2 0 5 . 1 3 -3 3 – 3 7 m o tto see Jo a n n a B a illie , B a s il: A t ragedy, in the first volum e o f A S eries o f P la y s (L o n d o n , 18 0 0 ), 1 1 1 : C LA , 2 1 2 . S c o tt b ro a d ly fo llow s the te x t o f this, the th ird editi o n , tho u gh the ti tle Count B a s il is that g iven in the first ed iti o n o f 179 8 . 1 4 .4 1 – 4 2 p re a ch e d o r le c t u re d preach in g denotes a fo rm al serm on , lec­ tu rin g a less form al ad d ress in the fo rm o f a com m enta r y on a passage o f S c r ip tu re. T h e d esire to spread religio n b y m eans o f p u b lic p reach in g is seen b y S c o tt as characteristi c o f the P ro testant refo rm ers (see also 5 1 .7 – 8). 15 .4 h o m ilie s p racti c a l d isco u rses w ith a v iew to the m oral edificati o n o f the h earers, rather than the develo p m en t o f a doctrin e o r them e. 1 5 .7 h is o ld fe llo w -c o lle g ia t e the revelati o n that H e n ry W ard en and F a ther E u s tace had been ‘in ti m a te frien d s’ in their stu den t d ays is m ade in T he M onastery , eew n 9 ,2 8 8 .2 – 3. 1 5 .2 4 t h e G ræ m e s o fH e a th erg ill, in N ic o l-fo r e s t N ic o l-fo re st, no w the nam e o n ly o f a ham let, w as once ap plied to a ‘ d istric t o f C u m b erlan d , ly in g close to the S c o tti s h B o r d e r ’ (M a g n u m , 2 0 .2 0 , note). I t in clu d ed m u ch o f m odern-d a y K e rsh o p e and K ie ld e r fo rests . T h e G ræ m e s w h o inhabited this d istrict an d the D e b a teable L a n d w ere no torio u sly law less, ‘a h ard y and fe r o ­ ciou s set o f freeboote r s ’ (M in strelsy, 1 .1 0 9 ) . T h e village o f H e thersgill is in fact a few km fu rther sou th; S c o tt m ay have recalled a ‘W illiam G ra m e o f H e ther g ill’ m entio n e d in T he H istory a n d A n tiqu ities o f Westm orland a n d C um berland, b y Jo s e p h N ico lso n and R ic h a rd B u m s , 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 17 7 7 ) , 1 .cxxi: C L A , 2 5 2 . 1 5 .2 5 w h a t m a k e y o u w h at are yo u doing? 1 6 .2 4 - 2 5 bro k en v ic t u a ls the fragm en ts o f food le ft a fter a m eal. 16 .3 4 H e lv e lly n . . . The to w e r o f L a n e r c o s t H e lv e lly n is one o f the h igh est peaks in the L a k e D is trict, in C u m b ria ; L a n e rc o st P rio ry , fo u n d ed c. 1 16 6 , lies on the R iv e r I r th in g, abou t 2 3 km N E o f C arlisle. 17 .1 b e lted e a rl a b elt p ro p e rly d istin g u is h e d earls, alth ou gh the phrase ‘b elted kn igh t’ is also fou nd .

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1 7 .7 a re a t fa u lt hunting lose or o verru n the scen t . 1 7 .1 0 G o d ’ s o w n im a g e see G e n e sis 1 .2 7 . 1 7 .1 2 – 1 3 a c o m m o n st a b b e r see t hom as O tw a y, Venice P reserved ( 16 8 2 ), 3 .2 .3 2 1 : ‘M ix w ith h ired S la v e s, B ra v o e s, and C o m m o n stabber s’ . 1 7 . 1 5– 16 th e et ern a l f i r e . . . q u e n c h e d H e ll: see M a rk 9.43. 17 .3 8 c ro w n s o f th e su n t h e ‘escu so l’ , a F r e n c h gold coin cu rren t in the 1 5 th and 1 6th centu ries, w h ich w as th e p ro toty p e fo r th e E n g lish cro w n (w orth 5 sh illin gs, o r 2 5 p ). T h e cro w n o f the su n w as esteem ed ‘ the best kind o f C ro w n that is now m ad e’ (R an d le C o tgrave, A F ren ch a n d E n glish D iction ary ( 1 6 1 1 , r e p r. L o n d o n , 16 7 3 ) , G g 3 r : C L A , 265). 17.4 0 th e r a c e o f C a in the descend ants o f C a in , w h o m u rdered his b ro ther A b e l (see G en esis C h . 4). 1 8 .2 1 G o to com e, com e! A n exp ressio n o f d isap p ro val or in cred u lity. 1 8 .2 1 – 2 2 th e ra n k o f th e m a n r a t es th a t o f th e w ife the w ife is assign ed h er rank acco rd in g to that o f h er hu sband. 18 .2 8 – 29 d u ck h e r in th e l o c h . . . w it c h o r n o t as w ell as b ein g a p u n ish m en t fo r scold s, d u ck in g w as used to d isco v er w itches: ‘ the su sp ected person w as w rap t in a sheet, h av in g the great toes and th u m bs tied together, and so dragged th ro u gh a po nd or river. I f she sank, it w as received in favo u r o f the accu sed; b u t i f the b o d y floate d ... th e accu sed w as con d em n ed ’ (S c o tt, L e tters on D em onology an d W itchcraft (L o n d o n , 18 3 0 ), 256 ). 18 .3 8 – 39 th e D e b a t ea b le L a n d an area on the S W bo rd er b etw een E n g ­ land and S c o tland, bo un ded b y the riv e rs E s k an d S a rk . I t w as claim ed b y both cou n tries, and the inhabitan ts w ere n o torio u sly law less. 19 .4 3 t h e C o u r t o f H o ly ro o d H o ly ro o d , in E d in b u rg h , is the site b o th o f an ab b ey (fo un ded 1 1 2 8 b y D a v id I) and o f a palace, begu n c. 15 0 0 b y Ja m e s IV , w h ich housed th e cou rt in th e reign o f M a r y . 20 .5– 8 m o tto see Jo h n L e y d e n , Scenes o f In fa n c y D escriptiv e o f Tevio td a le (E d in b u rg h , 18 0 3 ), 20: C L A , 19 3 . 20.20– 2 1 b e sh r e w m e , b u t I th in k e v il b efall m e i f I do not think. 20 .28 O v e r h e a v e n s fo rb o d e heaven fo rb id . 2 1 . 7 u se h i m s e lf accu stom h im self. 2 1 .2 3 – 2 4 m in g le d c o lo u r s . . . h o lly -b r a n c h th e w o rd s ‘and those o f G le n d o n w y n e ’ w ere added b y S c o tt to the In terleaved S e t, in o rd er to avoid the im p lication that th e h o lly -b ran ch w as G le n d in n in g ’s em blem ; in fact a ‘ sp rig o f the h o lly ’ is ‘A v e n e l’s b ad ge’ ( The M onastery , eew n 9 ,8 7 .2 3 – 24). 2 2 .1 5 – 16 h a th th e m o o n c h a n g e d the phases o f the m oon are p o p u la rly th o u gh t to influence the state b o th o f b o d y an d m in d . A lso com pare E cclesiast­ icu s 2 7 .1 1 : ‘a fool changeth as the m o o n ’ (A p o cry p h a). 2 3 .4 3 G e r m a n o ce a n N o r th Sea. 2 4 .3– 4 th e S c o ttish ton g u e alth o u gh m o st o f th e characters in The A bbot speak stan dard E n g lish , in reality they w o u ld h ave spoken S c o ts, w h ich in 1 6 th cen tu ry S c o d an d w as sti l l the norm al w ritten lan gu age, as w ell as b ein g u n ive r­ sally spoken. A lthou gh in literary w o rk s S c o ts gave w ay in the cou rse o f the centu ry to contem p orary E n g lish (as in K n o x ’s H istorie , p u blish ed in 15 8 7 ), it w as sti l l u sed b y M a r y Q ueen o f S c o ts in h er corresp on den ce (see her letter, q u o ted in no te to 2 17 .4 2 ) . 2 4 .1 5– 16 W e h a v e in G e r m a n y ... u n it ed w ith u s in fa ith L u theran­ ism w as com m on in G e rm a n y , an d w as o fficially tolerated a fter the P eace o f A u g s b u rg o f 1 5 5 5 ; P r o testan ts in the N e th erlan d s w ere persecu ted or exiled b y their S p an ish ru lers, b u t w id esp read rio ts in 15 6 6 w ere follow ed b y general rebellio n , w h ich led (from 1 5 7 2 ) to the estab lish m en t o f the C a lvin ist D u tch R e fo rm e d C h u rch . 2 4 .2 8 – 3 3 t h e H o lla n d e r a n d th e F l e m i n g . . . h a v e a m a sse d so called ‘ F r e e C o m p an ies’ o f S w iss, G e rm a n or I talian m ercenaries p ro liferated

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in the 1 5th and 1 6th centu rie s. T hou gh o ften unreliable, they w ere m ade in to a discip lin ed and effective arm y b y the D u tch u nd er M au ric e o f N assau ( 15 6 7 – 16 2 5 ). 2 5 .1 7 L e th in g ton W illiam M a itland o f L e th in gton (c. 1 5 2 8 -7 3 ) , a P ro t­ estan t, and S e c re tary o f S tate u n d er M a ry . H is p rin cip al object w as u nion w ith E n g lan d , and though he su p p o rted M o ra y in 15 6 7 – 68, a fter M a r y ’s fligh t he becam e one o f her stau nchest su p p o rters, d y in g in p riso n in 15 7 3 . 2 5 .1 7 M o r to n Ja m e s D o u g las (c. 1 5 16 – 8 1) , 4th E a rl o f M o r ton ( 15 5 3 ) . H e w as R e g e n t fro m 15 7 2 – 7 8 , defeatin g M a r y ’ s rem aining su p p o rters, bu t in 1 5 8 1 he w as execu ted fo r his alleged com p licity in D a rn le y ’s m u rd er. A lso see H isto rical N o te, 464– 65. 2 5 .1 8 G r a n g e S ir W illiam K irk c a ld y (c. 15 2 0 – 7 3 ), L a ird o f G ra n g e (15 5 6 ) , a lead in g P ro testant and the m o st fam ou s S c o ttish soldier o f his tim e. In 15 4 6 he took part in the m u rd er o f C ard in al B e a ton at S t A n d rew s, and in the 1 5 50s served in F ra n ce , first as an E n g lish agen t, then as an o fficer in the F re n c h arm y. K ir k c a ld y return ed to S c o tland in 1 5 5 7 , rejo in in g the P ro testant p a rty , b u t a fter M a r y agreed to divorce B o th w ell he becam e her p rin cip al su p p o rter. H e was exec u ted in 15 7 3 . 2 5 .1 8 L in d e s a y P atrick L in d e s a y (c. 1 5 2 1 – 89), 6th L o r d L in d e s a y o f the B y r e s ( 1 563), an early and radical su p p o rter o f the R efo rm ation. H e con sist­ e n tly backed M o ra y and opposed M a r y , assistin g the m u rd erers o f R ic cio , and figu rin g p rom inently at the battles o f C a rb e rry -h ill and L an g sid e. 2 6 .2 5 Тh е H a y o f L o n c a r ty ... lin e a g e com pare The M onastery , EEwn 9, 34 6 .2 – 3. L o n c a rty, in P e rth sh ire, w as c. 973 the scene o f a ‘ signal v ic tory obtained b y the S co ts . . . o ver the D anes, b y m eans o f the gallant peasant H a y , and his tw o sons, w h o, w ith no other w eapons than yokes w h ich they snatched fro m their o x e n . . . led [their cou n trym en ] on to con qu est’ . T h e H a y fam ily ‘ bear fo r their arm s the in stru m en t o f their v ic tor y ’ (Pen nant, 3 . 7 1 – 72). A lso see B u ch an an , 1 .2 5 5 – 56. 2 6 .2 6 D a r k g re y m a n S h o lto D o u g las, the legen dary fo u n d er o f the house o f D o u g las, w hose nam e w as said to d erive fro m an exchan ge w h ich o ccu rred a fter he w on a v ic tor y fo r K in g S o lv a th ius against the L o r d o f the Isles c. 770 : ‘ the K i n g . . . in q u irin g fo r the A u th o r o f so valian t an act, the N o b lem an b ein g there in person , answ er w as m ade u n to the K in g in the Irish ton gue (w hich w as th en onely in use) S h o lto D u glasse, that is to say, B eh o ld yo n der black, gray m an ’ (H u m e, 3). 26 .30 – 3 1 th e h o u se o f G le n d o n w y n e an old fam ily o f the w estern bo rd er (fo r an accou nt o f its h istor y see S ir R o b e rt D o u g la s, t h e B aron age o f S c o tla n d (E d in b u rg h , 179 8 ), 2 3 3 - 3 8 : C L A , 1 1 ) . S c o tt’s preo ccu pation w ith the G le n ­ d o n w yn es dated fro m late 1 8 1 8 , w h en he lam ented the dow nfall o f the fa m ily’s fo rtu nes at the hands o f a b arriste r b earin g the u n fo rtu nate nam e o f W illiam S c o tt: ‘M r . S c o tt has altogether d estro y d the fine old fam ily o f G len d o n w yn e w h ich is so an cient as to have figu red at O tterb u m e— thats a p ity— b u t he h im s e lf com es fro m E sse x no t fro m the bo rd er— and thats a com fo rt ’ (L e tters, 5 .2 2 3 ). A lso com pare the fam ily p rid e o f H alb ert’s father S im o n , in T h e Monastery, EEWN 9 , 38– 39 · 2 9 .1 2 keep th e st e e rag e p reserve the good con du ct o f affairs. 2 9 .1 4 w in k ed a t con nived at . 3 0 .2 a p p ly to ap p ly h im s e lf to . 30 .2 4 a fa v o u rite, a s th e p o et a ssu re s u s, h a s n o frie n d see t hom as G r a y , O d e on the D e a th o f a F a v o u rite C a t’ (pu blish ed 174 8 ), line 36. 3 1 . 3 B ra n , L u a th tw o h u n tin g-d o gs o w n ed b y F ingal, hero o f the epic poem F in g a l ( 17 6 2 ) , alleged to be the w ork o f the C e ltic bard O ssian, thou gh in fa ct largely w ritten by Ja m e s M ac p h erso n ( 17 3 6 – 96). S ee th e W orks o f O ssian, ed. H o w ard G ask ill (E d in b u rg h , 199 6 ), 10 3 .

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3 1 .1 4 a v e sse l o f w r a th see R o m a n s 9 .2 2 : ‘ the vessels o f w rath fitted to d estru c tio n ’ . 3 1 . 1 5– 16 th a t p r i d e . . . w h ic h go es b e fo re r u in a n d d estr u c tio n see P ro v e rb s 1 6 .1 8 . 3 1 .28 co n v e n tu a l a p p e lla tio n m onastic nam e. 3 1 . 3 1 – 3 4 th eir o r d e r . . . r e v e n u e s fo r the ill-d efin ed statu s o f the C a tholic c le rg y in the 1 560s, see H isto rical N o te, 468 (note 5 ). T h e sa y in g o f th e M a s s w as fo rb id d en b y P arliam en t in 15 6 0 . 3 2 .2 – 6 m o tto see ‘V alen tine and U r sin e ’ , 2 . 9 - 1 2 (P e rcy , 3 .2 8 8 ). T h e ap p aren tly base-b o rn V alen tine tu rn s out to b e th e n ep h ew o f the K in g o f F ra n c e . 3 2 . 1 1 a c e le b ra t ed e y r i e . . . G le d s c r a ig lite ra lly kite ’s c rag , th o u gh ‘ g led ’ , like ‘ k ite ’ (see 1 2 5 .2 4 – 2 5 ), m ay also re fe r to other sp ecies o f h aw k, as it ap pears to here— the tru e kite, unlike the p eregrin e falcon , does no t gen erally n est in eyries. ‘ G le d s c ra ig ’ has no t been iden tified, b u t falco n ers in search o f y o u n g p eregrin es w o u ld search trad itional eyries fo r y o u n g b ird s: see S im o n H o llo w ay , H istoric a l A tlas o fB reed in g B ird s in B r ita in a n d Ire la n d (L o n d o n , 19 9 6 ), 13 0 . S e e also no tes to 9 1 . 3 1 an d 1 4 7 .7 - 8 . 3 2 .3 0 p a r c e l p o et part-poet: used contem p tu o u sly in B e n Jo n s o n , t h e P o etaste r ( 1 6 0 1 , p u b lish ed 16 0 2 ), 3 .4 .16 0 . 3 2 .3 2 m a n o fh is h a n d s m an o f valo u r. 3 2 .3 7 f a ir a n d so ft ly com pare th e p ro verb , ‘ fa ir an d s o ftly goes fa r’ (see R a y , 10 4 and O D E P , 238). 3 2 .3 7 a n it lik e i f it please. 3 2 .3 7 – 3 8 h a n d s o f f is fa ir p la y p ro verb ial (O D E P , 348). 3 2 .4 1 S e e y o u see; an obsolete fo rm o f the im p erative. 3 3 .1 c a s t a w a y ruin ed. 3 3 .2 unwashed flesh ‘ w ash ed ’ m eat w as m eat w h ich had been soaked in w ater, an d then squeezed d r y , in o rd er to rem o ve m u c h o f the n u trim en t , so m ak in g the haw k h u n g ry and hen ce m o re obedient . I t w as u sed fo r ‘ reclaim in g’ (tam in g) haw ks: ‘ the vn reclaim ed and vn cleen e H a w k e . . . o u gh t to b e re­ claim ed , inseam ed [cleansed o f excess fat], and m ad e to flye, w ith good m eat clean e dressed an d w ash ed ’ (S im o n L a tham , N ew a n d Seco n d B o o ke o f F a u lco n ry (L o n d o n , 16 3 3 ) , 2 2). W ashed m eat seem s to have been em p lo yed regard less o f the age o f th e haw k: ‘ fede h er therew ith & [if] she b e a brau n ch er. A n d y f it be an eye sse, y e m u st w asshe th e m eete clen er th en y e do to the b rau n ch er’ ([Ju lia n a B e rn e rs], t h e B o o k C onta in in g the t reatises o f H a w k in g , ed . Jo s e p h H aselw o o d (14 9 6 , rep r. L o n d o n , 1 8 1 0 ) , A I V ). A lla n ’s claim that w ashed m eat cou ld cau se the fro u n ce is no t fo u n d in an y o f th e ea rly w riters on falco n ry. 3 3 .3 G o to see no te to 1 8 .2 1 . 3 3 .3 – 4 C h ild R o la n d com pare K in g L e a r, 3 .4 .1 7 8 . T h e allu sio n h ere, and p ro b ab ly in K in g L e a r, is to th e hero o f a lo st b allad, ‘ C h ild R o w la n d ’ . R o b e rt Ja m ie so n , w h o heard the ballad as a c h ild , su p p lied the few s u rv iv in g stanzas, an d a reco n stru c tion o f the stor y , fo r Illu s tra tions o f N o rthern A n tiqu ities, b y H e n ry W eb er, R o b e rt Ja m ie so n and W alter S c o tt (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 4 ) , 3 9 7 -4 0 4 . 3 3 . 1 2 – 1 3 to b o o t in to the bargain; besides. 3 3 .1 4 – 1 5 tak e m e u p sh o rt in te rru p t m e w itho u t allo w in g m e to finish. 3 3 . 1 5 fish n o r flesh p ro verb ial (R a y , 19 0 ; O D E P , 264). 3 3 . 1 7 fo u l k it e . . . Te rc e l gen t le A d a m perh ap s allu d es to th e p r o v e r b ,‘ a carrion k ite w ill n ever be a good h aw k’ (R a y , 12 6 ; O D E P , 4 3 ); com pare t h e M onastery , EEwn 9 ,18 0 .4 0 – 4 1 : ‘ fo r seldo m d o th a good h aw k com e o u t o f a k ite ’ s e g g ’ . T h e tercelgentle is the m ale o f the p eregrin e falcon , sm aller an d less esteem ed than th e fem ale, or falco n gentle, b u t still a b ird su ited ‘ fo r a p rin ce’ ( S tr u tt, 28 ), w h ereas a kite w as altogeth er unfit fo r falco n ry.

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3 3 .2 4 sh eath it in h is b o w e ls see Jo h n W ebster, t h e W hite D e v il ( 1 6 1 2 ) , 3 . 2 . 1 66 ( A B D , 3.20 ). 3 3 .2 6 -2 7 go ld c h a in a n d w h it e w a n d articles w h ich d istin gu ish ed stew ­ ard s o f noble households. C o m p are P h ilip M assin g er, N ew W ay to P a y O ld D ebts (w ritten c. 16 2 5 , p u blished 16 3 3 ) , 1.2 .2 – 3: ‘ th is staffe o f o ffice that com m ands y o u ,/ T his chaîne, and d u bble ru ffe , Sy m b o les o f p o w er’ . 3 4 .1 3 stic k n o th in g not hesitate at all. 34 .2 0 M a lv o lio the h u m o u rless stew ard in t welft h N ig h t. 3 4 .2 3 – 2 4 h a ll a n d b o w e r, a s th e s a y in g is th e ‘ sayin g’ has no t been traced, thou gh the phrase ‘b o w er a n d / o r hall’ is com m on in m ed ieval poetry and S p e n se r’s F a e rie Q ueene (e.g. 1.4 .4 3 .6 ); ‘ hall, or b o w er’ is fo u n d in M ilton ’s Com us (line 45). 34 .30 B a r b a r y a p e a species o f ape fo u nd in N o r th A fric a and G ib ra ltar. 3 4 .3 4 h is c a u t ion fo r a g r e y g ro a t a g a in st . . . w a t er w o u ld act fo r noth in g as secu rity against his b ein g drow n ed. A d am is p layin g on the p ro verb , ‘H e that’s b o m to b e hanged w ill n ever be dro w n ed ’ (R a y , 8 1 ; O D E P , 30). A ‘ grey groat’ w as a p ro verb ially w o rthless coin (see O D E P , 339 ). 3 4 .3 5 i f h e c r a c k n o t a ro p e i f he be not hanged. 3 4 .4 1– 4 2 p u t a s ‘t w e re m y fin g e r b etw ix t th e b a r k a n d th e t ree p ro ­ verb ial (see R a y , 30 2 and O D E P , 30): in other w o rd s, in terfere in fa m ily affairs. 3 4 .4 3 - 3 5 . I w h ip p e d fo rth o f d i e b a r o n y d riven out o f the baro n y w ith w h ip s. 3 5 .7 t r y t it les p u t one’s claim s to the test (w ith an im p lication o f com bat); com pare D ry d e n ’s A e n e id (16 9 7 ), 1 2 .1 0 3 3 : ‘ t w o m igh ty c h a m p io n s . . . W ith sw o rd s to try their tid es to the state ’ . 3 5 . 1 5 - 1 6 ton gu e o f a t a le -b e a r e r . . . Je d d a r t st a f f com pare the pro ­ v erb , ‘ the tongue breaketh bone, th o ’ its e lf have non e’ (R a y , 2 1 ; O D E P , 829). A Je d d a r t sta f f w as a typ e o f battle-axe used b y the m en o f Je d b u r g h , o r Je d d a r t . 3 5 .2 6 L ili a s B ra d b o u r n e L ilia s is a S c o tti s h version o f L ilia n ; the su r­ nam e B radbou rne is E n g lish , d erivin g fro m a v illage in D erb y sh ire . 3 5 .3 6 a d a u g h t er o f g r a n d a m e E v e set L o v e 's Labours L o st, 1 . 1.2 4 9 – 50. 36 .8 in C h a u c e r ’ s p h ra se , to Sin b u ck le h e r m a il,’ lite ra lly open her b ag or w allet. S e e th e C anterbu ry t ales, ‘t h e P a rso n ’s P ro lo gu e’ , line 26. 3 6 .1 7 G o to see note to 1 8 .2 1 . 36 .20 a w o rd in seaso n Isaiah 5 0 .4 ; com pare also P ro v e rb s 1 5 .2 3 . 36 .3 4 i f so m e ru le b e n o t t ak en w ith i f som e control be no t im posed on. 3 7 .2 – 3 fix q u ic k s ilv e r . . . R a y m o n d L u lliu s R a m o n L lu ll w as a C a ta­ lan m y sti c (c. 1 2 3 5 – 1 3 1 6), to w h om a n u m ber o f alchem ical w o rk s w ere attrib­ u ted , w h ich w ere later p o pu larised in E n g lan d b y G e o rg e R ip le y (d. c. 1490). T o ‘ fix ’ qu ick silver, or m ercu ry, w as to rend er it solid b y com b in in g it w ith another su b stan ce, u lti m a tely w ith the oil o f the elixir, w h ich w o u ld ‘k ill’ the m ercu ry, and then cause it to be reborn as gold or silver: ‘t h e se o yles w ill fixe cru d e M e rc u rie and con uert bodies a ll/ In to p erfect S u n n e and M o o n e, w hen thou shalt m ake P ro tectio n ;/ t hat o ylie su b stance p u re & fixt R aym on d L u lly d id c a ll/ H is B a silisk e, o f w h ich he n euer m ade so plain d etectio [n ]’ (G e o rg e R ip le y , t h e Compou n d o f A lch ym y (first pu b lish ed L o n d o n , 1 5 9 1 ) , K 4V . 3 8 .1 – 2 y o u h a v e b ro u g h t in to y o u r b o w e r a lio n ’s c u b the fable d erives fro m A esch ylu s, Agam em non, 7 1 7 – 36. C o m p are T he M onastery, ЕEWN 9, 2 5 2 .3 1 – 3 2 . 3 8 .1 7 t aken o rd e r w ith arranged. 3 8 .3 1 a st u m b lin g -b lo c k o f o ffe n c e see R o m an s 9 .3 3 and 1 P e ter 2.8. 3 8 .3 3 O le a riu s S ch in d e rh a u se n the nam e is fictitious. O leariu s (L a tin oily) is the nam e o f a law yer in G o e th e’s G ötz von B erlich in gen ( 17 7 3 ) , o f w h ich S c o tt published his ow n translation (E d in b u rg h , 17 9 9 ). T h e G e rm a n verb

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schinden literally m eans ‘ to fla y ’ , figu rativ e ly to o ppress o r ill-treat . S ch in d er is literally a ‘knacker’ , w h ile H au s m eans ‘ h o u se’ ; th u s Schinderhau s is an o bscu re translation o f ‘ knacker’s y a rd ’ . O n the other han d, S c o tt m ay in ten d a loose p u n on H osen, trou sers, in w h ich case Sch in d erh au sen w o u ld be an ap p ro xim ate G erm an eq u ivalen t o f C le ish b o tham (see th e B la c k D w a rf, e e w n 4a, 12 9 and 206). 38 .34 L e y d e n a tow n in the N e therlan d s, w h ose u n iversity , fo u n d ed in 15 7 5 , becam e a centre fo r P r o testant theology. 38 .39 t h in k m o r e a t la r g e u p o n m ed itate on m o re fu lly. 39 .4 flo c k . . . w o l f o u t o f th e fo ld com m on biblical im agery: see, fo r in stance, Jo h n 1 0 . 1 1 – 16 . 39 .2 4 H e w h o strik e th w ith th e sw o rd sh a ll p e rish b y th e sw o rd com ­ pare M a tthew 2 6 .5 2 an d R e v e la tion 1 3 . 1 0 . 4 1 .7 – 8 H e h a th gon e o u t fr o m u s b e ca u se h e w a s n o t o f u s see 1 Jo h n 2 .19 . 4 1 . 1 3 t h e g re a t S h e p h e rd C h ris t . 4 1 .1 4 p rid e d escrib ed in E cclesiasticu s 1 0 . 1 3 as ‘ the b egin n in g o f sin ’ (A p o cryp h a), p rid e w as defined in the M o ra lia o f G r e g o ry the G r e a t (d. 604) no t as one o f the seven d ead ly sin s, b u t as the sou rce o f all the others; this v iew influenced m an y m ed ieval d escrip tion s o f the sin (see fo r exam ple Jo h n G o w e r (c. 1 3 3 0 - 1 4 0 8 ) , Confessio A m an tis, 1.3 2 9 4 – 3 3 1 4 ) . 4 1 .1 9 – 20 P r id e c o u ld d r a w d o w n th e M o rn in g S ta r . . . the p it see Isaiah 1 4 . 1 2 – 1 5 . T h e ‘M o rn in g S tar’ is L u c ife r , com m on ly id en tified w ith the devil. 4 1 . 2 1 – 2 2 th e fla m in g sw o rd w h ic h w a v e s u s o f f f r o m P a r a d is e see G en esis 3.2 4 . 4 1 .2 2 P r id e m a d e A d a m m o r t a l com pare G o w e r, Confessio A m an tis, 1 3 3 0 3 -0 4 : ‘in P a ra d is / A d a m fo r P rid e loste h is p ris ’ . 4 1 .2 7 t h e re is m o r e h o p e o f a foo l th a n o f th e sin n e r com pare P ro ­ v erb s 2 6 .12 . 4 1.2 8 t h e fa t a l a p p le the fru it o f the tree o f the know ledge o f good an d evil. T h e p u n ish m en t fo r eatin g this fru it w as death (G en esis 2 .17 ) . 4 1 . 3 1 w h ile it is c a lle d to-d a y see H eb re w s 3 . 1 3 . 4 1 .3 2 seared a s w ith a fire -b ra n d see 1 t im o th y 4 .2 . 4 1 .3 2 – 3 3 e a rs d e a fe n e d lik e th o se o f th e ad d e r see P salm 58.4. 4 1 .3 3 – 34 y o u r h e a r t h a rd e n e d lik e th e n eth er m ill-s ton e see Jo b 4 1.2 4 . 4 1 .3 4 U p , th en, a n d b e d o in g see 1 C h ro n icles 2 2 .16 . 4 1.3 4 – 3 5 r e sist, a n d th e e n e m y sh a ll flee f r o m y o u see Ja m e s 4 .7 : ‘R e sist the d ev il, and he w ill flee fro m y o u ’ . 4 1 -35– Зб W a t c h a n d p r a y , lest y e fa ll in to t e m p ta t ion see M a tthew 2 6 .4 1. 4 1 .3 8 – 40 t h e P h a r is e e . . . even a s th e p u b lic a n s e e L u k e 1 8 . 1 1 . 4 2 .2 b o u n d e n d u t y en fo rced d u ty , obligation; the phrase, w h ich o ccu rs in the C o m m u n io n S e rv ic e in the B o o k o f Comm on P ra y e r o f 15 4 9 , w as also c u rren t in S c o tland: in the first C o ve n an t o f 1 5 5 7 the sign atories p led g ed , ‘ a cco rd in g to o ur boun den d u ty , to striv e in o u r M a s ters C a u se ’ (K n o x , 1 1 0 ) . 42.6 g ra c e , w h ic h is p e r fe c t ed in h u m a n w e a k n e ss see 2 C o rin thians 12 .9 . 4 3.8 – 1 3 m o tto no t id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 4 3 .1 8 y c le p e d a b o lt ‘yc le p e d ’ w as a literary arch aism even in the 1 6 th centu ry . C o m p are D o n A rm a d o ’ s letter in L o v e ’s Labours L o st, 1 . 1 . 2 3 5– 36 : ‘ it is yclep ed th y p a rk ’ . 4 3 .2 1 do u p open. 4 5 .2 b y h im w ith resp ect to him .

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4 5 .1 8 a b e lt ed k n ig h t th e le a st p e n n y p rob a b ly a b elted k night dow n to the v e ry last p en n y— i.e. in e v ery resp ect . F o r ‘b elted knight’ see no te to 1 7 . 1 . 4 6 .1 1 G o to see no te to 1 8 .2 1 . 4 6 .17 v a s s a l o f a p a n tou fle see M assin g er, A N ew W ay to P a y O ld D ebts, 1 .1 .1 3 7 : ‘ y e t sw orn e seru an t to the pantop h le’ . 4 7.8 a t m y o w n h a n d w ith m y ow n hand, person ally. 4 7 .2 2 p u t u p p u t aside or aw ay. 48 .2– 7 m o tto not id en tified: p ro bably b y S c o tt. 4 8 .13 r a c y c a n a r y excellen t sw eet w in e; com pare t hom as O tw ay, th e A theist (1 684), 1 . 1 42– 43 : ‘t h e re ’s a C u p o f sm art R a c y C an ary J a c k , w ill m ake an old F e llo w ’s H e a rt as ligh t as a F e a ther ’ . 4 8 .2 1 H e ro d the nam e not o f a C h ristian b u t o f vario u s K in g s o f Ju d aea, in clu d in g H ero d the G r e a t (73–4 в c ) and H ero d A g rip p a I (c. 10 вc – ad 44) b o th o f w h om are m en tioned in the N e w t estam ent; the nam e also o f the t etrarch o f G a lile e , H ero d A n tipas (21 b c - ad 39), w h o execu ted Jo h n the B a p tist . 48.36 S e ld o m c o m e s a b ett er proverbial (R a y , 155; O D E P , 7 1 1– 12; see also R ich a rd I I I , 2.3.4). 49.6 L o t ’s w ife see G en esis 19 .2 6 . L o t ’s w ife w as tu rn ed in to a p illar o f salt w h en she looked back at the destru c tion o f S o d o m and G o m o rrah . 49.9 t w o a n d a p la c k iro n ica l a lot o f m oney. A p lack w as a sm all copper coin w o rth fo u r pen nies S c o ts (one th ird o f an old E n g lish pen ny). 4 9 .10 – 1 1 h e a r a n d see, a n d s a y n oth in g pro verbial: see O D E P , 36 2. 4 9 .37 a r u n n in g a t th e rin g the object o f ru n n in g , o r tiltin g, at the rin g, w as ‘ to rid e at fu ll speed , and th r u s t the point o f the lance throu gh the rin g, w h ich w as su p p o rted in a case or sheath . . . b u t m igh t be read ily draw n out b y the fo rce o f the stroke, and rem ain upon the top o f the lance’ ( S tru tt, 96). 49 .38 S e ig n io r D a v id R iz z io fo r the m u rd er o f R ic c io in 15 6 6 see H isto rical N o te, 4 6 5 . T h e re seem s to have been no su ggestion at the tim e that M a r y ’ s relation sh ip w ith R ic cio w as sexu al, b u t a fter her do w n fall her enem ies spread inn uen dos to this effe ct : see B u ch an an , 2 .3 4 9 – 5 0 , 3 5 5 – 56 and K n o x , 428. 50 .3 a str i n g . . . c re d o s b o th a rosary (see 7 1 . 1 2 ) , used b y R o m an C a th olics to assist them in sayin g their p rayers in the correct sequ en ce. T h e com m on est ty p e o f ro sary w ou ld have grou ps o f ten sm all bead s, each one rep resen tin g an ‘a v e’ , o r H ail M a r y , follow ed b y a larger bead, represen tin g a ‘ paternoste r ’ (the L o r d ’s P ray er), rather than the ‘ cred o ’ , or creed. 5 0 .1 1 fin e g o ld refined gold (that is, free fro m d ro ss or alloy). 5 0 .2 0 -2 1 d e m u r e . . . c r e a m com pare H en ry I V y4 .2 .56 . 50 .24 t h e k in g ’ s lie g e su b je c t s an an ach ronism , sin ce Ja m e s V I had not at this stage been c ro w n ed . 5 0 .33 S a ta n sta n d in g a t m y elb o w com pare th e M erchan t o f V enice, 2 .2 .2 . 50 .4 1 t h e N o r th u m b e rla n d a n d W e stm o r e la n d E a r ls T hom as P erc y ( 15 2 8 – 7 2), 7 th E a rl o f N o r th um berlan d ( 15 5 7 ) , and C h a rles N e v ille ( 15 4 3 – 1 6 0 1 ) , 6th E a rl o f W estm orland (15 6 3 ). B o th C a th o lics, they led a rebellion in N o v e m b e r and D ecem b er 15 6 9 , the o b jects o f w h ich w ere to free M a r y and to restore the R o m a n C a tholic religion . N o r thu m berlan d w as later given up to the E n g lish b y M o r ton, and beheaded, w h ile W estm orlan d escaped in to exile. 50 .43 S c o ttish k i n g . . . a tru e P ro t est a n t Ja m e s V I. A d eliberate absu rd­ ity , sin ce he w as at this stage o n ly ju st o ver a year old, and had m o reover been b aptised ( 1 7 D ec em b er 15 6 6 ) a R o m an C a tholic. 5 1 .3 H a m ilton s the head o f the H am ilton fa m ily (w hose estates lay near H am ilton , som e 16 km S E o f G la sgo w ) w as also h eir p resu m p tive to the S c o t­ tish throne, b y v ir tue o f the m arriage in c. 1474 o f M a r y , d au gh ter o f Ja m e s I I, to

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Ja m e s H a m ilton (c. 1 4 1 5 – 79), 1 st L o r d H a m ilton (14 4 5 ). H a v in g opposed M a r y ’s m arriage to D a rn ley (w hich posed a threat to their rig h ts o f succession), the H a m ilton s su p p o rted her in 15 6 7 – 68, th o u gh late r ( 15 7 2 ) m ak in g their peace w ith the E a rl o f M o r ton. 5 1 .4 G o rd o n s a p o w erfu l R o m an C a tho lic fa m ily , b ased in N E S c o tland. F o r the c h ie f o f the G o rd o n s, the E arl o f H u n tly , see n o te to 206.26. 5 1 .5 – 6 a n e w w o rld sh o u ld c h a n ce to c o m e u p i f a n ew o rd er shou ld h ap pen to arise. 5 1 .6–7 th e m a s s a n d th e c ro ss sym b o ls o f R o m a n C a tho lic ritual. 5 1 .7– 8 p u lp it s . . . b la c k silk s c u ll-c a p s all rep rese n tin g C a lvin istic P ro testantism . F o r the sign ifican ce o f p u lp its, see n o te to 1 4 . 4 1 – 42. 5 1 . 1 1 – 1 2 c o m in g d o w n on u s lik e a stor m com pare E zekiel 38.9. 5 1 . 1 3 a th ro n e o f a b o m in a tio n see R e v e la tion C h . 1 7 . 5 1 .2 3 c o m e in a g a in reconquer. 5 1 .2 4 a s stou t a tree to le a n to perh ap s re fe rrin g o b liq u ely to Isaiah 36 .6 . 5 1 .2 5–2 6 c o m e s b y h e r o w n a g a in repo ssesses w h at is hers. 5 1 .4 1 p ic k -th a n k see 1 H en ry I V , 3 .2 .2 5 : ‘ sm ilin g p ic k -thanks and base new sm o n gers’ . 5 2 .2 2 - 2 6 m o tto the first stanza o f the so n g v a rio u sly k no w n a s ‘ t odien B u tt an d T o d len B e n ’ o r ‘T o d len H arne’ . I t cou ld have been fo u n d b y S c o tt in v ario u s collection s, in clu d in g S c o tish Songs, ed. Jo s e p h R i tson , 2 vols (L o n d o n , 17 9 4 ), 1 .2 5 7 : C L A , 17 4 , and Ja m e s Jo h n s o n ’s t h e S c o ts M u sic a l M useum , 6 vols (E d in b u rg h , 17 8 7 – 18 0 3 ), 3.2 8 4 . 5 2 .2 2 u n d e r m y th u m b at m y disposal. 5 3 .2 2 e a c h m a n k n o w s h is o w n stom a c h b e st p ro verb ial (see O D E P , 2 30 ). 5 3 .2 4 b r o a d p ie c e £ 1 coin. 5 4 .3 4 b e a r y o u ou t su p p o rt you. 5 4 .3 5 w a it on th e m in is t e r’ s e x a m in a tio n s atten d d u tifu lly the clergy­ m an ’s exam in ations ( o f the theological k n o w led ge o f those su b ject to his sp ir­ itu al o versigh t). 54 .36 – 3 7 jo u k y o u r h e a d to th e str e a m p ro verb ial: see note to 13 0 .9 . 5 5 .2 – 3 e v e r y m a n k n o w s h is o w n m a tt ers b e st p ro verb ial (O D E P , 230 ). 5 5 .4 fo r a u ld la n g sy n e S co ts fo r old tim es’ sake. 5 5 .5 c la p p a lm s jo in o r shake hands. 5 5 .5 – 6 a w ilfu l m a n w ill h a v e h is w a y p ro verb ial (O D E P , 890). 56 .39 h ero n herons w ere cau ght fo r fo o d ; they w ere con sid ered the noblest q u arry fo r falcon s, both because o f the h eigh t to w h ich they soar and because o f their dangerous bill. 5 7 .3 – 6 A n d r a th er . . . h a w k a n d h o u n d d esp ite A d a m ’s assertion that th is is an ‘ old so n g’, it has not been traced, an d is p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 5 7 .5 S e x ton ’ s p o u n d e ither the grav eyard or grave. 5 7 .1 4 t h e S c o ts . . . w h o c a n b e fa ir a n d fa ls e com pare the p ro verb s, ‘ F a ir an d false, like a S c o t’ (A n d rew C h ev io t, P roverb s, P ro v e rb ia l Expressions, a n d P o p u la r R hym es o f S c o tla n d ( P a isley an d L o n d o n , 18 9 6 ), 99), and ‘ A s false as a S c o t’ (R a y , 2 2 1 ; O D E P , 243). 5 7 .3 4 w ith a w a n io n w ith a vengeance. 5 8 .7 o n ce g la d to b e The Abbot’s fo re st e r see T he M onastery, E E w n 9, 17 7 ff . 58 .8 t o th e b o o t besides. 5 8 .2 5 re d d e r’ s lic k the b lo w received b y one w h o tries to stop a figh t, p ro verb ially the m o st dangerous (see O D E P , 669). C o m p a re T he T a le o f O ld M o rta lity , eew n 4b , 28.9. 58 .2 8 S a in t C u th b e rt ’ s c e ll acco rd in g to S c o tt’ s M a g n u m note the cell is ‘ en tire ly an ideal scen e’ , thou gh b earin g som e resem blan ce to T illm ou th

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C h a p el, a ru in abou t 3 km N o f C o ld stream (M a gn u m , 2 0 .1 2 1 ) . F o r C u th bert s e e n o te to 5 9 .34– 3 5 . 58 .4 0 –4 1 to th e b o o t o f in ad dition to . 58 .4 2– 4 3 H a r r y g ro a ts . . . b l u f f o ld H a ll’ s tim e groats (w orth 4 d. , or 1 .66p) coined in the reign o f H e n ry V I I I , fam iliarly know n as ‘ old H a ll’ or ‘Н а l ' . 59.1 t h e m u r d e r is ou t p ro verbial (O D E P , 5 5 1 : ‘said w h en som eth in g is su d d en ly revealed o r exp lain ed ’). 5 9 .1 5– 16 p la y a t sw o rd a n d b u c k le r fence. 5 9 .1 7 b id F a th er C a r e h a n g h i m s e lf com pare the p ro verb , ‘ han g care’ (O D E P , 34 9 ). T h e phrase ‘ father care’ can be fo u n d in R ic h ard B rin sle y Sh er­ id an ’s th e G overness ( 17 7 7 ) , 3 . 1 . 59 .2 3– 3 1 m o tto no t iden tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 59 .34 – 3 5 d riv e n fr o m L in d is fe m b y th e D a n e s C u thbert (c. 6 3 4 -8 7 ), m onk and b ish o p o f L in d is fa m e , w as in stru m en tal in evan gelisin g N o rthu m bria (w h ich then in clu d ed m ost o f southern S c o tland). H e w as first b u ried at L in d is fa m e , w h ere he d ied , bu t in 875 his rem ains w ere rem oved to p ro tect them fro m V ik in g raiders; after w id e travels they w ere dep osited, c. 999, in D u rh am C a th edral in N E E n glan d . 59 ·39–40 th e lo r d ly tow e rs o f D u r h a m the cathed ral’s position, n ext to D u rh am castle, and its m assive style o f N o rm a n arch itectu re, testify that it had a m ilitary as w ell as an ecclesiastical fu n ction. In M arm ion , 2 .1 4 , S c o tt describes h ow C u thbert ‘ chose his lo rd ly seat at last, / W h ere his cathedral, huge and vast, / L o o k s dow n u po n the W ear’ (P oetic a l W orks, 7 .10 7 ) . 59.40 t h e o d o u r o fh is sa n c tity lite ra lly the sw eet o do ur stated to have been exhaled b y the bodies o f em inent saints, and held to attest their saintship; hen ce, a rep u tation fo r holiness bestow ed b y the saint . 60.24– 25 s a c ra m e n t s o f th e R o m a n c h u rc h the R o m a n C a tholic church recogn ises seven sacram ents, or rites throu gh w h ich sup ern atural grace is im ­ parted: baptism , con firm ation , eu ch arist, m arriage, penance, ord in ation, ex­ trem e u nction. S e e also note to 2 8 5 .16 – 17 . 6 1 .22 – 2 3 d estr u c tio n o f th e P o p ish ed ifice s see H isto rical N ote, 464. 6 1.3 8 – 6 2.3 a n o ld S c o tt ish h isto r i a n . . . gro u n d Jo h n K n o x , w h o re­ lates the fo llo w in g resp on se to the b u rn in g o f the abb ey and palace o f S co n e in 1 5 59: ‘A poor aged m atron seein g the flam e o f fire to passe u p so m igh tily , and p erceiv in g that m an y w ere thereat o ffe n d e d . . . said, N ow I see an d understan d that G ods judgem ents are ju s t, an d that no m an is able to save where he w ill pu n ish : since m y rem em brance this p la ce hath been nothing else but a D en o f W hore m ongers: I t is incredible to b elieve how m any w ives h a ve been a d u lterate, a n d virgin s deflow red by the f i l th y beasts w hich h a ve been fo stered in this d en ; but especially by that w icked m an who is ca lled the B ishop. I f a ll men knew as m uch as I , they w ould pra ise G od, an d no m an w o u ld be o ffen d ed (K n o x , 15 6 ). 6 2 .2 1 D a g o n o f y o re see 1 Sa m u el 5 .2 – 8, in w h ich the im age o f D ago n , god o f the P h ilis tines, is m u tilated: ‘ th e head o f D a g o n and both the palm s o f his hands w ere cu t o f f u po n the th reshold; on ly the stu m p o f D ag o n w as left to h im ’ . t h e nam e is given b y K n o x to the im age o f S t G ile s , the patron saint o f E d in b u rg h , w h ich w as d estroyed in 15 5 8 : ‘one tooke him b y the heeles, and d a d in g his head to the street, le ft D agon w ithou t a head or han ds’ (K n o x , 10 4 ). 6 3.7 W e ll d one, th o u go o d a n d fa ith fu l s e rv a n t see M a tthew 2 5 .2 1 . 6 3 .19 b i r d i n th y b o so m p ro verbial (O D E P , 59). S c o tt notes in T h e Magnum( 2 0 .1 12 ) that the phrase w as ‘ used b y S ir R a lp h P e rc y , slain in the battle o f H ed g ely-m o o r in 14 6 4 , w h en d y in g, to exp ress his h av in g preserved u n stained h is fidelity to the H o u se o f L a n c a ste r’ . 6 4 .3 6 -3 7 w ith d r a w m y h a n d f r o m th e p lo u g h com pare L u k e 9.62. 64.39 M o th er o f M e r c y , Q u een o f H e a v e n the V irg in M a r y .

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6 5 .13 C u m b e r la n d a n d L id d e s d a le d istric ts on the E n g lish and S c o ttish sides o f the W b ord er. 6 5 .4 1 - 4 2 w a n t . . . The a r t s o f w h ic h sh e is th e in ve n to r com pare the pro verb s, ‘ N ec essity is the m o ther o f in v en ti o n ’ and ‘P o v e rty is the m o th er o f all arts’ ( O D E P , 5 5 8 ,6 4 2 ). 6 6.1 5 d isp e n sa tio n a licence granted b y the P o p e o r other au th o rity o f the C a tholic ch u rch to do w h at is fo rb id d en , to transgress ecclesiasti c a l law . 68.2– 4 m o tto no t id en ti f i e d : p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 6 8 .32 t h e fo u l fien d the d evil. 6 9 .17 – 18 th e th re e c h ild r e n . . . p e rse c u tio n see D an ie l 3 .1 9 –2 7 . 69.26 a c c o r d in g to th e R o m is h creed , th e d e v il a c q u ire a so u l th e C o u n cil o f F lo re n ce decreed in 14 4 2 that ‘ no one can be s a v e d . . . u nless he rem ains in the bosom and u n ity o f the C a tholic C h u rc h ’ (qu oted in F ra n c is A . S u lliv an , S a lv a tion O utside the C h u rch ? (L o n d o n , 19 9 2 ), 66). T his w as a re­ affirm ati o n o f the 3 rd -c e n tu ry L a ti n axio m extra E cclesia, n u lla salus (no salvati o n outside the C h u rch ), w h ich w as ap plied to h ereti c s and schism ati c s in the m id d le ages, and to P ro testan ts a fter th e R e fo rm a ti o n . 70 .29 n o t fa r b e h in d no t far o ff, near. 7 0 .3 7 u p a n d b e d o in g see n o te to 4 1.3 4 . 7 1 .9 t o ld th y b e a d s said y o u r p ray ers. T h e allu sion is to the bead s o f the rosary (see note to 50 .3), u sed fo r k eepin g cou n t o f the nu m b er o f p ray ers said. 7 1 .2 4 t h e H o ly F a th er the P o p e. 7 1 .2 7 – 2 8 th e w o l f w h o r a v a g e s th e flo ck o f th e S h e p h e rd com pare M a tthew 7 .1 5 and A c ts 2 0 .2 9 . T h e w o lf w as id en ti f i e d w ith the C a th o lics b y early P ro testants (see M ilton , ‘ L y c id a s ’ , line 12 8 ), and later w ith the P re s b y ­ terians b y their enem ies (see Sa m u el B u tler, H u dibras (16 6 3 – 78), 1 . 3 .1 2 2 4 – 3 2 , and D ry d e n , T he H in d a n d the P a n ther (16 8 7 ), lines 16 0 ff.). S e e also no te to 39 .4 . 7 3 .2 4 – 2 5 m y g a y g o ss-h a w k a term o f en dearm ent taken fro m the ballad ‘ F a u se F o o d ra g e ’ , stanza 2 2 : ‘A n d ye m au n learn m y gay g o ss-h aw k / R ig h t w eel to breast a steed ’ (M instrelsy, 3.2 8 6 ). 74 .2 – 6 m o tto see W illiam W o rd sw o rth, ‘ S h e d w elt am o n g th ’ u n trod d en w a y s’ (pu blish ed 18 0 0 ), stanza 1 . 7 4 .2 7 re a so n s o f d efen ce e lse w h ere d et a ile d see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 .3 3 .2 9 – 42. 7 5 .1 8 t h e e y e s o f th e b o d y p o ssib ly an echo o f J o b 10 .4 , in w h ich J o b asks G o d , ‘ H a st thou eyes o f flesh? or seest thou as m an seeth?’ 7 5 .1 9 –2 1 B e tter to d w e ll o n th e s a n d . . . h u m a n tr u st see M a tthew 7 .2 4 – 27. 7 5 .3 4 B e n e d ic t ! . . . D o m in i L a tin blessed are they w h o com e in the nam e o f the L o r d . A v arian t o f the ‘B e n e d ic tu s ’ fro m the O rd in ary o f the M a s s (d eriv in g fro m M a tthew 2 1.9 ) . 76.29– 30 flesh a n d fe ll en ti r e l y , lite ra lly bo th flesh and skin. S e e K in g L e a r, 5 .3.2 4 . 7 6 .3 3 b in d su ch a v ic tim to th e h o rn s o f th e a lt a r see P salm 1 1 8 .2 7 . T h e altar in the Je w is h tem p le had h o rn -lik e p ro jecti o n s at each c o m e r (see E x o d u s 2 7 . 1 – 2). 76 .36 A b r a h a m , w h en h e le d I s a a c u p th e m o u n t a in see G e n e sis C h . 2 2 , in w h ich A b rah am is com m and ed b y G o d , as a test o f his obedience, to sacrifice his son Isaac. 7 7 .1 2 a r a m c a u g h t in th e th ic k e t see G e n e sis 2 2 .1 3 : ‘A n d A b rah a m lifted up his eyes, and looked, an d b eh o ld b eh in d him a ram cau gh t in a th ick et b y his horn s: and A b rah am w en t and took the ram , and o ffered h im u p fo r a b u rn t o fferin g in the stead o f h is so n .’ 7 7 .1 3 r e v o lt ed b re th r e n . . . y o u th fu l Jo s e p h see G en esis 3 7 .1 8 – 28 , in w h ich the o lder sons o f Ja c o b p lo t to kill their yo u n ger b ro ther Jo s e p h .

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7 7 .1 4 b a b e s a n d su ck lin g s Psalm 8 .2; M a tthew 2 1 .1 6 . 7 7 .3 3 S a in t M a r y ’ s the V irg in M a ry : ‘ the church o f the con vent o f M elro se w as ded icated to S t M a r y on the 2 8 th o f J u l y 1 1 4 6 ’ (Jo h n B o w e r, D escription o f the A bbeys o f M elrose an d O ld M elrose (K e lso , 1 8 1 3 ) , 18 ). A ll C is tercian founda­ tion s, o f w h ich M elro se (like K en n a q u h air: see T he M onastery, e e w n 9, 6 1 .2 9 - 3 3 ) w as o n e , w ere so dedicated. 7 7 .3 3 – 34 C o n ju ra v e r u n t . . . la q u e o s eju s L a tin the princes conspired am on g them selves, saying, let us throw o f f his cords (com pare P salm 2 .2 - 3 ) . A lso see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,3 1 0 .3 7 , w h ere S c o tt stays closer to the V u lg ate te x t o f the passage. 77-35 Q u o u sq u e D o m in e L a tin how long, O L o r d . S e e R e v e la tion 6 .10 : ‘H o w long, O L o r d , h o ly and tru e, dost thou not ju d ge and avenge our blood on them that dw ell on earth?’ 78 .4 a c le a n sin g o f th e ou t sid e o f th e c u p . . . a w h it e n in g o f the sep u lch re see M a tthew 2 3 .2 5 – 2 7. C o m p are T he M onastery, e e w n 9, 5 9 1 4 – 15 · 7 8 .2 3 liv e u p o n h e r e x h ib it io n live b y m eans o f her su p p o rt . 79 .8 r a ther th a t o f a H eb e th a n o f a S y lp h H ebe, the cu p -b earer o f the gods at O lym p u s (hence a w aitress, or b ar-m aid ); S y lp h , a sp irit o f the air. In other w ords, her figu re is b u xo m , no t slen der and airy. B u t see E ssa y on the t e x t, 4 1 4 (note 69). 79 .38 L i c i tu m sit L a tin let it be law fu l. 79 .39 V ix lic it u m L a tin not law fu l. 8 0 .14 – 19 m o tto not id en tified: pro bab ly b y S c o tt. 80 .35 the go d d ess o f sm ile s V en u s, so described in W illiam C o w p e r’s translation ( 1 7 9 1 ) o f H o m e r’s Ilia d : ‘ fo am -born V en u s then, G o d d ess o f sm iles’ (14 .2 5 0 ). 8 1 .2 2 u p o n a fre sh sco re on fresh grou n ds, fo r a new reason. 8 2.7– 8 b u rn e d b y L o r d M a x w e ll a n d H e rrie s o f C a e rla v e r o c k S c o tt appears to have been con fu sed b y the close connections betw een the fam ilies o f H erries and M a x w e ll— the title H e rries o f C aerlavero ck dates o n ly fro m 1884. T h e L o r d H erries o f the period w as Jo h n M a x w e ll o f t erregles (see no te to 204.8); he w as the son o f R o b e rt M a x w e ll (d. 154 6 ), 5 th L o r d M a x w e ll ( 1 5 1 3 ) . T h e M ax w e lls had held C aerlavero ck C a stle, in D u m friessh ire, sin ce the n th centu r y . T h ey w ere freq u en tly in vo lved in cro ss-bord er raids, b u t S c o tt m ay be recallin g a particu lar attack on the D e b a teable L a n d launched b y the 6th L o r d M a x w e ll in 15 5 0 , and ‘ d irected ch iefly against the G raem es’ (G e o rg e R id p a th, T he B o rd er-H istory o f E n g la n d an d S co tla n d (L o n d o n , 17 7 6 ), 5 7 1 :C L A , 14). 8 2 .2 4 H u gu en o t lite ra lly a m em ber o f the C alv in ist refo rm ed com m union in Fran ce. H en ce, a stric t P ro testant. 8 2 .2 5 C a lv in Jo h n C a lv in ( 15 0 9 – 64), F rench refo rm er in G en eva. C alvin w as the m o st pro m in en t o f the second gen eration o f refo rm ers, and is associated w ith radical P ro testantism , and w ith doctrin es such as p redestination, the in ef­ ficacy o f w orks, and m an ’ s total reliance on d ivin e G rac e. H is ideas p ro fo u n d ly influenced S c o ttish P re sb y terianism . 8 2 .36 a t n eed in an em ergen cy. 8 3.4 fa ir C a llip o lis see P is tol’s w o rd s in 2 H en ry I V , 2 .4 .16 9 : ‘ T h e n feed and be fat, m y fair C alip o lis.’ P is tol is m isq u o tin g T he B a ttle o f A lc a z a r (pu b­ lished 1 594) b y G e o rg e P eele ( 15 5 6 – 96). 8 3.2 6 t h e lo n g est la n e w ill h a v e a tu rn in g adaptin g the p ro verb , ‘it is a lo n g lane that has no tu rn in g ’ (O D E P , 480). C o m p are R a y , 1 3 2 : ‘ I t’s a lo n g run that n ever tu rn s.’ 8 3 .2 7 in fine to su m u p, in sh ort . 8 3 .2 7 a tu rn in g o f f a disch arge fro m service.

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8 3.30 sta r t n ot fo r m y le a rn in g , I do k n o w th e sch o o ls fo r schools see glossary: R o lan d is ap parently aston ish ed that C a therin e shou ld have u sed the learned term catastrophe (fo r w h ich also see glossary). 8 3 .3 3 a sh o rt h o rse soon c u rrie d pro verb ial (see R a y , 15 6 and O D E P , 7 2 7 – 28). 8 3.38 b ro o k th e st a b su ffe r death b y stabbing. 84.3 n o th in g o f y o u r h isto r y noth in g to do w ith yo u r story. 84.5 t a le fo r t a le is fe llo w -tr a v e lle r ’ s ju stic e see t h e ‘M ille r ’s P ro ­ logu e’ in T he C anterbury T ales, ren d ered th u s in G e o rg e O g le’s version : ‘ T o m atch the K n ig h t, u nbu ckle w id e the M a le ,/ A n d to the fu ll rep ay h im , T ale fo r T ale’ (T he C an terbury T ales o f C haucer, 3 vo ls (L o n d o n , 1 7 4 1 ) , 1 .18 4 : C L A , 17 2 ). 8 4.22 O v e r go d s fo rb o d e G o d fo rb id . T h e phrase can be fou nd in ‘t h e S a n g o f the O u tlaw M u r r a y ’ (M in strelsy, 1.3 2 4 ). 8 4.25 t u rn ed o f f discharged. 84.29 a fre e w o m a n o f th e fo re st p ro b ab ly d erivin g fro m th e p h ra s e ‘ free m an in the fo rest’ , m eaning one w h o h u n ts in a royal fo rest, either legitim ately or as an outlaw o r poacher. 84.42– 4 3 u p e a r ly a n d d o w n la t e T he M e rry W ives o f W indsor, 1 .4.93. 8 5 .1 O u t u p o n exp ressio n o f d isgu st or reproach. 8 5.4 S a in t C a therin e o f S ie n n a a D o m in ica n n u n w h o lived 13 4 7 – 80 (canonised 1 4 6 1 ) . T h e S e tons w ere patron s o f a con ven t ju st S o f E d in b u rg h (foun ded 1 5 1 7 ) , w h ich w as d ed icated to S t C a therin e, an d was noted fo r the auste rity w ith w h ich the n u n s o b served her refo rm ed D o m in ica n rule. 85.9 t h e la s t y e a r ’ s sn o w com pare the refrain o f th e ‘B alla d e d es dam es du tem p s jad is’ (‘B alla d o f ladies o f bygo n e tim es’), b y F ra n ço is V illo n (b o m 1 4 3 1 ) : O ù sont les neiges d ’an tan ?’ S e e also C h a u cer, t ro ilu sa n d C riseyde, 5 .1 1 7 6 : ‘ farew el al the snow o f fern e y e re ’ . 8 5 .1 3 t h e K e r r s a p o w erfu l b o rd er clan , w h o at th is p eriod su p p o rted Q ueen M a r y and w ere sym p ath etic to the C a tholics. S e e also no te to 14 8 .2 9 . 8 5 .16 y o u sit u n d e r a su re sh a d o w com pare Ju d g e s 9 .1 5 , Isaiah 3 0 .2 . 8 5 .18 t ak en a rle s lite ra lly taken the m o n ey given to con firm the engagem ent o f a servan t: in other w o rd s, tak en a n u n ’s final vow s. 8 5 .2 2 -2 4 th ree fo ld p la t e o f b r a s s . . . H o ra c e re c o m m e n d s it see H orace ( 6 5 -8 b c ), Odes, 1 .3 : ‘O ak an d trip le bron ze m u st have girt the breast o f him w h o first com m itted h is frail bark to the an g ry sea’ (T h e Odes a n d E podes, trans. C . E . B en n ett (L o n d o n , 1 9 1 4 ) , 13 ) . 8 5 .2 7 -2 8 g i v e . . . th e to r c h to h o ld leave them to look on and perfo rm their dom estic occu pations. S e e Rom eo a n d J u lie t, 1 .4 .3 7 : ‘F o r I am p ro v e rb ’d w ith a grand sire p h ra se ;/ I ’ll b e a can d le-h old er and look o n ’ (com pare R a y , 1 7 2 and O D E P , 9 2 1) . 85.35 y o u p r o u d p e a t see Jo h n F le tch er, A W ife fo r a M on th ( 16 2 4 ), 1.1.17 2 . 8 5 .3 5 d r a w in g o f f w ith d raw in g. 86.2– 6 m o tto no t id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 8 7.3 t h e b e tro th ed b rid e o f H e a v e n a nun. 8 7.5– 6 th e en d, sist er, s a n c ti f i e s th e m e a n s a pio u s v ersio n o f the pro verbial exp ressio n , ‘ the en d ju s tifies the m eans’ (O D E P , 220). 8 7 .19 M o r ton see note to 2 5 .1 7 . 8 7.36 t y th e s o f m in t a n d c u m m in see M a tthew 2 3 .2 3 . 8 8 .12 w ith a h ig h h a n d im p erio u sly, w ith abso lu te p o w er. 8 8 .25 b a r le y -b r e a d typ ic a lly poor food, an d hence a p en iten tial d iet, in contrast to bread m ade o f w h eat. S e e W illiam L a n g la n d , P ie rs P low m an , 6 .13 7 : ‘ye shal ete b arly b red and o f the brok e d ryn k e’ . 8 8 .33 h o sp it a lity . . . N o r th er n B a ro n s o f E n g la n d S c o tt cou ld have

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fo u nd a d escrip tion o f the splen did housekeeping o f the P e rc y fam ily in the 1 6 th centu ry in t h e R eg u la tions a n d E stablishm ent o f . . The Fift h E a r l o f N o rthum­ berland, e d . T hom as P e rc y (L o n d o n , 17 7 0 : see C L A , 12 4 ). 8 9.35 t h e la u g h in g h y æ n a com pare A s Y ou L ik e I t, 4 . 1 . 1 3 9 . T h e phrase ‘T o laugh like a hyen a’ is pro verbial (O D E P , 445). 9 0 .17 T h e b ird s a r e flo w n proverbial (see O D E P , 6 1). 90 .22 str a it a n d n a rr o w see M a tthew 7 . 1 3 - 1 4 . 90.38 G u y o fW a r w ic k the hero o f a popu lar m ed ieval rom ance; the ex travagance o f the stor y later led to its bein g ‘v e ry p ro p erly resign ed to ch ild ren ’ (P ercy , 3 . 1 0 1 ) . A m o n g G u y ’s m ost fam ous exp lo its w as the k illin g o f a savage cow : ‘ O ne o f his m o st valian t D e e d s / w as this, as w e are told :/ A w ild D u n C o w , D unsm ore it b re e d s ,/ w h ich b y this H e ro b o ld / D e s troyed w as’ (Sam u el R o w lan d , T he Fam ous H istory o f G u y o f W arw ick (16 4 9 , rep r. L o n d o n , [c. 17 0 0 ], 52: com pare C L A , 109 ). 9 1 .3 1 S c a u r s o f P o lm o o d ie p ro bably identical w ith P olm ood C ra ig , a c liff on the N E sh ou ld er o f B ro a d L a w , about 20 km S E o f B ig g a r, and ly in g w ithin the parish o f D ru m e lz ie r (see 14 7 .7 ). 9 1 .3 3 – 3 4 a n o n o f on account o f (a sense not reco rded in the O E D ). 9 1 .43 S a in t A n d r e w one o f C h rist’s tw elve d isciples, and patron saint o f S c o tland. 92.1 h u n t in c o u p le s h u n t together. C o u p les are the leashes w h ich bin d tw o hou nds together. 9 2 .19 out u p o n see note to 85.1 . 9 2 .2 3 H o u rs a book containing the p rayers ap pointed to be said at the seven stated tim es o f d ay allotted to prayer. 9 3 .3 7 B e n e d ic it e L atin bless you . 94.4– 8 m o tto no t id en tifi e d : p ro bably b y S c o tt. 94.4 D a g o n see note to 6 2 .2 1. 94.38– 39 E liz a b e th B a r ton . . . the N u n o f K e n t B a r ton ( 1 5o6?– 34) w as a servin g-w o m an , w h o, h avin g laid claim to d iv in ely in spired an d prophetic p o w ers, becam e a lead in g d efen d er o f the C a tholic cause in E n glan d . S h e was arrested in 1 5 3 3 , and a fter m ak in g a con fession in w h ich she ad m itted to b ein g an im poster she w as execu ted. 9 5 .1 3 ou t u p o n see no te to 8 5 .1 . 95.28 ro o t o u t th e tru e seed the seed is in terp reted in the N e w T estam ent as ‘ the ch ild ren o f the k in gd om ’ (M a tthew 13 .3 8 ), and also as ‘ the w o rd o f G o d ’ (L u k e 8 .1 1). 9 6 .1 S a in t R in g a n b etter know n as S t N in ian , a S c o ttish m issio n ary o f the 4 th– 5 th centu ries; h is sh rin e at W h ithorn , in G allo w ay , w as am o n g the m ost popu lar places o f pilgrim age in S c o tland. 96.7 t h e S a in t ’ s h a n d is o u t the saint is out o f practi c e . 96 .22 t h e g r a v e o f m o n a r c h s A lexan d er I I w as b u ried at M e lro se (12 4 9 ), as w as the heart o f R o b e rt the B ru c e (fo r w h om see no te to 229.4). 96 .32– 3 3 v e n g e a n c e . . . d elay ed ? com pare R e v e la tion 6 .10 . 96.36– 3 7 th e v in e y a r d sh a ll n o t b e fo re v e r tro d d en d o w n see P salm 80.8– 16 . 9 8 .13 In tr a t e m i filii L a tin en ter, m y sons. 98.29 m itre d A b b o t a m itre w as a m ark o f excep tional dign ity , w h ich im plied status eq u ivalen t to that o f a bish o p; th e A bbot o f M elro se w as granted the m itre in 1 3 9 1 . 98.30– 3 3 th e first su c ce sso rs o f S a in t P e te r . . . H e a th en R o m e the first P o p es, o r leaders o f the R o m a n C h u rch . A lthou gh legend claim s m arty r­ dom fo r alm ost all the P o p es o f the 1st and 2n d centu ries, that o f o n ly one, S t T elesph oru s (P o p e c. 1 2 5 – c. 13 6 ) is reliab ly attested. 9 8 .35 a r t ific ia l fire firew orks.

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9 9 .1 1– 1 2 m a r s h a l them th e w a y con duct them . 9 9 .19 p e ll-m e ll h a v o c 1 H en ry I V , 5 .1.8 2 . 99.43– 10 0 .2 F a th er N i c o la s . . . A b b o t In g e lr a m see T he M onastery, E E W N 9 ,1 0 2 e tc. 100.4 P h ilip th e S a c r is t a n . . . A v e n e l see The M onastery, e e w n 9, 64– 67. 100.6 H ic ja c e t E u s t a t iu s A b b a s L a tin here lies A b b o t E u s tace. 10 0 .2 1– 2 3 t h e p e r io d . . . w id o w h o o d S c o tt’s sou rce fo r th e ‘ em blem at­ ical ph rase’ has not been traced; how ever, com pare O E D ‘w id o w h o o d ’ IC (qu o t. 186 7). 1 0 1 .2 p a in fu l p re -e m in e n c e Jo s e p h A d d iso n , C a to ( 1 7 1 3 ) , 3 .5 .2 3 . 10 1.3 0 in n o so rt not at all, in no w ay. 1 0 1 .40– 4 1 v o ic e in th e le g isla tu re b efo re the R e fo rm a tion b ish o ps, abbots and p rio rs, as ten ants-in -c h ie f possessin g a statu s eq u ivalen t to that o f secular freeh o ld ers, sat in the S c o ttish parliam ent . 1 0 1 .4 1 – 4 2 m a im e d r it es H am let, 5 .1 . 2 1 3 . 1 0 1 .43 t h e k iss o f p e a c e the kiss, sym b o lisin g reconciliation , w h ich accom panies the w o rd s ‘ peace be w ith y o u ’ in the eu ch aristie service. 10 2 .2 – 3 a s i f it h a d b e e n . . . a h u n t i n g p a r ty as i f i t w ere a h u n te r’ s m ass, a sh ort m ass said hastily fo r hu n ters eager to start fo r the chase. 10 2.24– 30 m o tto not id en tified: pro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 10 2 .3 2 t h e W it c h o f B e r k le y see R o b ert S o u they , ‘ A B a lla d , sh ew in g h o w an old w om an rod e dou ble, and w h o rode b efo re h er’ in Poem s, 2 v o ls (B r is tol, 17 9 7 – 99: C L A , 246): as dem on s gathered ou tsid e the ch u rch , ‘the ch o risters son g that late w as so str o n g / G r e w a qu aver o f con sternatio n ’ (2 .15 8 ). In later ed itions the poem is know n as ‘t h e O ld W om an o f B e rk e le y ’ . 10 3.36 t r y t itle s see note to 3 5 .7 . 104.9 T illy v a lle y fidd lesticks, nonsense. S e e 2 H en ry I V , 2 .4 .7 8 an d T welft h N ig h t, 2 .3 .7 5 . 10 4.28 A h a ll!— a h a ll a c ry to clear the w ay in a cro w d , or to call peo p le to order. C o m p a re Rom eo a n d J u lie t, 1.5 .2 4 . 10 4 .3 1 T h e a p p e a r a n c e o f th e c ro w d the fo llo w in g d escrip tion d raw s on the antiqu arian research o f S c o tt’s contem poraries: see in particu lar S tru tt, 2 5 2 – 66, and D o u ce , 2 .4 3 1 – 8 2 . T h ey in tu rn d rew on a w ealth o f evid en ce to be fou nd in p lays o f the 16 th and 1 7 th centu ries, and in P u r itan p o lem ics su ch as Jo h n N o r thbrooke, A t reatise w herein D icin g, D ancing, V aine P la tes or E n terludes . . . a re reprooued (L o n d o n , 15 7 7 ? ), and P h ilip S tu bbes, T he A n a tom ie o f A buses (L o n d o n , 1 583). S c o tt’ s d escrip tion incorporates featu res o f the ‘F e s tival o f F o o ls ’ , a rio tous m o ck-religio u s cerem on y w h ich n o rm ally o ccu rred at C h ris t­ m as, and o f ‘M a y -g a m e s’ , or celebrations (in clu d in g m o rris-d an cin g) o f the arrival o f sp rin g. 10 4 .38 t h e h o b b ie -h o rse a com m on particip an t in M a y -g a m e s an d m o r­ ris-d an cin g, w h ose dress and m im icry o f h o rse-m ovem en ts clo sely m atched S c o tt’s d escrip tion. S c o tt m ay have had one particu lar passage fro m the ‘ an cien t dram a’ in m ind : 'I shou ld be old en ou gh, and w ise en ou gh, to p lay the h o b b yH o r s e . . . I p ractis ’d m y R ein es m y C a rree’res, m y P ran ck ers, m y A m b le s, m y false T rotts, m y sm ooth A m b les, and C an terbu ry P a ces’ (W illiam S a m p so n , T he Vow B rea k er. O r, the F a ire M a id e o f Clift o n (L o n d o n , 1 6 3 6 ) , I2 v – I 3 r: C L A , 2 1 7 ) . A lso see D o u ce , 2 .4 6 3– 7 1 . 104.40 B a y e s ’ s tr a g e d y B a y e s is th e p layw rig h t in th e satire T he R eh earsa l ( 16 7 2 ), b y G e o rg e V illiers ( 16 2 8 – 87), 2 n d D u k e o f B u ck in gh am . H is traged y en ds w ith a b attle ‘ fo u gh t b etw een foot and great H o b b y h o rses’ (A c t 5 , S c en e 1). 1 04.42– 10 5 .2 d r a g o n . . . S a b r a . . . S a in t G e o rg e S t G e o rg e , the p atron saint o f E n g lan d , w as a th ird centu ry m artyr. In the m id d le ages the legen d arose

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o f his savin g S a b ra, the daugh ter o f P tolem y, K in g o f E g y p t, fro m a dragon to w h ich she w as to be sacrificed as trib u te . T his legend w as retold in vario us popu lar version s, in c lu d in g the ballad ‘ S t . G eo rg e and the D ra g o n ’ (prin ted in P erc y, 3 .2 2 8 – 39), and the pro se rom ance T he Fam ous H istory o f the Seven Cham pions o f C hristendom , b y R ic h ard Jo h n so n ( 15 9 6 – 9 7 ; rep r. L o n d o n , 16 70 ), В 4 r- С 1 r C L A , 10 6 . T h e dragon as a participant in M ay-g am es is first m en­ tioned b y P h ilip S tu b b es (T h e A n a tom ie o f A buses, M 2 r) , w h ile the m ou nted S t G e o rg e was ap p aren tly an e x tension o f the role o f the h o b b y-h orse (see t h e Vow B rea k er, Ι 3 r: ‘ leave m e fo r a h o b b y -H o rse . . . a th u n d ’r in g S t. G eorge as ever rode on h o rse-back e’). T h e dragon w ou ld be ‘attacked in som e lu d icro u s m an ner b y the h o bby-h orse saint’ (D o u ce, 2.4 72). 10 5 .3 ev e r a n d an o n ev e ry n ow and then. 10 5.6 t h e d isc re t io n o f S n u g th e jo in er see A M idsum m er N ig h t 's D ream , 5 .1 . 2 1 6 – 260. S n u g acts the lion in the p lay o f P y ra m u s and T hisb y, bu t in o rd er to avoid frig h ten in g the ladies he prefaces his part b y an nou ncin g that 'I as S n u g the jo in er a m / A lion fe ll’ . 10 5.9– 10 R o b in H o o d a n d L i tt le jo h n p rin cip al characters in M a y gam es: ‘R o b in H o o d . . . presid ed as L o r d o f the M a y , a n d . . . the M a id M a ria n , his faith fu l m istress, w as the L a d y o f the M a y . H is com panions w e r e . . . distin­ gu ished b y the title o f R o bin H ood's M en 1 ( S tru tt, 26 4 ). T h ey w ere particu larly popu lar in S c o tland: alth ou gh a statu te w as passed in 1 5 5 5 (approved b y the C a tholic M a r y o f G u ise ) fo r su p p ressin g ' R obert H u d e, and abbot o f U n rea so n ’ , an attem p t to en fo rce the ban in E d in b u rg h in 1 5 6 1 led to general rio tin g (Jo sep h R i t s o n ,.d e,R o bin H ood, 2 vols (L o n d o n , 17 9 5 ), i.c v iii- c ix : C L A , 17 4 ). A lso see D o u ce , 2.448– 50. 10 5 .1 3 – 1 4 M e n w e re d isg u ise d a s w o m e n , a n d w o m e n a s m e n in d irect contrave n tion o f D e u teron om y 2 2 .5 . C ro ss-d ressin g w as a featu re o f M ay-g am es w h ich particu larly preoccu pied P u r itan s, w h o b elieved that ‘m en m u st not p u t on w om en s ap parrell fo r feare o f en orm ities’ (C h ristopher F e a therston, A D ialogu e agaynst L ig h t, Lew de, an d Lasciuious D auncing (L o n d o n , 15 8 2 ), D 8 v ). 10 5.2 9 – 30 th e C h u r c h o f R o m e . . . su ch sa tu m a lia n lice n ses S c o tt gives an orth o do x acco u n t o f the o rigins o f the F e s tival o f F o o ls and o f M a y gam es, d erivin g them fro m the R o m an festival o f S a tu rn , d u rin g w h ich unres­ trained m erry-m ak in g and the o verthrow o f the norm al o rd er w ere encouraged. C o m pare: ‘as the R e v e ls and disord ers o f C h ristians sp ru n g fro m the Pagans S a tu rn a lia , an d fro m them cam e to the P a p ists, and so to u s . . . S o these F lo ra lia n M a y -g a m e s had their O rigin al from the F lo ra lia n feasts, and enter­ lu des o f the P a g a n -R o m a n s . . . then they cam e to Rom e A n tichristians, as a prop to u ph o ld their su p erstitiou s and prophan e K in g d o m e , and so to u s’ (t hom as H all, F u n ebria F lo ræ, the D o w n fa ll o f M a y-G a m es (L o n d o n , 1 6 6 1) , 7: C L A , 12 8 ). Jo s e p h S tru tt also blam es the R o m an C a tholic ch u rch , c laim in g th a t no ‘ sports ’ w ere ‘ m ore d a rin g ly im p io u s, and outrageous to com m on sense, than the Fe st iv a l O S L fFOw h ich the m ost sacred rites and cerem on ies o f the o in ch u rch w ere tu rn ed in to rid icu le and the ecclesiastics them selves particip ated in the abom inable p ro fan ation s’ ( S tru tt, 256). 10 6 .2 1– 2 2 ro ch e t ... t h e C a lv in is tic d iv in e b y lin k in g the three cat­ egories to their regio n ally specific parodies (see n e xt note) S c o tt seem s to be equatin g the ‘refo rm ed b ish o p ’ w ith E n glan d , an d the ‘ C alv in istic d iv in e’ w ith S c o tland— bo th h av in g displaced ‘ the C a th o lic’ . H o w ev er, in reality the devel­ opm ent o f the R e fo rm a tion in both countries w as m ore com p lex, an d ‘ reform ed b ish o p s’ h ave at v ario u s tim es been fo u n d in S c o tland as w ell as E n glan d . F o r ‘ cloak and b an d ’ see no te to 13 5 .4 0 – 4 1 . 10 6 .2 3– 2 4 th e P o p e o f F o o ls, th e B o y -B is h o p , a n d The Abbot o f U n ­ reaso n all v arian ts on the L o r d o f M isru le , leader o f the ‘ F e s tival o f F o o ls ’ :

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the 'P o pe o f F o o ls ’ presid ed in ‘ the ch u rch es im m ed iately dep en d en t u p o n the papal see’ ( S tru tt, 2 5 7 ); the E n g lish ‘B o y -B is h o p ’ w as ‘one o f the ch ild ren o f the C h o ir’ w ho assum ed the role o f b ish o p at the feast o f S t N ich o las, or on H o ly -In n o ce n ts’ day ( S tru tt, 2 58 – 59); the ‘A b b o t o f U n rea so n ’ w as the S c o t­ tish eq uivalen t o f the L o r d o f M is ru le ( S tru tt, 2 5 2 , note). 10 6 .2 7 p r a c t ic a l p a ro d y an active p a ro d y (as in p ractical joke). 10 6 .3 7 o p e n w o rk w o rk m ad e so as to sh ow open in gs. 10 6 .4 2 A n a s ta siu s A n astasius: or, M em oirs o f a G re ek ; w ritten a t the close o f the E ig h teenth C entu ry, 3 v ols (L o n d o n , 1 8 1 9 ) , pu b lish ed an on ym ou sly b y t hom as H o p e. A n astasius contains no referen ce to su ch ‘b u rlesq u e cere­ m o n ies’ . 106.40– 10 7.1 a c e le b ra ted je st e r . . . in b la c k lett er the G e rm a n T y ll E u len sp ie gel ( lite ra lly T y ll O w l-m irro r, ren d ered in E n g lish as H o w leglas), the hero o f a series o f com ic tales, first p u b lish ed in A n tw erp in 1 5 1 5 , and tran slated in to E n g lish as H ere B egin n eth a M e ry e Je s t o f a M a n that w as C a lle d H ow leglas (first p u b lish ed in black letter, the old G o th ic style o f ty p e , u sed b y p rin ters in the 1 5 th to 1 7 th centu ries, at L o n d o n c. 15 2 8 , and rep rin ted at least tw ic e). T h e v ario u s b lack -letter ed itions o f H ow leglas are exceed in gly rare: F re d e ric O u v ry , in h is ed ition o f H ow leglas (L o n d o n , 18 6 7 ), states that o n ly ‘ three cop ies are kn o w n to exist ’ . N o n e o f these is p erfec t: tw o are in the B r itish L ib r a r y , one in the B o d leian L ib r a r y . 10 7 .7 A h a ll, a h a ll! see no te to 10 4 .2 8 . 10 7.8 H o w le g la s, th e le a rn e d M o n k o f M is r u le fo r H ow leglas see above, 10 6 .4 0 and note; the M on k o f M isru le is a varian t o f the ‘L o r d o f M is r u le ’ (see above, 10 6 .2 3 – 24). 1 0 7 .1 5 in fin e in sh ort. 10 7.2 9 P a lin u ru s the pilo t o f A en eas’ s fleet: see V ir g il’s A en eid , trans. Jo h n D r y d e n (pu blish ed 16 9 7 ), 3 .2 6 4 an d 5 .10 9 3 . 10 7 .3 0 a t a st a n d at a stan dstill, u n able to m ove. 10 8 .7 m a n y a w ise c h ild k n o w s n o t it s o w n fa th er p ro verb ial (see R a y , 86 an d O D E P , 899). 10 8 .20 th e sw o rd o f S a in t P e t e r S t P e te r ’ s sw o rd d erives fro m Jo h n 1 8 . 1 0 – 1 1 : P e ter d rew a sw o rd an d c u t o f f the ear o f M a lc h u s, u p o n w h ich C h r is t told h im to ‘P u t u p th y sw o rd in to the sheath ’ . F r o m this (and also fro m L u k e 2 2 .3 8 ) P apal ap ologists d evelo p ed the doctrin e o f tw o sw o rd s— the sheathed sw o rd (rep resentin g the sp iritual ru le o f the P o p e) and the d raw n sw o rd , also P e te r’s sw o rd , b u t w ield ed b y secu lar prin ces acco rd in g to th e w ill o f the P o p e . T h e m o st influential fo rm u lation o f this theo ry w as in the tract D e C onsideratione (c. 1 1 4 8 ) , b y S t B e rn a rd o f C la irv a u x (10 9 0 – 1 15 3 ) . S e e W alter U llm a n n , A S h o rt H istor y o f the P a p a cy in the M id d le A ges (L o n d o n , 19 7 2 ), 18 2 – 83. 10 8 .2 1– 2 2 th e c h a in s w h ic h . . . a r e r iv e tte d in H e a v e n the p o w er to b in d and loose en tru sted b y C h ris t to S t P e ter, an d claim ed b y th e R o m a n C a tho lic ch u rch (see M a tthew 16 .1 9 ) . 1 0 8 .3 1 s w e a r b y b e ll, book, a n d c a n d le an oath, d erivin g fro m the r itu al o f exco m m u n ication, w h ich has becom e p ro verb ial (R a y , 18 4 ; O D E P , 44). C o m ­ p are K in g Jo h n , 3 .3 .1 2 . 10 8.40 S t entor G re cia n herald in th e t rojan w ar, ‘ W hose throat su rp a ss’d th e F o r c e o f fifty T o ngu es’ (T h e Ilia d , trans. A le x a n d e r P o p e (pu b lish ed 1 7 1 5 – 20), 5.979). 10 5 .4 2 d ig h t y o u r g a b s lite ra lly w ip e y o u r m o u ths: sh u t up. 10 8 .42– 4 3 th e C o c k . . . flee th e p it com p are the p ro verb , ‘ T hat cock w o n ’ t figh t’ (O D E P , 1 3 1 ) . T h e ‘ p it ’ w as the arena w ith in w h ich cocks fo u g h t . 10 9 .3 7 t h e L ig h t o f the L a n d com p are the nam e g iven to S t M a r y ’s, H a d d in g ton, ‘T h e L a m p o f L o th ian ’ . T h e im ag ery is biblical— see M a tthew

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5 .1 4 , w h ere C h ris t’s fo llow ers are called ‘ the lig h t o f the w o rld ’ . 10 9 .39 – 40 d a r k n e s s . . . lig h t com m on b ib lical im ages: see Isaiah 5 .2 0 a n d J o h n 3 . 1 9. 1 10 .7 p ip e a n d t a b o r po p u lar in stru m en ts; o ften both w ere p layed sim u l­ tan eou sly b y one p layer, b u t h ere there seem to be tw o players. C o m p are R edgauntle t, e e w n 1 7 , 1 0 3 . 1 6 (note). 1 10 .8 sile n ce, lik e a h e a v y clo u d the qu o tation has not been traced; b u t com pare Ja m e s M acp h erso n , T em ora, B o o k 1 : ‘silence, like the clo u d o f a sh o w er’ (T h e Poem s o f O ssian, ed. H o w a rd G a sk ill (E d in b u rg h , 19 9 6 ), 228). 1 10 .19 S a in t A n th o n y, in C a llo t ’ s T e m p t a tio n s S t A n ton y , a 4 th -cen ­ tu ry h erm it, w a s celebrated as the father o f m onasticism ; the F re n c h artist Ja c q u e s C a llo t ( 15 9 2 – 16 3 5 ) en graved his m asterpiece, h is second versio n o f t h e ‘t e m p ta tion o f S t A n ton y ’ , in the y ea r o f h is death . T h e en grav in g is rep rod u ced in the G r o v e D iction ary o f A r t, ed. Ja n e t u rn er, 3 4 vols (L o n d o n , 19 9 6 ), 5 .4 3 8 . 11 0 .2 4 L u c k ie S c o ts a title g iven to a lan d -lad y, or the m istress o f an ale­ house. 1 10 .2 5 – 26 p la y ou t th e p la y 1 H en ry I V , 2 .4 .4 6 7. 1 1 0 .3 6 m e n o f B e lia l th ou gh M ilton gives the nam e B elial to one o f his d ev ils in P a ra d ise L o st, it is in fact no t a p ro p er nam e, bu t a H e b re w w o rd literally m ean in g w o rth lessn ess. T h e phrases ‘ m en o f B e lia l’ and ‘ sons o f B e lia l’ are used in the O ld T estam ent to d escribe the w icked an d faithless, e.g. D e u teron o m y 1 3 .13 · 1 10 .4 2 S a in t M ic h a e l leader o f the an gels in their battle again st S a tan: see R e v e la tion 1 2 .7 – 9. 1 1 1 .6 b e w a r e th e m il l-d a m in other w o rd s, bew are b ein g du ck ed in the p o n d , the p u n ish m en t fo r d iso rd erly w om en . 1 1 1 .20– 26 m o tto see V ir g il’ s A en eid , trans. Jo h n D ry d e n , 1 . 2 1 3 – 18 . 1 12 .8 p a c k u p y o u r p ip e s com pare the p ro verb ial exp ressio n ‘ p u t u p yo u r p ip e s’ ( O D E P , 6 57 ), that is, sh u t u p. 1 1 2 . 1 5 o u r b a r k is w o rse th a n o u r b it e pro verb ial (O D E P , 30). 1 1 2 . 1 6 – 1 7 d r a w o f f w h ile th e p la y is g o o d pro verb ial (see O D E P , 4 5 3). 1 1 2 .1 7 – 18 o n th e so a r fa lc o n ry said o f a haw k w h en it is in the act o f soarin g high. 1 12 .2 0 t h e lu re fa lc o n ry the ap p aratu s u sed to recall the haw k: d esign ed to resem b le a b ird , it is attached to a lo n g co rd , an d sw u n g b y the falcon er. 1 1 2 .2 9 b e it a s y o u list let it b e as yo u w ish. 1 1 3 .3 p o r t ly b e l l y . . . b u m b a s t ed see T he M e rry W ives o f W indsor, 1 .3.59 . S c o tt m ay also be recallin g F ra n c is B eau m o n t an d Jo h n F le tch er’ s L ittle F rench L a w y e r (w ritten 1 6 1 9 – 24), in w h ich a law yer figh ts a du el w ith a b ag stu ffe d in to h is sh irt; h av in g stru ck the b ag his antago n ist exclaim s, ‘ N o th in g b u t bu m b ast in y e e ’ ( 2 .2 .10 ) . 1 1 3 .5 M ila n co rsle t a corslet m ad e in M ila n , N I ta ly, a c ity fam ed fo r the q u ality o f its steel m an u facture. 1 1 3 .2 4 h o w n o w , m y m a s te rs h o w is it n o w , m y m asters— a som ew hat co n te m p tu ou s in terjection , o ften fo u n d in E liza b ethan an d Ja c o b e a n dram a, e.g. C orio la nus, 2 . 3 . 1 5 1 . 1 1 3 .2 5 J a c k - a - L e n t v is a g e s m iserable faces: either like L e n ten fasters (O E D , 3 ), o r like a Ja c k - a -L e n t, o r p u p p et, u sed as a target (O E D , 1). 1 13 .2 6 a n o ld w ife ’ s t a le p ro verb ial (see O D E P , 593). 1 13 .2 6 p u r g a to r y acco rd in g to R o m a n C a tholic teaching, the place o r state w h ere the sou ls o f the dead are p u rged o f their sin s befo re b ein g ad m itted to heaven. R efo rm e rs den ied the ex isten ce o f p u rg ator y , argu in g that there w as no b asis fo r it in the B ib le . 1 1 3 . 2 7 m a d e a ll s p lit m ad e all go to pieces. A com m on phrase in

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R en aissan ce dram a: see, fo r exam p le, A M idsum m er N ig h t ’s D ream , 1 .2 .2 4 . 1 1 3 .3 2 p la y in g m u m c h a n c e lite ra lly p layin g a gam e w ith dice or card s (see A B D , 3 .19 9 , not ) ; fig u ra tiv e ly p reserv in g a d o gged silence. 1 14 .9 – 10 th e o ld c r o w ’ s n est . . . ro ok s recallin g the w o rds o f K n o x : ‘T h e rep o rt also w ent, that Jo h n K n o x . . . shou ld in one o f h is Serm o n s say, t hat the sure m ay to banish the Rookes, mas to p u ll dornn their nests’ (Jo h n S p o tsw o od , th e H istory o f the Church o f S c o tla n d (L o n d o n , 16 5 5 ), 1 7 5 : com pare C L A , 13 ). 1 1 4 .1 3 – 30 T h e P a i p . . . gree n w o o d tree see S c o tish Poem s o f the 16 th C entu ry [ed . J. G . D a ly e ll], 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 0 1 ) , 2 . 1 9 1 – 94: C L A , 1 7 3 . T h e son g also ap pears in A llan R a m say, T he E v e r G reen , 2 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 17 2 4 ) 2 .2 3 6 – 39 (C L A , 17 0 ), and S c o tt’s version ( o f the first and six th stanzas) in corpo rates readings fro m b o th version s. 1 1 4 .2 9 – 30 h a y tr ix , tr im go tr ix , U n d e r th e gree n w o o d tree the first line o f th e refrain is m ean in gless. T h e ‘ notable h u n tin g son g’ has not been traced: S c o tt m ay sim p ly have m ade a p lau sible gu ess that the refrain had been taken fro m su ch a source. 1 14 .3 6 – 3 7 th e c o g n iz a n ce o f t h e h o lly - b r a n c h see note to 2 1 .2 3 – 24. 1 1 5.6 b e so m o f destr u c t io n see Isaiah 14 .2 3 . 1 1 5 . 1 5 a re y o u th ere w ith y o u r b e ars? are y o u h arp in g on the old theme? A pro verbial phrase (R a y , 1 7 7 ; O D E P , 18 ), said to have been u ttered b y a m an w h o tried three ch u rch es on th r e e S u n d ay s ru n n in g and each tim e heard a serm on on E lish a an d the bears (2 K in g s 2 .2 3 – 2 5). 1 1 5 .2 4 a s w e ll a b o rn m a n as w ell b o m a m an. 115.33–34 D a n o f th e H o w le t-h irs t see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,2 5 9 .3 0 . ‘D a n 0 ’ the H o u le t H ir s t’ is m en tioned in ‘T h e F ray o f S u p o rt’ (M in strelsy, 2 .16 3 ) . 1 1 6 .1 0 t h e co u n tr y w a s to b e u p the d istric t w as to be in a state o f revo lt . 1 1 6 .1 4 st a n d . . . in so m e st e a d b e o f som e serv ice to . 1 1 6.20 m a k e o u t acco m p lish , achieve. 1 1 6.26 t a c e is L a t in fo r a c a n d le p ro verb ial ( O D E P , 7 9 7 ). T ace, L a tin , be silen t . 1 1 6 .2 7 d o u b le a le ale o f tw ice the o rd in ary stren gth. 1 1 6 .29 –30 let th e w elk in r in g a g a in com pare 2 H en ry I V , 2 .4 .15 9 : ‘ let the w elk in ro a r’ . 1 1 6 .3 5 m a d e . . . e a rs B eau m o n t an d F le tch er, P h ila ste r (w ritten 16 0 8 – 10 ), 4 .5 .12 6 – 27. 1 16 .3 6 – 3 7 th a t w a y in that manner. 11 6 .3 8 so it is n o t so lo n g as it is not. 1 17 .8 – 10 S a in t M a r t in o f B u llio n s . . . r a in y d a y s n o rm ally know n as S t M a r tin o f t o u rs (c. 3 1 6 – 97), w h ose translation (that is, th e rem o val o f his relics fro m B u llio n s, or B o u lo g n e, to T o urs) is celebrated on 4 J u l y : ‘T h e S a in t S w ithin , or w e ep in g S a in t o f S c o tland. I f his festi v a l . . . p ro ve w et, fo rty d ays o f rain are exp ecte d ’ (M a g n u m , 2 0 .2 2 3 , no te). 1 1 7 .1 2 – 1 3 a s Ia m a tr u e m a n . . . v a r le t true m an: honest m an. C o m p a re 1 H en ry I V , 2 .1 . 89–9 1 . 1 1 7 .1 6 I w a r r a n t m e I ’ ll be bound. 1 1 7 .3 4 I st a n d to it I in sist u po n it . 1 1 8.4 it ju m p s w e ll w ith it coincides w ith, acco rd s w ell w ith. 1 1 9 . 1 3 in th e u p sh o t in the en d, at last . 12 0 .30 – 3 1 th e p r im itiv e d isc ip lin e o f th e c h u r c h the o rd er m ain­ tained in the ch u rch in its earliest and (b y im p lication) p u rest tim es. 12 0 .3 2 A b b o t B o n ifa c e fo r the in d olent and go rm an d izin g B o n ifac e see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,6 7 , etc. 12 0 .36 T h e re fe c tio n er’ s o ffic e compare T he M onastery, ЕEWN 9, 1 4 6 .1 3 .

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12 0 .4 3 t h e C o n g r e g a t ion on 3 D ecem b er 1 5 5 7 a grou p o f P ro testants from F ife (am ong them th e E arl o f M o r ton) sign ed a covenant com m ittin g them selves to d efen d th e P r o testant faith . T h e y subseq uently ‘ first assum ed the N am e o f C ongregation ’ (B u ch an an , 2 .2 4 5 ); the nam e w as later u sed to denote ‘ the u n ited B o d y o f those w h o p retended to set fo rw ard a R efo rm ation in R e lig io n ’ ( K e ith, 69). 1 2 1 .34 d isp e n sa tio n see note to 6 6 .15 . 1 2 1 .4 1 la titu d in a r ia n c le r g y an an ach ronistic term , d erivin g fro m the 1 7 th centu ry , m ean in g literally c lerg y tolerant o f a w id e ran ge o f belief. In A m b ro se’s m o u th it is c learly used pejoratively, in the sense o f lax in belief, erod in g the estab lish ed o rd er. 12 2 .4 0 la y b r o th er one w ho takes the vow s and habit o f a religiou s ord er, b u t is em p lo yed o n ly in m anual labour. 1 2 3 .2 B a c h a r a c B ach arach , a tow n on the R h in e , p ro d u cin g a w ine m u ch esteem ed at th e period . 12 3 .6 –7 th e C o n v e n t o f W u r tz b u r g the S c o ttish m onaste ry o f S t Ja m e s at W ü rzb u rg in B a v a ria , w h ich w as actu ally fo u n d ed b y Irish m onks (scotus in m ed ieval L a tin m ean in g Irish ) in the 1 2 th centu ry ; it w as given to S c o ttish B e n e d ic tines in 15 9 5 . W ü rzb u rg in fact lies som e 16 0 km fro m B ach arach. 1 2 3 .1 2 D o V e n ia m L a tin I g ive con sent, I p ardon. 1 2 3 . 1 8 do h im re a so n give him ju stice or satisfaction , particu larly w ith regard to retu rn in g a toast . C o m p are D r y den, T he W ild G a lla n t (perform ed 16 6 3 , p u blish ed 16 6 9 ), 1.3 .4 . 1 2 3 .1 9 – 2 0 to e a t th e fa t a n d d rin k th e sw eet N e h e m ia h 8 .1 0 . 12 3 .2 0 o u r L a d y ’ s w e ll a w ell ded icated to the V irg in M a ry . 1 2 3 .3 3 t h e d r a w b rid g e see note to 12 9 .4 – 5. 12 4 .3 – 5 s p ir it s . . . d r a g g e d o ve r th e th resh o ld S c o tt’s M agn u m note (20 .236 – 37 ) q u o tes C o le rid g e ’s ‘ C h ristabel ', lines 1 2 3 – 44, in w h ich C h rista­ bel is obliged to c a rry G e ra ld in e o ver the th reshold, as an exam ple o f this su p erstition. 12 5 .5 – 15 m o tto n o t id en tified: p ro bably b y S c o tt. 1 2 5 .1 4 fa lse , a n d h o llo w see M ilton, P a ra d ise L o st, 2 . 1 1 2 . 1 2 5 .2 3 b re a k a g ib e o n crack a joke at the exp en se of. 12 6 .7 stic k in h is th r o a t pro verbial (R a y , 70); see M acbeth, 2 .2 .3 3 . 1 2 7 . 1 4 - 1 5 I w ill m i x it w ith th e la u re l a n d th e m y r t le the laurel is the em blem o f v ic tor y , an d the m y rtle o f love. C o m p are Jo h n D ry d e n , ‘Palam on and A r c ite ’ (17 0 0 ), lines 2 1 8 8 –89: ‘on his h e a d / A w reath o f laurel, m ix ’ d w ith m y rtle, sp read ’ . 12 7 .2 9 g a llo w a y -n a g see 2 H en ry I V , 2 .4 .1 8 1 . 12 7 .3 3 in c a se to in a position to . 12 8 . t h e O ld E n e m y the D e v il. 12 8 .2 W h a t a d e v il w h at the d evil: see 1 H en ry I V , 1.2 .6 . 12 8 .3 h a d th e g a m e o u t b rou gh t the gam e to a conclusion. 12 8 .4 B e r w ic k a tow n situated at the m ou th o f the riv e r T w eed, on the b o rd er b etw een E n g la n d and S c o tland. 12 8 .2 6 t o stir in to o ccu p y o n e se lf about . 12 8 .3 1 re in y o u r ton g u e see L o v e 's Labours L o st, 5.2.6 48. 1 2 8 .3 5– 36 C o c k o f C a p p e r la w the in d ivid u al has no t been iden tified; C ap p er L a w is a h ill o n the N shore o f S t M a r y ’s L o c h . 12 9 .3 h o llo w w a y road or path enclosed b y h igh sid es, w h ether banks or hedges. 12 9 .4 – 5 P e t er B r id g e w a r d fo r a d escrip tion o f the b rid ge and P e ter the B rid g e w a rd , see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,6 3 – 64. A b rid ge like that S c o tt describes su rv iv ed at B rid g e n d , near M e lro se , w ell in to the 1 8 th centu ry: fo r a d escrip tion and p ic tu re see A lexan d er G o rd o n , I tinerarium S e p tentrion ale

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(L o n d o n , 17 2 6 ), 16 5 – 66 and plate 64: C L A , 1 1 . H o w e v e r, the b rid ge had been dem olished b y 1 7 7 2 (see P en nant, 3.2 6 7 ). 12 9 .1 6– 1 7 tu rn e d to th e le ft this im p lies that A v e n e l lies S o f th e T w eed (com pare also the fact that the L id d e sd a le h ills are said at 8 .2 to be visib le fro m the castle). S c o tt has thus m oved A v e n e l, w h ich in The M onastery lies N o f the river. 12 9 .3 4 G e n e v a . . . R o m e id en tified w ith C alvin ism and C a th o licism re­ spectively. 12 9 .39 P e t e r’ s p e n ce b efo re the R e fo rm a tion , P e te r’s p en n y w as the an­ nual tax paid to th e papal see b y all hou sehold ers. 13 0 .7 h a n d y b lo w s blo w s w ith the h an d, cu ffs. S e e A B D , 1 .477. 130 .9 jo w k , a n d let th e ja w g a n g b y pro verb ial (O D E P , 4 14 ). L ite ra lly stoop and let the w ave go by. 1 3 0 .1 2 w h ite h a i r . . . co ve re d a v is a g e p rev io u s ed ition s, fo llo w in g an in itial m isread in g o f the m an u script, have read ‘ d isco v ered ’ . T h e m s read in g ap pears to refer to a beard: S c o tt com m en ts in a note to S ir t ristrem that ‘A n unshaved b eard w a s . . . u su ally a sign o f so rro w o r n eglect’ (P oetic a l W orks, 5 .3 9 1) · 13 0 .2 4 G le n d e a rg see note to 8 .2 1. 13 0 .2 5 – 2 6 th e B e n e d ic tin e’ s m a n u s c r ip t se e n o te t o 3 . 1 0 – 1 1 . 1 3 0 -37– 1 3 1 .2 T h e F r ia r s o f F a i l . . . U n d e r th e green w o o d tree see note to 1 1 4 . 1 3 – 3 0 . T h e first fo u r lines are fre e ly ad apted fro m the n in th stanza; the n e xt three lines are b y S c o tt, rep la cin g the o bscen e original. F a il w as a m onaste ry abou t 8 km S o f K ilm a rn o ck , b elo n gin g to the o rd er o f ‘R e d F r ia r s ’ , o r T rin itarians. 13 0 .4 1 S a in t M o n a n c e ’ sist e r an allu sio n to M o n a n , a 9th -cen tu ry S c o t­ tish saint . 1 30 .4 2 g r e y p rie st possibly a grey fria r (F ran ciscan ) o r grey m onk (C is ter­ cian), o r m aybe o ld, grey-haired . 1 3 1 .8 t o u c h a t m ention, tou ch upon. 1 3 1 . 1 1 – 20 F r o m h au n t ed s p r i n g . . . gree n w o o d tree this verse is n o t taken fro m th e o riginal (see note to 1 1 4 . 1 3 – 30 ), an d is p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. I t m ay have been su gg ested b y M ilton ’s ‘O n the M o rn in g o f C h rist’s N a tiv ity ’ (pu b­ lished 16 4 5 ): ‘ F r o m haunted sp rin g, an d d a le / E d g e d w ith po plar p a le ,/ t h e partin g gen iu s is w ith sigh in g sent’ (lines 18 4 – 87). 1 3 1 . 1 5 L im b o -la k e the p it of H ell. 1 3 1 .33– 3 4 th e C a th o lic s . . . h o ly in th em s e lv e s R o la n d paraphrases the p o sition taken b y the 2n d C o u n cil o f N ica e a (78 7), w h ich d istingu ished be­ tw een the ad oration due to G o d alone, an d th e ven eration due to the saints, w h ose im ages w ere to be w o rsh ip ped o n ly in so far as they b rou gh t to m in d their p ro totyp es. 1 3 1 . 3 5 a ru sh typ ically w o rthless. 1 3 1 .3 9 g r e y g ro a t p ro verb ially w o rthless. S e e no te to 3 4 .34 . 13 2 . 9– 1 3 m o tto R o b ert B u m s , ‘ A d d re ss to E d in b u rg h ’ (pu blished 17 8 7 ) , stanza 1 . 1 3 2 .1 8 A u ld R eek ie E d in b u rg h (lite ra lly ‘ o ld sm o k y’). 1 3 2 .2 2 S o lw a y to D u n c a n ’ s -b a y -h e a d situated at the e x trem e S W and N E o f m ain lan d S co d an d . 1 3 2 .2 4 C r a ig m illa r a castle fo rm erly situated n ear E d in b u rg h (now in the S E su b u rb s) w h ich w as a favo u rite residen ce o f Q ueen M a ry . 13 2 .3 2 – 3 4 th e gre a t m a t c h . . . B a r o n o f R o slin S ir W illiam S in cla ir o f R o slin (d. 1 584); how ever, the ‘ great m atch on R o slin -m o o r’ has not been traced. 1 3 2 .3 3 B o th w e ll Ja m e s H ep b u rn (c. 1 5 3 6 - 7 8 ) , 4 th E a rl o f B o thw ell ( 15 5 6 ) . F o r his part in the m u rd er o f D a rn le y , an d his m arriage w ith M a r y , see

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H isto rical N o te, 465– 66. A f ter M a r y ’s defeat he fled fro m S c o tland, and died in p riso n in D en m ark . 1 3 3 .1 m o s s a n d h a g g com pare T he M onastery, e e w n 9 , 2 12 .6 – 16 . 1 3 3 . 1 3 c o m e to com e in to possession of. 1 3 3 . 1 7 sm o k e fo r it su ffe r severely as a con sequence, thou gh here w ith the p o ssible im p lication o f b u rn in g. C o m p are T itus A ndronicus, 4.2.1 1 1 . 1 3 3 .2 0 g re a t r i v e r . . . a b r a n c h o f the se a the F ir th o f F o r th. 1 3 3 .2 9 t h e w in d in h is p o o p the w in d astern , that is, favo u rin g him . 133.35 keep a c a lm so u g h p ro v e rb ia l say noth in g (O D E P , 4 16 ). C o m p are T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,1 3 2 .2 6 . 13 3 .3 9 O ld K i n g C o u l the hero o f a p o p u lar n u rsery rh ym e: see Ion a and P e ter O p ie, T h e O xfo rd D iction ary o f N u rsery R hym es (2n d edn, O xfo rd , 19 9 7), 15 6 – 58. 1 3 4 .1 1 w ild h a g g a r d . . . lu re com pare th e C ity N ig h t-C a p (pu blished 1 6 6 1 ) , b y R o b e rt D a v e n p o rt (flou rished 16 2 4 – 40), in A B D (3.34 2): ‘W hat, have ye no t b ro u gh t th is y o u n g w ild haggard to the lu re ye t ?’ A haggard is a w ild (fem ale) haw k cau gh t w h en in her ad u lt plu m age, an d thu s no t ye t trained to resp on d to the lu re b y m eans o f w h ich the falco n er recalls his haw ks. A lso see note to 1 12 .2 0 . 1 3 4 .1 5 T h e K ir k o f F ie ld the hou se, ly in g ou tsid e the city w alls, w h ere D a rn ley w as lo dged in F e b ru a ry 15 6 7 , an d w h ich w as blo w n u p on the n igh t o f his m u rd er. T h e site is n o w occu pied b y the O ld C o lle g e o f E d in b u rg h U n iv e r­ sity. 1 3 4 .1 9 H e n ry D a r n le y M a r y ’s hu sban d , m u rd ered in 15 6 7 . S e e H is torical N o te, 465. 13 4 .3 9 h o d d in g r a y c o a t coat m ad e o f coarse, u n d yed w oollen cloth, ty p ic ally the d ress o f the peasantry. 1 3 5.9 T h e p r in c ip a l street o f E d in b u r g h the H ig h S treet, w h ich in the 1 6th centu ry ran fro m the C a stle to the N e therb o w P o rt, a gate in the city w alls w h ich w as d em olish ed in 17 6 4 ; sin ce then the H ig h S treet has led d irectly in to the C an o n gate, w h ich leads in tu rn as far as H o lyro o d . 1 3 5 . 1 5 t h e w a lls o f th e c ity o rigin ally b u ilt c. 14 5 0 , the w alls w ere ex ­ ten ded a fter the battle o f F lo d d e n in 1 5 1 3 . T h e y w ere largely dem olished in S c o tt’s lifetim e, at the sam e tim e as the spaciou s N e w t o w n w as b ein g b u ilt ou tsid e their con fin es. T h e m o st im p o rtant su rv iv in g fragm en t can be fou nd in the V en n el, ab o ve the G rassm ark et . 13 5 .3 8 sh o rt F le m is h clo ak s, w id e tro w se rs, a n d h ig h -c a p e d d o u b let s . . . fa ith fu l the fashions here d escrib ed are illu strated b y the fro n tisp iece to V o l. 2 o f Jo h n P in k erton ’s, S c o tish Poem s, 3 v o ls (L o n d o n , 17 9 2 ). 13 5 .4 0 – 4 1 b la c k G e n e v a c lo a k a n d b a n d cloak and ‘b an d ’ (the straps h an gin g do w n in fro n t as part o f clerical dress) resem b lin g those w o rn b y d ie S w is s C a lv in ist clergy. 1 3 6 .4 - 5 F r e n c h m o d e . . . lin in g the slash in g o f m ale atti r e (slitti n g the o u ter layer to reveal lin in g o f a d iffere n t colou r) in fact o riginated in S w itzerland in the late 1 5 th cen tu r y . T h e fashion ‘reached its zenith betw een 15 2 0 and 1 5 3 5 ’ (F ra n c is M . K e lly and R a n d o lp h Sch w ab e, H istoric Costum e: A C hronicle o f Fashion in Western E u rope 1 4 9 0 – 17 9 0 (L o n d o n , 19 2 5 ), 29). 13 6 .1 0 T w o o f th ese p a r tie s the a ffra y w h ich fo llow s draw s on bo th literary and h istorical m odels: com pare the o p en in g scen es o f S ir Jo h n O ldcastle (A B D , 1 . 3 1 9 – 20), an d Rom eo a n d J u lie t. A ‘ v e re y b lo u d ey sk irm ish ’ betw een the laird s o f A ir th and W em yss, alon g w ith their fo llo w ers, took place on the H ig h S treet o f E d in b u rg h on 2 4 N o v e m b e r 15 6 7 (see ‘T h e D ia re y o f R o b e rt B ir r e l’ , i n [ J . G . D a ly e ll], Fragm ents o f S c o tish H istory (E d in b u rg h , 179 8 ) 1 3 : C L A , 4). 1 3 6 .1 2 t h e c ro w n o f th e ca u se w a y the central and highest point o f the

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street, and th u s, in th e w id e s treets o f E d in b u rg h , the safest an d clean est p lace to walk. 1 3 6 .1 3 g iv in g o r t a k in g th e w a ll either allo w in g to another o r claim in g fo r o n e se lf the rig h t to w alk n e x t to the w all, hence av o id in g th e m u d d y street : see Rom eo a n d J u lie t, 1 . 1 . 1 2 . T h is w as a featu re o f city life in sou th ern E n g la n d , w h ere the o verh an g o f the h o u ses affo rd ed shelter, and the streets w e re relat­ iv e ly n a rro w . T h e p rac tice d eclin ed in the 1 8 th cen tu ry : see Ja m e s B o s w e ll, T he Jo u rn a l o f a t o u r to the H ebrides ( 17 8 5 ; rep r. O x fo rd , 19 2 4 ), 3 1 4 . 13 6 .2 4 S e t on lite ra lly fo rw ard , advance (see 1 H en ry I V , 5 .2 .9 7 ): th e p u n n in g w a r-c ry o f the S e y ton s or S e tons. 13 6 .3 0 H ig h G a i t old nam e fo r the H ig h S treet (see no te to 13 5 .9 ). 13 6 .3 8 r a p i e r s . . . S c o tt ish sw o rd fo r a d iscu ssio n o f the in tro d u c tion o f the rap ier in the 1 6th cen tu ry see D o u ce , 1.6 2 – 6 5 ; the lo n g rap ier, w ith its po in t fo r th ru stin g , w as m u ch m o re dangerous than earlier sw o rd s. 13 7 .4 2 – 4 3 th e C a n o n g a t e see note to 13 5 .9 . 138 .9 – 10 a t o ne en d o r th e oth er . . . b r a w l e ither o n one sid e o r the oth er or in at the b eg in n in g o r en d o f it . C o m p are B eau m o n t an d F le tch er, A K in g an d N o K in g (c. 1 6 1 8), 2 .2 .6 7 : ‘ th ere ’s no qu arrel b u t thou art at one en d o r o ther o n ’ t’ . 1 3 8 .1 2 y o u a r e o u t th ere yo u are m istaken in that . 1 3 8 .1 8 c la t t e r o f a b r a s s p a n fo r a h iv e o f b e e s th e accep ted w a y to attract a sw arm o f bees: ‘A s soon as you can p erceive the S w a rm to r i s e . . . yo u shall take a brasse B ason, P a n or C andlestick , and m ak in g a tin k lin g n o ise th ereu po n , an d they are so delig h ted w ith m u sick, that b y the sou n d th er e o f th ey w ill p resen tly knit u p o n som e bran ch or b o u gh o f a tree’ (G [e rv a se ] M [a rk h a m ], C heape a n d G o o d H u sbandry, 7 th ed n (L o n d o n , 16 4 8 ), 18 0 ). 1 38 .20 n o w a y s in no w ay. 13 8 .3 2 b r in g to th e h a n d b rin g u n d er control. 1 3 8 .3 5 sid e c o m p a n io n sw ord . 139 .6 k in d frie n d e ither a frien d related b y k in sh ip (O E D ‘ k in d ’ 2 d ), or a eu p h em ism fo r lo ver. 13 9 .10 b y m y c e r t es b y m y faith. 1 3 9 .1 1 m o r is c o b e lls the b ells attached to the legs in m o rris-d a n c in g , fro m the S p a n ish ‘m o risco ’ , m o o rish . T h e w o rd ‘ m o rris’ o rigin ally m ean t ‘m o o rish ’ , and as F ra n c is D o u c e argu ed , ‘t h e re is good reason fo r b eliev in g th at th e m o rris b ells w ere b o rro w ed fro m the gen uine M oorish dance’ (D o u c e , 2 4 7 3 – 74)· 1 3 9 .1 3 I c a r e n o t a b u tto n I do n’t care in the slig h test . 1 3 9 .1 4 w h a t th e fo u l fien d w h at the d evil. 13 9 .2 9 o ne o f th e clo ses G a llo w a y ’s E n try , th e site o f ‘L o r d S e y ton ’s lu gein g in the C an o n gait ’ ; it w as later occu pied b y W h itefo o rd H o u se , w h ich is now occu pied b y th e S c o ttish V e terans’ H o u sin g A sso c iation. S e e G e o rg e S e ton, A H istory o f the F a m ily o f S e ton , 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 18 9 6 ), 1 . 1 9 6 – 98. 1 3 9 .3 3 S a in t M a r y , S a in t M a g d a le n , S a in t B e n e d ic t , S a in t B a r n a b a s a m iscellan eou s grou p : the V irg in M a r y ; M a r y M ag d a len e, o ne o f C h r is t’s fo llow ers; B e n e d ic t o f N u rs ia (c. 480– c. 547), fo u n d er o f the B e n e d ic tin e o rd er o f m o n ks; B arn ab as ( 1 st centu ry ), a com panion o f S t P a u l (see A c ts 4 .36 ). 1 3 9 .3 7 – 38 S a in t S a t a n a n d S a in t B e e lze b u b iro n ic referen ces to the devil. 1 3 9 ·39 w ith a w a n io n ! w ith a vengeance. 1 3 9.39 – 40 th e w h ils t m eanw hile. 13 9 .4 1 R o se b e r r y T o p p in g a pro m in en t p o in t o n th e n o rthern ed g e o f the C le velan d H ills , S E o f M id d lesb ro u g h . 13 9 .4 3 q u i t b rid le , q u it t itt leave the b rid le, leave the h o rse. T h e ap p ar­ en t p ro verb has n o t been traced elsew here.

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14 0 .10 – 1 1 lik e th e w o m e n o f B ru sse ls a t th is d a y S c o tt v isited B ru s ­ sels, W aterloo and P a ris in 1 8 1 5 ; in his account o f the trip , P a u l's L e tters to his K in sfo lk (1 8 1 6), he com m ents that the F le m in g s are ‘a centu ry at least b ehind [th e S c o ts] in costum e and m a n n e rs . . . yo u have the old dress, w ith the screen, or m an tle, h an gin g o ver the head, and fa llin g dow n upon each sh ou lder, w h ich w as fo rm erly p ecu liar to S c o tlan d ’ (Prose W orks, 5.6– 10). 14 0 .17 – 18 su p p o rt ed b y tw o h u g e fo x e s the coat o f arm s o f the S e ton fa m ily w as su p p o rted b y ‘ tw o fo xes, pro p er, collared and ch ain ed ’ (R o b ert D o u g la s, t h e P eera ge o f S c o tlan d, 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 3 ) , 2.648: C L A , 1 1 ) . 1 4 1 .28 – 29 d o u b le tressu re s fleu re d a n d co u n t er-fle u re d dou ble bo r­ d ers, b earin g fleu rs-d e -ly s on both sid es, placed alternate ly . T ressu res w ere gran ted to certain S c o ttish nobles as a special h onou r; fo r the S e y ton fa m ily’s rig h t to do u ble tressu res, see G eo rg e S e ton , A H istory o f the F a m ily o f S e ton , 2 .8 2 5. 1 4 1 .29 w h e a t sh e a v e s the crescents o f the S e y ton arm s w ere qu artered w ith w h eatsh eaves, b y v ir tue o f their in term arriage w ith the B u c h an fam ily in the 1 5 th cen tu ry (see R o b e rt D o u glas, t h e P eera ge o f S c o tla n d, 2.648). 14 2 .4 L o r d S e y to n althou gh the father o f a fictio n a l d au gh ter, this is G e o rg e S e y ton ( 1 5 3 1 – 86), 5th L o r d S e y ton (15 4 9 ), one o f M a r y ’s m o st steadfast ad h eren ts. 1 4 2 .1 3 R o th e s the E arld o m o f R o thes belon ged to the L e s lie fam ily. In 1 567 the ti d e w as held b y A n d rew L e s lie (d. 1 6 1 1) , the 5th E a rl, w h o, thou gh a p ro m in en t su p p o rter o f the R e fo rm a ti o n and o f M o ra y u p to the ti m e o f R ic c io ’s m u rd er, w as b y 1 5 6 7 one o f M a r y ’ s su p p o rters; he fo u gh t on her side at L a n g sid e . 14 2 .1 4 – 1 5 a rc h -h e r e t ic see H en ry V I I I , 3 .2 .1 0 2 and 5 .1 .4 5 . 14 4 .9 a t n eed in an em ergen cy. 14 4 .1 4 b y o d d s b y su p erio r num bers. 14 4 .16 t h e go o d s e e d . . . good g ro u n d see M a tthew 1 3 .3 – 8 , 1 8 – 2 3 . 14 4 .2 1 c o m m e n d m e to present m y kind regard s to . 1 4 4 .3 1 b ro k en broken in to, en tered b y force. 14 5 .1 fa n fa ro n a d esp ite S c o tt’s fo o tnote the w o rd has no t been traced, and m ay ind eed be his o w n in v en ti o n . T h e F re n c h fa n fa ro n is a braggart, fro m w h ich the E n g lish fa n fa ro n a d e, boastfu l asserti o n or osten tati o n , derives. 14 5 .10 – 1 1 th e h u g e o ld v a u lt ed entr a n c e to . . . H o ly ro o d a v au lted gatehou se, lead in g fro m the C an o n gate in to the precin cts o f the palace, w as b u ilt in 1 50 2 b y W alter M e rlio u n . O n ly fragm en ts n ow su rv iv e, b u t in S c o tt’s yo u th it w as sti l l largely in tact : see H u g o A rn ot, T he H istory o f E dinbu rgh (E d in b u rg h , 17 8 8 ), 30 5 (w ith illu strati o n ) : C L A , 14 . 1 4 5 .2 1 h e th a t is to o m o d e st m u s t to th e w a ll see no te to 1 3 6 .1 3 . C o m p are also the p ro verb , ‘ T h e w eakest goes to the w a ll’ (R a y , 16 7 ; O D E P , 8 7 3; Rom eo a n d Ju lie t, 1 . 1 . 1 4 ) . 14 5 .2 8 – 3 4 m o tto not id en ti fie d : p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 14 6 .2 is it so it is. 1 4 6 .3 - 5 sta r e st . . . w ild a s a g o ss-h a w k com pare ‘ F a u s e F o od rage’ , stanza 3 1 : ‘ t h e b o y stared w ild like a gray go ss-h aw k ’ (M in strelsy, 3.288). 1 4 6 .1 3 – 14 s e r v i n g -m a n . . . h a n d com pare K in g L e a r, 3.4 .8 4 – 90. 1 4 6 . 1 6 - 1 7 b r i e f a u th o rity see M easure fo r M easure, 2 . 2 . 1 1 7 – 18 : ‘ m an, p ro u d m a n ,/ D r e s s ’ d in a little b r ie f au th o rity ’ . 14 6 .2 8 fa lse , a n d h o llo w see no te to 1 2 5 .1 4 . 14 6 .3 7 la id d o w n trim m ed , em broid ered. 14 6 .4 2 T h e w a u r fo r th e w e a r p ro v erb ia l w orse fo r the w earin g (see R a y , 1 7 2 and O D E P , 2 3 2 ). 146 .4 2– 4 3 e ig h t y e a r s th is g ra ss eigh t years old. ‘ G r a s s ’ refers to the season in w h ich the grass grow s, s p rin g and early sum m er.

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14 6 .4 3– 14 7 .1 fo r th e b re e d fo r the qu ality o f the stock, fo r b reed in g p u rpo ses. 1 4 7 . 1 B o r d e r -d o o m p ro b a b ly d ro w n in g, a com m on m o de o f execu tion fo r b o rd er m arau ders (see P rose W orks, 7 .10 9 ) . 14 7 .6 – 7 C a m w a r th -m o o r a m oor N o f the village o f C arn w ath , som e 8 km E o f L an a rk . 14 7 .7 – 8 D n i m m e lz i e r . . . Isle o f M a n fo r D ru m m e lz ie r see note to 9 1 . 3 1 . T h e Isle o f M a n w as celebrated fo r its p eregrin e falcons: the S ta n leys (see also the fo llo w in g no te) held the L o r d sh ip o f M a n in retu rn fo r the g ift o f a cast o f falcon s at coronations. 14 7 .9 S t a n le y no sp ecific sou rce fo r th is referen ce has been id en tified. S c o tt m ay have had H e n ry S tan ley ( 1 5 3 1 – 9 3), 4 th E a rl o f D e r b y and L o r d o f M a n (1 5 7 2 ), in m in d , b u t S tan ley does n o t ap pear to have m ade an y v isit o f this sort to S c o tland. 1 4 7 .1 2 – 1 3 c o m e h ith er a w a y com e alon g here. 1 4 7 .1 3 o n th e o ld sco re on the sam e accou nt as before. 1 4 7 .1 4 c r u s h a p o t drin k , q u a ff a po t o f ale. C o m p a re Rom eo a n d Ju lie t, 1 .2.8 0. A no te in A B D (1.4 0 6 ) calls it ‘a cant e x p re s s io n . . . com m on am o n g lo w p eo p le’ . 1 4 7 .1 8 b y m y h o o d an obsolete asseveration o f u n certain m eaning: see t h e M erch an t o f V enice, 2 .6 .5 1 . 1 4 7 .3 2 M e n d y o u r d ra u g h t m ake u p the d eficien cy in yo u r drin k in g, d rin k som e m ore. 1 4 7 .3 7 – 3 8 o ne h a n d m u s t s c r a t ch th e oth er com pare the p ro verb , ‘ S c ra tch m e an d I ’ll scratch y o u ’ (O D E P , 706). 1 4 7 .4 1 T a rn o w a y old fo rm o f D a rn aw ay, seat o f the E a rl o f M o ra y , abo u t 1 1 km E o f N a ir n . 14 7 .4 3 a s h ig h a p it c h com pare 1 H en ry V I, 2 . 4 . 1 1 . 14 8 .5 – 7 C o m m e n d a to r . . . lo rd sh ip o f r e g a lity a com m endator w as a laym an o r ecclesiastic w ho h eld a ben efice, an d en jo yed its reven u es, u n til su ch tim e as an in cu m b en t sh ou ld be p ro vid ed fo r it . In practice, a fter the S c o ttish R e fo rm a tion su ch in cu m b en ts m ig h t n e ver be ap p o in ted , and so the p ro ced u re becam e a m eans o f ap p ro p riatin g ch u rch p ro p erty . T h is arrange­ m en t cou ld be regu larised b y the creation o f a lordship o f reg a lity : an estate created b y a gran t fro m the C ro w n , carry in g w ith it crim in al an d c iv il ju risd ic ­ tion o ver th e estate. S c o tt m ay be recallin g the d estin y o f th e lands b elo n gin g to M e lro se A b b e y , w h ich w ere o rigin ally gran ted to the E a rl o f B o th w ell, b u t w ere fo rfe ited b y h im in 15 6 8 , a fte r w h ich ‘Ja m e s D o u g la s, the second son o f W illiam D o u g la s, o f L o c h le v e n , w as n o w created com m end ator o f M e lro s, b y the influence o f the w ell know n E a rl o f M o r ton ’ (G e o rg e C h alm ers, C aledon ia [see no te to 3 5 4 .12 ] , 2 . 1 55). 14 8 .9 r a s c a lity Jo h n K n o x fam o u sly d escrib ed th e m o b w h ich , fo llo w in g his serm on o n 1 1 M a y 15 5 9 , destroyed the m onasteries o f P e rth, as the ‘ rascall m u ltitu d e’ (K n o x , 13 6 ). 1 4 8 .1 7 t ak e n o r d e r . . . fo r seen to, dealt w ith. 14 8 .2 9 B u c c le u c h . . . F e r n ie h erst S ir W alter S c o tt o f B u c c le u ch (d. 15 7 4 ) and S ir T hom as K e r o f F e rn ieh irst (d. 15 8 6 ), ad h eren ts o f Q u een M a r y , and b itter en em ies both o f M o r a y (in w h ose assassination in 15 7 0 they w ere im p li­ cated) an d o f M o r ton. 14 8 .2 9 jo in h a n d en ter in to alliance. 14 8 .4 2 –4 3 ta ’en str ic t o rd e rs taken stric t m easu res. 14 9 .3 b e r r y -b r o w n a le see no te to 1 3 0 .3 7 – 1 3 1 . 2 . 1 4 9 .1 1 – 1 2 w h it e -b o y s p ro v e rb ia l fa vo u rites (O D E P , 884– 85). 1 4 9 .1 2 – 1 3 th e c o n v e n t s in F if e an d P e r th sh ire s m an y religio u s h o u ses in these sh ires w ere d estroyed b y m o b s in 15 5 9 , fo llo w in g the lead given

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in P e rth on 1 1 M a y ; am on gst them w ere those o f D u n ferm lin e, S t A n d rew s, L in d o re s an d C o u p ar. 14 9 .2 4 W id d r in g ton a t C h e v y -C h a c e see ‘ t h e A n cien t B alla d o f C h e v y -C h a s e ’ , 2 . 1 1 9 – 2 2 : ‘ F o r W eth arryn gton m y harte w as w o ,/ t hat ever he slayn e sh u ld e b e ;/ F o r w h en bo th his legg is w ear hew yn e in to , / Y e t he k n yled an d fo u g h t on h y s k n e’ (P ercy , 1 .14 ) . 14 9 .2 7 I h a d c a u ti o n o f th a t e ither I w as given a guarantee o f that or I w as carefu l abo u t that . 14 9 .3 1 a m a id e n f r o m H a lifa x acco rd in g to S c o tt’s M ag n u m note ‘a sp ecies o f g u illo tine w h ic h . . . M o r ton bro u gh t dow n fro m H a lifa x , certain ly at a p erio d co n sid erab ly later than in tim ated in the tale. H e w as h im se lf the first w h o su ffered b y the en gin e’ (M a gn u m , 20.286). S c o tt’ s is a com m on, thou gh inac­ cu rate, acco u n t: the ‘m aid en ’ , w h ich resem bled that used in H alifax , Y o rk sh ire , w as con stru c ted b y o rd er o f the E d in b u rg h t o w n C o u n cil in 15 6 4 – 6 5. I t rem ained in u se u n til 1 7 10 , and is now on d isp lay in t h e M u se u m o f S c o tland, C h a m b ers S treet, E d in b u rg h . 14 9 .39 H e ro d ’ s d a u g h ter in fact the daugh ter o f H ero d ias, K in g H e ro d ’s w ife , w h o danced fo r H ero d , and in retu rn w as given the head o f Jo h n the B a p tist. S e e M a r k 6 .1 7 – 28. 1 5 0 .1 2 T h e c h ild h a th w it en o u g h to keep h i m s e lf w a r m proverbial (see R a y , 2 2 ; O D E P , 899). C o m p are M u ck A d o about N o thing, 1 .1 .5 6 . 15 0 .2 3 G o to see note to 1 8 .2 1 . 15 0 .2 7 get su n g to a n en d get it su n g to the finish. 1 50 .2 7 m u m fo r th a t not a w o rd on that su b ject . 1 5 0 .2 7 -2 8 t a c e . . . is L a tin fo r a c a n d le p ro verb ial: see note to 1 1 6 .2 6 . 1 5 0 .2 9 -3 0 u p to th e ro w e l-h e a d s to the fu ll d ep th o f the spu r. S e e 2 H e n ry I V , 1 . 1 . 46. 15 0 .30 S o ltr a -e d g e S o u tra H ill, on the W e d g e o f the L am m erm u ir H ills, an d on the d irect road fro m E d in b u rg h to C o ld stream and the E n g lish border. 1 5 1 .3 d a r k c r im s o n st a in s on th e floo r stains, said to have been left in d elib ly b y R ic c io ’s blood, w ere celebrated at least as early as the 1 8th centu ry: see H u g o A m o t, t h e H istory o f E dinbu rgh (E d in b u rg h , 17 8 8 ), 30 6 , note: C L A , 14 . 1 5 1 . 1 3 S e ig n io r D a v id D a v id R ic cio , w h o w a s ‘ com m on ly know n b y the nam e o f S ig n io r D a v id ' (H u m e, 288). 1 5 1 .2 2 h u issie r ‘ t h e o ffice o f the h u sich er, o r hu isch er, was to keep the door o f the k in g ’ s ap artm en t. T h e ap pellation is d erived fro m the F ra n co T eu ton ic L ' huis, a d o o r’ (note to S ir t ristrem , in P o etic a l W orks, 5 .3 9 1). 1 5 2 .2 7 t h e C o c k o f th e N o r th the E a rl o fH u n tly (see no te to 206.26). 1 5 2 .3 4 – 39 t h is d ist in g u ish e d st a t e s m a n . . . g re a t est k in g s S c o tt’s v e rd ic t on M o r a y m ay be com pared w ith G e o rg e B u c h an an ’s com m ent on M a c b e th , that he ‘ so m anaged the go vern m en t fo r ten years, that i f he had no t obtained it b y vio len ce, he m ig h t have been accounted in ferio r to none o f the fo rm er k in gs’ (B u ch an an , 1.2 8 4 ). 1 5 3 .1 1 b e lt a n d co ro n et both d istin gu ish in g noblem en (fo r belt see no te to 17 .1) . 1 5 3 .2 2 G r a h a m e s o f th e L e n n o x L e n n o x w as another nam e fo r the an cien t cou n ty o f D u m b a rton , com p reh en d in g no t o n ly the m ore m odern D u m ­ b arton sh ire, b u t p arts o f S tirlin gsh ire, P e rth sh ire an d R en frew sh ire. V ario u s b ran ch es o f th e G ra h a m fam ily, in c lu d in g the E a rls o f M o n trose, held lands in the region . 1 5 3 .2 3 – 2 4 th e D e b a t ea b le L a n d see note to 18 .3 8 – 39. 1 5 3 .3 5 a c a s t o f lo o k a facial exp ression . 1 5 3 .3 8 – 3 9 th e w ife o f K in g C a n d a u le s acco rd in g to the G re e k h istor­ ian H ero d o tu s (d. 4 2 5 b C ) , C an d au les, the k in g o f L y d ia , w as so pro ud o f his

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w ife ’s beauty that he persuaded G y g e s to sp y on her as she und ressed. H e r an ger w as such that she gave G y g e s the choice either to kill C an daules or to be h im s e lf killed (see H istories, 1 .8– 12 ). 1 5 4 .10 A r m s tro n g the nam e o f a large an d, in the 1 6th centu ry , law less clan in the S W borders. 1 5 4 .3 1 – 39 T o h u n t . . . b u lru sh e s com pare T he M onastery, E E w n 9, 19 – 2 3 , in w h ich H alb ert G le n d in n in g ’ s acqu irem en ts are described in v e ry sim ilar term s. 1 5 4 .3 5 d eer o f th e first h e a d deer at the age w h en the antlers are first fu lly developed. 1 54 .36 h ero n s o f the h ig h e st so a r see note to 56.39. 1 5 5 .3 strick e n field p itched battle. 1 5 5 .1 6 t h e E a r l o f M o r ton see no te to 2 5 .1 7 . 15 6 .9 settin g fo r w a r d settin g out. 1 5 6 .3 3 - 3 4 w h a t I h a v e d o n e I h a v e d o n e . . . m u s t a n d w ill reason in g w h ich echoes that prevailin g in M acbeth (com pare, fo r in stance, 1 . 7 . 1 – 2). 157.3 th a t tau n t d e m a n d e d a n u n fr ie n d ly a n sw e r com pare th e p ro ­ v e rb , ‘ one ill w o rd asks another ’ (R a y , 24 ; O D E P , 4 0 1). 1 5 7 .1 8 c ro p p in g th e c a u se w a y w alk in g b o ld ly, keeping the u p p erm o st part (the crow n) o f the street . 15 7 .2 0 t h e T ro n a p u b lic w e igh in g-beam w h ich stood on the H ig h S treet, near w h ere the N o rth and S o u th B rid g e s n o w m eet . 1 5 7 .2 1 c a m e in th ir d s -m a n join ed in as a m ed iator or in term ed iary. 15 7 .2 9 W in d y g o w l lite ra lly w in d y pass; W in d y go w l, near t ran en t, som e 1 5 km E o f E d in b u rg h , belon ged to a b ran ch o f the S e ton fam ily. 1 5 7 .36 t h e c a p ita l o f th e G r e a t T u r k Is tan bul, the capital o f the O ttom an S u ltan. 1 5 7 .3 7 – 38 i f I l i v e . . . a m e n d e d on 2 7 N o vem b e r 15 6 7 , th ree d ays a fter the battle described above (note to 13 6 .1 0 ) , a stric t proclam ation w as issu ed fo rb id d in g the w earin g o f gu n s, p istols ‘ or an ey sicklyke fy erw o rk in g y n e ’ , on pain o f death, excep t b y the k in g ’s gu ards an d sold iers (see ‘ T h e D ia r e y o f R o b e rt B ir r e l’ , in [J. G . D a ly e ll], Fragm ents o f S c o tish H istory (E d in b u rg h , 17 9 8 , 1 3 : C L A , 4). 1 58 .5 o n ly tw o c a n keep co u n sel pro verb ial: ‘t hree (t w o) m ay keep cou nsel, i f tw o (one) be aw ay’ (R a y , 16 2 ; O D E P , 4 17 ) . C o m p are t itus A n dro n i­ cus, 4 .2 .14 4 , w h ere A aro n k ills the N u rse , w h o know s the secret o f T am o ra’s illeg itim ate ch ild, w ith the w o rd s, ‘T w o m ay keep counsel w hen the th ird ’s aw ay’ . 1 58 .26 n e a r ly tou ch ed affe c ted in ju rio u sly in a particu lar w ay. 1 5 8 .4 1 strik er lite ra lly k iller ( o f ven iso n ), b u t w ith the im p lied sense o f ‘ fo rn icator ’ , com m on in E liza b ethan and Jac o b e a n dram a. 1 5 9 .6 - 1 2 m o tto not id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 1 5 9 .15 m a n o f o ffice o fficer, official. 15 9 .2 1 ho st elrie o f S a in t M ic h a e l’ s a fictional location. 1 5 9 .2 1 in resp ect because, since. 1 59 .26 – 2 7 so ld ered u p patched u p again. 1 5 9 .3 2 – 3 3 B y th e m a s s a com m on oath o r asseveration. 1 59.40 a d o g’ s tric k pro verb ial: R a y , 18 6 ; O D E P , 19 7 . 160 .6 p o rt er’ s lo d ge ‘servan ts w h o had transgressed against their m asters w ere an ciently w h ip ped at the p o rte r’s lo d g e’ (T h e W orks o f Beaum ont an d F le tcher, ed . H e n r y W eber, 1 4 vols (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 2 ) , 1 3 .2 8 7 , no te). 1 60.23 r u n . . . eg g -sh e ll on y o u r h e a d an im age o f precocity: the cu rlew possesses such po w erfu l legs that it is able to ru n as soon as it hatches. B u t com pare also the m o ckin g d escrip tion o f O sric in H am let, 5 .2 .18 0 – 8 1 : ‘T his la p w in g run s aw ay w ith the shell on his h ead . ’

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1 60.33 n e ith er m a r k n o r lik elih o o d n either im p o rtance nor prom ise. S ee 1 H en ry İ V , 3 .2 .4 5 . 1 6 1 .7 b u t w h a t b u t that . 1 6 1 .1 7 f le a in g . . . ta llo w p ro verbial: see O D E P , 267. 1 6 1 .20 s m a l l . . . sin g le a le w eak, o rd in ary ale. 1 6 1 .2 2 B y th e m a s s see note to 1 5 9 .3 2 - 3 3 . 1 6 1 .3 5 re m e m b e re d h im reco llected. 1 62.6 q u ic k silv e r in th e v e in s m ercu ry in the vein s w ould ind icate a fastm o vin g, b u sy , restless m an. A d am is fo llo w in g the usual m isin terp retation o f a characteristic origin ally derived fro m the god M e rc u ry as b ein g to do w ith m etal. 16 2 .18 ev en n o w ju st now . 1 6 2 .2 3 out a t out of, through. 16 2 .3 7 – 38 W h e re n o t one c o m fo r t . . . the co st see ‘In n s’ , lines 65– 66, from G eo rg e C rab b e, th e Borough ( 18 10 ) . 1 6 3 .1 7 let c a r e c o m e to-m o r r o w ap parently proverbial— com pare Iv a n ­ hoe, E E W N 8 ,1 2 0 .2 0 – 2 1 : ‘ let new cares com e w ith to-m o rro w ’s new d a y’ . 1 6 3.2 3 L a ir d o f M a c fa r la n e ’s g e e s e . . . their m e a t pro verbial (O D E P , 497): ‘A brood o f w ild -g e e s e . . . in L o c h - L o m o n d . . . w ere sup posed to have som e m y steriou s con nexion w ith the an cient fam ily o f M a c F a rla n e o f that i l k . . . H ere Ja m e s V I. w as, on one occasion, regaled b y the C h ie ftain. H is M a je sty had been p rev io u sly m u ch am used b y the geese p u rsu in g each other on the L o c h . B u t, w hen one w h ich was bro u gh t to table, w as fou nd to be tough and ill fed, Ja m e s observed,— “ that M a c F a rla n e ’ s geese liked their p lay better than their m eat,” a p ro verb w h ich has been cu rren t ev er sin ce’ (M agn u m , 1 8 .1 8 4 , no te). S e e T he M onastery, EEW N 9 ,1 2 7 .2 5 – 26 and S c o tt’s accom p anyin g note there. 16 3 .2 5 b ir th -str a n g le d M acbeth , 4 .1.3 0 . 1 6 4 .4 -5 S a in t A n th o n y p o ssib ly a referen ce to S t A n ton y, the patriarch o f m onasticism (see note to 1 1 0 . 1 9 ) , b u t m ore lik ely to refer to S t A n ton y o f Pad u a ( 1 1 95– 1 2 3 1) , a Fran cisca n friar w h o becam e one o f the m ost popu lar saints o f the later m id d le ages. 16 4.8 M ila n a r m o u r see note to 1 1 3 . 5 . 16 4 .10 see to look at . 1 6 4 .1 3 w a is t c o a t perhap s in d icatin g pro m iscu ity: H e n ry W eber su ggests that ‘A w aistcoat . . . w as the ap p rop riate dress o f a harlot’ ( th e W orks o f B ea u ­ mont a n d F le tcher) 3 .3 9 7 , note). 16 4 .13 C i s S u n d e rla n d C is is sh ort fo r C ice ly ; Su n d erlan d is a tow n in N E E n glan d . 16 4 .16 b ro u g h t . . . g ra c e g re w see E a stw a rd H oe (16 0 5 ), b y G e o rg e C h a p ­ m an , B e n Jo n so n and Jo h n M a r s ton , 5 .2 .5 9 – 60: ‘A y , i f he had had grace, he w as b rou gh t u p w here grace grew , ↓ w is’ (te x t as in A B D , 2.94, w h ich S c o tt fo llo w s). T h e phrase p ro b ab ly contains an allu sion to 2 P e ter 3 .1 8 (‘ grow in grace’): com pare K en ilw o rth) ee wn 1 1 , 7 2 . 7 – 8 and note. 16 4 .1 7 w ild b lo o d en o u gh en ou gh o f a w ild rake o r roisterer. 1 6 4 .18 flig h t-sh o t a b o w -sh o t (see no te to 9.2). A ‘ flight-a rro w ’ is a lig h t, w e ll-feathered arrow , u sed fo r lo n g d istan ce shooting. 1 64.26–2 7 o ld A d a m this does no t n ecessarily im p ly that A d am is old: in stead it seem s to be a jo k in g allu sion to the pro verbial phrase ‘the old A d a m ’ (O D E P ) 3). 1 64.28 c a ll m e cu tt pro verb ial term o f abuse (O D E P ) 99). C o m p are t welft h N ig h t) 2 .3 .17 6 . A cu tt is a w o rk -h o rse, pro bably so-called because it is cu t- tailed. 1 6 4.34 Q u een o f H e a v e n the V irg in M a ry . 1 6 5 .3 2 S a in t G e o rg e a n d S a in t A n d r e w the patron saints o f E n glan d and S c o tla n d . T h e ir nam es are com bin ed in an oath in B e n Jo n so n , Epicœ ne) 4 .2 .18 . 16 5 .3 5 S a n t a M a r ia S a in t M a r y (the V irgin ).

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1 6 6 .14 m il k - m a id . . . o f th e p la in s see Jo h n G a y , T r iv ia : or, the A r t o f W alking the S treets o f London ( 1 7 1 6 ) , 2 . 1 1 – 12 . 1 66.20 t h e fien d go re h im lite ra lly m ay the d evil stab him . 16 6 .2 1 G o d -a -m e r c y , N u n G odr-a-m ercy (i.e . Thank yo u ) is used sim p ly as an exclam ation o f surprise: R o la n d is exp ressin g h is astonish m en t at seein g a nu n b eh avin g like a m an. 1 6 6 .2 8 -2 9 a n ot e ab o v e E L a above the h ighest no te o f the scale: a com m on phrase in the old dram a (fo r in stance, Jo h n M a r s ton , T he H istory o f A n tonio a n d M e llida (16 0 2 ), 5 .1 .2 1 6 ) . L a w as the nam e given to the h igh est no te in the hexachord, first described b y G u id o o f A rezzo (c. 9 9 1– a fter 1 0 3 3 ) . T h e seven o verlap p in g hexachords, each con sistin g o f an ascen d in g series o f six no tes (know n as u t, re, m i, fa, sol an d la), w ere the basis o f the earliest stan dard notational system fo r p o lyp h o n ic m u sic; th is sy stem w as u ltim ately sup ersed ed in the R en aissan ce. T h e h ighest hexach o rd ran G , A , B , C , D , E : the h igh est note o f the system w as thu s know n as Έ la’ . 1 67.20 –2 1 c h ic k o f th e g a m e d im in u tive and contem p tuous v ersio n o f ‘ cock o f the gam e’ , a gam e-cock or fightin g cock. 16 7 .2 4 co ck o f th e p e rc h leader or ru ler o f the perch— a con tem p tu ou s adaptation o f phrases such as ‘ cock o f the w alk ’ . 1 6 7.2 5 y o u r b a g a n d y o u r g a u n t let typ ical d ress fo r falcon ers: th e bag, w orn at the belt, w as used to c arry eq u ip m en t such as hoods or leashes; the gauntlet w as w o rn on the left han d, to p ro vid e a perch fo r the bird . 16 7 .2 6 sq u ire o f th e b o d y person al attendant u po n a k n igh t or noblem an, b u t som etim es u sed contem p tu o u sly, even as ‘a cant term fo r a p im p' (A B D , 1 .5 9 1, note). 1 6 8 .1 7 - 1 8 w ith h a n d a n d g lo v e sw earin g b y o ne’s hand w as a com m on fo rm o f pledge o r asseveration, w h ich S c o tt elaborates b y in c lu d in g the glo ve; com pare Iv a n hoe, e e w n 8 ,2 6 3 .4 0 and no te. 1 6 8 .1 8 C a lib u r n the nam e o f K in g A r th u r’s sw o rd , E x calib u r. 16 8 .34 O u r L a d y the V irg in M a ry . 16 8 .4 1 a t a w o rd in a w o rd , in sh ort . 169.8 R e n o u n ce m e dam n m e. S e e B e n Jo n so n , E v e ry M a n O ut o f his H um our, 4 .4 .1 16 , and t h e D e v il is an A ss, 5 .6 .3 1 . 1 6 9 .2 1– 2 2 y o u r w it s a re go n e on w o o l-g a th er in g pro verb ial: yo u are d ream in g (R a y , 2 1 6 ; O D E P , 905). 1 6 9 .31 so m e in n o v a t io n i.e. som e change. C o m p are Othello , 2 .3 .3 6 . 170 .5 D r a w c a n s ir a b u lly in T he R eh ea rsa l( 16 7 2 ), b y G e o rg e V illie rs ( 16 2 8 -8 7 ) , 2n d D u k e o f B u ck in gh am . 17 0 .2 3 a t a v e n tu re at random . 17 0 .2 5 F r e n c h c ro w n F ren ch cro w n s w ere the m odel on w h ich the E n g lish cro w n (w orth 5 sh illin gs, 2 5 p ) w as based. A lso see note to 17 .3 8 . 1 7 0 .3 5 – 3 6 th e w h o re o f B a b y lo n see R e v e la tion 1 7 . 1 – 5. 170 .40 c o m e in en ter th e field. 1 7 1 .2 L u g le a th er lu g can m ean the ear (S c o ts), or it can m ean to p u ll, tu g — ‘ lu g out’ m eans to draw o ne’s sw o rd . 1 7 1 .5 t u rn m y gird le the exp ressio n p ro b ab ly d erives fro m the p ro verb , ‘ I f you be an gry yo u m ay tu rn the b u ck le o f yo u r gird le b ehind y o u ’ (R a y , 1 7 5 ; O D E P , 14 ). C o m p are M u ch A d o A bou t N o thing, 5 .1 .1 4 0 , w h ere the m ean in g o f the p ro verb is u ncertain; S c o tt in terp rets the phrase as m ean in g to get read y to draw o ne’s sw ord. 1 7 1 .8 S a in t G ile s ’s the p rin cip al ch u rch in E d in b u rg h ; S t G ile s (d. c. 7 10 ) , w as the patron saint o f the city. 1 7 1 . 1 2 A n d r e a F e r r a r a a N o r th I talian sw o rd sm ith o f the late 1 6th cen­ tu ry , w hose nam e w as given as a m ark o f qu ality to S c o ttish sw o rd s in th e 1 7 th and 1 8th centu ries, regard less o f w h ether o r not they w ere m ad e b y h im .

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501

1 7 1 .1 4 t h e sw o rd o f S a in t P e t er see note to 10 8 .2 0 . 1 7 2 .1 ou t u p o n y o u see note to 85.1 . 1 7 2 .1 2 ho t a t h a n d eager at the start (im p lyin g that the im petu s is soon lost). 1 7 2 . 1 2 - 1 3 to ou t w ith to b rin g out . 1 7 2 .1 3 o r so o r the like. 17 2 .2 0 b r a s s ty p ify in g effro n tery , sham elessness, u n blu sh in gn ess; com ­ pare L o v e 's Labours L o st, 5 .2 .3 9 5 . 1 7 2 .3 3 – 3 7 m o tto not id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 17 3 .9 A s m u c h a s w h ich practically am ounts to . 1 7 3 .1 3 F a s h n o t th y b e a r d do not v e x yo u rself, pay no heed. C o m p are A llan R a m say, t h e G en tle S h ep h erd (17 2 5; rep r.. G la sg o w , 17 8 8 ), 52: C L A , 1 3 . 1 7 3 .1 6 to b o o t see note to 3 3 . 1 2 – 1 3 . 1 7 3 . 1 7– 1 8 w e a r e a t a p a s s . . . a n en t trifle s w e are in su ch a p redicam en t that w e cannot haggle w ith h im con cern in g trifles. 1 7 4 .1 5 ro a st a c r a b -a p p le , p o u r a p o ttle o f a le on it A d am refers to ‘ lam b ’s-w o o l’ , m ad e b y p o u rin g hot ale o ver a roasted sou r ap ple, and then sw eeten in g an d sp icin g the m ix tu re . T h e d rin k is o ften m entioned in 1 6th centu ry dram a: e.g. A M idsum m er N ig h t 's D ream , 2 .1.4 8 – 50. 1 7 4 .3 2 K in g o f D a rk n e ss the D e v il. 17 4 .3 5 S e y to n o r S a t a n the p u n w as in trod uced in the p r o o f stage: the м s reads ‘ Se m p e r o r S a tan ’ . S c o tt m ay have recalled the sam e p u n b ein g u sed in the n am ing o f M a c b e th ’s atten dant : ‘ S e y ton!— I am sick at heart, / W h en I behold — S e y ton, I s a y ’ {M acbeth , 5 .3 .1 9 – 20). 1 7 4 .3 8 - 3 9 to th e b o o t o f in ad d ition to . 1 7 5 .3 4 th e S e ssio n s the C o u rt o f Sessio n , the su p rem e civ il trib u n al o f S c o tland. 176 .6 J u lia n see note to 3 5 1 .6 – 10 . 1 7 7 . 1 8 - 1 9 b a n d e rs in th e w e st . . . F le m in g as early as J u n e 15 6 7 , ‘ A great m an y o f the N o b le s that favo u red the Q ueen , and con dem ned h er Im p ris­ onm ent as a C rim e o f the h igh est t reason that cou ld be com m itted , had con­ vened at H a m ilton ’ ( K e ith, 407). B u ch an an calls this the ‘Q ueens F a c tio n ’ (B u chanan, 3 5 2 ). H a m ilton is abou t 16 km S E o f G la sg o w . Jo h n F le m in g , 5th L o r d F le m in g ( 1 5 58), w as go vern or o f D u m b arton castle fro m 15 6 5 , h o ld in g it on M a r y ’s b e h a lf u n til its captu re in 1 5 7 1 . 17 7 .3 6 b e lt ed e a rl see no te to 1 7 . 1 . 17 8 .2 i f th ey m in e , do th o u co u n t e rm in e fo r m ine see glossary. A cou n term ine is an excavation m ade b y the defen d ers o f a fo rtress in o rd er to in tercep t the b esieg ers’ m ine. 17 8 .2 2 W illia m D o u g la s S ir W illiam D o u g las o f L o c h le v e n (d. 16 06 ), eld est son o f S ir R o b e rt an d L a d y M arg aret D o u g las; he succeeded to the E arld o m o f M o r ton in 15 8 5 . 17 8 .2 4 su n set u p o n h is a n g e r see E p h esian s 4.26 . 17 8 .3 0 t h e G u is e s the G u is e fam ily, w hose du cal tid e had been con ferred in 1 5 2 7 , in clu d ed M a r y ’s uncles on h er m o ther ’s sid e, F ra n ço is ( 1 5 1 9 - 6 3 ) , 2n d D u k e o f G u is e ( 15 5 0 ) , an d C h arles ( 15 2 5 – 74), 2 n d C ard in al o f L o rra in e ( 15 5 0 ) , and her cou sin H e n ri ( 15 5 0 – 88), the 3 rd D u k e . T h e fa m ily exerted a dom in ant influence on the F re n c h govern m en t, and w ere com m itted to the su p pression o f F re n c h P ro testanti s m . 1 7 8 .3 1 t ak e su c h o rd e r m ake such arrangem ents. 17 8 .3 6 p u r v e y e d o f su p p lied w ith. 17 8 .4 3 fo u r n o b le M a r ie s Q ueen M a r y ’s fo u r atten dants: M a r y S e ton, M a r y F le m in g , M a r y B e a ton and M a r y L iv in g s ton. 1 7 9 .3– 10 Jo h n K n o x . . . d e v o u t im a g in a tio n K n o x , h av in g in sp ired the d estru c ti o n o f the m onasteries and ch urch es o f P e rth and F ife in 15 5 9

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(R o b ertson, 1 .14 4 – 4 5), p ro po sed as early as Ja n u a r y 1 5 6 1 that the confiscated reven u es o f the C a tholic ch u rch shou ld be used to su p p o rt the refo rm ed church. H o w ev er, the nobles resisted all su ch schem es: ‘ In v ain d id the c lerg y pro po se, b y an im p artial d istrib u tion o f this fu n d , to p ro m o te tru e religio n , to encourage learn in g, and to su p p o rt the p o o r . . . T h e nobles held fast the p re y w h ich they had seized ; an d, bestow in g u p o n the proposal the nam e o f “ a d evo u t im agina­ tio n ,” they affected to con sid er it as a p ro ject altogether v isio n ary, and treated it w ith the u tm o st sco rn ’ (R o b ertson, 1.2 0 5 ). 1 7 9 .3 – 4 p u lle r -d o w n . . . set t e r-u p com pare 3 H en ry V I, 3 . 3 .1 5 7 , w h ere W arw ick is called ‘P ro u d setter u p and p u ller d o w n o f k in g s’ . 1 7 9 .3 7 L o r d L in d e s a y o f th e B y r e s see no te to 2 5 .1 8 . 1 8 0 .32 w a lk in g sw o rd a sw o rd w o rn in civ il rather than m ilita ry life. 1 8 1 .2 C a r th u sia n fr ia r s a con tem p lative m onastic o rd er (not stric tly friars) fo u n d ed b y S t B ru n o aro u n d 10 8 4 , an d rem ark able fo r th e severity o f their rule: the m onks lived in isolated cells an d w ere v o w ed to silence. 1 8 1 .3 3 K in g s m a n o r Q u e e n sm a n in th e d o m estic con flicts o f the 1 570 s, a su p p o rter o f one o f the tw o p a rties o f w h ich Ja m e s V I an d M a r y w ere figu re­ heads; h o w ever, even in late 15 6 7 the leaders o f these p a rties w ere alread y know n as ‘ the K in g 's L o rd s’ and ‘ the Q ueen’s L o rd s' ( K e ith, 436). 1 8 1 .3 5 led m e . . . lik e a B lin d B illy led m e like the b lin d -fo ld ed p layer in b lin d m an ’s b u ff. S c o tt takes the phrase fro m S ir D a v id L in d s a y (14 9 0 ?– 1 555): ‘P rie s ts sali leid yo u like ane B illy B lin d e ’ (see Jo h n P in k e rton, S c o tish Poem s, 3 vols (L o n d o n , 1 79 2), 2 .2 3 2 ). S c o tt qu o tes this lin e in M in strelsy, 3 .2 1 8 (note), b u t p ro fesses un certainty as to the m eaning. 1 8 1 .43 B a rn b o u g le a castle o f u n kn ow n age, belo n gin g fro m the 1 2 th centu ry to the M o u b ra y fam ily. 18 2 .2 9 Q u een ’ s -F e r r y the fe rry , lin k in g S o u th an d N o r th Q u een sferry , w as the m o st con ven ient cro ssin g -p o in t o f the F i r th o f F o r th. 1 8 2 .3 3 - 3 4 th e F e r r y w a s c o m p le te ly re g u la t ed the reorgan isation o f the Q u een sfe rry P assage took place in the early 1 9 th cen tu ry : b y an A c t o f 18 0 9 the T reasu ry co m p u lso rily p u rchased the fe rry , an d set u p a m an agem ent com m it­ tee to ru n it. A lm o st £ 15 ,0 0 0 w as sp en t on the S bank lan d in gs, an d b y 1 8 1 1 an efficien t h o u rly service had b een in trod uced . 18 2 .3 6 t h e o ld c a s tle o f R o s y th e abo u t 3 km N W o f N o r th Q u een sferry ; the p ro p erty at this p eriod o f the S tew arts o f R o s y th . T h e castle n ow lies w ithin the naval d o ck yard o f R o s y th. 1 8 2 .4 1 – 1 8 3 .1 3 L o c h le v e n . . . se clu sio n S c o tt m ay not have relied solely on person al reco llection s o f the scene: com pare P en n a n t, 1 . 8 1 . 18 3 .1 9 – 20 w ild -d r a k e . . . s w im lik e one com pare T he M onastery, E E W N 9 ,2 3 3 .3 8 – 4 1 , in w h ich H alb ert, sw im m in g like a ‘ sea-fo w l’ , escapes fro m A v en el C a stle. 18 4 .6 A m a d is o f G a u l a m ed ieval rom ance, attrib u ted in S c o tt’ s tim e to the P o rtu gu ese V asco L o b e ira , an d first p u b lish ed in S p an ish in 1 508. S e e A m adis o f G a u l, trans. R o b e rt S o u they , 4 v o ls (L o n d o n , 18 0 3 ): C L A , 1 12 . 18 4 .6 t h e M ir r o r o f K n ig h th o o d the E n g lish v ersio n o f a S p an ish prose rom ance, the E spejo de P rin cipes y C a va llero s (Z aragoza, 1 562), b egu n b y D ie g o O rtuñez de C alah o rra; a translation , b y vario u s han ds, ap peared in 9 p arts (L o n d o n , 1 598– 1 6 0 1 ) , tho u gh the first p art, t h e M irro u r o f P rin c ely D eedes an d K n ig h thood, translated b y M a rg a re t t y le r, had been p u b lish ed separately (dated ‘1 5 7 8 ’ in the B r itish L ib r a r y catalogu e). T h e w o rk is o ften allu d ed to in the dram a o f the period . 1 8 4 .1 5 S ir R o b e r t M e lv ille R o b e rt M e lv ille ( 1 5 2 7 – 1 6 2 1 ) , dip lom at and po litician (in fact k n igh ted o n ly in 1 5 8 1 ) . 18 5 .2 7 – 3 1 m o tto see M a tthew L e w is ( 1 7 7 5 - 1 8 1 8 ) , ‘T h e F a te o f K in g s.

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A n E le g y . W ritten on V is itin g a R o y a l M au so leu m ’ lines 9 3 -9 6 (Poem s (L o n ­ don, 1 8 1 2 ) , 10 3 : C L A , 10 3 ). 18 5 .2 8 N a v a r r e ’ s b r a v e H e n ry H e n ry I V o fN a v a r r e ( 1 5 5 3 – 1 6 1 o), K in g o f F ra n c e (15 8 9 ), w h o w as assassinated in 1 6 10 . 18 5 .3 3 L a d y o f L o c h le v e n . . . M a r bo rn M arg aret E rsk in e (d. 15 7 2 ) , d au gh ter o f Jo h n (d. 1 5 5 5 ) , 5 th L o r d E rsk in e ( 1 5 1 3 ) . T ho u gh contracted to m arry R o b e rt D o u g la s in 1 5 2 7 , she becam e m istress o f Ja m e s V , and her son the E a rl o f M o ra y w as bo rn c. 1 5 3 1 . T h e E rsk in es first claim ed the E arld o m o f M a r in 14 3 5 , tho u gh their rig h t to the title w as finally granted on ly in 15 6 5 . 18 5 .3 8 – 39 S ir R o b e rt D o u g la s the first ed ition r e a d s ‘ S ir W illiam D o u g ­ las’ , w h o w as in fact L a d y L o c h le v e n ’s son (see Essay o n th e T ext, 406– 0 7). S ir R o b e rt w as killed at P in k ie in 15 4 7 . 18 5.4 0 O u r p le a s a n t v i c e s . . . to sco u rg e u s see K in g L e a r, 5 .3 .1 7 0 – 7 1 . ‘ S c o u rg e ’ is the Q u arto reading. 1 8 6 .1 0 – 1 1 D r u m m o n d . . . a Q u een the D ru m m o n d s w ere p rom inent in the 1 4 th centu ry , p articu larly a fter the m arriage in 13 6 7 o f A n n ab ella D ru m ­ m ond ( 1 3 5o?– 1 402) to the fu tu re K in g R o b e rt III. 18 6 .19 – 20 w o rst e rro rs o f th e C a th o lic s . . . ten ets see note to 69.26. 18 6 .2 3 – 24 M a r y o f G u is e fo r the career o f M a r y o f G u is e ( 1 5 1 5 – 60), w h o m arried Ja m e s V in 1 5 3 8 , see H isto rical N o te, 463– 64. 18 6 .32 – 3 3 F o o ls m u s t b e fla ttered , n ot fo u g h t en w ith proverbial (O D E P , 5 3 ; see also A lla n R a m say, A C ollection o f S c o ts P roverb s (E d in b u rgh , 17 3 7 ) , 1 1)· 18 6 .3 3 – 3 4 L o r d R u th v e n W illiam R u th v e n (1 5 4 1 ? – 84), 4 th L o r d R u th­ ven ( 1 566). M o s t contem p o rary accounts agree that o n ly L in d e s a y and M e lv ille w ere presen t at the sig n in g o f M a r y ’ s resign ation ; h o w ever, Jo h n K n o x asserts that ‘ the L o r d s L in d sey an d R u thven w ere sent to L o ch levin ’ ( K n o x , 449), and this is the version S c o tt ad o p ts. 18 7 .4 1 – 4 2 th e n u m e ro u s p rin t s . . . seen the d iffere n ces b etw een the m an y likenesses passin g fo r M a r y ’s w ere not su rp risin g , given that, in Jo h n P in k erton ’ s w o rd s, ‘t h e fictitiou s p o rtraits o f M a r y are in fin ite . . . an y hand­ som e w om an is, w ith the p ictu re dealers, M a r y o f S c o tlan d ’ (Iconographia S co tica (L o n d o n , 17 9 7 ): no page n u m bers: C L A , 8). A lso see L io n e l C u s t, N o tes on the A u thentic P o rtra its o f M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts (L o n d o n , 19 0 3). 1 88.4– 8 b y f a r th e m o s t a c u t e o f th o s e . . . h o rrib le a d u ty p ro bably an allu sion to W illiam R o b e rtson ( 1 7 2 1 – 9 3), the m o st celebrated o f eigh teenth centu ry S c o ttish historians; w h ile argu in g that M a r y w as g u ilty o f the crim es o f w h ich she w as accu sed, R o b e rtson o bserves that her su fferin g s and beauty m ake u s ‘ think o f her fau lts w ith less in d ign ati o n , and ap p ro ve o f o u r tears’ (R o b ert­ son, 2 .14 2 ) . F o r the con d u ct o f the execu tio n e r , see note to 2 1 0 .3 2 . 18 8 .2 5 C o u n t ess o f S h r e w s b u r y E liza b eth t albot ( 1 5 1 8 – 16 08), better know n as ‘B e ss o f H a rd w ic k ’ . H e r hu sband G e o rg e t albot ( 1 528?– 9o), 6th E a rl o f S h re w sb u ry ( 15 6 0 ), w as M a r y ’s k eeper fro m 15 6 9 – 84, and fo r m u ch o f this ti m e the cou n tess w as M a r y ’s com panion. In 1 5 8 3 , a fter h er estrangem ent fro m the earl, she spread ru m o u rs that he w as im p ro p erly in ti m a te w ith M a r y ; in resp on se M a r y w ro te a fu rio u s letter to E liza b eth (N o v em b er 15 8 4 ), relati n g several in d ecen t scandals co n cern in g the E n g lish qu een , w h ich she claim ed had been passed on to her b y the cou n te ss. T h e letter cou ld have been read b y S c o tt in W illiam M u r d in ’s A C o llection o f S ta te P apers (L o n d o n , 17 5 9 ), 558– 60 (C L A , 2 3 3 ); see also P rin c e A lexan d re L a b a n o ff, L e ttre s . . . de M a rie S tuart, 7 vols (L o n d o n , 1 844), 6 .5 1 – 57. I t is, ho w ever, no t certain that it w as ev er sent. 1 89.7 k in g d o m o f F ife the cou n ty o f F ife , com m on ly called the ‘ kin gd om ’ either because o f its size an d w ealth, o r because it w as self-co n tained and isolated. 189.8 b lu e -c o a t ed se r v in g -m e n stan dard dress fo r m en servan ts in the

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1 6th cen tu ry . C o m p a re T he t am ing o f the S h re w , 4 .1.7 8 . 190.1 F le m i n g M a r y F le m in g w as one o f the ‘ fo u r M a rie s ’ (see 17 8 .4 3 an d note), th o u gh in fact M a r y S e ton atten ded th e Q u een in L o c h leven . 19 0 .5 b la c k w o o l see Jo h n W ebster, t h e D uchess o f M a lfi(c. 1 6 14 ) , 3 .2 .2 1 9 – 20: ‘H e stop p ’d his ears w ith black w ool: an d to those cam e to h im fo r m o n ey said he w as th ic k o f h earin g’ . 1 9 1 .30 – 3 3 M y m a i d s . . . ten t im e s m a ir com pare ‘L o r d t hom as and F a ir A n n e t’ , lines 5 3 – 56 (P ercy , 3.2 4 3 ). 1 9 3 .3 4 – 3 5 K i r k o f F ie ld see note to 1 3 4 . 1 5 . 19 4 .14 a d d n o t b r a n d s to fire com pare the p ro verb ial p h r a s e ‘T o ad d fu el to the fire’ (R a y , 19 0 ; O D E P , 293). 1 9 5 .3 1 – 3 6 A r c h b a ld D o u g l a s . . . th ro n e A rc h ib a ld o r A rc h b ald D o u g la s ( 1 4 4 9 ? - 1 5 1 4), 5 th E a rl o f A n g u s (14 6 2 ), w h o o rgan ised the arrest an d han g­ in g o f R o b e rt C o ch ran e an d others, the fa vo u rites o r ‘m in io n s’ o f Ja m e s I I I , at the b rid g e o f L a u d e r in 14 8 2 . W hen A n g u s pro p o sed th is plan, another o f the n o bles ‘ told them o f the A p o lo gu e o f the M ic e , w h o con su ltin g in a pu b lick m eeti n g , h o w to be su re fro m the C a ts su rp risin g o f them , fo u n d o u t a v e ry good w a y, w h ich w as to h an g a b ell abou t her neck, that w o u ld rin g as she step p ed , an d so give them w a rn in g . . . B u t w h en it cam e to be q u esti o n e d w h o w o u ld u n d er­ take to ti e th e b ell abo u t the C a ts neck, there w as n e ver a m ou se d u rst cheep o r u n d ertake it. T h e E a rle o f A n g u s . . . an sw ered s h o rd y , I w ill B e ll the C a t . . . F o r th is an sw er, h e w as alw ayes a fter this nam ed A rch b a ld B e ll the C a f (H u m e, 2 2 5 – 26). H a v in g han ged C o ch ran e, A n g u s p ro claim ed that ‘it m ig h t be ane exa m p le to all m ein e person s, not to clim b so h ie, an d in ten d fo r h igh m atte ris in cou rt as he d id ’ : R o b e rt L in d s a y o f P itscotti e , T he C hronicles o f S c o tla n d , ed . J . G . D a ly e ll, 2 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 4 ) , 1 . 1 9 2 – 93 ( C L A , 8). 195.37– 42 S p e n s o f K ils p in d ie . . . s a p lin g a cco rd in g to H u m e o f G o d s c r o ft, ‘ t h e K in g on a ti m e w as d isco u rsin g at tab le o f the person ages o f m en , an d b y all m en s con fession the p rerogati v e w as ad ju d ged to the E a rle o f A n g u s. A C o u rti e r that w as b y (one Spen se o f K ils p in d ie ) . . . cast in a w o rd o f d o u b ti n g an d d isparagin g: I t is true, said he, i f all b e good that is u p­ com e; m ean in g i f h is acti o n and v alo u r w ere an sw erab le to his person age an d b o d y ’ . S o m e ti m e later, A n g u s accidenta lly m et S p e n s b y the brook o f F a la , an d ch allen ged h im : ‘ S o aligh ti n g fro m their h o rses, they fo u gh t a certa in space, b u t at last the E a rle o f A n g u s w ith a stroake, cu t Spenses th igh -b o n e asu n d er, so that he fell to the gro u n d , an d died soon a fte r’ (H u m e, 2 3 5 ). 1 9 6 .1 3 – 1 4 C a r b e r r y - h il l . . . c a r v e d to th eir u se fo r the ev en ts at C a r­ b e rry -h ill, an d M o r ton ’s g ift o f B e ll the C a t’s sw o rd to L in d e s a y , see H u m e , 297– 98. A c c o rd in g to H u m e, L in d e s a y w o re th e sw o rd ‘ev er a fte r’ . 1 9 6 .1 5 n ic k -n a m e d D u k e o f O rk n e y M a r y created B o th w ell D u k e o f O rk n ey sh ortly b efo re their m arriage in 15 6 7 . 19 6 .3 1 c o p e w ith a l com e to blo w s w ith , en gage in battle. 1 9 6.3 7 – з8 D e s R h o d o m a n ta d e s E s p a g n o l le s F ren ch o f S p an ish boasts: a collecti o n o f com ically e x travagant boasts o f m ilita ry pro w ess, o rigin ally p u b ­ lish ed in S p a n ish as the Rodom untadas C astella n a s, an d translated in to F r e n c h b y Ja c q u e s G a u lti e r ( 15 6 2 – 16 36 ) as Rodom ontades E spagnoles (P aris, 16 0 7 ). 19 6 .4 3 t h e S e c r e t C o u n c il the b o d y w h ich ad vised the S c o tti s h m on arch an d fo rm ed th e exec u ti v e o f the realm , co rresp o n d in g to the E n g lish P r iv y C o u n c il. N in e o f th e p rin cip al rebels, am o n g them M o r ton an d R u th ven , on their o w n au th o rity assum ed the ti d e ‘ the lo rd s o f secret co u n cil’ on 2 1 J u n e 1 5 6 7 , s ix d ays a fter the battle o f C arb e rry -h ill. 1 9 7 .1 5 G e o rg e D o u g la s the th ird legiti m a te son o f L a d y L o c h le v e n , an d hen ce M o r a y ’s h alf-b ro ther. A c c o rd in g to S ir W illiam D r u r y , w riti n g to C e c il fro m B e rw ic k on 3 A p ril 15 6 8 , M a r y h e r s e lf raised w ith M o r a y the p o ssib ility o f m a rry in g D o u g la s: ‘ she en tred in to another P u rp o se , b ein g M a rria g e , p ra y in g

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she m ig h t have a H u sb an d , and nam ed one to her likin g, G eorge D ouglas B r o ther to the L o r d o f L o c h le v in ’ ( K e ith, 469). D o u g las assisted M a r y ’s attem pts to escape, and join ed her after she succeeded. H e subseq uently accom panied her in to E n glan d (C h alm ers, 1.2 8 4 ), and w as still liv in g in 15 9 2 (see S ir R o b e rt D o u g la s, T he P eerage o f S co tla n d (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 3 ) , 2 .2 7 3 ). 19 7 .19 – 2 5 m o tto see R ic h a rd I I , 4 .1.2 0 4 – 10 . 19 7 .2 8 G r e y s t eil fo r the m etrical rom ance fro m w h ich the nam e d erives see the note to 2 58 .36 . R u th ven is given the nicknam e in a letter b y R o b e rt L o g a n o f R e s talrig, one o f the actors (along w ith R u th v en ’s sons) in the G o w rie C o n sp iracy o f 16 00: 'I think, there is none o f a N o b le H eart . . . b u t they w ou ld be conten t, and glad, to see an conten ted R ev en g e o f G reysteil's D e a th ’ (quoted in G e o rg e M acken zie, An H istoric a lA ccount o f the C onspiracies . . . against K in g Ja m e s V I (E d in b u rg h , 1 7 1 3 ) , 10 5 ). 19 7 .3 2 – 36 ill-fa t ed s i r e . . . u n fo rtu n a t e f a m i l y . . . u n h a p p y d eath R u th v en ’s father, P a trick, d ied in N ew c astle in 15 6 6 , h avin g been d riven in to exile fo llow in g the m u rd er o f R ic c io ; his sons, Jo h n and A lexan d er, w ere killed at G o w rie on 5 A u g u st 16 0 0 in the cou rse o f the failed G o w rie C o n sp iracy. A fter this the fa m ily estates w ere fo rfeited, and the nam e proscribed . R u th ven h im se lf w as execu ted in 15 8 4 fo r his part in the ‘R a id o f R u th v en ’ , the seizure o f Ja m e s V I in 15 8 2 . 19 7 .3 8 – 39 th e s la u g h t er o f D a v id R iz z io see note to 49 .38. 1 9 7 .4 1 – 19 8 . 1 a rise n fr o m a sic k -b e d to c o m m it a m u r th er . . . S o v e r ­ eign ‘T h e lord R u thven, w ho had been confined to his bed fo r three m onths . . . w as in tru sted w ith the execu tiv e part; and w h ile he h im se lf needed to be su p p o rted b y tw o m en , he cam e abroad to com m it a m u rd er in the presence o f his so vereign ’ (R o b ertson, 1.28 9 ). 19 8 .3 h e r c o n d itio n M a r y w as som e six m onth s pregn ant at the tim e o f R ic c io ’s m u rder. 19 9 .4 fo r m a l in str u m e n t S c o tt translates (out o f S c o ts) and paraphrases one o f the th ree in stru m en ts sign ed b y M a r y , and dated 24 J u l y 1 5 6 7 . T h e other tw o con cern ed the ap po in tm ent o f a R e g e n t. T h e com plete te x ts are rep rin ted in K e ith, 4 3 0 –3 3 . 19 9 .2 2 – 2 3 n o b ility , c le r g y , a n d b u rg e sse s the ‘ th ree estates’ (a term first u sed in the 1 4 th centu ry) w h o together com posed the S c o ttish P arliam en t . 2 0 1 .1 9 P in k ie -c le u ch fo r the defeat o f the S c o ts at Pin kie in 15 4 7 , see H isto rical N o te, 463. 2 0 1.2 2 – 23 F r e n c h a n d E n g lis h see H isto rical N o te, 463 ff. 2 0 1.4 0 n o k in g in th e la n d see Ju d g e s 17 .6 . 2 0 2 .3 -4 H a v e I n o t w o rn h a r n e s s . . . sa d d le a referen ce to the ‘ C h a seabou t R a id ’ o f 15 6 5 , w h en in o rd er to en courage h er troo ps M a r y ‘m arched alon g w ith them , rode w ith loaded p istols, and en d u red all the fatigues o f w a r’ (R o b ertson, 1 .274 ). A m ore recent b iograp h er p o in ts out that she freq u en tly w o re m en ’s clothes: see A n tonia F ra se r, M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts (L o n d o n , 196 9 ), 18 6 . 20 2.9 t h e id o la tr y o f th e m a s s the celebrati o n o f M a s s was outlaw ed in S c o tland in 15 6 0 (see H isto rical N o te, 464): the C a tholic doctrin e o f transu b­ tan tiation im p lied the real presence o f C h ris t in the bread and w in e; fro m this d erived the ad orati o n o f the host, con stru ed b y som e P ro testants as idolatry. A lso see no tes to 7 .7 and 7 . 1 2 – 1 5. 2 0 2 .1 1 – 1 2 Je d b u r g h to H e r m it a g e C a s t le M a r y rode fro m Je d b u r g h to H e rm itage C a s tle and back (a total d istance o f abo u t 80 km ) on 16 O ctob er 1 566, in o rd er to see B o th w ell, w h o had been w o u n d ed in a skirm ish w ith B o rd e r thieves on 8 O ctober. S h e fell gravely ill a fter her retu rn to Je d b u rg h , and th is, together w ith the attem p ts o f her enem ies to presen t the v isit as evid en ce o f her love fo r B o thw ell, m ade the rid e notoriou s. P rev io u s ed iti o n s ,

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fo llow in g a m an u scrip t erro r, h ave read ‘ H a w ic k ’ fo r ‘Je d b u r g h ’ . 2 0 2 .1 8– 20 y o n fa ir s u m m e r e v e n in g . . . S a in t A n d re w s 2 2 A p ril 1 5 6 2 . T hree days later the E n g lish am bassador R a n d o lp h w ro te to C ecil fro m S t A n d rew s that ‘ the Q u een ’s grace, as she do th o ft, did , in her p riv y garden , sh oo t at the b u tts . . . [it] w o u ld have w ell con ten ted yo u r honour, to have seen the Q ueen and the m aster o f L in d s a y , to shoot against the E a rl o f M a r, and one o f the ladies’ (qu oted in C h a lm ers, 1.7 0 , no te). 2 0 2 .2 1 T h e M a s t er o f L in d e s a y M a ster is the title given to the heirap parent to a S c o ttish baro n y. L in d e s a y succeded his father Jo h n , the 5 th L o r d L in d e s a y o f the B y r e s, in D e c e m b e r 15 6 3 . 2 0 2 .2 3 h o n o u rs h a v e c h a n g e d m a n n e r s pro verbial (R a y , 12 0 ; O D E P , 38 3)· 2 0 2 .3 1 t h e M a r ie s fo r the M a rie s see note to 17 8 .4 3 . 20 2.39 M r C h a lm e r s see no te to 3 5 4 .12 . 20 3.4– 5 th e n ig h t o f K i n g H e n r y ’ s m u r d e r a n d th e d a y o f C a r b e r r y h ill 9 / 10 F e b ru a ry an d 1 5 J u n e 15 6 7 . 20 3.2 8 – 29 m u r d e r a n d a d u lt e r y . . . su ffe re d d e a th such claim s w ere w id esp read in J u l y 1 5 6 7 . T h rock m o rton , w ritin g to E lizab eth on 19 J u l y , re­ p o rted that ‘ I t w as said the S tates o f th e R e a lm and P eo ple assem bled m ig h t . . . be com peten t Ju d g e s , w h e re o f they had in their ow n cou ntry su n d ry E x p e r i­ ences in crim inal O ffen ces com m itted b y their P rin ces: A n d there w as recited u n to m e su n d ry E x am p les fo rth o f th eir o w n H is torie s’ . T h e sam e day Jo h n K n o x ‘ took a piece o f the S c r ip tu re fo rth o f the B o o k s o f the K in g s, and did in veig h veh em en tly again st the Q u een , and persw ad ed E x trem ities tow a rd s h er b y A p p lic a tion o f h is t e x t’ ( K e ith, 4 2 1 – 2 2). 2 0 3 .3 7 jo in ed h a n d s in token o f m arriage. 2 0 3 .3 7 f a t ed m o n th o f M a y M a r y m arried B o thw ell on 1 5 M a y 1 5 6 7 . T h e S c o ts trad ition ally v iew ed M a y m arriages as u n lu ck y, leading to the p ro verb ‘M a r ry in M a y , rep en t alw a y ’ (O D E P , 5 16 ) . A sim ilar su p erstition is describ ed in O vid , F a sti, 5.490, a q u o tation w h ich w as pinn ed to the gates o f H o lyro o d a fter the m arriage ( K e ith, 386). S c o tt shared the ‘ an cient p reju d ice’ again st M a y , and in 18 2 0 he c are fu lly arran ged his dau gh ter So p h ia ’s w e d d in g fo r 29 A p ril, ‘b efo re that u n lu ck y m o n th sh ou ld com m ence’ (L o c k h art, 4.36 6 ). 20 4.3– 6 a b o n d . . . fo u n d in th a t b o n d on 1 9 0r 20 A p ril 15 6 7 B o th w ell hosted a d in n er at A in slie ’s t av ern in E d in b u rg h , atten ded b y m an y o f the lead in g nobles, a fter w h ich he either persu ad ed or fo rced them to sign the ‘A in slie B o n d ’ , acco rd in g to w h ich they pled ged them selves to ‘ fo rd er, ad vau n ce, and set fo rd w art’ the m arriage b etw een B o thw ell and M a r y . M o r ton w as am on g the sign atories and so, acco rd in g to one account, w as R u thven. L in d e s a y w as not presen t, b u t S c o tt m ay have inclu ded him d eliberately in o rd er to em phasise the w ay in w h ich th e P r o testant lords appeared to en cou rage a step w h ich w as then m ade the ju stification fo r M a r y ’s o verthrow . S e e K e i th, 38 0 – 8 3, w h ere the bond is q u o ted in fu ll. 204.8 L o r d H e rrie s Jo h n M a x w e ll (c. 1 5 1 2– 83), L o r d H e rries ( 15 6 6 ), a loyal su p p o rter o f Q u een M a r y . A c c o rd in g to Ja m e s M e lv il, H erries cam e to E d in b u rg h , ‘ req u estin g her M a je s ty m o st h u m b ly u pon his knees to rem em b er h er h onou r and d ign ity , an d the safety o f the p rin ce, w h ich w o u ld all be in dan ger i f she m arried the said e arl’ (M e lv il, 15 6 ). D e s p ite th is, H e rrie s w as a sign ator y to the A in slie bond. 2 0 4 .2 7 r e m a in b y abide b y. 206.1 a p ie c e o f p a rc h m e n t . . . fe ll ou t acco rd in g to Jo h n L e s lie ’s ‘N e g o tiation s’ (w ritten in 1 5 7 2 , first p u b lish ed 17 2 7 ) , ‘ ad vertisem en t w as m ad e to her b y S ir N ich ola s t hrogm orton A m b assad o r fo r the Q . o f E n g la n d , then R e sid e n t at E d in b u rg h b y h is letters b y the sam e m essenger [M e lv ille ], and con veyed in the scabbard o f h is sw o rd , ad visin ge her to satisfye their desire,

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affirm in ge the sam e w o u ld never hu rte her, beinge done in p riso n and fo r feare o f her life ’ (Jam es A n d erso n , C ollections R e la ting to the H istory o f M a ry Q ueen o f S c o tla n d , 4 vols (E d in b u rg h , 17 2 7 – 28), 3 .1 9 – 20). 20 6.25– 2 6 o n ly T r e a s o n . . . oth er a d v ic e M e lv ille ’ s refu sal person ally to en dorse the ad vice is h istorically w ell-fou n d ed : according to his b ro ther Ja m e s, he in sisted that ‘he w ou ld g ive no such ad vice as com in g from h im self, bu t he shou ld tell it as the o pinion o f those he knew to be her tru e frien d s’ (M e lv il, 17 0 – 7 1) . In fact som e o f M a r y ’s later apologists saw M e lv ille as an agent o f the rebels, p arty to a ‘p lan o f fr a u d . . . one regu lar course o f im po stu re ’ (Jo h n W h itaker, M a ry Q ueen o f S c o ts V indicated, 3 v ols (L o n d o n , 17 8 7 ), 1.3 0 0 – 0 1) . 20 6.26 H u n t ly G e o rg e G o rd o n (d. 15 7 6 ), 5 th E a rl o f H u n tly . T hough im p riso n ed a fter his father ’ s rebellion and death in 15 6 2 , he w as released and restored to his titles in 15 6 5 , fo llo w in g M a r y ’s m arriage w ith D a rn ley and her sp lit w ith M o r a y . T h e reafter he w as a firm su p p o rter o f the queen. 20 6 .27 T h ro g m o rto n S ir N ich o las t hrockm orton ( 1 5 1 5 – 7 1 ) , diplom at, and tw ice E n g lish am bassador to S c o tland. H e arrived in S c o tland in J u l y 15 6 7 , w ith instru c tions to tr y to b rin g about M a r y ’s release and a reconciliation be­ tw een her and the rebels. 2 0 7.7 deep a n d d a n g e ro u s 1 H en ry I V , 1 . 3 .1 9 0 . T h e m an u scrip t, h ow ever, reads ‘ deep and d ark ’ , an d it is po ssible that ‘ dangerous’ was su p p lied b y an in term ediary in o rd er to avoid rep etition, rather than b ein g a deliberate echo o f Sh akespeare. 20 7.8– 9 a c ask et w ith lett ers a casket contain in g letters su p po sed to be fro m M a r y to B o th w ell w as alleged ly d isco vered on 20 Ju n e 1 5 6 7 . T h e se letters, i f genuine, p ro ved b o th her ad u lterou s relation sh ip w ith B o th w ell, and her com plicity in the m u rd er o f D a rn ley, and und erp in ned the accusations m ade against her in 15 6 9 . T h e ir authen ticity becam e the central preo ccu pation o f historians o f M a r y ’s reign . H o w ev er, no e xp licit m ention o f the casket letters w as m ade u n til D ecem b er 15 6 7 , and this has encouraged som e h istorians to argu e not o n ly that they are fo rgeries, b u t that the stor y o f their d isco very in Ju n e w as a fabricatio n . T h e o n ly referen ce to be m ade to w ritten evid ence o f M a r y ’s gu ilt in the su m m er o f 15 6 7 (thou gh w ithout m en tion o f the casket) com es in a letter w ritten 24– 25 J u l y fro m t hrockm orton to C ec il, in w h ich he rep o rts that the rebels claim to have ‘ the t estim o n y o f her ow n H an d w ritin g, w h ich they have reco v ered ’ , to p ro ve her com plicity in D a rn le y ’s death ( K e ith, 426). S c o tt’ s specific referen ce to a ‘ casket’ in this contex t seem s to in d icate that he believed in the au then tic ity o f the letters, and in the story o f their disco very. 2 0 7 .1 1 e v e n -h a n d e d . . . ju d g e s com pare M acbeth , 1 . 7 . 1 o . 20 7.24– 2 5 a s M a c h ia v e l s a ith . . . g r a v e N icco lo M ach ia velli ( 1 449– 1 5 27 ), F lo r e n tine statesm an and au thor o f I l P rin cip e (T h e P rin ce, w rit­ ten 1 5 1 3 ) . T h e com m ent attrib u ted to him here has not been traced to its u ltim ate sou rce, b u t com pare Ja m e s G rah am e, M a ry S tew art, 3 . 4 . 1 2 1 – 2 2 : ‘ A n d o ft y o u ’ve read, the d istance is b u t sm a ll/ B e tw een a p rin ce’s p riso n and his g rav e’ (Poem s, 2 vols, 1 8 0 7 ,2 .1 4 0 ) . A lso see R o g e r B o y le , th e t ragedy o f M u stapha ( 16 68), 4.449: ‘A P rin ces P riso n is a P rin ces G r a v e ’ . 20 9 .10 – 1 1 E n g la n d , F r a n c e , a n d S c o tla n d , a ll o n ce m y o w n M a r y had been queen o f F ra n c e b y v ir tue o f her first m arriage, to F ran ço is I I; on the death o f M a r y T u do r ( 15 5 8 ) h er fa ther-in -la w , H en ri I I o f F ra n ce , had also pro ­ claim ed her queen o f E n g lan d , allegin g E liza b eth ’s illegitim acy as a ju stification (H en ry V I I I had divorced his first w ife, C a therin e o f A rago n , in ord er to m arry E liza b eth ’s m other, A n n e B o leyn ). 20 9.26 –2 7 p u rp le m a r k s o fh is iro n fin gers see E ssay o n th e T ext, 37 9 , fo r S c o tt’s letter o f 18 0 2 d escrib in g this in cid en t. T h e sam e anecdote is repeated in M in strelsy (4 .19 8 ) and T ales o f a G ra n d fa ther (Prose W orks, 2 3 .17 8 ) ;

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n evertheless it ap pears to be S c o tt’s in v en tion. 20 9 .33 sig n m a n u a l au tograp h sign ature. 2 1 0 .3 2 t h e v e r y h a n g m a n h a t h le a v e to a sk so m e p a rd o n c o m p a r e d Y ou L ik e I t, 3 .5 .3 – 6: ‘t h e com m on execu tio n e r ,/ W h o se heart th ’ accu m ­ stom ’d sigh t o f death m akes h a r d ,/ F a lls no t the axe u po n the h u m bled n e c k / B u t first begs p ard o n ’ . 2 1 0 .3 7 b re n t b r o w com pare A lla n R a m s a y ,‘ K e i tha: A n E le g y on th e D e a th o f M a r y , the C o u n tess o f W ig ton ’ ( 1 7 2 1 ) : ‘ H e r fa ir b ren t b ro w , sm ooth as th ’u n ru n k led d ee p ’ ( th e Poem s o f A lla n R am say, 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 18 0 0 ), 1 7 : C L A , 9). 2 10 .3 8 t h is m a n y a y e a r these m an y years. 2 10 .3 9 D o m e r ig h t do ju stice to m e: see 2 H en ry I V , 5 .3 .7 2 . 2 1 1 .4– 10 m o tto not id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 2 1 1 .3 8 G u is ia n see note to 17 8 .3 0 . 2 1 4 .4 1 K n ig h t o f th e B le e d in g H e a r t u n traced: p ro b ab ly a fan cifu l p aro d y o f rom ance titles, contain in g a p lay on the em b lem o f the D o u g la s fam ily, the bleed in g h eart (fo r w h ich see t h e L a y o f the L a st M in stre l, note 66). 2 1 5 . 1 7 – 18 th e a n s w e r . . . w a s su c h a s t u rn s a w a y w r a th see P ro v e rb s 1 5.1 (‘A so ft an sw er tu m e th aw ay w rath ’) and O D E P , 750 . 2 16 .1 fo r w a n t o f b e lls S c o tt refers to bells fo r su m m o n in g servan ts, w h ich w ere operated b y p u llin g a cord. 2 1 6 .1 0 fo u n d th e ir a c c o u n t fo u n d ad van tage o r pro fit . 2 1 7 .8 S a liq u e la w the law w h ich in F rance w as cited to exclu d e fem ales fro m d yn astic succession. 2 1 7 . 1 4 M ic h a e l S c o tt m athem atician , p h ysician , and translator o f A r is ­ totle , w h o lived c. 1 1 7 5 – c . 12 3 4 . A f ter his death he acqu ired hu ge, tho u gh u n d eserved , fam e as a m agician, an d is m en tion ed b y both D a n te an d B o c ca c ­ cio. H e also figu res in T he L a y o f the L a st M in stre l (see S c o tt’s note in P o etic a l W orks, 6 .24 7– 49). 2 1 7 .1 8 s w o r d . . . la th strip s o f w ood w ere u sed as sw o rd s b y the V ic e in M o ra lity p lays: see 2 H en ry V I, 4 .2 .1 – 2 and T welft h N ig h t, 4 .2 .1 2 0 – 24. 2 1 7 .2 8 h is go ld c h a in , a n d h is w h it e ro d see note to 3 3 .2 6 – 2 7. 2 1 7 .3 8 let s . . . to w it lets k no w , in fo rm s. 2 17 .4 0 –4 1 th e c o n g re g a tio n o f go sp e lle rs the S c o ttish refo rm ed ch u rch (fo r congregation also see note to 12 0 .4 3 ). 2 1 7 .4 2 D r y fe s d a le la rgely a fiction al character, th ou gh Ja m e s D ry sd a le w as one o f the gu ard s at L o c h le v e n . O n 2 Ja n u a r y 15 6 9 M a r y w ro te that ‘Ja m e s D ry isd a ill, ane o f the laird o f L o c h le v in ’s servan d is, b ein g ev ill conten t o f the gu id service q u h ilk the said W illiam d id u n to u s, said, in presence o f sum o f o ur servan d is, that g if ev er he m et w ith h im , he sou ld p u t his han dis in his hart-b lu id , qu hatev er m ig h t fo llo w th airu p on , and as to u s, he sou ld give u s to the hart w ith ane q u h in g er’ (L a b a n o ff, L e ttre s . . . de M a rie S tu art, 2 .2 6 4 ). T h is letter w as parap hrased b y C h alm ers ( 1.2 7 8 ) , an d w as c ited b y S c o tt in The M agnum ( 2 1.2 3 8 ) as the sou rce fo r D ry fe sd a le ’s role in the n o v el. T h e ‘W illiam ’ m en­ tion ed w as W illiam D o u g la s, w h o p layed the p art in M a r y ’s escape assign ed b y S c o tt to R o la n d G ræ m e . T h e nam e D ry fe sd a le (the ‘ f is silen t) d erives fro m a p arish in D u m frie ssh ire , in S W S c o tlan d, o f w h ich the village o f L o c k e rb ie (see 3 1 6 .2 2 ) is a p art . 2 1 8 .2 S a in t P e t e r’ s p a th w a y the path o f the R o m a n C a tho lic ch urch . 2 1 8 .1 4 E lia s H en d erso n a ficti ti o u s character, altho u gh the H en d erso n s o f F o rd e l w ere p ro m in en t in W F ife at th is p erio d . T h e p ro m in en t P re s b y terian d ivin e A lexan d er H en d erso n (c. 15 8 9 – 16 4 6 ) w as p ro b ab ly descend ed fro m the fam ily. 2 1 8 .3 3 – 38 m o tto no t id en ti f i e d : p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 2 1 9 .1 4 t h e re g u la r d in n e r-t im e aro un d noon (com pare 3 2 2 .1 3 ) .

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2 1 9 .1 9 –2 0 d a n c e d . . . tim e s com pare R ic h a rd I I , 3 .4 .6 – 2 3. 2 2 0 .19 in a g it a t io n u n d er discu ssion or con sid eration. 2 2 2 .3 6 –3 7 s e r v i n g . . . the d e v il fo r G o d ’ s sak e pro verbial (O D E P , 7 15 ) . O D E P c ites o n ly th is in stance o f the p ro verb , w h ich m ay have originated w ith S c o tt. 2 2 3 .7 m a b o n n e a m ie French m y good friend . 2 2 3 .7 – 8 m a d e h is p a r t y . . . p le a su re M a r y is perhap s recalling the F re n c h phrase, ‘ faire u n e p artie de plaisir’ . 2 2 3 .1 1 H u g u e n o t see note to 82.24. 2 2 3.2 0 in m y r o o m in m y place (w ith specific reference to his office as page: see O E D , ‘ roo m ’ 13 b ). 2 2 4 .3 6 S a in t S e r f 's isla n d nam ed a fter S t S e r f, o r Serv an u s, a 6th centu ry b ish o p , the island w as once the site o f a settlem ent o f C u ld ees, and later o f an A u g u stinian p riory. 2 2 5 .2 7 G o to com e, com e! 2 2 6 .1 8– 19 re d c o lo u r o f th e tro u t s L o c h le v e n has been celebrated fo r ‘excellent t ro u ts; the best and redd est I ever saw ’ (Pen nant, 1 .8 3 ) . T h ese trou t are a sub-sp ecies (salm o trutta levenensis) o f the b row n tro u t. 2 2 6 .2 1 jo u r d e jeû n e French day o f fasting. 2 26 .28 b u ll tro u t a fo rm o f the sea-tro u t, so-called p ro b ab ly because o f its large size. 226 .30 h e r lin g s . . . the N i th acco rd in g to the O E D h erlin g is ‘ the nam e, on the S c o ttish shore o f the So lw a y F i r th , fo r the fish Sa lm o albus'. T h e N ith flow s in to the S o lw a y S o f D u m fries. 2 2 6 .30 – 3 1 v e n d is s e s . . . L o c h m a b e n n o rm ally called the vendace, a species o f w h itefish (coregonus alb u la vandesius) u n iqu e to L o ch m a b en loch— see t hom as P en n an t, B r itish Z o ology, 4 vols (L o n d o n , 17 6 8 – 70), 3.2 6 8 . L o c h ­ m aben is stressed on the second syllable (pron ou n ced ‘ m ay’ ). 2 26 .43– 2 2 7 .2 p o o rest b e g g a r . . . M a r y o f S c o tla n d com pare the follow ­ in g verse fro m the son g ‘M a r y Q ueen o f S c o ts L a m e n t’ : ‘T h e m eanest hind in fair S c o tla n d / M a y rove their sw eets a m a n g ;/ B u t I, the Q ueen o f a ’ S c o tla n d ,/ M a u n lie in priso n stran g ’ (Jam es Jo h n so n , T h e S c o ts M u sica l M useum , 6 vols (E d in b u rgh , 17 8 7 – 18 0 3 ), 5 .4 17 ) . 2 2 7 .1 la n d w a r d to w n a cou ntry dw ellin g. In S c o ts a town is a farm and its associated d w ellin gs. 2 2 7 .1 7 – 18 c o m p ly w ith th e g ra n d ru le o f d æ m o n o lo g y b y sp eak in g fi r s t the ‘ grand ru le ’ has no t been traced. 2 2 8 .2 3 T h e y a re m o r e they are m ore n u m erou s (see O E D ‘m o re’ , ad j., 3c). 2 2 8 .39 sq u ire o f d a m e s the nam e o f a character in S p e n se r’s T he F a erie Q ueene, B o o k 3 C a n to 7. 2 2 9 .4 B r u c e a n d W a lla c e S c o ttish patrio ts. W illiam W allace (c. 12 7 0 – 13 0 5 ) resisted the attem p t o f E d w a rd I to an nex S co d an d . H e w as captu red in 13 0 5 and sent to L o n d o n w h ere he w as tried fo r treason and beheaded. R o b e rt B ru c e (12 7 4 – 13 2 9 ) join ed W allace’ s u p risin g, and w as cro w n ed k in g in 13 0 6 . B y 13 0 7 he had cleared the E n g lish fro m S c o d an d (w ith the excep ti o n o f S ti r l i n g C astle w h ich did n o t fall u n ti l 1 3 1 4 ) . 2 2 9 .1 2 G a n e lo n G a n o r G an elo n o f M ayen ce , the step -fa ther o f R o lan d in the Chanson de R o la n d , and ‘ alw ays represen ted as a faith less traitor, engaged in in trigu es fo r the d estru c ti o n o f C h risti a n i ty ’ (P rose W orks, 6 .15 0 ) . 2 30 .2 2– 2 4 r a ise d fr o m a p e tty p e n s io n e r . . . the st a t e in 15 3 8 M o ra y (then a child) was gran ted the p rio ry o f S t A n d rew s b y his father Ja m e s V . H e rem ained p rio r even a fter em bracin g P ro testanti s m , and o n ly in 15 6 2 d id M a r y m ake him E a rl o f M o ra y . 2 3 1 .25– 3 1 m o tto no t id en tifi e d : p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 2 3 1 .3 4 ‘th i c k -c o m in g fa n c ie s’ M acbeth , 5 .3 .3 8 .

5 1 0

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2 3 3 .2 D a g o n o f S u p e r s tit ion fo r D ag o n , a god o f the P h ilisti n e s , see 1 Sam u el C h . 5. 2 3 3 .4 h ig h p la c e s o f B a a l see N u m b e rs 2 2 .4 1 and Je re m ia h 3 2 .2 5 . 2 3 3 .8– 9 th o u a r t th e m a n 2 S a m u el 1 2 .7 . 2 3 3 .1 0 – 1 1 th e p e a c e . . . p a la c e s see P salm 12 2 .7 . 2 3 3 .1 4 sy re n s fab u lou s creatu res that had the po w er o f d raw in g m en to their d estru c ti o n b y their so n g . T h ey w ere rep resen ted as b ird s w ith the heads o f w om en. 2 3 3 .3 6 o ne c a n n o t se rv e tw o m a s t ers see M a tthew 6.24 : ‘ N o m an can serve tw o m aste r s . . . Y e cannot serve G o d and m am m o n’ ; also in L u k e 1 6 .1 3 . 2 3 5.20– 2 1 N e a c c e sse ris in c o n siliu m n isi v o c a tu s L a tin do n o t go in to the cou n cil u n less called: p ro verbial (com pare O D E P , 1 3 5 ; R a y , 2 8 4 ). T h e p ro verb w as collected b y E rasm u s (c. 14 6 0 – 1 536)— see his A d a g ia (V en ice, 15 0 8 ) , f . 3 1 r. 2 3 5 .2 1 – 2 2 W h o h a th re q u ire d th is a t y o u r h an d ? Isaiah 1 . 1 2 . 2 3 5 .2 4 – 25 to b e earn e st . . . seaso n com pare 2 t im o th y 4 .2. 2 3 5 .2 8 – 2 9 I s e e . . . la d y H en d erso n recalls Jo h n K n o x ’s reacti o n to his second ‘ c o m m u n in g’ w ith M a r y , in A p ril 15 6 2 : ‘A n d the said lo h n [K n o x ] dep arted , w ith a reasonable m erry cou n tenance; w h ereat som e P a p ists o ffen d ed , said, H e is not afraid ; w h ich heard b y him , he an sw ered, W h y shou ld the pleasant face o f a L a d y afray m e: I have looked in the faces o f m an y an gry m en , and y e t have n o t been afraid abo ve m easu re’ ( K n o x , 3 36 ). 2 3 6 .2 3 – 2 4 it is n o t to th e t a len t s . . . in c re a se com pare 1 C o rin thians 3.6– 7 · 2 3 6 .4 2 h u n g e re d a n d th irs ted com pare M a tthew 5.6. 2 36 .4 3 w a t c h e d a n d p r a y e d com m on B ib lic a l phraseology: see fo r in ­ stance M a rk 1 3 .3 3 . 237.3– 7 s h a k e . . . P h ilis t in es see thestory ofSamson: Judges 16 .2 5 – 30. 2 3 7 .1 1 b y e -w a y s sid e-roads— u sed figu rati v e l y and d ep reciati v e l y (as in Jo h n B u n y a n ’ s P ilg rim 's Progress) sin ce the 1 5 th centu ry : see O E D ‘b y -w a y ’ 2. 2 3 7 .1 6 – 1 7 str o n g . . . tow e r o f d efen ce com pare P ro v e rb s 1 8 .1 0 : ‘t h e nam e o f the L o r d is a stro n g tow er: the rig h teous ru n n eth in to it, and is safe’ . 2 3 7 .2 1 en c h a m p clo s Fren ch in the lists. 2 3 7 .2 2 t h e p a r t ie is n o t e q u a l it is an u n fair contest : a literal tran slati o n o f the F re n c h exp ressio n , ‘ L a p arti e n ’est pas égale’ . 2 3 7 .2 3 I a m t ie d to th e st ake like a bear baited b y dogs. C o m p a re K in g L e a r, 3 .7 .5 3 an d M acbeth , 5 .7 .1 . 2 3 7 .4 6 r e a s o n s . .. fo r th e fa ith th a t is in m e com pare 1 P e te r 3 . 1 5. 2 38 .4 q u ic k s ilv e r in h is v e in s see note to 16 2 .6 . 2 38 .8– 9 C a n o u r s a lv a t i o n . . . fe a r a n d tr e m b lin g see P h ilip p ia n s 2 .1 2 . 2 3 8 .1 6 – 1 7 n o r c a n w e tr a n s fe r th em . . . to th e b e n efit o f oth er s M a r y ap parently regard s h er penances as w o rk s o f sup erero gati o n , good w o rk s w h ich , acco rd in g to R o m a n C a th o lic teaching, are beyo n d w h at G o d req u ires, and con sti tu te a store o f m erit w h ich the ch u rch m ay d ispen se to others to m ake up fo r their d eficien cies. T his teach in g w as den oun ced b y refo rm ers o f the 16 th centu ry . 2 3 8 .2 3 go ld t esto on s in fact a silver coin, bearin g a p o rtrait o f M a r y S tew art, issu ed b etw een 1 5 5 3 and 15 6 2 , and w o rth 4 sh illin gs S c o ts (4d. s terlin g; 1 .5p). t h e F re n c h ‘ teston ’ , tho u gh w o rth m o re (about 1 8 d. sterlin g; 7 .5 p ), w as also silver. 2 3 9 .3 a n cie n t le a v e n see 1 C o rin thians 5.6– 8. 2 39 .2 6 – 2 7 o f th e n e w e st b lo c k o f the latest fashion (se e A B D , 1.4 0 6 , note). 2 39 .36 – 39 b e a r - w a r d . . . ja c k -a n -a p e s b ear-w ard s trained apes as w ell

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as bears. C o m p a re M uch A d o A bou t N o thing, 2 .1.3 4 – 35. 2 4 0 .1 6 la y it ou t spend it. 2 4 0 .18 – 2 2 m o tto see W illiam S o m erv ile ( 16 7 5 - 1 7 4 2 ) , H obbinol, or the R u ra l G am es, 3 rd edn (L o n d o n , 1 740), 68: C L A , 30 9 . T h e quotation is freely ad apted. 240 .36 t u rn e d h is g ird le see note to 1 7 1 .5. 2 4 1 . 1 – 2 K in g d o m o f F if e see no te to 18 9 .7 . 2 4 1 .3 o f th a t ilk o f the place o f the sam e nam e: the L u n d in fam ily d erives its nam e fro m the castle o f L u n d in , in F ife . 2 4 1.2 8 H e rc u le s o f S a x o n y I talian ph ysician (15 5 0 ? – 1 607). S c o tt dis­ covered this reference in W h itlock (see n ext no te). 2 4 1 .28 o m n is c u r a d o est v e l c a n ó n ic a v e l co a c t a L a tin ev ery cure is either b y ru le, or b y constrain t. W h itlock, attack in g ignorant doctors, w rites that ‘W hereas Om nis curatio est v e l canónica, v e l coacta ; as H ercules de S a x o n ia tru ly ; all cu re is either regu lar b y A r t, or irregu lar b y con strain t, it is all one to them ’ (W h itlock, 87). 2 4 1.2 9 a d u n g u e m L a tin p erfectly (lite ra lly to the nail). C o m pare L o v e ' s Labours L o st, 5 .1 .6 5 – 67. 2 4 1 .3 3 fi a t m ix tio L a tin let it be a m ix tu re. 2 4 1.3 6 p rim æ v iæ L a tin the p rin cip al passages. 2 4 1.3 8 t u to , c ito , ju cu n d o L a tin safely, q u ick ly, pleasand y. D escrib ed b y W h itlock as ‘ those three S ea m arks g u id in g to the H av en o f H ealth s’ (89). 242.1 t h e c o w l m a k e s n o t th e m o n k p ro verbial (com pare O D E P , 1 5 2 , R a y , 2 9 7, an d H en ry V I I I , 3 .1 .2 3 ) . 2 4 2 .5 h it-o r -m is s p r a c tice W h itlock ( 1 1 5 ) attacks those ‘ w hose practi s e in P h ysic k is noth in g b u t the C o u n tre y dance, c all’d H it or M isse' 24 2 .6 a sh o rt c lo a k a n d d o u b let characte risti c dress fo r the scholar: com pare C h a u c er’s d escrip tion o f the C le rk o f O xen fo rd ( The C an terbury T ales, I ( A ) 290). 24 2 .8 lo n g a ro b b a co rt a sc ie n zia I ta lia n lo n g cloak, sh ort learning. C o m ­ pare W h itlock, 1 0 1 , w ho w rites o f doctors ‘ o f V alentia ' w ho b u y their degrees, ‘ o f w h om the I ta lia n P ro verb saith , D octor d i V alenza, Lo n ga R obba, C orta S cien z a . S o the G o w n be long, no m atter how sh ort the S c h o lar’ . 2 4 2 .1 1 le a rn e d T h e b a n see K in g L e a r, 3 .4 .1 5 3 . 2 4 2 .1 5 B o d y 0 ’m e b o d y o f m e, an oath fo u n d freq u en tly in the old dram a: e.g. H en ry V I I I , 5 .2 .2 2 . 2 4 2 .1 6 Jo h n A u c h te rm u c h ty the nam e derives fro m a tow n in F ife, abou t 1 3 km N E o f L o ch leven . 2 4 2 .2 2 – 23 h a th . . . on h a n d has in his k eeping, is charged w ith. 2 4 2 .2 8 K e ir y -c r a ig s a grou p o f rocks near K e lty-b rid g e, and b elo n gin g to the B la ir-A d a m estate, w h ich S c o tt had v isited in 1 8 1 7 . S e e L o c k h a rt, 5.26 . 2 4 2 .3 5– 3 6 in b r ie f seaso n in a sh ort ti m e . 2 4 2 .3 8 t h e sch o o l o f S a le rn o Salerno, in sou thern I taly, w as the site o f a fam ou s m ed ical school in the M id d le A g e s and R en aissan ce, a fter w h ich a po pu lar m ed ieval handbook o f rem edies (the S ch o la S a le m itan a, or ‘ Sch o o l o f S a lern o ’ , rep u ted ly w ritten fo r R o b e rt, D u k e o f N o rm a n d y, aroun d 109 9) was nam ed. 2 4 2 .39 – 40 P o c u lu m . . . e x h au st a m L a tin a cu p draw n in the m o rn in g restores exh au sted natu re (in other w o rds, cures a h an go ver). T his passage is no t presen t in the L a tin ‘ Sch o ol o f Sa le rn o ’ ( o f w h ich no cop y is reco rded in C L A ). P o ssib ly S c o tt m ade his ow n L a tin re -translation o f the fo llow in g passage in S ir Jo h n H a rin g ton ’s version : ‘ I f w in e have o ver n igh t a su rfet b ro u gh t, / A th in g w e w ish to you should hap pen seld :/ t h e n earely in the m o rn in g drinke a drau gh t, / A n d that a kind o f rem ed y shall y ee ld ’ ( th e E n glish M an s D octor. Or, t h e Schoole o f S a lerne (L o n d o n , 16 2 4 ; C L A , 10 7 ), 6).

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2 4 2 .4 3 N o t a w h it not in the least, no t at a ll. 2 4 2 .4 3– 2 4 3.1 sack , im p r e g n a t ed w ith w o rm w o o d d esp ite the b itter­ ness o f w o rm w oo d, its m ed icinal q u alities w ere h igh ly esteem ed . T o bias V en n er, in V ia R ecta a d V itam Longam (L o n d o n , 16 2 0 ), 16 6 (com pare C L A , 1 1 9 ) , w rites that w h ite w in e ‘ w h erein a fe w branches o f w orm ew ood have fo r certaine hou res b in in fu s e d . . . w ill d e n s e the stom acke, liv er, gall, and spleen e, d iscu sse w in din ess, cause them to have a good ap petite to m eat, to be free fro m w o rm es, the Iau n d ice, and other disease p ro ceed in g o f ch o ler’ . 2 4 3 .10 P la g u e the plagu e d ev astated th e p o p u lation o f E u ro p e in the 1 4th centu ry ; there w ere m an y later ep id em ics, in clu d in g a serious outbreak in E d in b u rg h in 1 568– 6 9. 2 4 3 .2 4 fa c ie s h ip p o c ra tic a L a tin the H ip p o cratic façade: ‘ F a c ie s H yp p o cratica is w h en the N o s trils are sh arp , the E y e s hollow , the t em p les lo w , the L a p s o f the E a rs contracted, an d th e L o b e s In v ersed , the S k in about the F o r e ­ head hard, and d ry ; the C o m p lexio n pale, liv id , o f a leaden C o lo u r, or B la c k ’ ( S teph en B lan card , T he P h y sic a l D ic tio n a ry (L o n d o n , 16 8 4 ), 12 8 — this d escrip ­ tion clo sely fo llow s G alen ). W h itlock com m ents that the su fferer ‘ looketh (it m ay be) as i f his F u n e ra ll S e rm o n w ere preach t, and his fo u r dayes in the G r a v e past’ (12 0 ). 2 4 3 .2 8 fo r h is o w n sin g le p a r t fo r h is o w n part alone, on his ow n. 24 4 .3 h is p o d a g r a . . . c h ir a g r a h is go u t in the foot has becom e gou t in the hand: in other w o rds, he is u n w illin g to pay. S e e M a r tial (c. 4 0 - 1 0 3 ) , E pigram s, 1 .98. M a r tial refers to the law , b u t the sam e joke, ap plied to the m ed ical p ro fes­ sion, can be fo u nd in W h itlock, 12 7 . 2 4 4 .0 P r æ m ia c u m p o sc it m e d ic u s , S a th a n est L a tin w h en the p h y si­ cian asks fo r recom pense, he is S a tan: p ro verb ial (O D E P , 622). C o m p are W h itlock, 1 30: ‘n ow no sigh t so u n p leasin g as their unsatisfied D o c tor; h is feet are cloven n o w . . . P ræ m ia cum poscit M ed icu s; va de S a tan. D o c tors ill A n g e ls are, that G o ld e n A sk e ’ . 2 4 4 .1 1 J u s t got th e tu r n I ju st reached th e tu rn in g po int (fo r the b etter). 2 4 4 .18 m o r e S c o tico L a tin in the S c o ttish m anner. 2 4 4 .2 2 – 2 3 E c c le s ia s tic u s s a ith . . . n eed o f h im E cclesiasticu s 3 8 .1 (A p o ­ cry p h a). T h e qu otation is fo u n d in W h itlock, 8 1 . A lso com pare the p ro verb ‘H o n o u r a p h ysician before thou hast need o f h im ’ (R a y , 3 1 8 ; O D E P , 38 2 ). 2 4 4 .28 E s c u la p iu s G re e k an d R o m a n god o f m edicine. 2 4 4 .36 Je w is h p h y la c terie s a p h y la c tery is a sm all leather b o x con ta in in g passages o f S c r ip tu re w ritten on p arch m en t, and w orn b y the Je w s to rem in d them to keep the law ; b u t S c o tt, p erh ap s m isled b y M a tthew 2 3 .5 , ap pears to have conflated this b o x w ith the frin g ed b o rd ers w h ich the Israelites w ere com m and ed to w ear in N u m b e rs 1 5 .3 8 – 39 . C o m p are K en ilw o rth , e e w n 1 1 , 2 8 9 .39 – 40. 2 4 4 .39 C e ls u s A u lu s C o rn eliu s C e lsu s (flou rished 1 st centu ry a d ) , R o m a n m ed ical w riter, and au tho r o f the treatise D e M ed icin a , w h ich w as h ig h ly po pu lar in the R en aissan ce. 244.40 M o ther N ic n e v e n ‘ the nam e given to the grand M o ther W itch, the v e ry H ecate o f S c o ttish po pu lar su p erstition. H e r nam e w as bestow ed , in one or tw o in stances, u pon sorceresses, w h o w ere held to resem ble her b y their su p er­ io r skill in “ H e ll’s black gram m ar’” (M a g n u m , 2 1 . 1 1 7 ) . A lso see M in strelsy, 2 .3 2 5 · 2 4 4 .4 1 – 4 2 H a v e a t th y c o a t, O ld W o m a n a po pu lar son g o f the 1 7 th cen tu ry , d erivin g fro m the refrain o f a ballad fo u n d in the P e p y s C o lle c tion , ‘A m erry new S o n g o f a rich W id d o w es w o o in g ,/ t hat m arried a y o u n g m an to her ow n e u n d oo in g’ ( T he P epys B a lla d s, ed. H y d e r E d w ard R o llin s, 8 vo ls (C am ­ b rid ge, M assach u setts, 19 2 9 – 3 2 ), 1.2 5 8 ) . I t w as also the nam e o f a cou n tr y dance: see th e E n glish D ancing M a ster (L o n d o n , 1 6 5 1 ) , 3 8 . T h e phrase is u sed b y

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W h itlock (45) to attack the ‘P e tticoat P rac titio n e r . . . w hose know ledge is S im p le s, P ra c tise the m isap p lyin g o f them , C h a rity , M an slau gh ter, C reed , a R e c e ip t-B o o k , and L ib r a r y an H erb a ll ' . 2 4 5 .10 – 1 1 B rie r ie -b a u lk lite ra lly an unploughed rid ge covered w ith briars. 2 4 5 .1 2 M o n c r ie ff o f T ip p e r m a llo c h a collateral branch o f the M o n ­ c r e iff fa m ily, w hose seat w as in S trathearn , about 1 3 km W o f P e rth. In 15 6 8 the p ro p erty belon ged to W illiam M o n c r e iff o f T ipperm alloch ( 15 4 4 – 16 0 5 ). 2 4 5 .12 – 1 3 C a r s lo g ie 2 km S W o f C u p a r in F ife , the seat o f the C lep h an e fam ily. In 15 6 8 the laird w as G eo rg e C leph an e: see S ir R o b e rt D o u g las, T he B aro n age o f S c o tla n d (E d in b u rgh , 17 9 8 ), 3 1 8 . 2 4 5 .14 – 1 5 m a k e a b re a k -o u t e ru p t in to violence. 2 4 5 .2 4 – 2 5 fire a n d fa g g o t b u rn in g (u su ally o f h eretics: see O E D , ‘ fag­ got’ 2a). 245.40 re d d in g h im u p p u ttin g h im in order. 246 .20 In ter n o s L a tin b etw een ourselves. 24 6 .36 – 38 s y r u p s . . . p ill W h itlock w rites o f quack doctors that ‘ I f D ia ­ scordium faile them , have at M ith ridateyi f that faile them , then E n ter m y L a d y K e n ts P o w d er' ( 5 1) . L a ter he com plain s o f p atients w h o refu se propier m ed i­ cin es, and in stead ask ‘w h at think yo u S ir o f yo u r w h at-sh a’ com e W ater and D iasco rd , su re it cou ld no t be am isse’ ( 1 2 1 ) . F o r ju le p and m ith rid ate see the glo ssary; diascordium w as a po pu lar rem ed y m ade o f the dried leaves o f T eucrium Scordium alon g w ith m an y other herbs. 246.40 w ise w o m e n beneficent w itches, dealing in charm s again st disease. C o m p are W h itlock, 56– 5 7: ‘B u t O how it sou n ds, to be called M istresse D octor, a K n ow in g W om an, а good B o d y, & c '. 2 4 7.1 u n d e r y o u r fa v o u r b y yo u r leave. 2 4 7 .3 w e ll m o v e d w ell u rged , su ggested. 2 4 7 .5 t o t u s m u n d u s a g it h istrio n e m L a tin the w hole w o rld p lays the actor . T h e sayin g in its original fo rm (‘ totus m u n d u s . . . exerceat h istrio n em ’ ) d erives fro m the P o ly cra ticus o f Jo h n o f S a lisb u ry (d. 118 0 ) : se e Joannis Sa resb erien sis . . . O pera O m nia, ed. J . A . G ile s , 5 vols (O xford , 18 4 8 ), 3 .1 8 3 . Jo h n in tu rn attrib u ted the sentim en t, i f not the w o rd s them selves, to P e tron iu s (d. a d 66). In the version that S c o tt uses the w o rd s becam e the m o tto o f the G lo b e theatre, w h ich w as b u ilt in 15 9 9 ( c o m p a r e d Y ou L ik e I t, 2 .7 .1 3 9 – 42). T h e sayin g is also qu o ted in Z o o tom ia: ‘H e that said, T otus M undus a g it H istor ionem , the w h ole w o rld are b u t S tage-P la yers, w as a w ise S p e c tator o f the P layes o f life, c all’d bu sin esse, and o f its A c tor s ’ (W h itlock, 17 ). 2 4 9 .5– 10 m o tto W illiam S o m erv ile, H obbinol, or the R u ra l G am es, 10 . 2 4 9 .2 2 st a v in g a n d t a ilin g separatin g the com batants in bear-b aitin g or b u ll-b aitin g b y beatin g o f f the bear o r b u ll w ith a staff, and d raggin g o f f the dogs b y the tail. 249 .29– 30 R o se w a l an d L ili a n an old verse rom ance, p rin ted as T he P lea sa n t H istory o f R o sw al a n d L illia n (no place or date o f p u blication); S c o tt possessed a m an u scrip t co p y (C L A , 10 4 ), taken fro m a p rin ted te x t b elo n gin g to F ra n c is D o u ce (now held b y the B o d leian L ib ra ry ). In a note to S ir t ristrem S c o tt recalls that ‘W ith in the m em o ry o f m an, an old person u sed to p eram bulate the streets o f E d in b u rg h , sin gin g, in a m onotonous cadence, the tale o f R o sew al and L ilia n ’ (P o etic a l W orks, 5 .407). O f particu lar relevance to The A bbot is a passage in w h ich the hero frees som e o f his father ’ s priso n ers, havin g first stolen the keys to their cells: ‘t h e n p riv ily the k eys h e’s ta n e ,/ A n d to the priso n ers h e’s g a n e ,/ F o r to relieve these th ree’ (R o sw a l a n d L illia n , 3). 250 .6 t h e ru d e sh ew s o f T h e s p i s . . . The st a g e o f A then s T h e sp is, rep u ted to be the fo u n d er o f G re e k traged y , flourished in the 6th centu ry b c ; E u rip id e s (c. 484– 406 вc ) w as the last o f the great A thenian tragic dram atists.

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2 5 0 .12 – 1 3 B o tto m . . . green p lo t . . . Ty rin g -h o u se B o ttom , in A M id ­ sum m er N ig h t 's D ream , is one o f the ru stic actors w h o reso lv e that, ‘ T h is green p lo t shall b e o ur stage, this h aw thorn brake our tirin g -h o u se ’ ( 3 .1 . 3 – 4). 2 5 0 .2 4 p a rd o n e r o r q u æ st io n a ry thou gh S c o tt treats the w o rd s as syn ­ o n ym s, the O E D gives no other exam ple o f ‘ quæ stio n ary’ b e in g u sed in this sense: the m o re norm al fo rm is ‘ qu estor ’ . 2 50 .2 6 a ll-lic e n s e d fo o l K in g L e a r, 1 .4 .19 9 . 2 5 0 .3 1 – 3 2 e v e r a n d an o n ev ery now and then. 2 5 0 .3 8 – 40 n u m e ro u s sa t i r e s . . . d r a m a t ic fo r m th e role played in the R e fo rm a tion b y su ch satires w as o ften noted (the m o st celeb rated b e in g A n e S a ty r e o f the t hree E sta itis, w ritten c. 1 5 3 5 b y S ir D a v id L in d s a y ). S e e fo r in stan ce [J. G . D a ly ell], S c o tish Poem s, 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 0 1 ) , 1 . 3 0 –3 1 : C L A , 1 7 3 . D a ly e ll also com m ents that ‘ these m y steries an d m o raliti e s . . . w ere p erfo rm ed in the open air; and the apparatus req u ired , w as as sim p le as the p la y ’ (13 1). 250 .40 – 4 1 P r in c e o f D e n m a r k . . . h is o w n p e n n in g H am let, w h o asks the p layers to in sert som e lines o f his ow n in to their p la y (see H am let, 2 .2 .5 3 3 – 36 ). 2 5 1 . 1 6– 1 7 s a t i r e . . . C h a u c e r . . . H e y w o o d fo r C h a u c e r’s P a rd o n er see T he C a n terbu ry T a les, ‘ G en era l P ro lo gu e’ , lines 669– 7 1 4 . Jo h n H eyw o o d ( 1 497?– 1 580?) w as the author o f satirical p lays in c lu d in g T he F o u r P s ( 15 4 7 ? ; A B D 1 .1 – 2 2 ), in w h ich a pard on er boasts o f sp u rio u s relics ( 1 . 1 3 – 14 ) an d en gages in a ly in g com p etition. 2 5 1 .1 8 p ig ’ s b o n es see T he C an terbu ry T ales, ‘ G e n e ra l P ro lo g u e ’ , line 700. 2 5 1 .20 L o r e tto near A n co n a in I taly, and the site o f a sh rin e o f the V irg in w h ich w as a p o p u lar place o f pilgrim age. 2 5 1 .2 1 t h e sh rin e o f S a in t J a m e s o f C o m p o s t e lla S a n tiago d e C o m ­ p o stela, in G a lic ia , N W S p ain , is the site o f a sh rin e said to co n tain the b o d y o f the ap ostle Ja m e s ; it w as one o f the m ost im p o rtan t p laces o f p ilgrim age in the M id d le A g e s. 2 5 1 .26– 4 5 L i s tn eth . . . sn ese the lines are b y S c o tt, in im itation o f the sty le o f H e y w o o d ’s T he F o u r P s. 2 5 1 .2 7 B a b y lo n e capital o f the P ersian em p ire, to w h ic h the J e w s w ere e xiled in the tim e o f D an ie l and Su san n a (6th centu ry в c ) . 2 5 1 .3 3 sn o ttr e th the S c o ts verb snotter is defin ed b y the O E D as ‘ to sn ivel or sn u ffle in w e ep in g ’ ; S c o tt ap parently u sed it in this co n te x t as a joke. 2 5 1 .3 5 c h a s t S u sa n n e Su san n a figu res in the G r e e k te x t o f the book o f D a n ie l, an d in th e A p o c ryp h a o f the A u th orised V e rsio n in ‘ T h e H is tor y o f S u sa n n a ’ . S h e resisted the attem p t o f tw o eld ers to sed u ce h er, b u t on their false accu sation she w as then fo u nd g u ilty o f ad u lte ry and con d em n ed to death, b efo re b e in g v in d icated b y D an iel. 2 5 1 .45 w o ld sh e n o ld w h ether she w ished to o r n o t. 2 5 1 .4 5 sh e s h a ll sn ese a com parable d evice fo r d e term in in g v irg in ity m ay be fo u n d in t hom as M id d le ton and W illiam R o w le y , t h e C h an gelin g ( 16 2 3 ) , 4 .1 . 2 5 2 .1 t h e D rin k in g H o rn o f K in g A r th u r ‘ M o rg a in , the false en chant­ ress, h ad con stru c ted a d rin k in g-h orn , o u t o f w h ich no m arrie d w om an cou ld drin k w ith o u t sp illin g , u nless she had been u n ifo rm ly fa ith fu l to h er h u s b a n d . . . b u t o f all the la d ie s . . . fo u r o n ly cou ld drink w ith o u t sp illin g the w in e’ (note to S ir T ristrem , in P o etic a l W orks, 5 .4 4 1) . T his sum m arises the stor y told in T he W orks o f S ir t hom as M a lo ry , ed. E u g èn e V in a v e r, 3 v o ls (3 rd edn , O x fo rd , 19 9 0 ), 1 .4 2 9 – 30 (com pare C L A , 12 2 ). F o r a fu ller acco u n t o f bo th h o rn and m an tle see E n glish a n d S c o ttish B a lla d s, ed. F ra n c is Ja m e s C h ild , 8 v o ls (B o ston, 18 5 7 – 5 8), 1 . 1 – 5 · 2 5 2 .1 – 2 th e M a n tle m a d e A m is s

see ‘ t h e M a n tle M a d e A m is s ’ , a

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F re n c h tale o f the 1 6 th cen tu ry , in F a b lia u x or T ales, trans. G . L . W ay, 2 vols (L o n d o n , 17 9 6 ), 1 .87– 10 0 (C L A , 18 7 ); see also ‘T h e B o y and the M a n tle ’ , in P e rc y , 3 . 1 – 1 1 . T h e m antle w o u ld o n ly fit a chaste w om an. 2 5 3 .1 5 – 1 6 p u t h is jest u p o n m ade the b u tt o f his joke. 2 5 3 .2 1 v in e g a r o f th e su n the m eaning is unclear. P o ssib ly S c o tt sim p ly m eans vin egar con centrated b y evaporation in the sun ; alternatively, L u n d in m ay be try in g to m y stify his listen ers b y u sin g term s redolent o f alchem y: com pare, fo r in stance, the ‘V inaigre des M on tagnes, c ’est à dire du So leil & de la L u n e ’ (‘vin egar o f the m o u n tains, that is to say o f the sun and the m oon’), d escrib ed in [N ico las Salo m on ?], B ib lio thèque des Philosophes Chym iques, 2 vols (P aris, 16 8 3 ), 2 .14 6 . 2 5 4 .1 2 – 1 3 lik e a g r e y -h o u n d i n the slip s see H en ry V , 3 .1 .3 1 . 2 5 4 .18 T h e seu s to th is H ip p o lita t h e seus, legen d ary k in g o f A thens, con qu ered the A m azo n s, a race o f fem ale w arriors, and took their queen H ip p o ­ lita as his w ife. 2 5 4 .3 3 D is c e m it . . . a se llu s L a tin the w ise m an d istin gu ish es w hat the fool con foun ds. S c o tt took the L a tin fro m W h itlock (53), w h o in tu rn quoted fro m the fo u r-vo lu m e em blem -book Sym bulorum et Em blem atum (N u rem b erg, 1 590– 16 0 4 ), b y Jo a c h im C am erariu s the yo u n ger ( 15 3 4 – 98). E ither S c o tt or L u n d in an glicised ‘ C am era riu s’ as ‘ C h a m b ers’ . T h e em blem to w h ich the pas­ sage relates m ay be fo u n d in V o l. 2 ( 1 5 9 5 ) , p. 82 (nu m ber 74); it dep icts a m ule w h ich , ‘laden w ith S a lt, accidentally tou ch in g the w ater w ith his B u rd e n , was p resen tly eased o f it, the S a lt m eltin g aw ay, m aking his o bservatio n s . . . Thought to do so, w h en laden w ith W ooll; b u t to his heavinesse fo u n d it otherw ise, the w et en creasin g the w eigh t o f his L o a d , and a fter w o u ld su ffer no B u r then to touch the w ate r’ (W h itlock, 52). 2 5 5 .1 4 gest ic lo re the art o f dancing. S e e O liver G o ld sm ith, ‘T h e T ravel­ le r’ (17 6 4 ), line 2 5 3 . 2 5 5 .2 2 – 23 p a v e n s, la v o lt as, a n d c o u ra n to es com pare H en ry V, 3 .5 .3 3 . 2 5 5 .2 5 p a s d es d e u x F ren ch dance fo r two. 2 56 .3 ch e ck a t g a m e S c o tt’ s u se o f this phrase is, acco rd in g to the O E D , erron eous. S c o tt m eans that the haw k tu rn s aw ay fro m ‘ gam e’ , that is to say its p ro p er p rey. F or the co rrect usage, see T welft h N ig h t, 2 .5 .1 0 5 and 3 . 1 . 6 1 – 62. 2 5 6 .7 fa ir m is tre ss m in e see ‘T h e W anton W ife o f B a th ’ , line 87, in T hom as P e r c y ’s R eliqu es o f A n cien t E n glish P o etry , 2 n d ed n (L o n d o n , 17 6 7 ), 3 .1 4 9 . T h e ballad w as exclu d ed fro m later editions. 2 5 6 .18 In th e clo u t . . . h it th e v e r y w h it e a clout is literally a piece o f clo th, w h ich fo rm ed the w h ite centre o f the ta rget in arch ery: com pare K in g L e a r, 4.6 .92. 2 5 7 .2 7 b ig w o rd s boasting. 2 5 7 .3 7 – 40 O so m e d o c a ll m e J a c k . . . W ilfu l W ill ad apted from a stanza o f ‘T h e K n ig h t, and S h e p h e rd ’s D a u g h te r’ (P ercy , 3 .7 3 ). Elsew h ere S c o tt no tes that the nam e J i l l ‘ repeated ly occu rs in old ballads, som etim es as that o f a m an, at other tim es as that o f a wom an. O f the fo rm er is an in stance in the ballad o f “ T h e K n ig h t and the S h e p h e rd ’ s D a u g h ter’” (M in strelsy, 3.2 0 5 ). H o w e v e r, in The A bbot he exp lo its the sexu al am b igu ity o f the nam e. 2 5 7 .4 1 – 4 2 W ill o’ th e W isp — J a c k w ith th e la n t ern com pare D ry d e n , T roilus an d C ressida ( 16 7 9 ), 4 .2 .2 2 1 : ‘H e y day! W ill w ith a w ispe, and Ja c k a la n thorn !' 2 5 8 .3 6 S ir E g e r , S ir G r im e , o r S ir G r e y s t eil heroes o f the m etrical rom ance T he H istory o f S ir E ger, S ir G raham e, a n d S ir G r a y -S teel. S c o tt pos­ sessed a m an u scrip t co p y o f the ed ition o f 1 7 1 1 (C L A , 10 3 ). H e is not allu din g to an y specific even t in the rom ance. 2 58 .38 – 40 sh e is w it c h e n o u g h . . . w h ip branches o f row an, o ften w ou nd in red thread, w ere b elieved to control devils o r the evil eye; peasants

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w ou ld ‘ ti e these branches ro u n d th eir cattle, w ith scarlet th r e a d s . . . fo r p rev en t­ in g the po w er o f w itch craft’ (Jo sep h T rain , S trains o f the M ou nta in M u se (E d in ­ b u rg h , 1 8 1 4 ) , 16 3 : C L A , 16 5 ). 259 .6 – 10 m o tto no t id en tif i e d : p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 2 59 .2 8 – 29 B e n e d ic t u s . . . in n o m in e in im ic i L a tin blessed is he w h o com es in the nam e o f the L o r d ; dam nable he w h o com es in the nam e o f the en em y (i.e . the d evil). F o r the first part see note to 7 5 .3 4 . 2 6 1 .1 6 – 18 th e la s t a n d lo u d e st b la s t . . . tim e is n o m o r e the last tru m p et: see R e v e la ti o n 10 .5 – 7 , 1 1 . 1 5 . 2 6 1.4 2 S a lv e in n o m in e sa n c to L a tin hail in the h o ly nam e. 2 6 1 .43 S a lv e t e et v o s L a tin hail to yo u also. 2 6 2 .39 p a lm em blem o f v ic tor y and hence, in religio u s art, o f m arty rd o m : see, fo r in stance, the ‘ S eco n d N u n ’ s T ale’ ( T he C an terbu ry T ales, V I I I ( G ) 240). 2 6 2 .4 2 t h e t im e h o ld s the ti m e hold s good, rem ains in force. 2 6 3 .1 1 first st a g e o f c h iv a lr y first an d lo w est degree in the ranks o f k n igh thood— the rank o f page, d escribed b y S c o tt in ‘A n E ssa y on C h iv a lr y ’ ( 1 8 1 8) as ‘ the first step to the o rd er o f kn igh tho od’ (Prose W orks, 6.50). 2 6 3 .1 6– 1 7 fa ith b e in g d u e to . . . h eret ic s com pare the pro verb ial e x ­ p ressio n ‘N o faith w ith h ereti c s ’ ( O D E P , 2 4 1) , d escribed b y B u ch an an (2 .2 5 2 ) as ‘ that com m on R e fu g e o f the P a p ists ’ . M a r y ’s m o ther, M a r y o f G u is e , w as alleged to have asserted that ‘she w as bound to keep no prom ise to hereticks’ ( K n o x , 14 8 ). 2 6 4 .2 p le a c h e d a rb o u r com pare M u ch A d o A bou t N o thing, 3 .1 .7 . 2 6 4 .36 t h e c h u rc h m ilit a n t th e ch u rch on earth con sidered as w a rrin g again st the po w ers o f e v il, an d so con trasted w ith the ‘ ch u rch triu m p h an t ’ , w h ich has overcom e the w o rld an d en tered into glo ry. 2 6 4 .39 in so m e so rt to som e e x ten t . 2 6 5 .2 t o t u rn b a c k th e c a p t iv it y o f th e ch u rch com pare e.g. P salm 12 6 .1 and Z ep h a n iah 3.2 0 . 2 6 5 .3 t h e sh ep h erd is s m itten— a y , w e ll n ig h to th e e a rth com pare Z ech ariah 1 3 .7 an d 1 Sa m u el 26 .8 . 2 6 5 .5 – 6 sa ty r s o f the d esert com pare Isaiah 1 3 . 2 1 : ‘B u t w ild beasts o f the d esert shall lie ther e . . . o w ls shall d w ell there, an d saty rs shall dance th er e ’ . T h e p ro p h et refers to the do w n fall o f B ab ylo n . 2 6 6 .10 t h e w is d o m o f th e serp en t see M a tthew 1 0 .1 6 , w h ere C h ris t in stru c ts h is d iscip les, ‘ be y e . . . w ise as serp en ts, and harm less as d o v es’ . 2 6 6 .1 1– 1 2 ra is e u p th e J e r u s a l e m . . . re b u ild the p rin cip al referen ce is to the d estru c ti o n o f Je ru sa le m in 586 b c , to the lam entati o n s o f the exiled Je w s , an d to the reb u ild in g com p leted in 5 1 6 в c . 2 6 6 .34– 3 5 so w a m o n g th e w h e a t th e s a m e ta re s see M a tthew 1 3 .2 4 – 3 0 , 36 – 4 3. 2 6 6 .36 th e A lb ig e n se s a n d th e L o lla r d s h ereti c a l sects o f the M id d le A g e s, w h ose b eliefs in som e resp ects fo resh ado w ed those o f the P ro testan ts. 2 6 6 .4 2 A r e y o u i f yo u are. 2 6 7 .2 5 t h e D a r k G r e y M a n see note to 26 .26 . 2 6 7 .2 7 a tr u c e w ith en ou gh o f; have done w ith. 2 6 7 .3 3 – 3 5 Q u id d ic is, m i fili? . . . C u lp a s m e a s L a tin w h at are yo u tellin g, m y s o n ? . . . M y fau lts. 2 6 7 .4 2 S a in t F r a n c is F ra n c is o f A ssisi (c. 1 1 8 1 – 12 2 6 ), fo u n d er o f the F ra n cisca n o rd er o f friars. 268.1 t h e y a r e in o ffic e they ho ld official em p lo ym en t. 2 6 8 .1 5 W h a t I h a v e b e en , it sk ills n o t it does no t m atter w h at I have been : see B eau m o n t an d F le tch er, T he L ittle Fren ch L a w y er, 1 .1 .6 6 – 67. 2 6 8 .30 h e a d in g a n d h a n g in g m odes o f execu ti o n : see M easure fo r M eas­ u re , 2 .1.2 2 5

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51

2 6 8 .4 7 su b u m b r a v itis su i L a tin un der the shade o f his ow n vine: see M ic a h 4 .4 . C o m p are also H en ry V I I I , 5 .5 .3 3 – 35 . 269.8 t e m p e r a pu n is in tended on the ‘ tem p er’ o f the heart, and that o f the sw o rd . 2 6 9 .1 3 – 20 W h e n I w a s g re a t . . . lo n g in c o m in g com pare T he M onastery, EEWN 9 , 1 7 1 . 2 8 – 40. 2 6 9 .18 go o d m a n pro bably used in the sam e sense as ‘ goodm an’ , a yeom an o r farm er. 2 6 9 .19 K in g d o m o f F if e see note to 18 9 .7 . 2 6 9 .2 1– 4 1 A s h e w a s . . . bro k en b y it the in terlu de in B lin k h o o lie’ s garden ow es m u ch to Sh akesp earian m odels: see 2 H en ry V I, 4 .1 0 and R ich a rd I I , 3 . 4 . 26 9.30 H o u k h a m how k, S co ts, to d ig or hollow out; in certain E n g lish dialects a ham is an en closed p lo t o f land, especially o f pasture. 2 6 9 .35 b e n d th y sw o rd in to a p ru n in g -h o o k see Isaiah 2 .4 and M ic ah

4.3.

26 9 .38 F r e n c h fa sh io n o f im p in g several d iffere n t m ethods o f im p in g or graftin g are d escrib ed in old garden in g m an uals, b u t none o f them appears to h ave been d istin ctiv e ly F re n ch . 270 .4– 5 m o t t o 1 H en ry V I, 2 .1.2 2 . 2 7 0 .2 1– 2 2 B r u c e a n d W a lla c e see note to 229.4. 2 7 0 .2 7 t ru ck lin g , c o g g in g . . . k n a v e com pare Othello , 4 .2 .1 3 2 – 3 3 . 2 7 0 .3 2 h o ld in g m e on o r o f f keep in g m e close or at a d istance. 270 .40 – 2 7 1 .1 B lin k h o o lie a fictitiou s nam e, w ith connotations o f blink­ in g , or sh u ttin g the eyes; in S c o ts to ‘ blin k ’ can also m ean to look fo n d ly, to d eceive, o r to be dru n k . ‘H o o lie’ cou ld either b e a p u n on w h olly, or on S c o ts ‘ h u ilie’ , slo w ly or gently. 2 7 1 .7 K a t es ab breviation o f C a therin e, w ith a p u n on ‘cates’ , or edible delicacies. S e e T he t am ing o f the S h rew , 2 .1 .1 8 8 : ‘F o r dainties are all K a tes’ . 2 7 1 .8 a q u a m ir a b ilis L a tin m arvello u s w ater. 2 7 1 .9 p ro b a tu m est L a tin it has been p ro ved , tested. A proverbial phrase u sed in recip es or p rescrip tion s, and b y S c o tt h im se lf in referrin g to the treat­ m en t he w as obliged to en du re in early 1 8 1 9 (L e tters, 5.339 ). 2 7 2 .2 6 A tr u c e w ith see note to 2 6 7 .2 7 . 2 72 .4 0 o f la t e recently. In fact R o la n d ’s ‘ changed m an n er’ dates back only as far as the p revio u s even in g ( 2 3 1 . 1 3 ff.). 2 7 3 .2 2 t h e tru e d o ve a n d n ot th e r a v e n an allusion to G en esis 8.6– 12 . A s the flood abated , N o ah sent out a raven and a d o v e. T h e raven did not retu rn , b u t the d o ve retu rn ed tw ice, the second tim e b rin g in g an o live tw ig. 2 7 3 .2 5 – 26 c h a fe d h e r s e lf m u c h fo r v exed h e rs e lf m u ch on account of. 2 7 4 .3 5 – 3 6 m ir th . . . the fo o ls w h o lo v e it com pare E cclesiastes 7 .4 -6 . 2 7 6 .10 – 1 2 P u d d in g -b u rn H o u s e . . . n e x t m e a l see ‘D ic k 0 ’ the C o w ’ , stanza 2 4 (M in strelsy, 2.80). P u d d in g -b u rn H o u se w as a stron ghold o f the A r m s tron gs in L id d esd a le. 2 7 7 .2 isla n d o f S a in t S e r f see note to 2 2 4 .36 . 2 7 7 .2 2 – 2 3 b y tim e s fro m tim e to tim e. 2 7 7 .3 5 iro n ton g u e see A M idsum m er N ig h t ’s D ream , 5 .1 .3 5 2 and K in g Jo h n , 3 . 3 3 7 – 38 . 2 7 7 .3 5 d eep a n d su llen so u n d s com pare M ilton, ‘ I l P en sero so ’ , lines 7 3 – 7 6. 2 7 8 .7 S a in t G ile s see note to 1 7 1 .8 . 2 79 .8 – 1 3 m o tto no t id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 2 79 .2 9 h o t b r a in in ven tive fa n c y . 2 7 9 .3 7 fa ir w o r d s . . . fo o ls fa in p ro verb ial (R a y , 1 7 1 ; O D E R , 2 4 1) . 2 7 9 .38 a t th e p u sh at the c ritical ju n c tu re. 2 8 0 .2 1 p a t c h a w ord w h ic h ‘cam e in to use fro m the nam e o f a celebrated

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fool' (A B D , 1 . 1 о6 , note). F o r a fu ll account see D o u ce , 1 .2 57 – 59. 2 8 1 .4 1 – 4 2 lim n e d th is n ig h t-p ie c e Jo h n W eb ster, T he W hite D e v il ( 1 6 1 2 ) , 5 .6 .29 5 (A B D , 3.4 5 ). 2 8 2 .3 5 M o a b it ish w o m a n see N u m b e rs 2 5 . 1 – 2 : ‘A n d Israel abode in S h ittim , and the people began to com m it w h oredo m w ith the d au gh ters o f M o a b . A n d they called the people u n to the sacrifices o f their gods: and the people did eat, and bow ed dow n to their g o d s.’ 2 8 2 .38 – 4 2 F r a n c i s . . . D a rn l e y . . . C h a s t elet . . . R i z z i o . . . B o th w e ll h u sband s and alleged lo vers o f M a r y . F o r F ra n ço is, D a rn ley an d B o th w ell, see H isto rical N o te, 464– 66. P ie rre de C h â telard w as a F re n c h p o et w ho cam e to S c o tland in M a r y ’s train in 1 5 6 1 . H e fell in lo ve w ith her, an d w as execu ted in F e b ru a ry 15 6 3 after h avin g tw ice forced his w ay in to her bedroom . M a r y ’s en em ies later insin u ated that she had been his m istress (see K n o x , 3 5 1 – 52). F or R ic c io see note to 49 .38. 2 8 4 .18 – 19 th e g re a t tr a ito r . . . k iss Ju d a s , w h o b etrayed C h ris t to the c h ie f p riests w ith a kiss. S e e M a tthew 26.48. 2 8 5 .1 4 w id o w e r one o f S c o tt’ s m an y erro rs co n cern in g the L o c h le v e n fam ily: S ir W illiam D o u g las m arried , b efo re 15 6 5 , A g n es L e s lie , w h o w as still liv in g in 1 593. O n the other h an d, L a d y L o c h le v e n ’ s claim at 2 8 5 .1 5 that S ir W illiam D o u g las is G e o rg e ’s ‘ b ro ther ’ is h istoric ally accu rate, th ou gh anom al­ ous in the contex t o f the first ed ition te x t . 2 8 5 .1 6– 1 7 R o m e c a lls it a s a c r a m e n t w h ereas R o m a n C a tholics reco g­ nise seven sacram ents, o f w h ich m arriage is one, P r o testants accord fu ll sacra­ m en tal statu s o n ly to B a p tism and the L o r d ’s S u p p e r. S e e also no te to 60.24– 2 5. 2 8 5 .3 6 S ir W illia m S ir W illiam D o u g la s (see note to 17 8 .2 2 ). 2 8 6 .24 c u t o f f fr o m h is h o u se lik e a ro tt en b r a n c h p ro verbial— com ­ pare C h arles M o llo y , T he P erp lex ' d C ouple ( 1 7 1 5 ) , 4 . 1 : ‘ I ’ll cu t her o f f like a ro tten B ra n c h .’ T h e u ltim ate sou rce is p ro b ab ly Jo h n 15 .6 . 28 6 .26 fo r th e n o n ce on p u rp o se, exp ressly. 2 8 7 .3 2 G o o d n ig h t . . . S e ig n io r S o w e r sb y com pare A s Y ou L ik e I t, 3 .2 .2 7 5 – 7 7. 2 8 7 .3 5 – 36 m o tto K in g Jo h n , 5 .7 .3 5 . 28 8 .30 c o m e w e a l, c o m e w o e R o b e rt B u r n s ,‘ O ’er the w ater to C h a rlie ’ ( 17 8 8 ), chorus. 2 8 9 .1 A m a z o n s m y thical w arrio r w om en o f G re e k stor y and legend. 28 9 .28 G o o d n o w com e, com e— an in terjection exp ressin g en treaty or exp o stulation. 290 .43 t ake th e a d v e n t u re m ake the exp erim en t, p u t o ne’ s chances to the test . 2 9 1 .9 S h e ren d e re d u p o n a c a p itu la t io n M a r y surren d ered at C a rb e rry h ill on ly a fter receiv in g assuran ces, th ro u gh K ir k c a ld y o f G ra n g e , that the rebels w ere loyal tow ard s her and desired m erely to p u n ish B o th w ell fo r his p art in D a r n le y ’s m u rder. H e r w o rd s to G ra n g e testified to the con ditional natu re o f th is surren d er: ‘I ren d er m y s e lf u n to yo u , u po n the con ditions yo u rehearsed u n to m e in the nam e o f the lo rd s’ (M e lv il, 16 6 ; K e ith, 402). 2 9 1 .1 3 aft er a g e s later, su b seq u en t ages. 2 9 1 .1 5 – 1 7 th a t L e a h , H o n o u r . . . th a t R a c h e l, L o v e see G e n e sis C h . 29. Ja c o b loved R ach el, the yo u n ger d au gh ter o f L a b a n , and u n d ertook to serve L a b a n fo r seven years in exch an ge fo r her. W h en th e seven yea rs w ere u p L a b a n gave h im his eld er daugh ter, L e a h , fo r cu stom dem and ed that the firstb o rn sh ou ld b e first to m a rry . Ja c o b w as obliged to serv e another seven yea rs b efo re R a ch el w as given to him . 2 9 2 .10 c a r e e r . . . st a r t fr o m th e g o a l S c o tt u ses career in the sense o f a horse ch argin g in the lists (O E D , 2 ); the im age is thu s o f the horse b ein g

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frig h tened and v eerin g aw ay fro m its p ro per destination. 2 9 3 .1 1 m a k e s y o u t e n d er o f o ffers you. 2 9 3 .3 5 m a m ig n o n n e F ren ch m y darling. 2 9 3.4 2 E x o rib u s p a r v u lo r u m L a tin out o f the m o u ths o f little children. C o m p are P salm 8.2. 294.6 t h e C a lv in is t ic h e r e sy fo r C a lvin see note to 8 2 .2 5. 2 9 4 .1 1 K n o x t e r m e d it sin in the sp rin g o f 15 6 2 it cam e to K n o x ’s attention that M a r y had been ‘ excessiv ely dancin g till after m id n ig h t’ . H e sub­ sequ en tly told her to h er face that they w ho dance ‘ fo r the pleasure that they take in the displeasu re o f G o d s p e o p le . . . shall receive the rew ard o f D an cers, and that w ill be to drin k in H e ll’ ( K n o x , 33 4 – 35 ). 2 9 4 .17 t h e b a r o n y o f B la ir g o w r ie a charter m aking B lairg o w rie a ‘ bu rgh o f b aro n y’ w as granted o n ly in 16 3 4 ; no reference to the tow n as a baro n y p rior to this date has been traced. 2 9 4 .1 8 – 19 fa ire st p e a r l s . . . L o c h lo m o n d no evid ence has been fou nd to suggest that pearls o f jew el qu ality have ever been d isco vered in L o c h Lom ond. 29 4 .20 – 2 1 th e b e st d re sse r o f ti r e s . . . q ueen M a r y ’s attendant M a r y S e ton was described in sim ilar term s b y S ir F ra n cis K n o lly s , sh ortly after M a r y ’s arrival in E n glan d : ‘ S o that now here are six w aitin g w om en , although none o f rep u tation , b u t M is tress M a r y S e a ton, w h o is praised, b y this Q ueen , to be the finest bu sker, that is to say, the finest dresser o f a w o m an’s head o f hair, that is to be seen, in an y cou n tr y ’ (letter to C ecil, 28 Ju n e 15 6 8 , qu oted in C h alm ers, 1.2 8 5 ). 2 9 4 .32 b lith eso m e b r id a l the title o f a popu lar song: see A n cien t an d M odern S co ttish Son gs, ed. D a v id H e rd , 2 vols (E d in b u rg h , 17 7 6 ), 2 .2 4 -2 6 : C L A , 17 1· 29 4 .42 b ra n le F ren ch the b raw l, a dance ‘ p erfo rm ed b y several persons u n itin g hands in a circle and g iv in g each other continual shakes, the steps changin g w ith the tu n e . . . W ith this dance balls w ere u su ally o pen ed’ (D ou ce, 1 .2 17 – 18 ) . T h e b raw l was con dem ned b y P u ritans fo r en co u ragin g lasciviou s behaviour. 2 9 5 .3 t h e m a r r ia g e o f S e b a s t ia n M a r y ’s F re n c h atten dant B a s tian Pages m arried C h ristina H o g g on 9 F e b ru a ry 15 6 7 , the day o f D a rn le y ’s m u rder. In the even in g M a r y atten ded a celeb rator y m asque, and the ap paren t friv o lity o f this excu se fo r leavin g D a rn le y w as exp lo ited b y her enem ies: ‘Is Seb a stia n 's w ed d in g o f such a valu e, that a m ask in g dance thereat is to be p referred befo re a w ifes d u ty and lo ve?’ (G e o rg e B u ch an an , A n A p pen d ix to the H istory o f S c o tla n d (L o n d o n , 1 7 2 1 ) , 7 7 : C L A , 9). 2 9 5 .1 3 m y F r e n c h g u a r d s the sou rce fo r th is allusion has no t been traced. F re n c h troops w ere em p lo yed b y M a r y ’s m o ther, M a r y o f G u is e , b u t w ere rem oved fro m F ra n c e b y the t reaty o f E d in b u rg h in 15 6 0 (see H isto rical N o te, 464). A c c o rd in g to B u ch an an , D a v id R ic cio , thin k in g in 15 6 5 that ‘ the Q u een ’s guard b ein g S c o tsm en , w o u ld no t easily consent to the cru el m u rd er o f the n o bility , he w as v e ry in ten t to . . . in trod uce fo reign ers in their room , (a p ro ject that is w ont to be the b eg in n in g o f all tyran n y)’ (B u chanan, 2 .34 7 ). H o w ev er, these fo reign gu ards ap pear to have been F le m ish or I talian m ercenaries, no t Fren ch m en . 2 9 5 .1 3 à m o i! à m o i! m e s F r a n ç a is French to m e! to m e! m y F ren ch m en . 2 9 5 .18 B e llo n a the R o m a n godd ess o f w ar. 2 9 5 .1 9 – 20 F r e n c h P a r is the nicknam e o f N ich o las H u b e rt, a F ren ch m an w ho w as one o f B o th w e ll’s fo llo w ers, b u t w ho entered M a r y ’s service in 15 6 7 . H e was execu ted, as an acco m p lice in D a rn le y ’s m u rd er, in A u g u st 15 6 9 . T h e reco rds o f his in terro gation and con fession im p ly that M a r y had foreknow ledge o f the crim e, and becam e a corn erstone o f the case m ade against her.

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2 9 5 .2 1 o u r g r a n d fa th er a t F lo d d e n Ja m e s I V , w h o w as k illed at th e battle o f F lo d d e n in 1 5 1 3 . 2 9 5 .2 2 o u r ill-s t a r r e d fa th er Ja m e s V , w h o died in 15 4 2 , soon a fter h earin g o f the d isgracefu l ro u t o f his arm y at th e battle o f S o lw a y M o s s : he ‘ becam e so h eavie and do lloro us, that he nather eat nor d r a n k . . . he w as v errie n eir strangled to the death be e x trem e m elancholie’ (P itsco ttie, 2 .406 : see n o te to 1 9 5 . 3 1 – 36). S c o tt calls th is ‘a death m ore p ain fu l a h u n d red fo ld than w as m et b y his father in the field o f F lo d d e n ’ (M in strelsy, 1.7 8 ). 2 9 5 .2 8 – 2 9 h is m o s t C h r is t ia n M a je s t y . . . L e n n o x . . . D u k e o f O rk n e y M a r y ’s three hu sband s: F ran ço is I I, D a rn le y (son o f M a tthew S tu art ( 1 5 1 6 -7 8 ), E a rl o f L e n n o x ), and B o th w ell, created D u k e o f O rk n ey in 15 6 7 . 2 9 5 .34 – 3 5 B o w to n , H a y o f T a lla, B la c k O r m is ton , a n d h is k in s m a n H o b com m on ly nam ed as B o th w ell’s fo u r c h ie f acco m p lices in the m u rd e r o f D a rn le y : see, fo r in stan ce, the con fession o f W illiam P o w rie , re p rin ted in Ja m e s A n d erso n , C o llections R e la tin g to the H istory o f M a ry Q ueen o f S c o tla n d , 4 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 17 2 7 ) , 2 .16 5 . Jo h n H a y o f t allo and Jo h n H e p b u rn o f B o w ton w ere execu ted in Ja n u a r y 15 6 8 , ‘B la c k O rm iston ’ (Jam es O rm iston o f that Ilk ) in 1 5 7 3 ; H o b O rm iston w as n ever cau ght . 295 ·3 5 – 3 6 h o w s w a r t th ey are , a n d h o w th ey s m e ll o f s u lp h u r ‘ the Q u e e n . . . m et, as she w as go in g in to her Palace, a S e rv a n t o f the E a r l o f B o th w ell’s, w h om she asked w h ere he had been, that he sm elled so stro n g ly o f G u n -P o w d e r’ (G e o rg e M acken zie, th e L iv e s a n d C h aracters o f the most E m in en t W riters o f the S c o ts N a tion , 3 v o ls (E d in b u rgh , 17 0 8 – 2 2 ), 3.2 8 4 – 85). M ack en zie translates th e F re n c h o f M a r y ’s 1 6 th -cen tu ry ap ologist A d a m B lac k w o o d (see his ‘M a r ty re de M a r ie S tu art’ , in D e V ita & R ebus G estis Serenissim æ P rin c ip is M a riœ S c o torum R egin æ , ed. Sa m u el Je b b , 2 vols (L o n d o n , 17 2 5 ) , 2 .2 1 5 ) , w h o fu r th er id en tifies th e servan t as F re n c h Paris. 2 9 5 .3 6 clo set ed w ith M o r ton . . . the D o u g la s a n d th e H e p b u rn M o r ­ ton w as w id ely su sp ected o f com plicity alon g w ith B o th w ell (w hose fa m ily nam e w as H ep b u rn ) in the m u rd er o f D a rn le y , th ou gh at his execu tion h e con fessed o n ly to fo rek n o w led ge, no t p articipation. 2 9 6 .2 5 t h e b lo w in g u p o f th e K ir k o f F ie ld see no te to 1 3 4 . 1 5 , and H isto rical N o te, 465. 296 .29 S a in t G ile s see n o te to 1 7 1 .8 . 2 9 6 .43 sn u fflin g lite ra lly speaking th rou gh the nose, b u t c o m m o n ly w ith the im p lication o f h y p o crisy (see O E D sn u fflin g, p p l.a., 2). 2 9 7 .10 th e M o a b it ish la d y see note to 2 8 2 .35 . 2 9 7 .3 1 – 36 m o tto see K in g Jo h n , 4 .2 .2 0 8 – 1 2 . Sh ak esp earian sch o lars o f the 1 8th centu ry in terp reted the passage as a referen ce to E liza b eth ’s den ial o f resp o n sib ility fo r M a r y ’s execu tion: ‘ o ur author m eant to p a y h is co u rt to E liz a ­ b eth b y th is co vert ap o lo gy fo r her con du ct to M a r y ’ ( T he P la y s a n d Poem s o f W illiam Sh a k spea re, ed. E d m u n d M alo n e, 10 vols in 1 1 (L o n d o n , 17 9 0 ), 4 .5 3 6 , note). H o w e v e r, D o u c e (1.4 0 6 ) d isp u ted M alo n e ’ s in terp retation. 2 9 8 .2 7 p rie st o f B a a l a false p riest. S e e 2 K in g s 1 1 . 1 8 . 298 .29– 30 th e A n a b a p t ist p re a ch e rs the A n ab ap tists, w h o first ap peared in the 1 520 s, w ere a d isparate and radical P ro testant sect, w h o d en ied the legitim acy o f in fan t b aptism , and instead practised ad u lt re-b ap tism . T h e ten d ­ e n cy o f the A n ab ap tists w as in ten sely dem ocratic: rejectin g state con trol o r an o rganised p riesthood , they em phasised instead each in d iv id u al’s freed o m to in terp ret scrip tu re fo r h im self, and ju stified the rig h t o f laym en to p reach b y ap p ealin g to the au th o rity o f the divin e call. C o n tra ry to S c o tt’s assertion , th ey veh em en tly ad vo cated free-w ill and in d ivid u al m oral resp o n sib ility , an d re­ jected L u ther ’s an d C a lv in ’s b e lie f in pred esti n a ti o n (fo r K n o x ’ s h osti l i ty to the A n ab ap ti s ts, see t hom as M ‘ C rie , T he L ife o f Jo h n K n o x (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 2 ) , 1 52– 56: C L A , 4). In the cou rse o f the 1 530 s A n ab ap tism spread w id e ly in the

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N e therlan d s an d L o w e r R h in e , thanks to the p reach in g e ffo rts o f M elc h io r H o ffm a n n , an d in 1 5 34 h is d isciples set u p an an archic ‘N e w Je ru sa le m ’ in the W estphalian c ity o f M ü n s ter, w h ich w as b ru tally cru sh ed in 1 5 3 5 b y the B ish o p o f M ü n s ter an d h is allies. A fter this the m o vem en t w as w id ely sup­ pressed. 298 .30 t h o se b o a r s w h ic h t e a r u p th e v in ta g e th e boar d erives fro m P salm 8 0 .13 . ‘ T h e b ristled B a p tist B o a r’ represen ts the A n ab ap tists in Jo h n D r y d e n ’s allego rical p o em T he H in d an d the P a n ther ( 16 8 7 ), lines 43– 52. 2 9 8 .34 w o m a n o f M o a b see note to 2 8 2 .35 . 29 8 .39 D y in g , a n d in m y c a s t le com pare M acbeth , 2 .3.8 6 . 2 9 9 .14 t h e L o r d S e m p le sta b b e d th e L o r d o f S a n q u h a r W illiam C rich ­ ton , 5 th L o r d C r ic h ton o f San q u h ar (c. 1 5 35 ), w as stabbed to death b y R o b e rt S e m p ill (c. 15 0 5 – c. 7 3 ), 3 r d L o r d S em p ill ( 15 5 2 ) , in E d in b u rg h on 1 1 Ju n e 1 5 5 0 . T h e fa ilu re to p u n ish the m u rd erer w as d escribed as the ‘ first presage o f th e en su in g ty ra n n y ’ (B u ch an an , 2 .2 5 7 ). 299 .35 B ilb o a b la d e a sw o rd o f high qu ality fro m B ilb a o , in Sp ain . 299.40 s u c c o r y -w a t e r Ja m e s A n d erson , i n Si r W alte r S c o tt a n d H istory (E d in b u rg h , 1 9 8 1) , 7 8 , p o in ts out that S c o tt fo u n d th is detail in an account o f the death o f the D u c h e ss o f O rleans in 1 6 7 1 : ‘ T h e D u c h e s s . . . w as sup posed to have been poisoned in a glass o f su ccory w ater, prep ared b y the o rd er o f her h u sban d ’ (Ja m es K ir k ton , T he S ecret a n d t rue H istory o f the Church o f S co tlan d, ed. C . K . S h a rp e (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 1 7 ) , 3 1 0 , note). 300.1 t h e p o w d e r -c a s k s another allu sion to D a rn le y ’s m u rd er. H o w ev er, acco rd in g to the con fessio n s o f the perpetrators, the p o w d er-cask s w ou ld not fit throu gh the do o r o f th e K ir k o f F ie ld , and the p o w d er even tu ally had to be piled on the floor (see M a lc o lm L a in g , T he H istory o f S c o tla n d, 2n d edn , 4 vols (L o n d o n , 18 0 4 ), 2 .2 5 4 , 258 ). 300 .28 t h e Je z a b e l o f S c o t la n d Je z e b e l, w ife o f A h ab , w h o is said to have ‘ painted h er face’ (2 K in g s 9 .30 ), w as seen as an arch etyp al harlot . S h e was killed b y J e h u an d h er b o d y eaten b y dogs. 3 0 1 . 1 1 R e v e n g e . . . is th e h igh est-fla v o u re d d ra u g h t th is appears to d erive fro m v ario u s p ro verb s, su ch as ‘R ev en g e is sw eet’ an d ‘R ev en g e is a m o rsel fo r G o d ’ (see O D E P , 6 73). 3 0 1 .2 1 C a lv in is t ic fo r C a lv in see note to 8 2 .2 5. 3 0 1 .2 2 a se p a r a t ed p rie sth o o d see note to 2 9 8 .2 9 – 30. 3 0 1.2 3 M o a b it ish Q u e e n see note to 2 8 2 .35 . 3 0 1 .3 3 t h e v ic to rio u s F r e n c h , in th e tim e o f th is la d y ’ s m o th er see H isto rical N o te, 464. 3 0 1.3 4 – 3 5 th o se w h o h a d h u n g a t th e s a m e b r e a s t s w ith h im his fo ster-b ro thers. 3 0 1.3 6 g ra n d so n in the first ed ition D ry fe sd a le ap paren tly refers to G eo rg e D o u g la s. T h e attem p t m ad e to restore con siste n cy an d h istorical accu racy to the p resen t te x t m akes th is referen ce anom alous: L a d y L o c h le v e n ’s eld est grand­ son (R o b ert D o u g las) w as p ro b ab ly b o m aroun d 15 6 5 . H o w e v e r, the anom aly has been ju d g ed p referab le to an im m ediate and c o n fu sin g rep etition o f ‘ son’ . S e e E ssa y o n th e T e x t, 4 0 6 –0 7. 3 0 1.4 2 – 4 3 b lo o d y G u is ia n sto c k . . . G o d ’ s sa in t s see no te to 17 8 .3 0 . T h e G u is e s w ere feared an d hated b y P ro testants: K n o x called them ‘ cru ell and con ju red en em ies o f G o d an d o f all godlin esse’ , w h o ‘ had d eterm ined the d estru c tion o f all that pro fessed the tru e know ledge o f Je s u s C h ris t’ ( K n o x , 280). F ra n ç o is, 2 n d D u k e o f G u is e , instigated the first o f the F re n c h W ars o f R elig io n w ith a m assacre o f H u g u en o ts at V a ssy in M a rc h 15 6 2 ; H e n ri, the 3rd D u k e , h elped to plan the no torio u s S t B a rth o lo m ew ’s D a y m assacre (24 A u g u st 15 7 2 ) . 3 0 2 .2 ev e n a s th e k in g o f B a b y lo n w a s s m itt en D a n ie l 4 .3 3 describes

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how N eb u ch ad n ezzar ‘ w as d riv e n fro m m en , and d id eat grass as o xen , an d h is b o d y w as w et w ith th e d ew o f h eaven , till his hairs w ere grow n like eagles’ feathers, and h is n ails like b ird ’s claw s’ . 30 2.20 d ie in m y h o u se see note to 298.39 . 30 2.29 – 30 c r a z y se c t a r i e s . . . fa t a lis m see note to 298.29– 30. 30 3.7– 8 d e v i l . . . b u r n in g th ro n e co m p are M easure fo r M easu re, 5.1 .290– 9 1 . 3 0 3 .2 1 la b o u r -in -v a in the them e o f a h u m o ro u s sign bo ard , w h ich de­ p icted tw o w o m en tr y in g to scru b the colou r fro m a b lack m an sittin g in a tu b (hence the p ro verb , ‘T o w ash an E th io p ’ : R a y , 17 8 ; O D E P , 868). C o m p a re Jo h n D ry d e n , T ro ilu s a n d C ressida (16 7 9 ), 2 .2 .2 8 – 29: ‘ let m e be p ain ted in the sig n epost fo r the L a b o u r in v a in '. 3 0 4 .15 in y o u r d e sp it e notw ithstan d in g yo u r o ppo sition. 3 0 4 .17 – 20 in to th o se st a p le s . . . m u r d e re rs an allu sio n to the m u rd er o f Ja m e s I in 1 4 3 7 : the do o r to h is cham ber had no bar, b u t in an attem p t to keep ou t the m u rd erers, one o f h is w ife ’ s atten dants, C a therin e D o u g la s, ‘w ith a s p irit w o rth y o f h er n am e, had h er arm broken , b y th ru stin g it in to the stap le in stead o f a b a r’ (Jo h n P in k e rton , T he H istory o f S c o tla n d, 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 17 9 7 ), 1 . 1 3 8 : C L A , 4). 30 4.28 t h e w h ils t m eanw h ile, in th e m eantim e. 30 4 .36 –3 7 in c a s e . . . to in a position to . 30 5.4– 6 U l y s s e s . . . the m o m e n t a r y w it see H o m e r’ s O dyssey, trans. A lexan d er P o p e (p u b lish ed 1 7 2 5 – 26), 1 4 . 5 5 1 – 52. 3 0 5 .1 6 it w ill top th y p a r t it w ill m ean yo u p lay yo u r p art to p erfection . S e e G e o rg e V illie rs, D u k e o f B u ck in gh am , t h e R eh ea rsa l ( 1 6 72 ), 3 . 1 . 3 0 5 .1 7 C a th e rin e o f M e d ic is C a therin e de M e d ic is ( 1 5 1 9 – 89), w ife o f H e n ri I I o f F ra n c e , an d m o ther o f M a r y ’s first hu sban d , F ra n ço is I I . 3 0 5 .18 c o ld n o rth er n b r a in com pare G e o rg e C h ap m an , B u ssy d 'A m bois (w ritten c. 16 0 4 , p u b lish ed 16 0 7 ), 4 .2 .3 0 . 30 5.30 C o u r c e lle s a sh ad o w y figure: ‘ C u rse lle ’ w as listed am o n gst M a r y ’ s atten dants in 15 6 8 (C h alm ers, 1.2 8 4 ); h e w as p ro b ab ly the sam e p erson as the ‘ C o u rc e lle s’ w h o w as un o fficial F re n c h am bassad or in S c o tland in 15 8 6 – 87 (see E x tractfro m the D espatches o f M . C ourcelles, F ren ch A m bassador a t the C ourt o f S c o tla n d (E d in b u rg h : B an n atyn e C lu b , 18 2 8 )). H o w e v e r, M a r y m ay be re fe rrin g to ‘M a is tresse C o u rc e lle s’ , presu m ab ly h is w ife , w h o w as listed as one o f M a r y ’ s atten dants in 1 5 7 1 (see E d m u n d L o d g e , Illu s tra tions o f B r itish H istory , 3 v o ls (L o n d o n , 1 7 9 1 ) , 2 .5 2 : C L A , 240). 3 0 5 .3 3 M a r g a r e t E rsk in e , o f the h o u se o f M a r see n o te to 1 8 5 .3 3 . 30 6 .2 t h e E s t a t es see note to 19 9 .2 2 – 2 3 . In fact the E s tates had no say in M a r y ’s im p riso n m en t , w h ich w as the act o f the self-ap p o in ted S e c re t C o u n c il. 306.6 m y w h o le frie n d s all m y frien d s. 306.9 h e ld to o lig h t ly o f tho u gh t o f too sligh tin gly. 30 6 .25 I t w a s p r o v e d . . . b e fo re I w a s b o r n another allu sio n to the ad u lte ry o f M a rg a re t D o u g la s and Ja m e s V . 3 0 7 .3 1 A tr u c e w ith see note to 2 6 7 .2 7 . 30 8.2– 3 le p u s m a r i n u s . . . D io sco rid e s a n d G a le n L a tin the sea-slu g (lite ra lly sea hare), a p lysia depilans, m en tion ed b y the G re e k ph ysician s P e d ­ an iu s D io sc o rid e s (a d c. 40 – c. 90), w h o w ro te the tre a tis e D e M a teria M ed ica , the stan dard w o rk on p h arm aco lo gy u n til the R en aissan ce, an d G a le n o f P erg a­ m u m (a D 1 29 – c. 1 99), w h o w as the dom in ant influence o n m ed ical theo ry an d p ractice in the M id d le A g e s and R en aissan ce. F o r the lepus m arinus see D e M a teria M ed ica , 2 .2 0 , an d G a le n , D e A n tidotis, L ib e r S e c u n d u s, C ap . 7. F o r a fu lle r d esc rip tion see the N a tu ra l H istory o f P lin y the E ld e r (a d 2 3 - 7 9 ) , trans. H . R a ck h am an d W . H . S . Jo n e s , 10 vols (L o n d o n : H a rv a rd U n iv e rsity P re ss, 19 3 8 – 6 3 ). 3 .2 69.

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30 8.4 r e g u lu s o f a n t im o n y the m etallic fo rm o f antim ony. 308.6 a q u a c y m b a la r iæ L a tin lite ra lly w ater o f cym balaria, a L a tin nam e fo r the w ater p e n n y w o rt, also once know n as ‘ sh eep e-k illin g P en n i-g rasse’ : ‘T h e ign o ran t A p o th ecaries doe use the W ater P en n y w o o rt . . . w h ich they cannot doe w ith o u t great erro r, and m u ch danger to the patient: fo r hu sband­ m en kn o w w e ll, th at it is noisom e v n to Sh eep e, an d other cattell that feed thereon , and fo r the m o st p art b rin geth death v n to them , m u ch m ore to m en ’ (Jo h n G e r ra rd , T h e H e rb a ll or G en era ll H istorie o f P la n tes ( 15 9 7 ; repr. L o n d o n , 1 6 3 3 ) , 529)· 30 8 .1 3– 1 4 d e A n t id o t is L a tin o f rem edies against poison: the title o f a w o rk b y G a le n , d iv id ed in to tw o books: see D e A n tidotis L ib r i D uo, in G alen , O pera O m nia, ed . C . G . K ü h n , 19 v o ls (L e ip z ig , 1 8 2 1 – 30), 1 4 . 1 – 209. 30 8 .19 – 2 0 A r t h a th . . . the L a tin v e rsio n pro verbial: see O D E P , 19 , w h ich also c ites the L a tin version . 30 8 .23 b e a r h e r d o w n fig u ra tiv e van q u ish her. 3 0 9 .18 se v e n -t im e s h e a t ed fu rn a c e see D a n ie l 3 .1 9 . 309.40 t h re e sc r u p le s o f th e a sh es o f the w it c h the ‘ solid auth o rs’ to w h om L u n d in attrib u tes this su p erstition have not been id en tified, and it m ay be S c o tt’s in v en tion. 30 9.4 2 c r i n i s c a n i s r a b id i L a tin the h air o f a m ad dog, w h ich was trad ition ally a p p lied to the w ou nd in flicted b y the d o g as a w ay to p reven t rabies: ‘ there are m an y ap p lication s eq u ally rid ic u lo u s . . . T hu s the hair o f the d o g that gave the w o u n d is ad vised as an ap plication to the part in ju red ’ (R ich ard Ja m e s, A t reatise on C an in e M adness (L o n d o n , 17 6 0 ), 204). 3 10 .3 fia t e x p e r im e n t u m . . . in c o rp o re v ili L a tin let the exp erim en t be m ade on som e base bo d y. A p p aren tly pro verb ial (see H . T . R ile y , D iction ary o f L a tin Q uota tions (L o n d o n , 18 5 6 ), 12 4 ), th ou gh traced no fu rther back than The A bbot. H o w e v e r, com pare the fo llow in g: ‘T w o P h ysician s bein g in C o n su l­ tati o n abou t a P a ti e n t, they spoke L a ti n e togeth er, not th inking he u n d erstood it. A t last one o f them talked o f a R em ed y , w h ich had no t been ye t exp erien ced , and said u n to the other, F a ciam u s p ericu lu m in anim a v ilim let u s tr y it upon this po o r so u l’ ( G [u y ] M [iege], M iscella n ea : O r, a C hoice C ollection o f W ise an d Ingenious S a y in g s (L o n d o n , 16 9 4), 6 1 : C L A , 13 4 ). 3 10 .2 5 Q u e e n o f F r a n c e a n d o f E n g la n d see no te to 2 0 9 .10 – 1 1 . 3 10 .2 8 – 2 9 G o d o f a r m ie s see 1 Sa m u el 17 .4 5 . 3 10 .3 2 – 3 3 th e k e y s o f S a in t P e t er, to b in d a n d to loose see note to 10 8 .2 0 – 2 1 . 3 1 0 .3 3 – 3 4 th e s w o rd o f S a in t P a u l, to s m it e a n d to sh e a r S t P au l is com m on ly d ep ic ted carry in g a sw o rd , the in stru m en t o f his m artyrdom . 3 10 .3 6 t ib e lio n e ss see note to 3 5 3 .2 . 3 1 1 .30 b y co n fe ssio n b y her o w n con fession. 3 1 1 . 4 3 h e r tr a d e is d a m n a b le b y S c r ip t u re see E x o d u s 2 2 .18 . In his ‘ In tro d u ction to the T ale o f Tam lane’ S c o tt com m en ted that ‘ A Ju d a ica l obser­ v ation o f the p rec ep ts o f the O ld T estam ent also characterised the P re sb y terian refo rm ers. " T hou shalt not su ffer a w itch to liv e ,” w as a tex t, w h ich at o n c e . . . au th o rised th eir b e lie f in sorcery, and sanction ed the pen alty w h ich they de­ no u n ced again st it’ (M in strelsy, 2 .3 3 7 ). 3 1 2 .3 4 – 3 5 b y r e sid in g in an o th er ju r is d ic t i o n . . . w a r ra n t S c o ttish h eritable ju risd ic tion s, not abolished u n til 17 4 8 , gran ted landow ners w h o held their rig h ts fro m the cro w n the auth o rity to try person s accused o f crim es com m itted w ith in their lan d s. T h e ir w arran ts, h o w ever, w ere o n ly lo cally effec t­ ive. S e e also R ed gau n tlet, eew n 1 7 , note to 3 0 9 .3 8 -3 9 . 3 1 2 .4 1 – 4 3 th e seco n d J a m e s . . . p o n ia rd e d th e b r a v e E a r l o f D o u g la s see H u m e , 18 9 – 94: W illiam D o u g las (c. 14 2 5 – 52), 8t h E a rl o f D o u glas (14 4 3 ) , w as m u rd ered in S tirlin g, w h ere he m et Ja m e s I I o n ly a fter receivin g a

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w ritten guarantee o f safety ; how ever, a fter d in n er the k in g took D o u g la s to a separate room , w h ere he and his fo llow ers stabbed h im to death. 3 1 3 . 1 2 – 1 3 g ra n tin g h e r to b e a w it c h . . . w iz a r d com pare th e p ro verb , ‘T h e y that b u rn yo u fo r a w itch w ill lose their coals’ (O D E P , 92). 3 1 3 . 2 1 o u r u n c le th e C a r d in a l either C h a rles, C ard in al o f L o rra in e fro m 15 5 0 (fo r w h om see note to 17 8 .3 0 ), o r h is yo u n ger b ro ther L o u is ( 15 2 7 – 78), w ho succeeded C h arles as C ard in al de G u is e in the sam e year. 3 14 .2 4 h o n o ra riu m the honorary fee, stric tly speak in g a p resen t rather than paym en t, granted to m em bers o f the learned professions. 3 14 .2 4 – 2 5 H ip p o c r a t es! G re e k p h ysician (c. 460– c. 3 7 7 в c ) , regard ed as the father o f m edicine. 3 1 4 .2 5 t h e g ra d u a te’ s c a p a n d d o cto r ’ s sc a rle t a squ are cap, w o rn b y stu d en ts and academ ics; scarlet robes or go w n s, w o rn b y those w h o hold the degree o f D o c tor in certain subjects. 3 14 .2 6 F r u s tr a fa t ig a m u s r e m e d iis æ gro s L a tin w e p o in tlessly w ear out the sick w ith cures. C o m p are W h itlock (88): ‘as excellen tly H eu rnius [F ru stra f a tigant R em edijs ægros, qu i vic tus R a tione C uraripossunt] it is to no p u rp o se to tire N a tu re w ith u np leasin g R em ed ies, w h en D y e t m ig h t do the w o rk ’ . W h itlock’s attrib u tion is to Jo a n n e s H e u rn iu s o r van H e u rn ( 15 4 3 – 1 6 0 1 ) , a D u tch m edical w riter an d P ro fesso r o f M ed icin e at L e y d e n fro m 1 5 8 1 . 3 1 4 . 3 1 – 3 7 m o tto not identified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 3 1 5.9 c h ip p in g k n ife knife used fo r p a rin g bread b y cu ttin g aw ay the cru st . 3 1 5 . 1 0 p o iso n u n d e r tru st acco rd in g to S c o ts law o f the p eriod m u rd er ‘u n d er tr u s t’ (in vo lv in g a breach o f a tr u s t repo sed in the crim inal) w as regard ed as ‘ treasonable m u rd er’ , and w as p u n ish ed w ith corresp o n d in g severity. 3 1 5 . 1 9 –20 h a lf-d o n e j o b . . . clo u t ed to clout is to m en d a garm en t w ith patches; the im plication is that the ‘ h alf-d o n e’ m u rd er can still be com p leted. 3 1 5 . 2 2 t ak e o rd e r arrange. 3 1 5.26 – 2 7 H e th a t is h a n g e d in M a y w ill e a t n o fla u n e s in M id s u m ­ m e r p ro verb ial (O D E P , 3 5 0 ). T h is is the o n ly in stance g iven in O D E P . 3 1 6 .1 0 – 1 1 aft er th e d eath c o m e s th e ju d g m e n t see H e b re w s 9 .2 7 . 3 1 6 .1 3 – 1 4 a b u rn e r o f b ric k s in E g y p t see E x o d u s 1 . 1 4 and 5 .7 - 1 9 : the Israelites, far fro m the P ro m ised L a n d , w ere con dem ned to m ake b rick s fo r the E g y p tians. 3 1 6 .1 4 t h e fre e d o m o f th e sa in t s the freed om fro m m oral con strain ts given to the elect, those predestined fo r salvation: com pare no tes to 2 9 8 .29 – 30 and 3 1 6 . 1 6 – 1 7 . 3 1 6 .1 5 N ic o la u s S c h œ ffe rb a c h u n traced, and p ro b ab ly a fictitious nam e. T h e G e rm a n Sch œ fferb ach literally m eans ‘ju ro r-stream ’ . 3 1 6 .1 6 B ish o p o f M u n s t er C o u n t F ra n z v o n W ald eck , b ish o p o f M ü n s ter fro m 1 5 32 – 5 3. A lso see note to 2 9 8 .2 9 – 30. 3 1 6 .1 6– 1 7 h e can n o t sin w h o doth b u t e x e cu t e th a t w h ic h is p re d e s­ tin ed see no te to 2 9 8 .2 9 -3 0 : the v iew s h ere attrib u ted to an A n ab ap tist w o u ld have com e m ore plau sib ly fro m an e x trem e C alv in ist o r antinom ian. 3 1 6 .2 2 L o c k e r b ie see no te to 2 17 .4 2 . 3 1 6 .2 2 - 2 3 t en y e a r s o l d . . . a d d th e th ree sco re to it acco rd in g to P salm 9 0 .10 , ‘ t h e days o f o ur years are threescore years and ten ’ . 3 1 7 .8 K e ir ie C r a ig s see no te to 2 4 2 .2 8 . 3 1 7 . 1 7 – 1 8 O ld K e lti e . . . b r id g e K e lty -b rid g e is n o w th e nam e o f a village, about 4 km S o f L o ch leven . 3 1 7 .4 2 a t e a c h co rn e r everyw h ere. 3 1 8 .5 - 6 A n d r e w F e r r a r a s see note to 1 7 1 . 12 . 3 18 .6 t h e re lig io n o f B a b y lo n R o m a n C a th o licism , w h ose centre, R o m e ,

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w as id en tified in p o lem ics w ith the m y stical B a b y lo n o f the B o o k o f R e v e la tion. 3 1 8 .7 t h e W o m a n o f M o a b see note to 2 8 2 .35 . 3 18 .8 S a in t B e n n e t o f S e y to n S t B e n e d ic t o f N u rs ia (see note to 13 9 .3 3 ) , the patro n sain t o f th e S e y ton fam ily. 3 1 8 . 1 2 t h e G o o d R e g e n t a tid e g iven p o p u la rly to the E a rl o f M o r a y . 3 1 8 .4 3 – 3 1 9 . 1 M o a b it ish st u m b lin g -b lo c k see note to 2 8 2 .3 5 ; ‘stu m b lin g -b lo ck ’ is a com m on term in the A u th o rised V ersio n . 3 1 9 . 14 – 1 5 th r o n e . . . a b o m in a t io n com pare R e v e la ti o n C h . 17 . 3 1 9 .2 2 r a t ’ s b a n e arsenic. 3 1 9 .3 5 – 3 6 m e t w ith en co u n tered (in battle), b u t w ith o vertones o f ‘ paid b ack ’ (see O E D , m eet 11 i ). 32 0 .2 4 L o c h o f C le is h in the In terleaved S e t S c o tt changed this t o ‘ L o c h O re ’ , a lo ch w h ich lies 2 km E o f K e lty -b rid g e . T h e re are, h o w ever, fo u r lochs w ith in th e p arish o f C leish , tw o o f w h ich are m ark ed as ‘ C le ish lo ch s’ in Jo h n A in slie ’s 1 8 0 1 m ap o f th e C o u n ty o f F ife ; other m ap s id en tify them as B lac k L o c h an d L o c h G lo w , the second o f w h ich lies som e 4 km W o f K e lty-b rid g e, an d m ay be m eant here. 32 0 .2 6 U n d e r y o u r fa v o u r b y yo u r leave. 3 2 0 .2 8 B a llin g r y pro n o u n ced ‘B in g r y ’ . 3 2 0 .3 3 – 3 4 I c a r e n o t a b r a s s b o d le com pare the p ro verb ‘N o t w orth a brass farth in g ’ ( O D E P , 8 1) . 3 2 1 .6 –7 h a s a go o d fa c e gives good pro m ise o f success. 3 2 1 .7 u n d e r y o u r fa v o u r b y yo u r leave, w ith all subm issio n. 3 2 1 . 1 3 a m u ffle d m a n a m an in d isgu ise. 3 2 1 .2 0 L o w e r G e r m a n y N o r th G e rm a n y (see note to 2 9 8 .2 9 -3 0 ). 3 2 1 . 2 1 ju d g e b y th e fru it s com pare M a tthew 7 .1 8 – 20: ‘ A good tree cannot b rin g fo rth ev il fru it, n either can a c o rru p t tree b rin g fo rth good fru it . . . W h erefo re b y th eir fru its y e shall know the m .’ 3 2 2 .2 – 9 m o tto no t id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. H o w e v e r, Jo h n D r y d e n ’s play T he Sp a n ish F ry a r (perfo rm ed 16 8 0 ) in clu d es a character called Ped ro. 3 2 2 . 1 6 - 1 8 G r y p h o n . . . tre a su re a fab u lo u s m o n ster w ith the head and w in gs o f an eagle, an d the b o d y o f a lion; it is said b y H ero d o tu s to gu ard gold (H istories, 4 .13 ) . 3 2 2 .3 7 P in k ie see H isto rical N o te, 46 3. 3 2 2 .3 7 – 3 8 V e r t u g a rd in s Fren ch fa rth in gales, b u t w ith a p u n on ‘v irtu egu ard in g ’ : it w as claim ed that ‘ they w ere first b ro u g h t in to u se to h ide great b ellies’ (R a y , 259 ). 3 2 4 .1 m a b o n n e F ren ch m y m aid. 3 2 4 .2 t h is C a r th u sia n sile n ce see no te to 1 8 1 . 2 . 3 2 4 .3 2 – 3 5 C h a r ity . . . d ise a se acco rd in g to the E n g lish am bassador t h rock m o rton , w ritin g to Q ueen E liza b eth o n 2 2 A u g u s t 15 6 7 , M a itland o f L e th in g ton u sed a sim ilar argu m en t to ju stify the severity w ith w h ich M a r y w as treated: ‘O n e sick o f a veh em en t b u rn in g F e v e r w ill refu se all t h in gs w h ich m ay do h im G o o d , an d req u ire all t h in gs w h ich m ay do h im H a rm ; and therefo re the A p p e tite o f su ch a P erso n is not to b e fo llo w ed ’ ( K e ith , 448). 3 2 5 .3 4 – 3 5 C la n -R a n a ld a n d C la n -T o s a c h . . . F e m ih e r s t a n d B u c ­ c le u c h th e M ac d o n ald s o f C la n -R an ald , alon g w ith their c h ie f Ian o r Jo h n M ac d o n ald (d. 15 8 4 ), w ere ‘firm su p p o rters o f the R o m a n C a tholic faith ’ (H istoric a l a n d G en ea lo gica lA ccount o f the C la n or F a m ily o f M a cdo n a ld (E d in ­ b u rg h , 1 8 1 9 ) , 10 0 : C L A , 23). H o w ev er, th ey took little part in th e even ts o f 1 567– 6 8 . T h e head o f the C la n -T osach at th is tim e w as L a u c h la n M a c in tosh o f that Ilk (d. 16 0 9 ), ‘a great lo yalist an d a firm frien d o f Q u een M a r y ’ (R o b ert D o u g las, T he B a ro n a ge o f S c o tla n d, 3 5 1 ) . F o r F ern ieh irst an d B u c c leu ch see no te to 14 8 .2 9 . 3 2 6 .3 – 4 b e st D o u g l a s . . . sw o rd com pare Ju liu s C aesar, 5 .1 .5 8 – 60.

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3 2 6 .1 8 m a m ig n o n n e French m y d arlin g. 3 2 6 .2 3 in a ll re a so n a b le c o n scie n ce co llo qu ia l b y all that is rig h t or reas­ onable. 3 2 7 .9 L a M e r d es H is to ire s Fren ch the sea o f h istories. O rig in ally the L a tin R udim entum N o v itiorum (L ü b e c k , 14 7 5 ) , a h istor y o f the w o rld fro m its creation to 1 4 7 3 ; this w as translated in to F r e n c h and b ro u gh t u p to d ate as L a M e r des H ystoires (L y o n , 150 6 ). O ther v ersio n s, fu rther u p d ated , w ere p rin ted in the first h a lf o f the 1 6 th centu ry . 3 2 7 .1 1 - 1 2 L a C ro n iq u e d ’A m o u r u n traced, th o u gh the title is rem in is­ cent o f m an y m ed ieval adaptations an d im itation s o f O v id ’s A rs A m a toria . 3 2 7 .3 1 – 3 2 e x p lo it s o f th e t eu ton ic k n ig h t s . . . L iv o n ia the m ilita ry o rd er o f th e t eu tonic K n ig h ts, fo u n d ed c. 1 1 9 0 in P a lestine, w as m ad e u p o f G e rm a n cru saders. I t tran sferred its activ ities to eastern E u ro p e in 1 2 1 1 , an d in the cou rse o f the 1 3 th and 1 4 th centu ries con qu ered an d fo rcib ly c o n verted the heathen peoples o f P ru ssia, L iv o n ia (co m p risin g m u ch o f m odern -d a y L a tvia) and E s tonia. L a M e r des H ystoires refers to the t eu ton ic K n ig h ts o n ly in passin g (in th e 1 506 ed ition, see ‘L a sixiesm e aage’ , f. lx x x v i verso). 3 2 7 .4 1 t h e h ig h st a n d in g r u f f a n d th e fa llin g b a n d com petin g fash ­ ion s o f the 1 6th centu r y . T h e fa llin g ban d w as a broad, flat collar o f lace o r linen; fo r an accou nt o f its con ven ience com pared to the h ig h -stan d in g r u f f see Jo h n M a r s ton, T he M a lcon tent ( 16 0 4 ), 5 .3 .1 8 – 2 3 (A B D , 2 .3 3 ) . F o r a fu lle r d escrip ­ tion see Jo s e p h S tru tt, A Com plete V iew o f the D ress a n d H a b its o f the P eo p le o f E n gla n d , 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 17 9 9 ), 2 .3 3 3 – 34: C L A , 1 54. 32 9 .3 b ro k en c la n ‘A broken clan w as one w h o had no c h ie f able to find secu rity fo r their good b eh aviou r— a clan o f o u tlaw s; an d the G ræ m e s o f the D e b a teable L a n d w ere in that con d itio n ’ (M a g n u m , 2 1 .2 6 5 , no te). 3 2 9 .5 L o v e . . . d esp ises g e n ealo g ies compare T he M onastery, e e w n 9, 29 6 .33. 3 2 9 .3 3 M a p e tite m ig n o n n e F ren ch m y litd e darlin g. 3 2 9 .3 9 p e tit e fla m b e r g e à rie n F ren ch little trifle o f a sw o rd . 330 .2 0 g ra n d a lm o n e r an alm on er is an o fficer resp on sib le fo r the d istri­ b u tion o f another ’s alm s; in the B r itish royal ho u seh o ld there is also a titu lar ‘H e re d ita ry G ra n d A lm o n er’ . 330 .2 6 O liv e r S in c la ir a cou rtier (flo u rish ed 1 5 3 7 – 60) w h o w as alleged to have w o n Ja m e s V ’s favo u r ‘b y flatte r y . . . an d ch iefly b y d raw in g o f fair m aid ens to the K in g , and likew ise o f m en s w iv e s’ (M e lv il, 8). In 1 5 4 2 Ja m e s ap p o in ted S in cla ir general, bu t the a rm y ’s refu sal to serv e u n d er h im led d irectly to the chaotic ro u t o f S o lw a y M o ss. 330 .28-129 th e L a d ie s S a n d ila n d s a n d O lifa u n t m istresses o f Ja m e s V . S c o tt no tes in The M agnum ( 2 1.2 6 8 ) that their nam es ‘ are p reserv ed in an ep igram too g a illa rd fo r qu o tatio n ’ . T h e p u n n in g ep igram is as fo llow s: ‘ S a w no t th y S e id on S a n d y la n d s ,/ S p e n d not th y S tren gth o n W e ir ,/ A n d ry d no t on the O lip h an t / F o r h u rtin g o f th y G e ir ’ ([A llan R a m sa y ], t h e E v e r G reen , 2 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 17 2 4 ), 1 . 1 84: C L A , 17 0 ). 3 3 0 .3 7 t h e w itc h ’ s m a r k one m ethod o f d etectin g w itches w as ‘b y ru n n in g pin s in to their b o d y , on p retence o f d isco v erin g the d e v il’ s stigm a, o r m ark, w h ich w as said to be in flicted b y him u p o n all his vassals, an d to be in sen sib le to p a in ’ (W . S c o tt, L e tters on D em onology a n d W itchcraft (L o n d o n , 18 3 0 ), 297). 3 3 1 . 1 1 D o n a ld n a n O r d see ‘T h e H is tor y o f D o n a ld the H am m e re r’ , [ed. W . S c o tt,] in [E d w a rd B u r t,] L e ttersfro m a G en tlem an in the N o rth o f E n g la n d , 5 th edn , ed. R . Jam ieso n , 2 v o ls (L o n d o n , 1 8 1 8 ) , lx iv – lx x v i. A f ter the m assacre o f his fa m ily D o n a ld , tho u gh a h ighland ch ieftain b y b irth , w as b ro u g h t u p b y a black sm ith , and learnt h is trade. W h en gro w n u p he aven ged h is fa m ily and resu m ed h is rig h tfu l p o sition. 3 3 1 . 3 3 p a s s c u rre n t be received as genuine.

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3 3 2 .7 – 9 m o tto not id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt; b u t com pare Jo h n W eb­ ster, t h e W hite D e v il( 1 6 1 2 ) , 5 .6 .16 8 : ‘ C h u rch m en tu rn ’d revellers’ (A B D , 3.44). 3 3 2 .2 7 t o u r d e jo n g le u r Fren ch ju g g lin g trick. 3 3 2 .3 2 – 3 3 s p e a k . . . fa ir speak co u rteo u sly to . 3 3 2 .3 6 P in k ie fie ld see H isto rical N o te, 46 3. 3 3 2 .3 9 R é v e ille z v o u s b e lle e n d o rm ie Fren ch ‘ A w ak e, beau tifu l sleep er’ : the tid e o f a p o p u la r air to w h ich v erses w ere o ften su n g in the ‘ théâtres de la fo ire ’ , th e farces or pan tom im es p erfo rm ed at P a risian fairs fro m the late 1 6 th cen tu ry o n w ard s. T h e tune is n u m b er one in t h e ‘t able des A ir s ’ fo u n d in each vo lu m e o f th e a tre de la F o ire , b y A la in R e n é L e S a g e an d D ’O rn eval, 6 vols (A m sterd am an d P a ris, 1 7 2 3 – 3 1 ) : C L A , 1 1 8 . 3 3 3 . 1 – 2 th e c h a m p io n o f o u r b o d y person al p ro tector or b o d ygu ard , b u t w ith an allu sio n to th e royal cham p ion, w h o o ffers to d efen d the m o n arch ’s rig h t to the th ron e at coronati o n s . 333.3 p a r v o ie d u fa it F ren ch b y an act o f violen ce. 3 3 4 .2 t h e lig h t s o f S a in t E lm o S t E lm o w as the patron saint o f sailors. D u r in g a storm electrical d ischarges on the m asthead can give o f f a blu ish ligh t, k no w n as S t E lm o ’s lig h t, and once th o u gh t to be a sign that he had taken the sh ip u n d er h is p ro tecti o n . 3 3 4 .1 3 P la c e th e la m p in th e w in d o w a m eans o f com m u nicati o n re­ cou n ted as fact in T ales o f a G ra n d fa ther (P rose W orks, 2 3 .13 0 ) , b u t n evertheless p ro b ab ly S c o tt’s in v en ti o n . 3 3 4 .4 2 c a n n o t c h u se have no altern ati v e . 3 3 5 .1 4 – 1 5 th e so n o fh is o w n go o d w o rk s allu d in g to the p r o v e r b ‘ E v e r y m an is the son o f h is o w n w o rk s’ ( O D E P , 7 5 2 ); fo u n d also in M ig u e l de C e rv a n tes, D on Q u ixote, translated b y several han ds, 4 v o ls (E d in b u rg h , 17 6 6 ), 2.30 6 : C L A , 3 1 7 . 3 3 5 .2 7 - 3 0 T h e H o w la t . . . S ir Jo h n H o lla n d see T he B u k e o f the H o w la t, b y R ic h a rd H o llan d (d. c. 14 8 2 ), lines 4 0 2 -0 3 (rep rin ted in L o n ger S c o ttish Poem s, 2 v o ls, v o l 1 ed. P risc illa B a w c u tt and F e lic ity R id d y (E d in b u rg h , 19 8 7 ), 1 .43– 84). T h e o n ly available te x t in 18 2 0 w as con tain ed in Jo h n P in k erton ’s S c o tish Poem s, 3 v o ls (L o n d o n , 17 9 2 ), 3 .1 4 5 – 8 8 . T h e au th o r o f the poem calls h im s e lf sim p ly ‘H o lla n d ’ , and P in k erton o ffers no m o re p recise id en tification. T h u s th e nam e ‘ S ir J o h n ’ is S c o tt’ s in v en tion , ‘ S i r ’ b ein g a cou rtesy tid e given to clerics. S c o tt also fo llo w s P in k erton ’s in accurate te x t (3 .16 4 ). 3 3 5 .3 9 m a k e m u c h o f t h e e treat yo u w ith co u rtesy. 3 3 7 .2 4 lik e a g re y h o u n d in th e s lip s see note to 2 5 4 .12 – 1 3 . 3 3 7 .3 0 t h e c h u rc h , w h ic h st a n d s a t so m e d ist a n c e fr o m th e to w n the p arish c h u rch fo rm erly stoo d near the lake, in the grou n d s o f K in r o ss H ou se. T h e cu rren t p arish ch u rch , w h ich is in the tow n , w as b u ilt in 18 3 2 . 3 3 7 .3 2 in c lo su re s en closed or fen ced p riv a te g ro u n d s. T h e land betw een K in r o ss an d L o c h le v e n , o rigin ally open an d b o g g y, w as d rain ed an d en closed b y the arch itect S ir W illiam B ru c e (d. 1 7 1 0 ) , w h o b u ilt K in r o ss H o u se there in 16 8 5 an d plan ted aven u es and o rchards: see S ir R o b e rt S ib b a ld , T he H istor y . . . o f the Sh eriffd om s o f F ife a n d K in ross (E d in b u rg h , 1 7 1 0 ) , 10 7 – 08: C L A , 1 3 . 3 3 7 .4 1 – 3 3 8 .1 c o rp se c a n d le s . . . b o d e d d e a th the term corpse-can dles (ligh ts su p p o sed to fo resh ad o w the appearance o f a corpse) ap pears to be W elsh rather than S c o ttish : several occu rren ces o f the phenom en on are d escribed in R ic h a rd B a x ter, T he C erta in ty o f the W orld o f S p ir its (L o n d o n , 1 6 9 1 ) , 1 3 7 – 46: C L A , 14 6 . 3 3 8 .1 4 w h a t th r ift th a t c h u rl d r iv e s w h at k ind o f in d u str y that peasant p ractises. 3 3 8 .2 9 fo o ls lo o k to to- m o r r o w . . . to-n ig h t com pare O D E P , 656. 3 3 8 .3 5 t ru e a s st eel p ro verb ial (R a y , 2 2 6 ; O D E P , 840).

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3 3 8 .3 8 – 4 1 m y e a rlie r a n d m o r e sp rig h tly d a y s . . . k n a p sc a p com pare the E n g lish am bassador T hom as R a n d o lp h ’s d escrip tion o f M a r y ’s m ood on her exp ed ition to In vern ess in 15 6 2 : ‘ S h e rep en ted n o th in g, b u t . . . That she w as not a m an , to kn o w w hat life it w as to ly e all n ig h t in th e field s, or to w alk on the cau sew ay, w ith a jack and knapsack, a G la sg o w b u ck ler, and a b ro a d -sw o rd ’ (qu o ted in C h a lm ers, 1.8 6 ). 3 3 9 .2 3 H e slee p s fo r a w a g e r I ’ ll w ager he sleeps. 3 4 1 .3 b r in g to stop , p u ll u p. 3 4 1 .3 7 B e n n a r ty a h ill on th e S shore o f L o c h le v e n . 3 4 3 .4 A b b o t B o n ifa c e see no te to 12 0 .3 2 . 3 4 3 .3 3 – 3 7 m o tto ad apted fro m ‘T h e D o u g la s T rag ed y’ , stanza 3 (M in ­ strelsy, 3 .5 ), tho u gh the colou rs o f the h orses are taken fro m another ballad, ‘Ja m ie T e lfe r o f th e F a ir D o d h e a d ’ , stanza 2 1 (M in strelsy, 2 .7). 34 4 .6 –7 th e F o r tu n e o f S c o t la n d the phrase has no t been traced. 3 4 5 .2 – 3 L o r d M o r ton ’ s p a r a m o u r . . . A lic e M o r ton ’s p ro fligacy w as w ell know n : his w ife becam e in san e, an d thereafter he ‘ loosed the rains to others, an d begat th ree natu rall c h ild ren ’ (H u m e, 278 ). H o w e v e r, the nam e A lic e seem s to be fictitious. 3 4 5 .3 9 N id d r ie an estate an d castle gran ted to G e o rg e , L o r d S e ton , in 15 5 2 . 3 4 6 .1 1 – 1 2 m a m ig n o n n e F ren ch m y darlin g. 3 4 6 .1 5– 16 th e u p p e r sid e o f F o r tu n e’ s w h e e l . . . h e r b a n d a g e the classical godd ess o f F o r tune w as co m m on ly d ep icted w ith a w h eel (sym b o lisin g v ic issitude) and a b lin d fo ld . 34 6 .36 H a m ilton ’ s . . . F le m in g ’ s see notes to 5 1 . 3 an d 1 7 7 .1 8 – 19 . 3 4 7 .1 1 t h e c ro ss o f th e sw o rd th e cro ss-p iece d iv id in g the blade fro m the h ilt, on w h ich oath s m igh t be sw orn . 3 4 7 .1 6 M a m ig n o n n e F ren ch m y darlin g. 3 4 7 .2 1 m y reb e l su b je c t s s a w m e ex p o se d Ja m e s B e ton , w ritin g to his b ro ther on 1 7 Ju n e 15 6 7 , w h ile M a r y w as b ein g h eld in E d in b u rg h , d escrib ed h o w she ‘ cam ye sterd ay to ane w in d o o f h ir ch alm er that lu k k it on the h iegait, an d c ry it fo rth on th e pep ill qu h o w sehe w as halden in p r is o n . . . S c he cam to the said w in d o su n d rie tym es in sa m iserab le a stait, h er hairs h ingand abo u t h er lu g g s, & h ir b reist, yea the m aist p art o f all h er bo die, fra the w aist u p, bair an d d isco v erit, that na m an cou ld lu k u p o n h ir bo t sehe m o v it h im to p itie and com p assio n ’ (qu o ted in M a lc o lm L a in g , H istory o f S c o tla n d, 4 v o ls (L o n d o n , 18 0 4 ), 2 . 1 1 4 : C L A , 5). 3 4 8 .3 D r a p h a n e C a s tle an altern ati v e nam e fo r C ra ig n e than , a castle near H a m ilton. S ir W illiam D r u r y w ro te on 6 M a y 15 6 8 that M a r y ‘con ti n u eth sti l l at D ra ffen am on gst th e H a m iltons’ ( K e ith, 4 7 3). 3 4 8 .3 L o r d A r b r o a th Jo h n H a m ilton ( 1 5 3 2 – 16 0 4 ), later ( 159 9 ) i s t M a r ­ qu ess o f H a m ilton , and second son o f Ja m e s , 2 n d E a rl o f A rra n (d. 15 7 5 ). H a m ilton w as in fact C o m m en d ator o f A rb ro a th (see no te to 14 8 .5 –7 ) fro m 1 5 5 1 , th o u gh k now n as L o r d o f A rb ro a th ; he w as also th e effe c ti v e head o f the H a m ilton s (fo r w h om see note to 5 1 .3 ) at th is period . H e w as p ro b ab ly no t p resen t at L a n g sid e , b u t S c o tt fo llo w s M e lv il, w h o claim s that ‘ the lo rd o f A rb ro a th [com m an ded] the v au n tgu ard ’ (M e lv il, 18 2 ). 34 8 .4 D u m b a r ton a tow n 26 km W o f G la sg o w , con tain in g a castle w h ich w as deem ed im p regn ab le; it w as held b y M a r y ’s su p p o rters, u n d er L o r d F le m ­ in g ( s e e no te to 1 7 7 .1 8 – 19 ), u n ti l 1 5 7 1 . 3 4 8 .14 set st a t e a p a r t p u t aside p o m p an d cerem on y. 35 0 .3 r e jo ic e w ith th o se w h o r e jo ic e see R o m a n s 1 2 . 1 5 . 35 0 .3 6 p a ss e d c u rre n t been receiv ed as genuine. 35 0 .3 6 M a lis e E a r l o f S tr a th e rn M a lise G ra h a m (c. 1 4 1 o– c. 14 9 0 ), w h o c. 14 2 7 w as d ep riv ed o f the earld om o f S trathearn an d gran ted the earld om o f

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M e n teith in its place. S c o tt alters his sou rce, T he H istory an d A n tiqu ities o f Westm orland a n d C um berland, b y Jo s e p h N ico lso n and R ic h ard B u m s , 2 vols (L o n d o n , 17 7 7 ) , 2.46 6: ‘ T his fam ily o f G ra h a m . . . is descended fro m the earls o f M o n teith in S c o tla n d . . . J O H N G R A H M E , second sone o f M a lic e earl o f M on te ith , co m m o n ly su rn am ed Jo h n w ith the bright sw o rd . . . retired w ith m an y o f his clan an d k in d red in to the E n g lish b o rd ers’ (C L A , 252 ). C o m p are M in strelsy, 1 . 2 9 7 , an d T he L a y o f the Last M in stre l, n o te 79. 3 5 1 . 6 – 10 J u lia n A v e n e l . . . h is b o d y see The M onastery, ee w n 9, ЗЗ0 – ЗЗ· 3 5 2 .1 0 h im o f G a th G o lia th: see 1 Sa m u el 17 .4 . 3 5 2 .1 4 h o u se o f L o r r a in e the G u ise s: C la u d e, first D u k e o f G u ise , was second son o f D u k e R e n é I I o f L o rra in e . S e e no te to 17 8 .3 0 . 3 5 2 .2 8 a k in d ly str a n g e r in fact H alb ert G len d in n in g: see T he M onastery, e e w n 9 ,3 3 3 . 3 5 3 .2 L io n e s s o f S c o tla n d the h erald ic sym b o l o f the lion ram pant was clo sely associated w ith the S tew art dyn asty , so that an y k in g could be called ‘ the lio n ’ . 3 5 4 .2 – 6 m o tto not id en tified: p ro b ab ly b y S c o tt. 3 5 4 .1 2 M r C h a l m e r s . . . H istor y o f Q u een M a r y G e o rg e C h alm ers ( 17 4 2 – 18 2 5 ) , an tiq u ary and historian . T h e first tw o volum es o f his m o st im ­ p o rtant w o rk , C a ledo n ia, w ere p u blish ed in 18 0 7 an d 1 8 1 0 , and his L ife o f M a ry, Q ueen o f S c o ts, in 1 8 1 8 . S c o tt’s corresp on den ce w ith him began in F e b ru a ry 17 9 6 . 3 5 4 .1 6 H a m ilto n see note to 1 7 7 .1 8 – 19 . 3 5 4 .19 t h e L a i r d o f G r a n g e see note to 2 5 .1 8 . 3 5 4 .2 7 th e st ro n g c a s t le o f D u m b a r ton see note to 348.4. 3 5 5 .2 4 J u lia n ’ s eld er b ro th er M a r y A v e n e l’s father W alter, w hose lands w ere seized a fter h is death b y his yo u n ger b ro ther Ju lia n : see T he M onastery, EEWN 9 , 4 3 , 48– 49. 3 5 6 .1 th e re is a lio n in th e p a th P ro verb s 2 6 .1 3 . S e e also O D E P , 466–6 7. 356 .6 o f n a m e no ted , distingu ished . 3 5 6 . 8 - 1 1 b r a v e . . . co n fid en ce ‘ those w h o w ere near her, fin d in g their N u m b e rs in crease so largely in the short S p ac e o f eigh t D a y s or so, w ere so flu sh ’d w ith the H o p es o f S u ccess, that they , u n lu ck ily fo r her M a je sty , d eter­ m in ed to c arry h er in a sort o f P arad e, in the v e ry V ie w o f her E n em ies, to D u nbarton ’ ( K e ith , 477). 3 5 6 .2 5 t h e C o n s t a b le M o n tm o r e n c y A n n e de M o n tm o ren cy ( 1 493– 15 6 7 ), first D u k e de M o n tm o ren cy ( 1 5 5 1 ) , nam ed C o n stable o f F r a n c e in 15 3 8 . 3 5 6 .2 5 –2 6 th e first so ld ie r o f E u r o p e S c o tt m ay have m isrem em bered Ja m e s M e lv il’ s eu lo g y o f G ra n g e , w h o ‘ had done su ch notable service in F ran ce . . . that I h eard H e n r y I I . p o in t u n to h im and say, “ Y o n d e r is one o f the m ost valian t m en o f o u r age” . . . T h e great con stable o f F ra n ce w o u ld n ever speak to h im u n co v ered ’ (M e lv il, 244). 3 5 7 .1 8 C a r b e r r y -h ill see H isto rical N o te, 466. 3 5 7 .29– 30 y o n d e r h a m le t L a n g sid e , no w a su b u rb o f G la sg o w . S c o tt’s acco u n t o f th e battle o f L a n g sid e clo sely fo llow s that o f Ja m e s M e lv il in his M em oirs. 3 5 7 .4 0 th e L o r d o f A rb r o a th see note to 34 8 .3. 3 5 7 .4 1 B e fo r e y o u . . . S c o tla n d acco rd in g to H u m e o f G o d sc ro ft, ‘ So m e do recko n am o n gst the causes o f this v ic tor y , a contention w h ich fell out betw een Jo h n S tu art, an d A r thu r H a m ilton , tw o C a p tains o f the Q ueen s M u sq u e tiers, w h o . . . stro v e fo r preceden cie, and the m atter b ein g referred to the Q ueens d ecisio n , she ad ju d ged it to S tu art . . . H a m ilton took this so ill, that w hen they

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cam e neare to the enem ie, he cried out alou d, W here a re now these S tu arts that d id contest fo r the fir s t place, let him now come a n d take it. T h e other h earin g him , an sw ered presen tly : A n d so I w ill, neither shalt thou, or a n y H am ilton in S c o tla n d set his fo o t before me to d a y : w h ereu po n they ru sh ed fo rw ard u n a d v is e d ly . . . w h ich w as the occasion o f their discon fitu re ’ (H u m e, 3 0 5). 3 5 7 .4 3 set o n see note to 13 6 .2 4 . 3 5 9 .3 3 – 3 7 T h e y a re b u t c a v a l r y . . . fo o tm a n b e h in d h im ‘ T h e laird o f G r a n g e . . . caused e v ery horsem an to take b eh in d h im a fo o tm an o f the regen t’s to gu ard beh in d them , and rod e w ith speed to the head o f the L a n g -s id e h ill, and set d o w n th e said footm en w ith their cu lverin s at the head o f a strait lane, w h ere there w ere som e cottage houses and yard s o f great ad van tage’ (M e lv il, 1 8 1 – 82). 3 60.43 C a s t le o f C ro o k ston e . . . D a r n le y as S c o tt no ted in th e M agn u m ( 2 1 .3 3 9 ) , M a r y w itnessed the battle no t fro m C ro o k stone (w h ich is som e 7 km W o f L a n g sid e ), bu t fro m C a thcart C astle. S c o tt claim ed to h ave been ‘ led astr a y ’ b y Ja m e s G rah am e’ s M a ry S tew art (E d in b u rg h , 1 8 0 1 : C L A , 2 1 2 ) ; h ow ­ e v e r, G ra h a m e ’s play in fact describes her v ie w in g the battle fro m th e ‘ C a s tle-h ill o f C a th cart’ (Poem s, 2 vols (L o n d o n , 18 0 7 ), 2 .10 7 ) , an d m akes no m en tion o f C ro o k stone in connection w ith L an g sid e . S c o tt had m ad e the erro r as early as 1 8 1 6 , w h en he w ro te that M a r y v iew ed th e ‘ fatal b attle’ fro m u n d er th e shade o f th e ‘ celebrated Y e w tree at C ru ik ston C a stle ’ (L e tters, 5 .1 2 3 ) . H e m ay h ave been m isled b y Jo h n W ilso n ’s topographical poem ‘ C ly d e ’ (17 6 4 ), w h ich , like the n o v el, ju x taposes C ro o k stone (see note to 3 6 1 . 2 1 ) an d L a n g sid e , w h ile m ak in g no m en tion o f C a thcart . B u t W ilso n , th o u gh im ag in in g ‘ dark L a n g sid e , fro m C ro o k stone view ed afar’ (S co tish D escriptiv e Poem s (E d in b u rg h , 18 0 3 ), 97), does n o t claim that M a r y h e rs e lf view ed the b attle fro m this p o in t . 3 6 1 . 1 1 S ch e h a llio n a m o u n tain w h ich stan ds in an iso lated po sition near th e eastern en d o f L o c h R an n o ch , in the cen tral H ig h lan d s. 3 6 1 .2 1 t h e s p re a d in g y e w an an cient y e w tree still stood b y C ro o k stone C a s tle in the 1 8th centu ry , b u t there is no fo u n d ation fo r the legend th at it w as a m eetin g -p lac e fo r M a r y and D a rn ley in the first d ays o f their m arria ge. T his legen d w as related in W ilso n ’ s ‘ C ly d e ’ : ‘B y C ro o k stone C a stle w aves the stillg reen y e w ,/ t h e first that m et the royal M a r y ’s v ie w ,/ W h en , b rig h t in ch arm s, the y o u th fu l prin cess le d / t h e gracefu l D a rn le y to h er thron e and b e d ’ (S co tish D escriptiv e Poem s, 97). S c o tt com m ented in 1 8 1 6 that the rem ains o f th e y e w had been ‘ en tirely destro y d ’ b y so u v en ir-h u n ters (L e tters, 5 .1 2 3 ) . 3 6 1 .2 7 k in g D arnley (w ho took the title o f K in g H e n ry a fter h is m arriage to M a ry ). 3 6 2 .2 5 a h o llo w w a y see no te to 12 9 .3 . 3 6 2 .3 6 b e a r th em ou t d rive them o u t. 3 6 3 .3 lo ck ed to geth er the spears o f the com batants ‘ w ere so fixed in others jack s, that som e o f the p istols and great staves, that w ere th row n b y them w h ich w ere beh in d , m igh t be seen ly in g u po n the sp ears’ (M e lv il, 18 2 ). 3 6 3 .1 4 h is im a g e see G e n e sis 1.2 6 . 3 6 3 .2 1 – 2 3 s a w a c o lu m n o f in fa n tr y . . . a tt a c k th e flan k the m an­ œ u vre w h ich S c o tt attrib u tes to H alb ert G le n d in n in g w as in fact e xec u ted b y K ir k c a ld y o f G ra n g e , w ho gathered ‘ a few n u m b er o f fresh m en ’ an d ‘ rein fo rced th at w in g w h ich was b egin n in g to fly; w h ich fresh m en w ith their loose w eapons stru c k the en em y in their flanks and faces, w h ich fo rced them in con tin en t to give p lace an d tu rn back, after lo n g figh tin g an d p u sh in g others to and fro w ith their sp ears’ (M e lv il, 18 3 ). 36 4 .2 4 S an c t e B e n e d ic t e, o r a p r o m e L a tin O S a in t B e n e d ic t, p ra y fo r m e. 3 6 5 .2 0 Y ie ld th ee . . . re sc u e o r no re sc u e a fo rm u la m ean in g that he w o u ld retain th e obligations o f a p riso n er even i f su b seq u en tly released b y h is

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531

frien d s: see Je a n F ro issa rt, C hronicles, trans. Jo h n B o u rch ier, L o r d B e rn e rs, 2 v o ls ( 1 5 2 3 – 2 5 , rep r. L o n d o n , 1 8 1 2 ) , 1 .5 3 7 : ‘yeld e you m y p risoner, rescu e or no rescu e, o r els ye are b u t deed ’ ( C L A , 29). C o m pare Iv a n hoe, e e w n 8, note to 26 4.26 – 2 7. 36 6.2– 9 T h e r o y a lty o f F r a n c i s . . . m in e husbands, lo vers and frien d s o f M a r y , w ith their sup posed m an ners o f death. F ran ço is I I su ffered ill health th rou gh o u t his life, and there is no su ggestion that he w as poisoned: h is pre­ m atu re death w as caused, in K n o x ’s phrase, b y a ‘ro tten eare’ ( K n o x , 279 ), b u t m em ories o f H am let m ay have en cou raged S c o tt to attrib u te it to poison. C h â telard and G o rd o n w ere b o th behead ed; R ic cio w as stabbed ; D a rn ley was p ro b ab ly strangled, thou gh the circu m stances w ere con fu sed b y the exp lo sio n , or ‘m in e’ , w h ich destroyed the K ir k o f F ie ld . 3 6 7 .18 – 19 m o tto B y ro n , C h ild e H a ro ld 's P ilgrim a ge, C an to 1 ( 1 8 1 2 ) , lines 1 2 5 , 1 9 7 . T h e sam e m otto is used in T he t a le o f O ld M o rta lity , eew n 4b, 2 77 . 3 6 7 .3 1 – 3 2 B ru c e , lo st sev en s u c c e ssiv e ly fo r B ru c e see note to 229.4. H e is n o rm ally said to have lo st six battles, a fter w h ich , acco rdin g to legend, he lay in bed one m o rn in g, w atch in g a sp id er try in g to sw in g fro m one b earn to another; it failed six tim es, and B ru c e realised that he and the sp id er w ere in the sam e predicam ent. T h e seven th tim e the sp id er succeeded, and B ru c e was en cou raged to fight on. 3 6 8 .13 – 14 L o r d H e rrie s see no te to 204.8. 3 6 8 .14 – 1 5 h a lted, fo r th e first t im e , a t th e A b b e y o f D u n d re n n a n see C h alm ers, 1.2 8 0 and K e ith, 4 8 1. D u n d ren n an w as a C is tercian m onastery, fo u n d ed in 1 1 4 2 . 3 6 8 .16 G a llo w a y d istric t o f S W S c o tland, on the N shore o f the S o lw ay F i r th. 36 8 .2 2 in th e tr a in o f d u ty as a consequence o f d u ty. 3 6 8 .3 2 t h e E n g lis h w a rd e n H e n ry Sc ro p e ( 15 3 4 – 92), 9th L o r d S cro p e ( 1 549), w h o w as ap po in ted W ard en o f the W est M arch es in 15 6 2 . H e w as in L o n d o n in M a y 15 6 8 , and unable to receive M a r y ’s m essage. 36 8 .39– 40 H e r r ie s . . . h a s ru in e d h is m is tre ss in fact H erries, along w ith M a r y ’s other com pan ions, pleaded w ith her not to go to E n g la n d . T h e d ecision w as enti r e l y her o w n (see K e ith, 4 8 1). 3 6 9 .13 – 14 F a th er N i c o l a s . . . A b b o t In g e lr a m see note to 99.43– 10 0 .2 . 36 9 .30 a lo n g o f on accou nt of. 36 9 .38 p e a r -m a in s p o ssib ly an erro r: in T he M onastery, eew n 9, 6 9 .32 – 3 4 , B o n iface recalls ‘ the p ea r-trees’ w h ich he grafted d u rin g his n o vici­ ate at D u n d ren n an . H o w e v e r, in the 1 6th centu ry a pear-m ain could be a kind o f pear as w ell as an apple. 3 7 0 .14 S h e r if f o f C u m b e r l a n d . . . L o w th er S ir R ich ard L o w th er ( 15 2 9 – 16 0 7 ), ap po in ted H ig h S h e r iff o f C u m b erlan d in 15 6 5 . H e actu ally m et M a r y at W ork in gton the day a fter h er arrival in E n glan d . 370 .30 t h e a b rid g e m e n t o f y o u r tr a in C h alm ers, 1.2 8 3 – 84, lists the su b stantial train w h ich in fact accom panied M a r y in to E n glan d . I t in clu ded both G e o rg e and W illie D o u glas. 3 7 1 .2 3 – 3 1 S h e fo re sa w it . . . d r a w y o u r sw o rd A m b ro se’s p ro test is based on that o f the A rc h b ish o p o f S t A n d rew s, described b y A d am B lack w o od : ‘A n d at len gth, fallin g do w n u po n his K n e e s , he in treated her w ith T ears in his E y e s, to rem ain am on gst them . B u t . . . no A rg u m e n t could prevail w ith h er’ (paraphrase in G eo rg e M ack en zie, T he L iv e s a n d C haracters o f the most E m inent W riters o f the S c o ts N a tion, 3 .3 0 8 , based on B lack w o o d ’s F re n ch ‘M a r ty re de M a rie S tu art’ , in Je b b , 2 .2 3 3 . F o r fu ll c itations see note to 2 9 5 .3 5 – 36). 3 7 2 .8 th e F r i th the S o lw a y F i r th. 3 7 2 .4 2 P h ilip see T he M onastery, EEW N 9 , 5 7 etc. 3 7 3 .1 4 su b sig illo c o n fe ssio n is L a tin un d er the seal o f confession.

5 32 E X P L A N A T O R Y

N O T E S

3 7 3 .1 6 in e ffe c t in fact . 3 7 3 .3 0 gon e to th e ir p la c e died. 3 7 3 .3 1 n ic k m e w ith n a y an sw er m e ‘n a y’ , d en y m e. 3 7 4 . 1 1 – 1 2 M a j o r D o m o stew ard . 3 7 4 .2 1 C o lo g n e a c ity and arch bish o pric ly in g on the R h in e in N G e rm a n y . S in c e c. 12 0 0 the cathed ral has con tained the shrine o f the t hree K in g s (see M a tthew 2 . 1 – 12 ) , an d it w as am o n g the m ost popu lar places o f p ilgrim age in the M id d le A g e s. 3 7 4 .2 5 S c o ttish c o n v e n t a n u m ber o f S c o ttish B e n e d ic tine m onasteries w ere esta blish ed on th e C o n tin en t in the late 16 th centu ry , w ith a v ie w to stren g then in g C a th o licism in S c o tland; h ow ever, all o f them (in clu d in g th e m onaste ry o f S t Ja m e s at W ü rzb u rg , fo r w h ich see 12 3 .6 – 7 an d no te) w ere s itu ated in w h at is n o w G e rm a n y , w hereas the B en ed ic tine m onk fro m w h om C a p tain C lu tterb u ck received the m an u script o f The M onastery an d The A bbot claim ed to have com e fro m a com m u n ity ‘ lo n g established in F r a n c e ’ ( th e M onastery , eew n 9 , 1 3 . 2 – 3). I t is also w o rth notin g that A m b ro se is a C is tercian m onk, and there is no reco rd o f S c o ttish C is tercian fo u n d ations o n th e con tin en t; S c o tt, h o w ever, u sed the term ‘B e n e d ic tin e’ loosely, so as to in clu d e the C is tercian s (see T he M onastery, 6 1.2 9 – 30), and he perhap s im agin ed A m b ro se en terin g a B e n e d ic tine com m u n ity. F o r an account o f S c o ttish m onasteries in G e rm a n y see M a rk D ilw o rth , T he S co ts in F ran con ia (E d in b u rg h and L o n d o n , 19 7 4 )· 37 4 .2 9 – 30 to b e b u r ie d i n A v e n e l b u r ia l-a is le the exh u m ation o f A m ­ b ro se’s heart is describ ed in the ‘ In trod u ctory E p is tle ’ to T he M onastery, eew n 9 , 16 – 20. 3 7 4 .3 5 su b je c t ed to clo se r re str a in t in S e p tem ber 15 6 9 E liza b eth w ro te to the E a rl o f S h re w sb u ry , M a r y ’s keeper, that ‘ w ee think it good an d m eete th at h ir N o m b re b e red u ced acco rd in g to our fy rst P erm issio n , o n ely to th e N o m b re o f th irty ; and that R e g ard e b e had , that none be su ffred to rem ayn e there ab o w t h ir, w h om e y e shall h ave cause to su sp ect to be P erson n es o f P ra c tice fo r h ir E sc a p e ’ (S am u el H ayn es, A C o llection o f S ta te P apers (L o n d o n , 17 4 0 ), 526 : C L A , 2 3 3 . F r o m th is p o in t the con d itions o f M a r y ’s con finem ent b ecam e p ro ­ g ressively m ore stric t . 3 7 5 .4 – 6 th e W h it e L a d y . . . a zo n e o f go ld the W h ite L a d y ’ s ‘zo n e’ , or gird le, becom es broad er or n arro w er as the fo rtunes o f the house o f A v e n e l rise or fall: com pare T he M onastery, e e w n 9 , 1 6 8 . 1 3 – 24 and 3 5 3 .2 6 –2 7 .

G LO SSA RY

T his selectiv e glo ssary defines single w ord s; phrases are treated in the E x p la n t o r y N o t e s . I t covers archaic, dialect and technical term s, and occurrences o f fam iliar w o rd s in senses that m ay be strange to the m odern reader. F o r each w o rd (or clearly d istinguishable sense) glossed, u p to fou r occu rrences are noted; w hen a w ord occurs m ore than fou r tim es in the n o vel, o n ly the first instance is given , follow ed b y ‘etc .’ O rthograph ical varian ts o f single w ord s are listed together, w ith the m ost com m on use first . O ften the m ost econom ical and effectiv e w ay o f defining a w o rd is to re fer the reader to the appropriate explanatory note. a ’ S co ts all 2 4 5 .7 a b a t e m e n t d im in u tion 18 5 .3 a b id e w ait fo r 1 1 5 . 3 0 e tc. a b ig a il la d y’s-m aid 4 8 .1 5 ,4 9 .1 4 a ’b o d y S c o ts ev e ry b o d y 18 .2 9 a b ro g a t e abo lish 1 0 6 .1 9 ,2 4 1 .2 6 a b y e (past ten se a b ie d ) p a y the pen­ alty fo r 18 3 .3 7 ,2 0 4 .2 7 ; receive in retrib u tion 3 1 1 . 2 6 a c c e p t a t io n sense, m ean in g 3 1 4 . 1 1 a c c id e n t occu rren ce 1 3 7 .3 3 , 3 2 0 . 3 1 a c c o m m o d a t e su p p ly , pro vid e 1 6 3 .1 3 ,1 6 3 .1 6 ,2 5 0 .1 4 ,3 1 6 .4 1 a c c o u n t ad van tage, p ro fit 2 1 6 . 1 0 a c c o u t er, a c c o u tre e q u ip , array 1 0 6 .2 6 ,3 1 5 .2 a c c u r a c y p recision 40 .26 a c e t u m L a tin vin egar 2 5 3 .2 1 ac o n itu m poison e x tracted fro m the plant m onkshood 308.6 a d a g e p ro verb 2 3 5 .2 0 , 2 5 4 .3 4 a d d re ss sk ill 6 7 .2 etc .; w ay o f speak­ in g, b earin g 5 7 . 2 5 , 36 6 .4 ; dis­ course, speech 4 2 . 7 , 1 6 9 .2 4 , 1 8 5 .1 8 a d h ib it ad m in ister 2 4 1 .3 6 ,3 0 9 .3 2 ; affix (a sign ature) 2 0 9 .39 a d ju st settle 2 1 . 1 1 ad o to do 1 7 3 .4 a ffe c tio n em otion, passion 1 9 1 . 4 a le -sta n d b ar o f an ale-h o use 12 2 .2 8 a le x ip h a r m ic antid o te to poison 2 4 2 .2 5 a lm a n a c k book o f tables con tain in g a calendar and astrological fo recasts 1 3 4 .4 a lm o n e r chaplain 1 7 8 .2 4 ,1 7 9 .2 ; fo r

3 3 0 .2 0 see note a lt ern at e ly one a fter another 1 0 1 .42 a m a in g read y , at once 249 .5 a m a z o n see note to 2 8 9 .1 a m u se begu ile, cheat 1 1 5 . 1 3 an , a n ’ i f 3 2 .3 7 etc .; as th ou gh 15 0 .2 3 a n a them a form al curse, con sign in g to dam nati o n 3 9 .3 5 ,4 1 .7 an ch o ret , a n ch o rit e h erm it, severe recluse 1 7 . 1 3 , 6 8 . 1 1 an cien t fo rm er, o f ti m e past 3 .2 7 etc .; o f lo n g stan d in g 3 8 .9 ,2 0 8 .14 ; o f an­ cient o rigin 2 1 9.26 an d if 1 3 1 . 1 1 , 1 4 9 .3 2 ,2 3 9 .3 6 an en t S co ts con cern in g 1 3 3 . 1 2 , 1 7 3 . 1 7 an ile o ld-w o m an ish 2 4 1 .3 5 a n ility o ld-w o m an ish foolishn ess 2 4 1.2 5 a n n u n c ia tio n an nouncem ent 10 5 .8 , 18 9 .4 2 an on soon 1 9 3 .2 ,3 1 9 .3 6 ; n ow again 3 4 4 .1 1 ; because, on account 9 1 .3 3 ; ju st n ow 2 5 7 .2 8 ; see notes to 10 5 .3 , 2 5 0 .3 2 an tim o n y see note to 308.4 ap o stro p h e rh etorical ad d ress d ir­ ected p o in ted ly at one person 26 0.22 a p o stro p h ize ad d ress rh etorically

335.30 a p p e tiz ed fu rn ish ed w ith an ap peti te 1 6 1 .5 ap p o in t ed eq u ip p ed 1 9 1 .2 6 ap p reh e n sio n u n d erstan din g 1 5 8 . 1 5 ,1 7 7 .3 4 ; anti c i p a ti o n

279.1 9,313.26 5 33

534

GLOSSARY

a p p re h e n siv e in telligen t, qu ick 17 7 .11 a p p r o v e d exp erien ced , tested 2 3.9 , 2 0 5 .4 0 , 3 3 5 .1 6 a p p u r t e n a n c e accessory 2 1 5 .4 a q u a v itæ a n y fo rm o f sp irits, p a rticu ­ la rly w h isk y 2 7 1 . 1 8 , 3 2 5 .1 6 a r c h itr a v e a rch itecture lin tel, w ith its m o u ld in g s, abo ve a w in d o w 14 0 .4 0 a r g u t e sh arp , sh rew d 8 1 .3 7 a rle s S c o ts see no te to 8 5 .18 a r t learn in g, science 2 4 1 . 3 0 , 2 4 5 .3 1 , 3 0 7 .3 2 , 3 0 9 .3 2 a rt ific ia l sk ilfu lly contrived 18 7 .2 ; in acco rdan ce w ith the ru les o f scien ce 2 4 6 .36 a r t ist c ra ftsm an 8.36 a sh le r m ad e o f squ are hew n stone 1 3 0 .8 a s s a y trial o f the qu antity o f preciou s m etal in coin 42.1 a ssist b e p resen t, take part 1 0 1 .3 9 a s so ily ie ab so lve, pard on 9 3.2 5 a stu c io u s astu te 3 3 6 .1 6 a tt est a t io n fo rm al testim o n y 3 7 2 .4 0 a u ld S c o ts old 2 4 5 .1 5 ; fo r 5 5 .4 and 1 3 2 .1 8 see notes a v e L a tin, shortfo r A v e M a ria (H ail M a r y ), the first w o rd s o f a p ray er to the V irg in M a r y 5 0 . 3 , 7 4 .1 0 , 1 3 1 . 3 1 , 2 2 2 .3 1 a v e r old h o rse, cart-h o rse 2 4 2 .2 7 a v o u c h certify , affirm in evid ence 1 1 1 . 3 , 3 0 8 .16 a w fu l in sp irin g fear or fearfu l rever­ en ce 2 4 0 .3 1 etc. a w m o u s S c o ts alm s 1 1 4 .2 5 b a b e l con fu sed m ed ley o f sou n ds, nam ed a fter the tow e r described in G e n e sis C h . 1 1 1 0 2 . 1 9 B a c h a r a c see no te to 1 2 3 .2 b a c k rid e 5 9 . 1 4 , 8 2 .3 7 ; use (oars) to reverse d irection 18 4 .3 2 b a c k -s w o r d sw o rd w ith o n ly one cu t­ tin g ed g e 3 9 .3 2 b a illie b ailey, the e x ternal w all en­ clo sin g the o u ter co u rt o f a castle 3 1 5 .3 4 b a ith S c o ts b o th 1 1 4 . 1 6 b a ld r ic , b a ld r ic k b elt p assin g o ver the sh ou ld er, to su p p o rt a sw o rd 1 2 0 . 1 9 , 1 8 0 . 1 1 , 3 7 5 .7 b a n d fo r 10 6 .2 2 an d 1 3 5 .4 1 see no te to 1 3 5 . 4 1 ; fo r 3 2 7 .4 1 see note b a n d -c o lla r n eck -ban d or collar o f a

sh irt 3 4 .1 4 b a n d e r one w h o fo rm s u p in a ban d or league 1 7 7 .1 8 b a n -d o g chained do g, m asti f f 39 .5 , 1 1 2 . 1 8 , 2 6 2 .3 2 b a n e verb k ill w ith poison 299.8 b a n e noun see n o te to 3 1 9 .2 2 b a n g s t er S c o ts b u lly or v ic tor 17 0 .3 6 b a n t lin g y o u n g ch ild , b rat 1 3 .3 6 b a r b horse fro m B a rb a ry (N A fric a ) 2 9 5 .1 9 b a r e ly m erely , sim p ly 16 8 .38 b a r g a m o t fine v ariety o f pear 2 6 9.28 b a r r e t-c a p flat cap 3 6 7 .2 , 3 6 7 .3 b a sk e t-h ilt sw o rd w ith basket­ shaped gu ard on the h ilt fo r the sw o rd sm an ’s han d 3 9 .3 3 b a sn e t ligh t steel helm et w ith a viso r

355.9

b a tto n verb strik e w ith a b a tt o n 3 6 .1 6 b a tto n noun stick used as a w eapon 1 5 8 .2 3 , 2 4 3 .2 1 b a u b le stick w ith a carved head, car­ ried b y a jester 2 5 0 .2 8 ; trifle, article o f no valu e 2 5 1 . 2 3 b a u lk balk, th w art 19 3 .2 6 b e a n -c o d bean -p o d 2 0 .19 b e a r d oppo se o p en ly, d e fy 10 6 .2 8 ,

193.26,244.40,311.25

b e a r -g a rd e n place set ap art fo r b earb aitin g, typ ic a lly tu m u ltu ou s 10 8 .1 b e a r -w a r d one w h o keeps a bear fo r p u b lic e xh ib ition 2 3 9 .3 6 , 2 4 9 .2 1 b e ck b eck on in g sign al 1 3 4 . 1 1 ; com ­ m an d 3 7 1 .3 0 b e c o m e com e 2 2 0 .1 7 b e d ize n dress g au d ily 19 4 .2 1 b e e f-b re w is S c o ts b ro th m ad e w ith b e e f an d v eg etables 1 0 4 .1 1 b e h o v e be o b liged , need 1 1 4 .2 4 b e ld a m e old w om an, hag 8 5 .1 b e lt ed gird ed w ith a b elt, sp ecifically one sig n ify in g n o b ility 1 7 . 1 , 4 5 .1 8 , 1 7 7 .3 6 . b e n S c o ts in n er room 2 59 .2 6 b e n e d icit e L a tin bless yo u , bless u s, hence a b lessin g 5 1 . 1 6 etc. b e n n iso n , b e n iso n b lessin g 3 4 .2 4 , 5 1 . 1 6 , 5 1 .2 2 b e sh re w see no te to 2 0 .2 1 b e so m broo m 1 1 5 . 6 b e t ak e reso rt, tu rn , take 14 0 .2 9 , 1 7 3 . 1 3 , 2 3 1 . 3 2 , 2 8 7 .3 3 b ia s in clin ation 2 1 .3 b ie ld S c o ts sh elter 1 7 3 .2 2

GLOSSARY b ilb o sw o rd o f h igh qu ality , originally fro m B ilb a o in S p a in 1 3 8 . 2 3 , 1 7 1 . 4 b ill lo n g -h an d led axe or pike 3 7 1.2 9 b ille t letter 3 5 1 .3 2 b illy see note to 1 8 1 .35 b irc h e n m ade o f b irch 2 0 .2 4 b ird -b o lt b lu n t-h ead ed arrow used fo r shootin g b ird s 2 8 7 .2 6 b ir l S c o ts sp in 5.6 b itter b itterness 4 1 .9 b la c k -ja c k S c o ts black leather jerkin

535

b r a n d sw o rd , blade 2 0 . 1 7 , 8 2 .38 , I 5 4 - 3 8 , 3 5 0 -37 ; torch , firebrand 1 1 1 . 2 2 , 1 9 4 .1 4 b r a n d y -w in e b ran d y 1 0 8 .1 4 ,

1 6 3 .1 5 b r a n le see no te to 294.42 b r a s s see no te to 17 2 .2 0 b r a v a d e sh ow o f defiance 2 8 8 .2 2 b r a v e fin ely dressed, handsom e 2 2 .1 , 3 4 7 .2 4 ; fine, excellent 1 1 2 . 1 b r a w ly S c o ts w ell 2 4 4 .12 b r e a k b u rst 3 5 . 1 ; crack (a joke) 53.6 b la c k -le tt ered fo r 2 9 7 .39 see no te to 1 2 5 .2 2 ; break in to 1 4 4 .3 1 b re a k -o u t see note to 2 4 5 .15 1 0 7 .1 b la n k p u t o u t o f cou n tenance, discon­ b re n t S c o ts sm ooth 2 1 0 .3 7 b r e v ia r y book o f psalm s, collects and cert 1 4 9 .1 readings, used b y R o m a n C a tholic b lin k glance 1 3 3 .2 b lith e h ap p y, jo yo u s 1 3 9 . 1 0 , 1 4 0 .2 1 clergy 14 8 .3 3 b lith eso m e ch eerfu l 2 9 4 .15 ,2 9 4 .3 2 b r id g e w a rd keeper o f a b rid ge 12 9 .5 b lo c k m o u ld fo r a hat 2 39 .2 6 (see etc. no te) b r o a c h pierce, stab 12 7 .3 9 b lo o d lineage, descent, fam ily 15 .2 4 b ro il q u arrel, tu rm oil 2 5 . 5 , 1 5 7 .3 5 , etc .; d issipated o r w ild m an 3 3 .8 , 3 2 7 .2 b ro k en fo r 16 .2 4 and 32 9 .3 see notes; 3 3 . 1 4 , 1 6 4 .1 7 b o a rd -e n d en d o f th e table 2 1 3 .3 6 shattered , ru in ed 54.28 b o b b in rou n d ed piece o f w ood b ro o k su ffe r, en du re, allow 26 .4 0 etc.; attached to a strin g w h ich in tu rn m ake use o f, en joy 14 5 .2 2 passes th ro u gh a door and is fast­ b ro w n ie ben evolent household sp irit ened to the latch 1 4 1 . 3 , 1 4 1 . 1 9 1 3 1 .1 6 b o d le sm allest S c o ttish coin, w o rth b ro w se noun action o f brow sin g, feed­ tw o pen nies S c o ts (one six th o f an in g 2 4 .4 2 E n g lish pen ny) 5 1 . 2 1 , 3 2 0 .3 4 b ro w st e r b rew er 1 1 6 .2 8 b o ll, b o w 14 5 litres o f grain 88.38, b ru t if y ren d er b ru te-lik e 1 1 5 . 1 3 2 4 4 .14 b u c k le r sm all rou n d shield 4 0 .1 1 etc. b o lt sh ort, b lu n t-h eaded arrow 49 .30 b u c k r a m coarse stiffen ed linen or b o lt-h e a d glo bu lar flask w ith lo n g cloth 1 0 6 .3 6 ,1 13 .4 cylin d rical neck, u sed in distillation b u f f thick oiled leather, o rigin ally b u ffa lo -h id e 1 4 6 . 1 1 2 4 5 .3 6 b o lt in g su d d en m ak in g o ff, fligh t b u ff-c o a t m ilita ry coat m ade o f b u f f 1 8 0 .5 ,19 7 .3 0 1 3 9 .4 b o n d sm a n slave 3 0 7 .3 6 b u gelet sm all b u gle 343 35 b o o r peasant 5 4 .1 3 , 2 4 1 . 1 2 b u m b a s t stu ff, pad ou t 1 1 3 . 3 b o o t fo r 3 3 . 1 3 e tc. see no te to 3 3 . 1 3 b u rg h e r tow n -d w eller, citizen 170 .28, b o r d e r -d o o m see no te to 1 4 7 .1 17 1.10 b o r d e r -rid e r a m o u n ted freebooter b u rth en bass part o f a son g, accom ­ fro m the b o rd er o f E n glan d and panim ent 8 1 .2 8 , 3 6 1 .7; refrain or S c o tla n d 15 .2 8 choru s o f a son g 16 3 .2 5 b o u n d en o bliged , in d eb ted 284.26 , b u sh see no te to 4 .1 4 3 5 5 .2 9 ; fo r 4 2 .2 see note b u sk S c o ts d ress, adorn 294 .20 b o w S c o ts see b o ll b u t t 1 han dle, th icker end 36 .3 7 , b r a g d e fy , challenge 14 5 .9 1 1 5 .2 6 b r a g g a d o c io boastfu l, sw aggerin g b u tt2 cask fo r w in e 1 3 2 .3 5 2 5 0 .2 3 b u tt3 target fo r arch ery practice b r a n c h e r fa lc o n ry y o u n g haw k w h en it 2 0 2 .19 first leaves the nest 3 2 . 1 7 , 3 3 . 5 b u tte r y roo m w h ere p ro visio n s are

536

GLOSSARY

laid u p 4 8 .6 , 1 5 9 . 1 7 , 3 3 5 .3 9 b u tt e r y -b a r board at w h ich p ro visio n s are served 1 4 7 .3 4 b u tt e r y -h a t c h h alf-d oo r o ver w h ich pro visio n s are served 1 6 1 .1 9 c a b a l in trigu e, c on sp iracy 2 0 4 .1 7 c a b in sm all roo m , bedroom 2 3 9 .1 8 c a iti f f w retch 9 5.4 0 c a ll w h istle 2 1 5 . 4 1 c a n , c a n n d rin k in g vessel 16 9 .2 5 , 2 4 6 . 1 , 3 3 9 .2 2 c a n a r y ligh t sw eet w in e fro m the C a n a ry Islan d s 4 8 .14 c a n n y S c o ts p ru d en t, cau tiou s 5 7 .1 9 etc .; c are fu lly , w a rily 2 4 5 .2 2 c a n th a r id e s d ru g d erived fro m a d ried b eed e, u sed as a d iu reti c and ap h ro disiac 308.6 c a p itu la t e bargain , m ake con d iti o n s 6 4.23 c a p it u la t io n treaty , agreed con di­ ti o n s o f su rren d er 2 9 1.9 c a p o n castrated cock 1 6 3 . 1 3 c a p r io le lite ra lly h igh leap m ad e b y a ho rse w itho u t ad van cin g, and th ro w in g out the h ind legs 1 0 7 .1 4 , 1 13 .2 1 c a r a b in e carbin e, gu n h alf-w ay be­ tw een p istol an d m u sk et 3 0 7 .2 5 c a r a c o le verb execu te a c a r a c o le 1 0 4 .3 7 c a r a c o le noun leap (correctly h a lf-tu rn to le ft o r rig h t) execu ted b y a ho rse­ m an 1 2 7 . 1 9 c a r a v a n s e r y in n in E a stern cou n tries w h ere caravan s p u t u p 16 2 .3 4 c a r ic a t u r a caricatu re 10 6 .2 7 c a r n a l w o rld ly , tem p oral 1 7 . 1 5 , 4 1 . 1 9 , 1 0 9 .4 , 2 6 2 .2 7 c a r rio n ro tten , v ile 10 3 .3 9 c a r r y succeed in o b tain in g 1 1 6 . 1 3 ; in­ fluen ce, c arry aw ay 3 1 9 . 1 2 c a r t- a v e r S c o ts cart-h o rse 3 2 5 .1 8 C a r th u sia n fo r 1 8 1 . 2 an d 3 2 4 .2 see note to 1 8 1 . 2 c a se con d iti o n , sta te 1 2 7 . 3 3 , 3 0 4 .3 7 , 3 4 7 .2 6 c a s t fa lc o n ry n u m b er o f haw ks cast o f f at a ti m e 3 3 . 1 1 , 1 4 7 .4 1 ; th e spread ­ in g o u t o f the ho u n d s in d iffe re n t d irecti o n s in search o f a lo st scen t 15 8 .4 2 c a s tin g fa lc o n ry an yth in g g iven to a haw k to cleanse an d p u rge the con­ ten ts o f its stom ach 3 2 . 1 9 , 16 7 .2 5

c a t a s tro p h e ‘ the change or revo lu tion w h ich pro d u ces the con clusion or final even t o f a dram atic p iece’ (Jo h n so n ) 8 3.2 9 c a t e ch ize give oral religio u s in stru c ­ tion 2 1 7 . 4 0 , 2 1 8 .3 c a t e c h u m e n yo u n g C h risti a n still u n­ d er in stru ction 2 2 1 .2 3 c a t es dain ties, delicacies 8 9 .5 ,2 6 1.2 9 , 3 2 4 .3 4 c a th o lic o n u n iversal rem ed y , panacea 3 0 9 .4 1 c a u d le sw eet w arm drin k o f gru el m ixed w ith w in e o r ale g iven to the sick 16 9 .2 2 c a u s e w a y fo r 1 3 6 . 1 2 , 1 3 6 .4 0 , 1 4 5 .2 3 an d 1 5 7 . 1 8 see no te to 1 3 6 . 1 2 c a u tio n person w h o becom es secu r­ ity , a su rety 3 4 .3 4 ; w arn in g 2 3 1 .2 6 ; fo r 14 9 .2 7 see note c e n se r v essel in w h ich incense is b u rn t 10 0 .2 8 c en tin e l senti n e l 16 2 .2 8 etc. c e rt es see note to 1 3 9 .1 0 c h a fe noun tem p er, rage 14 7 .3 5 , 1 4 7 . 3 8 , 14 8 .4 c h a fe verb an ger, excite 1 4 8 .1 2 , 2 7 3 .2 5 , 3 1 8 .1 9 c h a n g e -h o u se S c o ts sm all in n o r ale­ h o u se 1 1 0 .2 4 , 1 7 0 . 3 7 , 3 1 7 7 c h a p le t w reath or garlan d fo r the head 2 9 4 .18 c h a p t e r assem b ly o f the m em b ers o f a religio u s o rd er 7 7 . 2 8 , 1 1 0 .2 4 c h a r sm all fish o f the tro u t fa m ily 2 2 6 .2 9 c h a rg e a b le n e ss costlin ess, exp en se 2 4 4 .1 c h a se d orn am ented w ith em bo ssed w o rk 16 8 .9 c h a u n t chant 74.8 c h e c k see no te to 2 5 6 .3 c h ild y o u th o f gen d e b irth 3 3 .3 (see no te) c h im e r ic a l im agin ary, visio n ary 2 6 1.13 c h ip crack a shell in hatch in g 2 4 6 .1 7 ; fo r 3 1 5 .9 see note c h ir a g r a L a tin gout o f the han d 2 4 4 .3 c h iru rg e o n surgeo n 14 3 .2 8 c h u f f m iserly peasant, boor 12 9 .3 7 , 244.9 c h u r c h -v a s s a l, c h u rc h v a s s a l one w h o h o ld s lands fro m the c h u rch on con d iti o n o f feu d al allegiance 6 . 1 1 ,

GLOSSARY 4 6 .2 0 .1 4 2 .1 6 c h u r l peasant, s e r f 18 .2 3 etc· c h u rlish com m on , ru stic, ru d e 4 5 .3 2 , 16 1.18 c le n c h e d secu rely fixed 7 5 .3 0 c lin k S c o ts sh arp b lo w 1 1 6 .3 8 c lip em brace, clasp 1 4 9 .3 2 , 17 3 .2 7 (w ith p u n on cu t, trim ) clo se con stantly 5.6 (see note) clo u t noun target in arch ery 2 5 6 .18 (see n o te) clo u t verb m en d , patch u p 3 1 5 .2 0 (see note) c lo v e -jilliflo w e r scented pin k or carn ation 2 6 8 .2 c lo w n ru stic, peasant 5 5 .2 etc. c lo w n ish clu m sy, aw kw ard, rud e 5 4 .1 , 16 5 .4 3 co ck a d e d istin ctive badge w o rn in the hat 7 0 .1 2 c o g g in g cheatin g, w h eedlin g 1 1 6 . 1 6 , 2 7 0 .2 7 c o g n iz a n ce , c o g n is a n c e h era ld ry d istin ctive em blem bo rn e b y all m em b ers o f a noble house 1 1 4 .3 9 , 1 4 2 . 1 8 , 36 4 .39 ; no tice, observation 7 9 .19 c o i f clo se-fittin g cap 18 6 .2 9 , 3 10 .8 c o il noun tu rm o il, fu ss 2 9 3 .2 2 c o le -w o rt, c o le w o r t cabbage, greens 8 8 .2 3 , 37 0 .9 c o lla tio n lig h t m eal 9 3 .8 ,2 0 2 .2 0 , 2 7 1 .2 6 c o m fit sw eetm eat, fru it p reserved w ith su gar 4 8 .6 ,16 0 .1 c o m m e n d a to r see note to 14 8 .5 c o m m o n s the com m on people 5 8 .1 7 , 2 0 1.16 c o m m o n w e a l see c o m m o n w e a lt h 3 8 .3 0 , 15 7 .4 0 c o m m o n w e a lth w hole b o d y o f the p eo ple, com m u n ity 2 4 6 .33 c o m p a s s w in , get at 14 4 .3 9 c o m p a s s io n a t e verb p ity 1 o 1 . 1 2 , 2 2 6 .14 c o m p la is a n c e cou rtesy 1 5 3 .1 6 ; pleasu re 26 9 .2 7 c o m p la is a n t cou rteous, o b ligin g 2 8 4 .4 3 c o m p lic e acco m p lice 284.8 c o m p lo t co n sp iracy, plot 2 9 5 .3 7 , 3 1 2 . 1 0 , 3 7 3 .5 c o m p u ls iv e coercive 3 3 5 .4 c o m p u n c t io n contr ition 1 1 0 . 1 0 co n learn , stu d y 4 2 .1 4

537

c o n c e rn m e n t im po rtance, w eigh t 1 54·27 c o n clu sio n exp erim en t 3 1 0 .2 co n cu rre n t one w ho accom panies a royal m essenger or official as w it­ ness 19 6 .4 2 co n fe c t sw eetm eat, con fection 2 7 1 .7 , 3 3 0 .4 C o n g r e g a tio n the party o f P ro testant R e fo rm e rs in the reign o f Q ueen M a r y 1 2 0 . 4 3 , 1 4 9 .1 1 (also see no te to 12 0 .4 3 ) co n scie n ce see note to 3 2 6 .2 3 c o n sid e ra t e p ru d en t 2 3 . 2 3 , 3 5 6 .7 co n sist be con sisten t, agree 3 1 .3 8 con t e m n treat w ith disdain , d isregard 69.3 6 , 2 3 9 .7 , 3 3 7 . 1 7 , 3 6 2 .3 4 co n v en t religio u s com m u nity (either m ale o r fem ale) 5 8 .30 etc. c o n v e n t ic le derogatory secret o r illegal religio u s m eetin g 2 7 4 .3 1 co p e ecclesiastical v estm ent resem ­ b lin g a lo n g cloak 10 0 .2 7 co rb ie S c o ts raven 2 1 7 . 2 0 , 2 1 7 .2 3 c o rb ie -m e sse n g e r S c o ts m essenger w h o fails to retu rn or d eliver his m essage (in allusion to the raven in G e n e sis 8.7) 2 5 4 .2 6 , 3 1 6 .3 3 c o ro n a c h G a elic fu n eral son g, d irge

157.34

c o rp se -c a n d le fo r 3 3 8 .1 0 see no te to 3 3 7 .4 1 c o rp se -lig h t fo r 3 3 7 .4 3 see no te to 3 3 7 .4 1 co rsle t piece o f defen sive arm o u r co verin g the b o d y 1 7 .5 etc. co u c h lo w er (a lance) to the p o sition o f attack 1 5 4 .3 8 , 36 4 .3 7 co u ch e d ly in g h idd en, concealed 34 0 .4 co u n t en a n ce patronage, favo u r 1 1 9 . 1 9 , 1 2 2 . 2 3 , 1 2 9 . 1 4 , 2 7 6 .5 co u n t e r-fle u re d h era ld ry h avin g flow ers on each sid e set o ppo site each other in pairs 1 4 1 .28 co u n t e rm in e see note to 17 8 .2 co u n t r y regio n , d istrict 1 5 .3 9 etc. c o u p le s braces or leashes fo r h o ld in g tw o h o u n ds together 92.1 co u ra n to F re n c h dance characterised b y a ru n n in g step 2 5 5 .2 2 co u rse race, ru n 1 4 1 .3 3 c o u rt e s y form al bo w , gestu re o f re­ spect 1 9 5 .1 5 co u rt -p o p in ja y cou rt-p arro t 2 0 2 .3 1

538

glo ssary

c o u sin term o f frien d sh ip used b y a so vereign w h en ad d ressin g nobles o r fo llo w ers w ith no su ggestion o f b lo o d -relation sh ip 1 9 9 . 2 1 , 19 9 .3 2 , 3 3 2 .4 0 c o x c o m b fo o l, fo p 1 6 6 . 1 9 , 2 79 .2 9 , 3 1 7 .4 2 ; head 15 7 .2 8 ; cock’s com b, on w h ich caps w orn b y professional fo o ls w ere m odelled 2 50 .28 c o x c o m b r y fo p p ery 16 5 .2 0 c o y verb affect coyness or shyn ess 3 7 1 .9 c o z e n a g e frau d , cheatin g 2 4 6 .23 c r a b sou r ap ple 17 4 .2 4 c r a c k see no te to 3 4 .3 5 c r a c k -h a lt er one lik ely to c r a c k or strain a rop e (i.e. one destined to be h an ged) 1 7 8 .1 0 c r a c k -h e m p a c r a c k -h a lt er 1 6 4 .1 8 c r a ig S c o ts crag 3 1 7 .8 c r a z y u nso un d, liable to fall to pieces 2 3 1 .2 8 c re d o L a tin, lite ra lly I b elieve, the first w o rd o f the C reed ; the C reed 5 0 .3 , 7 4 . 1 0 , 2 2 2 .3 1 c r e st verb erect one’s crest, raise o n e s e lf p ro u d ly 4 0 .22 c r o m b ie gen eric nam e fo r a cow 9 1.14 c r o p clip 1 5 7 .3 2 ; fo r 1 5 7 .1 8 see note c r o sie r pastoral sta f f o f a bisho p or ab b o t 1 0 0 .2 7 , 10 8 .3 8 , 2 6 4 .37 c r o w d early strin ged m u sical in stru ­ m en t, fidd le 16 4 .2 3 c r o w n coin w o rth five sh illin gs (25 p ) 1 7 . 3 8 , 1 1 6 . 2 0 , 1 4 7 . 8 , 17 0 .2 5 ; fo r 1 3 6 . 1 2 see note c r u s h d rin k (ale or w ine) 1 4 7 .1 4 c r u z a d o r P o rtu guese coin, w o rth ab o u t 25.4d. ( 12 p ) 299.9 c u b ic u la r atten dant in a bedcham ber 19 9 .4 0 c u itt le S c o ts coax, w h eedle 1 2 9 . 3 1 c u lv e r in lo n g cannon 18 2 .3 5 c u m b e r trou b le, bu rd en 48.28 e tc. c u m m in cu m in (plant and spice) 8 7 .36 c u n n in g k n o w in g 1 6 9 .9 ,2 1 6 .3 1 ; sk il­ fu l 4 9 .37 c u r c h S c o ts k e rch ie f u sed to co ver the head 1 9 1 . 2 0 , 296 .39 c u rr e n t gen uine (coin) 2 8 7 .1 1 ; pre­ v alen t 3 3 1 .42; fo r 3 3 1 .3 3 and 3 5 0 .3 see note to 3 3 1 .3 3 c u rr e n t ly read ily 2 4 6 .27

c u r r y ru b do w n (a horse) 8 3 .3 3 ; beat, thrash 1 7 1 .2 ; p repare leather b y beatin g 1 7 1 . 3 c u sto d ie r S c o ts cu stodian 16 0 .3 6 c u t steal (a pu rse) b y cu ttin g it fro m the b e lt on w h ich it hangs 8 5 .32 c u t-a n d -th ru st shortfo r cu t-a n d th ru st sw o rd 39 .3 3 c u tt w o rk -h o rse 16 4 .2 8 (see note) C y p ru s fine m aterial, com m on ly black an d u sed in m o u rn in g 3 2 2 .2 8 d a lm a t iq u e lo n g ecclesiastical v est­ m en t w ith w id e sleeves 9 5 .18 , 10 0 .2 7 D a n sk e D a n ish 1 6 1 . 3 7 d a r k lin g in the dark 1 7 0 .1 3 d a sh e d daun ted , abashed 2 8 .2 d a s t a r d cow ard 36 4 .4 1 d e b a t e contest 3 6 1 . 3 1 d e b o n a ir ly gracio u sly, affa b ly 5 1.2 0 d e fæ c a t e p u rify 2 4 1 .3 4 d e lic t o ffen ce, crim e 3 1 1 . 4 2 d e m e a n b ehave, con d u ct (oneself) 1 4 5 .2 1 d e m e sn e dom ain, p ro p erty , estate 6 5 .2 2 , 6 9 .19 d e m i-c a n n o n sm all cannon, w ith a b o re o f abou t 1 7 cm 13 0 .5 d e m issio n resign ation, abd ication 1 9 9 .18 d e m it S c o ts resign , lay d o w n 1 9 9 .14 , 1 9 9 . 1 5 , 2 0 4 .18 d e m o n ia c one possessed b y a dem on o r e v il sp irit 3 1 1 . 5 d e sh a b ille , d ish a b ille state o f un­ d ress o r o f b ein g in fo rm ally dressed 1 5 3 .4 0 , 1 7 5 .4 1 . d e sig n nam e b y title 1 5 4 . 1 2 d e siro u s desirable 7 3 .5 d e sp it e see no te to 3 0 4 .15 d e sp o il p lu n d er, strip b y vio len ce

24.34 . d et a in w ithhold 5 5 .4 1 d e v o ir d u ty 2 5 . 1 9 , 36 5.8 d e v o te set ap art b y a solem n v o w 10 1.3 3 d e v o t ed doom ed 6 4 .3 7 ,2 0 1 .3 3 , (poss­ibly 3 4 7 . 14 ) d ia g n o stic s diagn osis 2 5 4 .30 ; sym p ­ tom s 3 0 7 .3 9 d ia s c o r d iu m see no te to 2 4 6 .37 d ib b le tool used to m ake holes in the gro u n d fo r plantin g 2 6 9 .36 d ig h t S c o ts, lite ra lly w ip e clean 10 8 .4 2 (see n o te)

GLOSSARY d in k S c o ts dress finely, adorn 1 8 3 .4 1 d irk noun sh ort dagger, w orn espe­ cially b y H igh lan d ers 3 3 .4 0 , 40.6, 1 4 5 .6 d irk verb stab w ith a dirk 3 6 .10 d isb u rth en relieve o f a bu rd en 3 6 .7 d isc h a rg e fo rb id , pro h ib it 3 1 3 .9 d is e m b a rr a s s disen tan gle 9.39 d isp a r t part 3 8 .3 7 d isp e n sa t ion licence fro m P o p e or bishop to do w h at is fo rb id d en , or to om it religio u s observances 6 6 .15 , 12 1.3 4 d ist e m p e ra tu re d istu rbance o f m in d or tem p er 3 5 0 .16 d iv e l devil 15 7 .2 6 d iv e rs d iffere n t, vario us 7 4 .2 4 d o n jo n central tow er or keep o f a castle 3 1 5 .3 4 d o n jo n -k eep see d o n jo n 18 3 .9 d o o m sentence ( o f pu n ish m en t) 1 1 1 . 1 0 , 3 1 1 . 4 2 , 3 1 2 .2 d o rto u r d o rm itor y o f a m onastery 112 .3 0 d o t a g e excessive love or fond ness 94.20 d o u b let close-fittin g b o d y -garm en t or jacket 5 3 .1 4 etc. d o u b t fear 4 9 .3 0 ,2 4 5 .17 d o u ce S c o ts sober, q u iet 16 2 .7 d o u g h ty w orth y , valiant 15 4 .3 0 , 2 7 0 .3 6 , 3 2 9 .2 1 d r a c o n ic d ragon -like 1 1 5 . 1 6 d re a d o u r S c o ts fear, dread 24 5 .9 d re ss verb groom 1 6 4 .6 , 16 6 .10 ; pru n e, tend 96.38; com b, b ru sh 2 9 2 .30 d r ift S c o ts flock 1 28 .4 2 d r iv e p ractise 3 3 8 .1 4 d ro n e 1 m onotonous note ( o f a b agp ip e ) 1 79.8 d ron e2 id ler, slu ggard 2 7 7 .1 0 d ro p p in g d rip p in g, rain y, w et 1 1 . 1 4 , 3 7 0 .9 d ro ss scu m throw n o f f fro m m etals in the process o f m eltin g 4 2 .1 d u c a t gold coin, w o rth abou t nine sh il­ lin gs (45p) 3 5 4 .3 d u ck in g -sto ol chair at the en d o f a plank in w h ich scold s w ere tied and du cked in w ater 1 1 3 . 1 d u d g e o n -d a g g e r d agger w ith han dle o f d u d geon , or b o x-w o o d 39.8 d u e n n a eld erly w om an, chaperone 8 4 .2 5 , 8 5 .2 8 , 3 2 2 .4

539

d u n du ll brow n 9 0 .3 8 ,17 4 .2 9 d u p lie s see note to 7.9 d u re sse harsh treatm en t, c ru elty 2 06 .30; im prisonm ent 3 2 9 .3 7 d u rk S co ts ru in 3 5 .5 ea rn S c o ts eagle 1 3 1 .8 ea rth -d a m p noxious m ist 2 9 1.6 e c o n o m y arrangem ent, organisation 2 7 .1 2 e csta c y fren zy 2 6 0 .2 1 e lb o w -c h a ir, e lb o w c h a i r chair w ith arm s 1 5 2 . 1 6 , 1 6 1 . 3 7 elect chosen b y G o d fo r salvation

37.31

elect ion G o d ’ s choice o f those w ho w ill be saved 9 2 .2 1 electu a r y m edicinal paste con sistin g o f pow d er m ixed w ith ho n ey or syru p 2 4 3 .3 2 , 2 4 3 .3 7 e l f im p 3 4 .3 1 e lix ir stron g ex tract or in fu sio n 2 5 3 .2 0 e m b o n p o in t French p lu m pn ess

79.7

e m b ra su re recess in a w all created b y a w in do w 15 5 .2 8 e m e rg e n ce state o f affairs dem and ing atten tion, em ergen cy 2 5 . 1 9 , 20 7 .2 0 , 3 4 4 .3 6 , 3 7 1 . 1 7 e m p riz e , e m p rise ad ven tu ro u s un­ d ertaking, en terp rise 9 1.2 6 , 16 9 .3 , 2 9 2 .7 , 32 0 .39 en erg u m e n e one possessed b y a devil 3 1 1 .5 en o w S c o ts en ou gh 1 2 2 . 1 , 1 8 5 .1 2 e n sa m p le illu strative in stance 2 5 1 .3 9 ent a b la tu re architecture that p art o f an o rd er w h ich is abo ve the colum n, in clu d in g frieze and c o m ic e 7 5 .2 7 enth u s ia s m w ild religio u s feelin g, (fancied) divin e in sp iration 3 .2 7 etc. enth u sia st recip ien t o f (fancied) d ivin e in sp iration, a visio n ary 2 6 0 .16 , 3 1 0 .2 0 , 3 5 2 .2 0 en th u sia stic d iv in ely in sp ired , v ision ary, ardent, rap tu ro u s 1 1 . 1 3 e tc. e r a d ic a te p u ll u p b y the roots 2 6 6 .3 1 ere ever 13 0 .3 8 e sp ia l sp y 14 4 .3 etc .; the actin g as a sp y 14 3 .2 e ssa y verb attem p t, tr y 1 9 3 .9 , 2 8 0 .1, 3 0 8 .3 1 e ssa y noun the tastin g o f food (to

5 40

GLOSSARY

d etect poison) 3 0 2 .4 1 estw a r d eastw ard 2 5 1 .2 8 e v a n g e le , e v a n g e l the G o sp e l 1 6 . 1 ,

199.38,217.39,234.23 ev en even in g 9 0 .3 7 , 2 1 3 . 1 1 , 2 88.40 even t o u tcom e, issu e 3 5 8 .2 7 , 3 6 2 .2 0 e v e ric h e e v e ry 2 5 1 .2 6 e v il-d isp o se d u n w ell 3 0 6 . 1 3 , 3 0 6 .15 e x ch e q u e r (royal) treasu ry 8 5 .34 , 28 4.36 e x h e rid a t e d isin h erit 34 9 .7 ex h ib itio n su p p o rt, p en sio n 7 8 .2 3 e x p a n d po u r out 1 1 . 1 0 , 19 .2 3 e x p a n d e d outsp read , sm ooth 2 7 6 .4 2 , 3 2 9 .3 2 e x p re ss adjectiv e d efin ite, u n m istak­ able 3 0 4 .1 1 ; sp ecially sen t 3 1 5 . 2 1 e x p re ss noun sp ecia lly d isp atched m essen ger o r m essage 3 7 0 .3 5 e x u b e ra n ce o verflow , excess 1 0 6 . 1 1 , 1 4 6 .3 4 e x u b e ra n t excessiv e 1 3 .2 7 e y a ss, e y a sse fa lc o n ry yo u n g haw k taken fro m the n est fo r the p u rp o se o f train in g 3 2 .1 0 etc. f a ’ S c o ts b efall 1 1 4 . 1 8 fa c e ap pearance 3 2 1 . 7 , 3 3 1 .3 5 f a c t crim e 3 2 6 .1 3 fa c titio u s artifi c i a l 1 1 3 . 7 fa in pleased, eager, o bliged 4 9 .16 , 1 3 3 .2 6 , 2 7 9 .3 7 f a ir clean, p u re 2 1 4 . 3 , 246 .8 f a ir y -m o n e y m o n ey g iven b y fairies, said to cru m b le aw ay ra p id ly 36 7 .8 fa lch io n , fa u lc h io n sw o rd , sp ecific­ ally one w ith a broad cu rv ed blad e, the edge on the co n vex sid e 3 9 .3 3 , 23 9 .2 7 fa lco n e t ligh t cannon 1 3 0 . 2 , 13 0 .5 , 2 8 1 . 1 1 , 3 4 1 .3 4 fa n fa ro n a fo r 1 4 5 . 1 , 14 6 .4 and 1 7 5 . 1 2 see fo o tno te an d n o te to 145 . 1 fa n t a stic e x travagant, fo p p ish 3 9 .4 3, 2 8 6 .18 fa n t a s y w h im , cap rice 2 0 .3 1 fa r -fe tc h e d b ro u gh t fro m fa r, w id e ran gin g 7 7 .2 5 fa r th in g a le sk irt e x ten ded b y m eans o f a fram ew o rk o f w h alebone hoop s 3 2 2 .2 8 , 3 2 2 .3 1 , 3 2 2 .3 6 fa sh see note to 1 7 3 . 1 3 f a t fu ll-b o d ied (ale) 48.4 fa u lc h io n see f a lc h io n fa v o u r p erm issio n , leave 1 9 8 .1 8 ; let­

ter, com m u nicati o n 3 .8 ; ap p ear­ ance, face 32 8 .3 9 ; fo r 2 4 7 .1 , 3 2 0 .2 6 and 3 2 1 .7 see note to 2 4 7 .1 fe ll noun skin 7 6 .30 (see no te) fe ll adjectiv e cru el, d ead ly 3 0 1 .9 , 3 0 1 . 1 4 , 3 5 8 . 1 1 , 36 8 .5 fe n ce fo rti f y , stren gthen 6 8 .3 fig u re d ornam ented w ith p attern s 2 9 0 .10 fla g itio u s heinous, crim in al 6 1 .4 2 flau n e pancake 3 1 5 .2 6 flea flay 1 6 1 . 1 7 fleech S c o ts flatter, w h eed le 1 1 4 .2 4 , 12 9 .3 0 fleet sw ift, s w iftly 2 0 8 .3 7 , 34 6 .9 , 3 6 4 .2 0 fleu red h era ld ry ad orned w ith flow ers 1 4 1 .2 8 flig h t-sh o t fo r 1 6 4 .1 8 an d 2 3 4 .2 1 see note to 1 6 4 .18 flirt flick 2 1 4 . 1 5 flit S c o ts sh ift, change p o sition 1 6 .3 1 fo in m ake a th ru st w ith a p o in ted w eapon 2 4 3 .1 3 foo t-c lo th large o rn am ented clo th laid o ver the back o f a h o rse 10 4 .3 6 fo rb o d e fo r 20 .2 8 an d 8 4 .2 2 see n o tes fo re fe n d fo rb id 3 1 1 . 3 9 fo re h a n d part o f a h o rse that is b efo re the rid er 16 4 .5 fo x sw o rd 1 1 6 . 3 5 fo y in terjection fie 4 9 .10 fr a c k im p etu ou s, b o ld 3 2 5 .1 0 , 3 2 6 .1 9 , 3 2 6 .2 2 fra n k lin lan do w n er o f free b u t no t noble b irth 14 6 .2 1 fre a k ish w h im sical, cap ricio u s 1 1 8 .3 0 fre eston e fine sand stone o r lim estone

75.25

fre in S c o ts b efrien d 2 4 5 .16 frie z e coarse w o o llen clo th 16 4 .6 etc. fr ith firth, estu ary 3 7 2 .8 fro n t verb face 14 5 .3 3 fro n tlet forehead 3 6 2 .4 3 fro u n c e fa lc o n ry canker o r sore in the m ou th o f a haw k 3 3 .6 fro w a r d p erverse, n au gh ty 2 0 1 .4 fu rb ish give a n ew look to , b u rn ish 17 2 .2 0 g a b S c o ts m o u th 10 8 .4 2 (see n o te) g a e Scots go 5 2 .2 4 , 1 1 4 . 1 6 g a llia r d m an o f sp irit o r fash io n , gal­ lant 1 5 8 . 5 , 1 5 8 . 3 3 , 1 7 1 .4 2 ; liv e ly F re n c h dance 2 0 1 . 8 , 3 2 6 .9

GLOSSARY g a llo w a y , g a llo w a y -n a g sm all stu rd y typ e o f horse, o rigin ally b red in G a l­ lo w ay 1 2 7 . 2 9 , 17 4 .3 0 g a lo p in page, erran d -b o y 18 6 .36 , 19 0 .16 g a m b a d e leap, boun d 18 2 .8 g a m b a d o large boot or gaiter 3 1 3 .3 7 g a m e anim als h u nted fo r spo rt 1 4 7 .18 , 2 5 6 .3 ; h u ntin g, the chase 3 2 .1 9 ; fo r 1 6 7 .2 1 see note g a m e so m e spo rtive, fu ll o f gam e

139.5

g a m e st er p ro stitu te 14 9 .3 7 ; gam bler

354.3

g a n g S c o ts go 13 0 .9 g a rn it u re fu rn itu re, ap p u rtenances

273.42

g a y brillian t, sh ow y 1 4 6 . 1 , 14 6 .2 6 ga z e -h o u n d huntin g d o g w h ich fo l­ low s its p rey b y sigh t 7 4 .18 g e a r bu sin ess, affair 1 5 7 .3 7 etc. G e n e v a -g o w n black go w n w o rn b y C alvin ist clergy w h en p reach in g

51.7

ge n iu s tem p er o f m in d (w ith a p u n on the m odern sense) 30 4 .39 gent le adjectiv e n o ble, honourable, w ell b o m , o f good p ed igree 18 .3 etc. gentles noun gentlefolk s, those o f noble b irth 2 0 .30 gestic to do w ith b o d ily m o vem en t or dan cin g 2 5 5 .1 4 gh ostly sp iritual 2 9 8 .32 g id d y -fa sh io n e d frivo lo u s, th ou ghtless 32 6 .6 g id d y -p a ted ligh t-h eaded , th ou ght­ less 2 8 7 .4 g la n c e noun flash, gleam 2 1 . 2 1 g la n c e verb shin e, flash 8 0 .34 e tc. gle d fa lc o n ry k ite 3 3 .7 g le g g S co ts sh arp -eyed , alert 1 7 4 .1 2 g lib volu b le 48.6 G o d -a -m e r c y lite ra lly G o d have m ercy, exp ressio n o f thanks 5 3 .3 8 ; exclam ation o f su rp rise 1 6 6 .2 1 , 16 6 .2 8 g o o d ly han dsom e, w e ll-p ro p o rtioned, fair 9 8 .1 2 etc .; iro n ica l sp len d id 8 5 .3 0 , 2 8 0 .18 go re stab 16 6 .2 0 go rget piece o f arm o u r fo r the throat 18 0 .3 go sp eller one w h o pro fesses the faith o f the gosp el, a P r o testant o r P u r itan 1 3 1 . 4 , 2 1 7 .4 1

541

go ss-h a w k fa lc o n ry large short­ w in ged haw k 7 3 .2 5 etc. go u sty S c o ts large and em p ty , dreary 2 2 .1 go vern o r tu tor 17 2 .2 8 gracio so Span ish jester in com edies and m y ste ry plays 2 5 0 .2 7 g r a f f graft 2 6 9 .3 8 ,3 6 9 .3 9 g r a m e r c y thanks 1 1 3 . 4 g ra n d a m e , g r a n d - d a m e grand­ m other 3 5 .3 6 ,8 3 .2 g r a t e door o f in terlaced iro n bars 3 1 2 .2 6 g ra t e fu l pleasant 4 5 .4 3 g r a tis free, gratu itou s 3 8 .3 5 g r a tú la t e w elcom e, salu te 9 8 .33 green yo u th fu l 3 7 .1 4 g re e n -ro o m room b ack -stage w here actors w ait w h ile not on stage 2 5 0 .13 g ro at coin w o rth fo u r old pence ( 1 .66p) 3 4 .3 4 etc. gro in ’ d b u ilt w ith groin s, or ribbed edges w h ere tw o v au lts in tersect 9 1.8 g ry p h o n griffin 3 2 2 .1 6 (see note) gu d e S c o ts good 13 0 .3 9 gu erd o n noun a n d verb rew ard , recom ­ pense 2 3 0 .3 4 e tc. gu id e S co ts m anage, con du ct 1 3 3 . 1 3 , 1 7 8 .1 8 g u ll cheat, d u p e 1 3 1 .3 0 h a b ilim e n t garm ent 2 4 4 .30 h a b it dress, garb 6 2 .2 0 etc. h a c k it S c o ts h avin g a w h ite face 14 6 .4 1 h a ’ e S co ts have 5 2 .2 2 h a g g in terval o f so ft b o g in a m oor 13 3 1 h a g g a r d fa lc o n ry w ild (fem ale) haw k 13 4 11 h a il-sh o t sm all shot w h ich scatters w hen fired 2 8 7 .2 6 h a lb e rd ie r soldier arm ed w ith a hal­ berd, sp ecifically a m em ber o f a civic guard 1 3 7 . 1 2 , 2 5 2 .2 7 , 2 6 7 .4 3 , 3 14 .10 h a lb e rt, h a l b e r d lo ng-han dled w eapon, com b in in g featu res o f spear and batd e-axe 1 5 7 . 2 2 , 240 .29 , 2 4 2 .3 2 h a lid o m e h o ly place, sanctu ary 8.26 etc. h a lla n S c o ts partition w all or screen betw een the door and fireplace o f a cottage 2 59 .2 4

5 42

GLOSSARY

h a m m e r m a n blacksm ith 3 3 2 .1 h a n d y see note to 13 0 .7 h a n g e r sh ort sw ord 12 7 .2 6 h a p verb happen, chance 4 5 .3 8 , 1 7 7 .2 1 h a p noun chance, accident, fo rtune h a rd ih o o d boldn ess 14 9 .3 h a r d y bo ld , courageous 9 .2 8 , 2 4 .3 2 , 1 3 1 . 4 , 17 6 .4 1 h a rq u e b u ss p o rtable gu n 2 8 1 .1 0 ,

h u s b a n d m a n farm er 2 3 6 .2 4 ,2 6 6 .3 1 h y d r o p h o b ia rabies 309 .43 id e a l im agin ary 2 5 .3 0 ilk sam e 2 5 1 . 3 1 ; fo r 2 4 1 .3 see note ilk a S c o ts each, ev e ry 5 2 .2 3 illu str a t io n exp lan ation, elu cid ation 2 8 .2 7 , 2 1 8 . 1 8 im p noun o ffsp rin g 3 5 . 1 7 im p verb S c o ts graft 26 9.38 im p lo y im p ly 19 9 .3 4 in c o n sid e ra t e rash, tho u gh tless

341.5, 359.34 h a v io u r b ehaviou r, m an ner 30 6 .39 h e a d noun see no te to 1 5 4 .3 5 h e a d verb behead 2 6 8 .30 h e a d -p ie c e helm et, cap 1 2 7 . 1 1 ,

1 4 1 .14 in d u c t io n in trod u ction 2 4 1.3 0 in -d w e lle r S c o ts inhabitant 2 3 3 .1 in fe r im p ly 3 6 .2 6 etc .; ded u ce 3 .2 0 in je e r S c o ts in trod uce, in sin u ate

148.33, 1 5 5 1 1 , 157-39

339.23 h e a d sm a n execu tioner 14 9 .4 2 h e a d -tire h ead -d ress 2 9 2 .3 1 , 2 9 6 .4 6 , 3 3 2 .3 4 H e b e see note to 79.8 h en ce ago 2 6 .2 4 h e re sia rch leader or fo u n d er o f her­ esy 2 3 6 . 2 1 , 26 6.39 h e rlin g a fish, related to salm on, fre­ qu en tin g the R iv e r N ith 2 2 6 .30 h e y -d a y exclam ation o f su rp rise 1 5 9 .2 9 , 1 6 0 .16 h o b b y hob b y-h orse 1 1 3 .3 0 ; sm all horse, po n y 17 4 .2 0 h o d d in coarse, u n d yed w oollen clo th 1 34.39 h o ld priso n -cell ør stron ghold 2 6 8 .23 h o lla n d fine linen fab ric 1 4 2 .3 3 h o llo w fo r 12 9 .3 and 3 6 2 .2 5 see n o te to 12 9 .3 h o n o ra riu m see no te to 3 1 4 .2 4 h o o d ie -c ro w hooded crow 3 2 .18 ho o l hole, eye-sock et 17 4 .6 h o se breech es 2 1 7 . 8 , 2 5 6 . 1 7 , 2 5 7 .2 8 h o t el large tow n -h o u se 14 3 .3 4 H o u rs prayers ap po in ted to be said at seven stated tim es o f day 9 2 .2 3 h o w f f S co ts m eetin g-p lace, p u b lic house 3 1 7 . 1 3 h o w la t ow l 3 3 5 .2 7 h u d d le h u rry to an end 3 . 1 7 H u gu en o t lite ra lly one o f the F re n c h P ro testan ts, h ence an y stric t P r o t­ estant 8 2 .2 4 etc. h u issie r French ush er 1 5 1 . 2 2 (see note) h u m o u r m ood, disp o sition, w h im 2 1 .4 etc.

144.3

in la n d o f the in terio r o f a cou ntry , far fro m the b o rd er 15 4 .3 8 in let ad m ission , entrance 7 8 .3 ,

233. 17

in m a t e resid en t, occupant, one shar­ in g a hou se 7 4 .3 6 e tc. in n o v a t io n see no te to 16 9 .3 0 in s p ir a tio n a special im m ed iate in­ fluen ce o f a d iv in ity or sup ern atural b ein g u po n the hum an m in d 3 1 0 .2 3 in sp ire affec t w ith i n s p i r a t io n 1 9 1 . 2 4 , 3 0 5 .1 7 in str u m e n t S c o ts la w form al legal re­ cord o f an even t or agreem ent 19 9 .4 etc. in t e llig e n c e com m u nication, good u n d erstan d in g 3 6 .2 3 , 2 2 2 .1 4 , 2 7 3 .1 0 in t e llig e n c e r sp y 14 4 .4 in t e llig e n t k now in g, w ell-in fo rm ed 16 6 .4 3 in t e rd ic t fo rb id 3 1 . 3 2 in t e rro g a to r y fo rm al, legal qu estion 309.8 issu e outcom e, con sequence 12 4 .7 etc. ja c k a p ro tective sleeveless jacket w o rn b y fo o t soldiers 2 4 2 .3 2 , 3 3 8 .4 0 ; leather beer ju g , coated o u tsid e w ith tar or p itch 1 6 1 .35 J a c k - a - L e n t see note to 1 1 3 .2 5 ja c k -a n -a p e , ja c k -a n -a p e s , ja c k a n a p e tame ape or m o nkey 34 .2 8 , 1 1 7 . 4 , 1 7 9 .2 2 , 2 3 9 .3 9 ja c k m a n , ja c k -m a n m ilita ry retainer 1 6 .2 4 , 26 9.4 ja d e m in x , h u ssy 1 5 9 . 3 7 , 253-9 ja n itor ush er in a school 38 .3 4 ;

GLOSSARY p o rter 1 0 4 .1 8 ja w S c o ts su rge o f a w ave 13 0 .9 (see note) jen n et sm all S p an ish ho rse 13 9 .2 8 , 2 0 8 .37 je rk in g w h ip p in g 16 0 .7 je ssa m in e jasm ine 2 6 8 .2 je sse s fa lc o n ry straps fastened aroun d the legs o f a haw k 5 7 .4 2 , 5 9 .18 , 13 9 .12 jig g e t fidget , hop u p an d d o w n 16 9 .9 jo u k, jo w k S c o ts ben d do w n , duck 5 4 .3 6 , 13 0 .9 (see notes) ju b ila t e L a tin, lite ra lly sh ou t ye, a call to rejo icin g 10 0 .3 0 ju g g le r con ju rer 2 4 9 .3 1 ju le p sw eetened m ed icinal drink 2 4 6 .2 9 , 2 4 6 .37 ju m p coincide, ta lly 1 1 8 . 4 ju n k ettin g m errym akin g 2 7 2 .1 9 k a il-w o r m S c o ts caterp illar 1 1 5 .2 0 k a in -fo w l S c o ts p o u ltr y used fo r the p aym en t o f ren t in kind 2 4 4 .15 k a le cabbage 13 0 .3 9 k e ep it S c o ts k ep t, rem ained in 5.6 k e lp ie S co ts dem on w h ich haunts lakes or riv ers 1 3 1 . 1 5 , 3 4 1 . 1 8 ken verb S c o ts know 2 4 5 .13 ken noun know ledge 5 5 .2 3 kent verb S c o ts p u n t 339 .6 k e r c h ie f cloth u sed to cover head or neck, a h an d k erch ief 48.40 etc. kestr il-k it e lo w -b red haw k 5 7 .3 2 k in d fo r 13 9 .6 see no te k in d ly b elo n gin g to one’ s o w n kind 2 4 .2 3 k in g sm a n fo r 1 8 1 .3 3 and 2 2 8 .16 see no te to 1 8 1 .3 3 k irk ch u rch 1 1 2 . 1 etc. k im -m ilk b u tterm ilk 2 4 3 .3 4 , 2 4 3 .3 5 k irtle sk irt 1 8 .2 0 , 8 0 . 1 7 , 16 6 .2 7 , 2 5 6 .16 k ith frien d s, fa m ily 3 3 .1 6 kitt le S c o ts tick lish , risk y 1 3 3 .2 5 k n a p sc a p S c o ts helm et 3 3 8 .4 1 k n a p sc u ll S c o ts h elm et w o rn b y per­ sons o f in fe rio r rank 2 4 2 .3 3 k n o sp stu d , boss 29 7.40 la id p u t a stop to 3 5 .2 4 la n d w a r d fo r 2 2 7 .1 see no te la n g S c o ts lo n g 5 5 .4 (see note), 1 1 4 . 1 4 , 1 6 1 .4 3 la n g -k a ill S c o ts v ariety o f kale, or cab­ bage 1 6 1 . 1 2

543

la n t ern -k a il S c o ts cabbage boiled in w ater and served u p in m ilk , eaten in L e n t 1 0 4 .1 1 la p flap 16 5 .3 4 ,2 8 0 .3 6 la tit u d in a ria n liberal in religiou s m atters, not in sistin g on con fo rm ity, l a x 1 2 1 .4 1 la v o lt a liv ely dance fo r tw o persons 2 5 5 .2 2 la w in g S c o ts tav ern -b ill 1 6 9 . 4 1 , 1 7 1 . 7 la y -b r o th er fo r 36 8 .4 2 see note to 12 2 .4 0 le a g u e d istance o f about 5 km 3 6 5 .3 3 le a v e n su b stance added to dough to pro d u ce ferm en tation 2 39 .3 lee ch p h ysician 4 9 .35 etc. le m an m istress 3 0 9 .8 , 3 5 1 . 1 7 let p reven t, obstru c t 2 4 6 .35 lic k b lo w , beatin g 3 5 . 2 1 , 5 8 .25 (see note), 58.26 lic tor L a tin R o m a n o fficer w ho atten ded upon a m agistrate and ex­ ecuted sentence o f ju d gm en t upon offen d ers 98.36 lie ge adjectiv e e ither o w in g or ow ed feu d al service and allegiance 5 0.24, 2 0 1 . 1 4 , 3 3 2 .4 0 , 3 3 9 .1 lie ge noun vassal 200.8 etc. lift steal 4 8 .2 6 , 12 8 .4 0 lig h t s doctrin es 3 2 1 . 1 9 lik e lik ely 5 1 .6 etc. lik elih o od p ro m ise 16 0 .3 3 lik e ly p ro m isin g 5 8 .3 1 lim lim b 2 5 1 .3 6 lim b o -la k e the p it o f H e ll 1 3 1 . 1 7 lim e -tw ig tw ig sm eared w ith b ird ­ lim e fo r catch in g b ird s 2 8 7 .2 3 lim n paint 2 3 3 .5 , 2 8 1 .4 1 lin g heather 2 5 . 1 , 1 7 4 .1 2 lin sto c k sta f f w ith a forked head to hold a ligh ted m atch 2 7 9 .10 list1 w ish , choose 16 .2 9 etc. list2 listen 289 .5 lither S c o ts lazy 3 3 .9 liv e r y d istin ctive u n ifo rm or badge w o rn b y retainers or servants 4 .18 e tc. liv e r y -c o a t u n ifo rm -coat 5 4.7 lo a d -sta r the p o le-star 2 8 9 .32 lo a n in g piece o f open ground on w h ich cow s are m ilked 1 6 4 .1 2 lo c k e ra m linen fabric 1 8 .2 1 lo c k sm a n jailo r, tu rn k ey 2 14 .3 8 lo g in ert or helpless person 308.9 lo u t b u m p k in , clow n 16 5 .4 2

5 44

GLOSSARY

lu b b a r d lu b b er, lo u t 5 7 .3 1 lu ck ie m istress o f an ale-house, land­ lad y 1 10 .2 4 lu n t S c o ts slow m atch 14 9 .2 5 lu rd a n e S c o ts adjectiv e w orth less, lazy 1 0 3 . 4 1 , 15 7 .4 2 lu rd a n e noun slu ggard 3 3 .1 lu re fa lc o n ry ap paratu s used to recall h aw ks, con sistin g o f a bu n ch o f feathers attached to a lo n g cord 1 1 2 . 2 0 , 1 3 4 . 1 1 , 1 7 3 .4 1 m a c e r a t e cause to w aste aw ay 6 6 .18 m a c e r a tio n fastin g, m ortification o f the flesh 90 .23 m a c h in e r y sup ern atural characters an d in cid en ts, stage applian ces and contrivan ces 3 . 2 2 , 250 .9 m a g n a n im o u s gen erous, noble 2 2 2 .4 2 e tc. m a il bag, pu rse, trave llin g-b ag 36 .8 ,

347.24,347.32,369.30 m a il-g a r d e n e r one w ho cares fo r a garden in o rd er to sell th e pro d u ce

334.6 m a i r Scots more 1 9 1 . 3 3 , 2 4 5 . 1 6 m a jo r -d o m o stew ard , head servan t o f a household 29.26 etc. m a k e b a t e, m a k e -b a t e breeder o f strife, trou ble-m aker 3 5 .4 3 , 3 8 .3 0 m a l-a d d r e s s clu m sin ess, w ant o f tact 2 14 .2 1 m a la p e r t im p u d en t, p resu m p tu ous 2 2 .1 5 etc. m a liso n S c o ts curse 5 1 .2 2 m a n hu sband 18 .2 2 m a n d a t e com m and 1 1 6 .2 4 m a n n a sw eet ju ice exu d ed b y vario u s p lan ts, used as a laxative 2 5 3 .1 8 m a n -q u e lle r m u rd erer 3 2 5 .3 4 m a n tle noun cloak 46 .30 etc. m a n t le verb su ffu se w ith a blu sh 5 8 . 1 0 , 29 0 .24 m a r c h fro n tier 12 8 .2 6 m a r k 1 target 49 .29 etc. m a r k 2 silver coin w o rth 1 3 5 .4d . (about 6 6.5p) 3 8 .3 6 , 2 6 4 .35 m a r p lo t one w h o in terferes in and de­ feats a p lo t 2 8 0 .2 7 m a r r y nam e o f the V irg in M a r y , u sed as an oath o r asseveration 3 3 . 1 6 etc. m a r s h a l u sh er, con du ct 9 9 .1 1 etc. m a r t fa ir, m arket 2 45.40 m a s k m asked person 260.40 m a s q u e r one w h o takes part in a m asq ue 1 1 5 . 2 9 , 3 3 2 .8

m a s s -m o n g e r contem ptuous a R o m an C a tho lic 1 5 .4 0 , 9 5 .1 3 m a s s y -m o r e castle du n geon 30 9 .2 3 m a s t e rfu l h igh -h an d ed , desp o tic 17 0 .3 4 m a s t e r y su p erio r fo rce 1 4 4 .1 8 m a v is so n g-th ru sh 13 2 .3 9 m a w b elly 1 1 5 .5 m a y -g a m e fro lic, fo o lery 1 1 7 . 1 9 , 117 .2 3 m a y h a p perh ap s 49 .5 m a z e d dazed, stu pefied 1 6 5 . 1 2 m a z z a r d face 1 7 1 . 1 8 m e a s u r e dance 8 5 .2 8 , 1 9 2 .1 3 , 2 5 5 . 1 2 , 2 9 4 .34 m e d ic a m e n tu m L a tin m ed icam ent, m ed icin e 2 4 2 .3 0 m e d ic in e r p h ysician 2 4 2 .7 , 2 4 3 .4 1 , 3 1 2 .3 1 ,3 14 .17 m e e t p ro p er, su itab le 7 8 .6 , 1 1 9 .4 2 , I 59.3 I m e n ia l servan t 16 .2 5 e tc. m e n -t en an t S c o ts vassal, dep en d an t 3 5 8 .2 m e n y ie S c o ts hou sehold 2 9 1.3 8 m e r lin fa lc o n ry sm all haw k 1 7 5 . 1 0 m e s s com p an y 2 8 7 .3 0 m e s s a n la p -d o g 34 .2 9 m e s s a n -p a g e contem ptuous see m e s s a n 1 5 7 .2 8 m e t eo r ign is fatu u s, w ill-o ’- the-w isp 2 5 7 .4 3 , 3 4 1 10 m e top o sc o p ic a l to do w ith the sci­ ence o f d iv in ation b y the forehead or face 3 1 3 .3 6 m e w noun,fa lc o n r y cage fo r haw ks 3 2 .8 etc. m e w verb con fine, sh u t u p 1 3 3 .2 6 , 1 6 2 . 1 1 , 2 3 0 .2 6 , 3 7 3 .4 2 m ia s m a ta n o xio u s gases exh aled b y ro ttin g o rganic m atte r 2 4 3 .2 m ic k le S c o ts great 2 4 2 .2 7 , 2 5 1 .3 7 m ie n bearin g, air 44.9 etc. m ig n o n n e F ren ch darlin g, p et 3 3 2 .3 6 ,

333.27 , 347.24 m il it a n t fo r 2 6 4 .36 see no te m il l- d a m the area o f w ater h eld in check b y a dam and used to p o w er a m ill-w h e el 1 1 0 . 2 8 , 1 1 1 . 6 m in d d isp o sition, tem p er 3 1 6 .2 6 m in e verb d ig u n d er the w alls o f a fo rt in o rd er to cause their collapse 17 8 .2 m in e noun fo r 36 6.9 see note m in io n contem ptuous a fa vo u rite, h u ssy , ‘ creatu re’ 3 6 .1 7 etc.

GLO SSARY m in is tr y the ren d erin g o f a service 2 9 8 .4 1 m in t S c o ts aim (a blow ) 3 3 . 2 3 , 12 9 .3 0 m is c a r r ia g e m ishap 15 7 .3 3 m is c a r r y go astray, fail 3 0 3 .10 , 3 1 6 . 2 4 , 3 1 6 . 3 1 , 3 2 2 .1 9 m is c h a n c e ill-lu ck , disaster 2 18 .3 6 , 2 4 2 .16 m is g iv e fail, have m isgivin gs 3 3 6 .1 7 , 3 3 6 .4 1 m is g u id in g S co ts m islead in g 5 0 .1 3 ; ill-treatm ent 3 7 3 .1 0 m ith rid a t e m ed icine regarded as a u niversal preservative against poison and disease 2 4 6 .37 M o a b itish fo r 2 8 2 .3 5 , 2 9 7 .10 , 3 0 1 .2 3 and 3 18 .4 3 see note t0 2 8 2 .35 m o m e n t a r y nonce w ord read y at the m om ent 30 5 .6 m o rio n kind o f helm et w ithou t a v iso r 1 2 5 .2 1 m o r is c o lite ra lly m oorish, hence used in a m o rris dance 1 3 9 . 1 1 m o s s b o g 1 3 3 .1 m o s s -tro o p er S c o ts bo rd er freebooter 3 6 9 .1 1 m u ffle w rap , cover u p 14 0 .10 , 3 18 .3 6 ,3 2 1 .1 3 m u ffle r k e rch ie f or s c a r f w o rn to cover part o f the face 1 3 5 .3 3 etc. m u m c h a n c e fo r 1 1 3 . 3 2 see note m u m m e r one w ho takes part in m u m m in g 1 0 5 .2 3 ,1 0 7 .2 1 m u m m e r y play-actin g 1 1 1 . 6 , 1 1 4 .3 7 , 16 5 .3 4 m u m m in g ad option o f a d isgu ise to take part in a p lay, specifically one satirisin g religio u s cerem onial

115.8, 117.3, 127.40 m u r r a in plague, pestilen ce 9 1 .3 2 , 16 5 .5 m u s h r o o m u p start 6 . 1 1 m u t ch k in qu arter o f a S c o ts pin t (three qu arters o f an Im p erial p in t, 0.4 3 litres) 3 1 7 . 2 1 m y r m id o n s race o f w arriors led to the T rojan w ar b y A ch illes, hence sol­ d iers, fo llow ers 2 4 0 .3 0 , 2 4 5 .4 m y s t a g o g u e teacher o f m y stical doc­ trin es 3 2 0 .1 2 m y s t e r y art, profession 13 8 .2 8 , 2 1 2 .2 5 m y s t ic a l-im p o r ta n ce nonce w ord secret, m y steriou s im p o rtance 3 5 .3 2

545

m y s tif y obscure 1 1 6 . 3 n a e S co ts no 2 4 4 .12 n e a t o x 1 6 3 .1 4 n eu t er neutral 5 .2 4 , 2 2 1.3 9 n ic e fastidiou s, hard to please 5 3 .3 5 n ic k an sw er negatively, den y 3 7 3 .3 1 (see note) n ick n ack et knick-knack 15 9 .3 6 n ig g a rd m ean, stin g y 2 5 6 .9 , 278 .2 9 n ig h t-p ie c e p ictu re represen tin g a n igh t-scen e 2 8 1.4 2 n ig h t-w a lk e r one w h o w alks b y n igh t, a th ie f or pro stitu te 3 3 8 .1 7 n ig r o m a n c e r necrom ancer 3 1 0 .2 n o d d le head 16 9 .2 3 n o n ce see note to 286 .26 n o rth a w a y in the north 13 9 .4 2 n o str u m quack rem ed y or m ed icine 3 0 9 .3 1 n o tc h chop 2 4 .38 n o v ic e candidate fo r adm ission in to a religio u s o rd er 8 9 .1 9 , 9 4 .1 n o v ic ia t e probation ary p eriod o f be­ in g a novice 36 9.3 o b eisan ce bo w or cu rtsey 1 8 . 1 5 etc· o b la t io n donation 2 4 9 .2 7 obt esta t ion the callin g o f G o d or the saints to w itness, a p ro testation 6 5.6, 7 3 .1 7 ,117 .13 o ffice special fo rm o f divin e service o r w o rsh ip 1 0 1 . 2 4 , 10 2 .6 on o f 5 4 .4 1 etc. o rd in a tio n p rescribed o bservance 10 2 .4 o riel large recess w ith a w in d o w 7 5 .3 9 o rig in a l eccentric 2 4 2 .1 o riso n p rayer 3 6 1 .4 1 ost en sib le presentable, con sp icu ou s 5 6 .2 3 , 17 5 .3 7 ostle r -w ife , o s t le r e - w i f e m istress o f an inn 1 1 8 . 1 4 , 1 5 7 .3 2 o u t adjectiv e m istaken 1 3 8 . 1 2 ; fo r 96.7 see note o u t verb exp el, tu rn out 1 4 8 . 1 1 o u tb r e a k outb u rst 17 3 .2 0 o u t-ly in g beyon d the im m ed iate v ic in ity , out-o f-the-w a y 8.28, 15 8 .4 1 o u zel blackbird 1 5 4 . 3 2 , 15 4 .3 7 o w e r S c o ts o ver, too 1 1 4 . 1 4 , 2 4 5 .18 p a ip S c o ts pope 1 1 4 . 1 3 p a lle t, p a lle t-c o u c h straw m attress, po o r bed 6 7 . 2 , 1 7 2 .1 6 p a n d e r household officer in charge o f the pantry 1 6 0 .2 8 , 2 7 6 .8 , 3 1 5 .8

546

GLO SSARY

p a n toufle slip p er 4 6 . 1 7 , 1 4 6 .1 1 p a p istrie, p a p istr y p o p ery 5 0 .1 , 5 0 .2 4 , 104 .9 p a r y o u n g salm on 2 2 6 .2 9 p a r a m o u r object o f ch ivalro u s ad­ m irati o n , hence a m istress 2 8 3 .15 ,

345.2

p a rc e l see note to 3 2 .3 0 p a rd o n e r person licensed to sell papal pardons 2 5 0 .2 4 etc. p a re n t relative, gu ardian 7 3 .2 1 etc. p a rle y verb talk 1 8 . 3 , 19 0 .4 p a r le y noun speech, debate 12 7 .3 0 , 3 0 0 .3 9 , 3 1 3 .2 0 p a r t personal qu ality , talent 3 4 .2 8 , 2 18 .15 p a r t ak e r su p p o rter, partner 2 4 6 .3 1,

325.11

p a r t erre level space in a garden occu ­ pied b y flow er-beds 1 8 7 .2 , 2 2 3 .2 7 p a r t ie French m atch 2 3 7 .2 2 p a r t iz a n 1 su p po rter 3 0 . 2 5 , 1 7 6 . 1 ,

354.9

p a r tiz a n 2 lo ng-han dled spear, soldier arm ed w ith the w eapon 1 5 7 . 2 1 , 17 0 .4 0 , 2 8 1 . 2 6 , 3 3 3 .8 p a r t iet item o f dress w o rn abo u t the neck and chest 3 2 2 .2 7 p a r ty -co lo u re d variegated in colou r 240.29 P a sc h e E aster 3 6 .3 4 p a ss verb surpass 3 6 .3 3 , 3 7 .8 , 3 7 .4 1 ; om it 286 .39 p a s s 1 noun predicam ent 1 3 3 .1 4 , 1 7 3 . 1 7 , 3 0 3 .1 6 , 3 14 .2 6 p a ss 2 noun alley, passage, road th rou gh som eth in g 1 3 9 . 3 2 , 3 0 4 .2 3 , 3 5 7 .38 p a ss a g e even t, transaction , n egoti­ ation 3 0 6 .2 3 , 3 5 3 .3 9 p a sse n g e r p a sse rb y 1 3 6 . 1 , 1 3 6 .3 2 , 163.41 p a ss in g exceed in gly 2 2 .4 0 p a t ch fool, d o lt 2 8 0 .2 1 (see no te) p a t e head 17 0 .4 p a ter L a tin, lite ra lly father, the p ater­ noster o r L o r d ’ s P ra y e r 2 2 2 .3 1 p a t ern ost er, p a t e r - n o s t e r L a tin our father, the L o r d ’s P ra y e r 1 3 1 . 3 1 , 2 6 8 .14 p a v e n a grave and stately dance 2 5 5 .2 2 p e a r -m a in pear or ap ple 36 9 .38 (see no te) p e a r lin trim m ed w ith lace 1 3 9 .1 8

p e a se -p o rrid g e ste w o f peas 2 4 3 .3 3 ,

243.35

p e a t contemptuous sp o ilt girl 8 5 .35 p e c u lia r ity distin gu ish in g character­ is tic 70 .9 , 8 8 .8 , 2 2 6 .2 2 p e el-h o u se sm all tow er or fo rtified house 7 4 .2 6 , 2 4 3 .7 p e ra d v e n tu re perhap s 9 0 .7 , 10 8 .2 5 , 30 9 .30 p e rch a n c e perhap s, b y chance 7 2 .2 0 etc. p e rq u isit e le ftov er claim ed b y atten dants, perk 2 1 1 . 8 p e r v e r t tu rn aside fro m a rig h t to an erron eou s religio u s b e lie f 50 .2 4 , 2 36 .2 0 p e st is L a tin the plague 2 4 2 .19 p e ta r d exp lo siv e d evice used to b lo w in a door or gate 1 9 3 . 2 5 , 1 9 3 .3 3 p e tro n el large p istol used on horse­ back 2 9 5 .2 0 p etted sp o iled , su lk y 2 2 2 . 1 3 , 2 3 4 .1 2 ,

374.8 p e ttic o a t sk irt 7 9 .9 , 1 6 5 . 3 7 , 2 5 2 .4 1 p ett ish p eevish , petulant 2 6 8 .35 , 3 4 2 .2 5 , 36 9 .36 p h a r m a c e u tic s noun, nonce w ord ph arm aceu ticals, m ed icin es 2 4 3 .2 9 p h a r m a c o p o lis t seller o f d ru g s 3 1 2 .3 0 p h le b o tom y blo o d -lettin g 1 5 7 .3 0 p h y la c t e r y see note to 2 4 4 .36 p h y sic m ed icine 2 0 1 .5 p ic k -th a n k tale-bearer, syco p h an t 5 1 .4 1 , 19 9 .39 p ie m agpie 2 8 7 .2 1 p ik e -st a v e s w alk in g stick s o r staves 1 3 1 .39 p iln ie w in k s in stru m en t o f tortu re fo r sq u eezin g the fin gers 3 0 8 .1 7 p in -fo ld pen or pou nd 2 6 9 .30 p in n e rs flaps han ging d o w n fro m w o m an’s head -d ress 4 9 .32 p ip k in sm all earthenw are p o t or pan 246 .2 p iq u e take p rid e in 2 1 4 . 1 8 , 3 2 3 .2 2 p is to let p istol 3 0 9 .1 p it ch fa lc o n ry heigh t to w h ich a falcon soars b efo re sw o op in g 14 7 .4 3 p ith v ig o u r, stren gth 1 3 1 . 1 9 p la c k see no te to 49.9 p la id lo n g piece o f clo th, fo rm erly w o rn th rou gh o u t S c o tland as an outer co v erin g 5 3 . 3 4 , 1 4 0 .2 1 p la in t com plain t, statem en t o f

GLO SSARY grievan ces 3 0 3 .6 , 3 0 3 .7 p la it fo ld , pleat 2 7 .3 6 p la s h splash 2 8 1.9 p la t e-sle e ve arm ou r fo r the arm s 2 4 2 .3 2 p le a c h e d fen ced b y in terlaced or tangled bough s 26 4.2 p le d g e verb drink to the health o f som eone 1 2 3 . 2 , 1 2 3 .1 0 p le d g e noun, o f a ch ild an evid en ce o f love 18 6 .5 p lig h t pledge, engage 1 8 1 . 3 8 , 2 6 3 .1 3 , 2 9 1.13 p lu m p flock 13 2 .2 0 p o d a g ra L a tin gou t 2 4 4 .3 p o in t s tagged laces or cords fo r fast­ en in g clo thes 13 6 .3 4 p o le m ic controversialist 2 3 7 .2 2 p o lic y ad m inistration , po litical w is­ dom , p ru den ce, exp ed ien cy, cun­ n in g 14 .4 3 etc. p o lit ic a l contriv ed , exp ed ien t 1 9 2 .1 0 p o m a n d e r ball o f arom atic sub­ stances, carried as a p reservative against in fection 3 2 9 .3 4 p o n ia rd noun d agger 3 3 .2 2 etc. p o n ia rd verb stab (to death) w ith a p o n i a r d 3 6 .1 5 , 2 9 9 . 1 3 , 3 1 2 .4 2 p o o p see note to 1 3 3 .2 9 p o p in ja y parrot 3 4 .3 0 p o p p y -p o rrid g e an im agin ary nar­ cotic, soporific stew 34 0 .39 p o rrin g e r sm all basin or bo w l 2 5 1.2 0 , 3 0 3 .1 5 p o rt carry (a pike) w ith bo th hands diagon ally across and close to the b o d y, so that the blade is o ver the le ft shou lder 2 0 .1 3 p o rt io n er S c o ts la w p ro p rietor o f a sm all piece o f land 2 5 .2 1 p o rt ly dign ified , m ajestic 1 1 3 . 3 (see note), 36 6.4 p o st exp ress m essenger 3 4 6 .3 , 3 7 2 .1 7 p o st e m -g a te back or p rivate gate 19 0 .2 7 p o tent ia l p o w erfu l 1 0 1 .4 1 p o th ic a r apothecary 2 0 1 .3 p o ttle noun m easu re o f liq u id , equal to tw o qu arts (about 2 .2 5 litres) 1 7 0 .2 4 , 1 7 1 . 3 5 , 1 7 4 .1 5 p o ttle verb, nonce w ord see p o t t le (noun) 1 7 1 . 3 7 p o ttle -p o t tw o -q u art po t or tankard 1 7 5 . 1 4 , 2 4 2 .30 p o u n d pen, trap 5 7 .5 (see no te)

547

p r a c tice con sp iracy, trick ery, strata­ gem 17 7 .4 etc. p ræ tor L a tin R o m a n m agistrate 98.36 p r a g m a tic a l, p r a g m a t ic con ceited, m ed dlin g 3 4 .4 2 , 1 12 .4 p r a tin g idle chatter, chatterin g 1 1 8 . 3 , 1 3 1 . 3 7 , 2 8 7 .2 1 p re d ic a tion preaching, serm on 17 2 .2 6 p re sen ce presence-cham ber 14 8 .3 6 , 1 5 0 . 1 6 , 15 0 .2 8 p re sen t ly w ith ou t d elay, im m ed iately, qu ick ly, soon 14 .3 6 etc. p re t en d p ro fess, claim , aspire 19 7 .3 5 , 2 0 1 . 1 4 , 2 5 7 .2 2 , 32 4 .2 0 p ric k in g sp u rrin g, rid in g 49.42 p r iv y p rivate 3 9 .3 8 , 2 0 1 .2 0 , 2 6 8 .27 p ro fessio n faith, vocation 7 . 1 9 , 13 .9 p r o o f shortfo r p r o o f arm ou r, arm our o f tested stren g th 36 2.4 0 p ro p a le d iv u lg e 3 6 .1 p ro p e r fittin g, ap p rop riate, character­ istic, ow n , in d ivid u al, excellen t 26 .30 etc. p ro se ly t e con vert 6 9 .2 5 , 2 2 1 . 1 0 , 2 3 1 .2 2 p ro v e p u t to the test 8 3 . 1 1 , 34 8 .5 p ro v id e d eq u ipp ed (w ith w h at is needed) 18 .7 p ro v id e n c e fo resigh t, w ise m anage­ m ent 4 8 .1 3 , 3 7 4 .3 9 p ro v o st S c o ts m ayo r, c h ie f m ag istrate 1 5 7 . 2 1 , 17 0 .3 9 p ru n e preen 5 6 .34 p u b lic a n tax-g atherer 4 1.4 0 p u rsu a n c e p u rsu it 3 5 .2 7 p u r v e y p ro vid e (w ith) 17 8 .3 6 p y tho n ess w om an h avin g the pow er o f divin ation or sooth sayin g 3 1 0 . 1 9 q u a c k -sa lv e r ‘ qu ack ’ doctor 3 1 0 .3 q u a d ru p lie s see note to 7.9 q uæ stio n a r y a pard on er 2 5 0 .2 4 (seen o te ) ,2 5 1 . 1 1 q u a rre l-p a n e diam on d-shap ed pane o f glass 32 4 .6 q u e an jade, h u ssy 3 4 . 1 3 , 3 6 .5 , 16 5 .3 3 , 2 5 3 .4 q u e e n sm a n see no te to 1 8 1 .3 3 q u e rist in terro gator 8 3.5 q u e stio n less u n q u estion ably 15 0 .7 , 3 7 2 .2 q u h ele w h eel 5.6 q u ic k the liv in g h eart 19 5 .2 5 q u ic k silv e r m ercu ry 3 7 . 2 , 16 2 .6 ,

548

GLO SSARY

2 38 .4 (also see note to 16 2 .6 ) q u o n d a m fo rm er 5 3 .2 0 , 5 4 .18 , 3 17 .18 q u o th said 1 7 3 . 1 0 r a c y o f excellent flavou r 4 8 .14 r a m p rear on the hind legs 38 .7 ra n k o ver-vigo ro u s, abundant 19 5 .2 6 r a p ie r lo n g p o in ted and tw o -edged sw ord 3 9 .3 etc. r a p t carried 3 6 1.2 3 ra s c a lity rabble 14 8 .9 r a t e fix 18 .2 2 r a th e early 2 7 2 .3 9 r a ttle -tr a p nicknack 15 9 .3 4 re a d S c o ts ad vise 10 8 .2 6 r e a d y d irect 3 3 .6 reb e ck early th ree-strin ged fiddle 1 1 3 . 2 8 , 249 .29 reb u k ed p u t to sham e 5 2 .1 7 ; checked 1 1 3 .2 3 re ck care 268.1 r e c la im e d fa lc o n ry tam ed 6 7 .3 3 re c t if y refine b y repeated d istillation 2 5 3 .2 1 re c u sa n t refu sin g to do w h at is de­ sired 16 4 .3 2 re d d S c o ts tid y 2 4 5.4 0 re d d e r one w h o tries to separate com ­ batants 58 .25 red e S c o ts ad vice 1 7 1 . 7 reek sm oke 3 2 2 .2 3 r e fe c tio n m eal, w ith an im p lication o f sp iritual refresh m en t 93.6 re fe c t io n er the person in charge o f su p p lies o f food in a m onastery 12 0 .3 6

refectory dining hall 91.8 reft stolen 144.37,144.43, 172.33; b ereft 17 2 .3 5 r e g a lity see no te to 14 8 .7 re g n a n t reign in g 2 4 3.5 re g u lu s see note to 30 8 .4 re lig io n e r m em ber o f a religio u s o rd er 1 1 3 . 1 5 , 3 2 4 .2 5 re lig io n ist zealot 5 9 .3 5 , 7 0 .1 3 re lig io u s noun those d evo ted to a reli­ giou s life 1 0 9 .15 re liq u e relic 99 .22 etc. ren co u n t er sk irm ish 1 3 7 .3 0 ren d e r su rren d er 2 9 1.9 re n d e zvo u s m eetin g-place 2 7 1 . 1 ; arranged m eetin g 2 79 .3 ren eg ad o renegade 2 2 8 .1 1 ren o u n ce see note to 16 9 .8 r e p u lsiv e cold, in ten ded to repel

1 9 . 2 , 3 2 3 .2 3 resetter S c o ts harbo urer o f crim inals 3 3 8 .1 6 re so u rc e exp ed ien t 3 15 .4 0 r e su m e take back, take again, assum e an ew , recom m ence 18 .7 etc. reto rt verb cast back 3 1 . 2 1 reto rt noun lo ng-necked vessel u sed in d istillation 2 4 5 .30 retre n ch m e n t excisio n , deletion 3.9 , 3.13, 3.32 re v e re n c e bo w or c u rtsey 89.28 etc. R h e n ish R h in e w in e 1 3 2 .3 5 r ib a ld w icked o r licen tious person 2 7 7 .1 2 r ib a ld r y obscenity , scu rrility 10 8 .9 r ib b a n d rib b o n 1 0 5 .2 0 , 2 4 0 .30 , 2 4 2 .3 1 rib b e d , r i b b ’ d see g r o in ’ d 5 9 .2 7, 6 1 .2 rid d le in terp ret 2 1 7 . 1 4 rifle r fa lc o n ry haw k w h ich fails to take p ro p er ho ld o f its p rey 5 7 .3 5 r iv e sp lit, tear 9 4 .7 , 1 7 8 . 1 6 , 2 56 .4 3 ro ch et su rp lice w o rn b y a bishop or abbot 10 6 .2 1 ro ck d ista f f 2 7 . 1 3 , 5 1 . 3 8 , 3 3 3 .8 ro ist e re r n o isy reveller 1 1 6 . 1 9 roke rock 2 5 1 .3 3 R o m a n R o m a n C a tholic 1 1 5 . 1 7 r o m is h derogatory R o m a n C a tholic 69.26 e tc. ro o d m easu re o f land, ap p roxim ately qu arter o f an acre 6 0 . 1 2 , 3 5 3 .3 2 ; cro ss 76 .2 8 r o w e l-h e a d see no te to 15 0 .2 9 ru d e ign o ran t, u n civilised , barbarou s, coarse, bo isterou s 3 9 .1 4 etc. ru ffle verb sw agger 9 5 . 3 3 , 13 6 .3 , 17 0 .2 9 ; do battle 2 4 5 . 1 1 ru ffle noun sk irm ish 1 5 7 .1 9 r u n a g a t e renegade 2 8 3 .3 9 r u n g cu d gel 54.8 sa b le black 1 4 6 . 1 0 , 2 8 7 .2 5 , 3 5 9 .1 7 sa c e rd o t a l p riestly 6 7.9 sa c k S p a n ish w h ite w in e 2 4 2 .4 3 s a c ris t a n official in charge o f sacred vessels, relics, vestm en ts etc. 10 0 .4 , 3 7 2 .4 1 sa d -co lo u re d dark , glo o m y coloured 1 7 5 .4 0 , 2 3 9 .2 2 s a e Scots s o 2 4 5 .1 6 sa in t one o f the e le c t , ap plied b y som e P u r itanical sects to their o w n m em ­ b ers 3 1 6 . 1 4

GLO SSARY sa in t ed sacred , h o ly 6 1 . 1 , 3 1 1 . 1 9 , 3 5 3 .1 6 ; en rolled am on g the saints 9 9 .1 S a liq u e see note to 2 1 7 .8 sa lu t ife ro u s con d u cive to health 2 4 5 .4 3 sa lv e s healin g ointm en ts 15 6 .2 9 sa t ellite atten dant 2 4 5 . 2 1 , 2 5 2 .3 6 sa tu m a lia n see note to 10 5 .3 0 sa ty r dem on o f the d esert 2 6 5 .5 s a u c y insolent, im p ertinent (w ith an im p lication o f liveliness) 2 2 . 1 1 etc. s a w sayin g, p ro verb 2 1 5 . 1 1 , 2 3 1 .2 6 s c a lp skull 200 .26 s c a th ed sco rch ed , blasted 1 3 4 .2 3 s c a u r c li f f 9 1 . 3 1 sch ed u le scro ll o f parch m en t or paper, list 1 7 7 . 1 3 , 17 8 .7 sc h is m a t ic one w ho pro m o tes reli­ gious schism 9 5.28 s c h o o l-c r a ft know ledge tau gh t in the s c h o o ls 2 6 2 .2 7 sch o o lm e n the m ed ieval scholastic w riters 2 3 7 .4 0 sch o o ls the m ed ieval u n ive rsities, the dom ain o f trad itional academ ic dis­ cussion and m ethods 8 3 .3 0 , 2 0 4 .17 , 3 10 .1 sco n n er S c o ts flin ch , be disgu sted 1 8 3 .3 3 sco re see no tes to 8 1 .2 2 and 1 4 7 .1 3 screen head scarf, v eil 13 8 .3 6 etc. sc rip noun sm all bag, w allet 6 6 .2 1, 2 5 1 .2 4 sc rip verb S c o ts sco ff, jeer 3 0 0 .17 sc ru p le unit o f w eight one tw en ty fo u rth o f an oun ce (ju st o ver one gram ) 309 .40 s c u rr il scu rrilo u s 1 1 0 . 3 , 2 0 1 . 1 8 sc u t ch eo n h era ld ry shield on w h ich a coat o f arm s is d isp layed 40 .24 , 1 4 1 . 2 8 , 19 3 .2 9 s é s e a 2 5 1 .30 se a large lake 2 2 5 .4 seco n d su p p o rter 3 5 3 .2 4 se lf-c o m p la c e n t com placent 5 1 .3 2 se lf-d e v o t ed u tte rly d evo ted 7 7 .2 5 se lf-d e v o t io n d evo tion o f o ne’s life to a cause 10 2 .4 0 se n esch al stew ard , one w h o adm inis­ ters a hou sehold 1 9 7 .1 7 etc. seq u estr a t e rem o ve, seclud e 1 7 7 . 1 , 1 7 7 .2 3 , 2 3 2 .2 3 seq u estr a tio n seclusion , retirem ent 2 9 3.2 4

549

S essio n s see note to 1 7 5 .3 4 settle lo n g w ooden ben ch w ith a back 1 4 1 .34 ; place fo r sittin g 2 78 .2 7 se v e ra l in d iv id u ally separate, d iffere n t 2 2 5 .4 0 , 3 3 9 .7 se w e r o fficer su p erin ten din g service at table 2 8 8 .17 sh a m e be asham ed 2 0 0 .19 etc. sh a v e lin g contem ptuous tonsured ecclesiastic 1 7 . 2 9 , 17 0 .3 7 shoon S c o ts shoes 1 3 1 .3 9 sh re w d severe, sharp, bad , dangerous

33.29,148.13,150.1 sh re w ish m alignant 17 3 .2 0 S h ro v e tid e the th ree days before L e n t, b ein g a tim e o f m errim ent 1 2 7 .4 3 s illy w eak, helpless 2 8 1.4 0 s im p le plant em p lo yed fo r m edical pu rp o ses 2 4 5 .33 sith sin ce 3 7 .2 7 , 18 5 .3 sk ee ly S c o ts sk ilfu l, especially o f one po ssessin g sup ern atural ability in c u rin g ailm en ts 246.40 sk ill noun k now ledge, un d erstan ding 1 9 .2 4 etc. sk ill verb m atter, avail 2 6 8 .15 sla sh e d h av in g v e rtical slits to show a lin in g o f con trastin g colour 13 6 .3 4 , 2 39 .2 4 slee vele ss frivo lo u s 2 7 2 .2 1 slip noun leash 2 5 4 . 1 3 , 3 3 7 .2 4 slo p e b rin g in to a slo p in g po sition 2 0 .1 4 slo u ch ed w o rn so that the b rim hangs o ver the face 2 4 4 .3 2 slu ic e let ou t, d rain 299 .20 sm o k e su ffe r 1 3 3 . 1 7 (also see note), 278 .8 sn a t c h e r rob b er 8.26 snese sneeze 2 5 1 .4 5 sn ig g le sn igger 16 9 .9 sn o o d S c o ts ban d or rib b o n fo r the hair w o rn b y y o u n g u nm arried w om en 2 5 6 .15 snottre th S c o ts a n d N E n glish cries, w eeps, bu b b les 2 5 1 .3 3 (see note) s n u f f inhale th rou gh the nose 2 5 3 .2 0 sn u fflin g speak in g th rou gh the nose, sanctim o niou s 296 .43 so a r fa lc o n ry soaring, the heigh t attained in soarin g 1 1 2 . 1 8 , 15 4 .3 6 so la n -g o o se S c o ts gannet 1 3 0 .1 so ld er patch, rep air 15 9 .2 6

5

5

0

GLO SSARY

sooth noun tru th 2 7 .3 2 , 2 30 .30 , 2 3 2 .2 9 sooth adjectiv e tru e 4 8 .3 6 , 3 5 5 .3 2 so u g h see note to 1 3 3 .3 5 S o u th ro n S co ts the E n glish 26 9.38,

351.6 s p a e -w ife S co ts fem ale fo rtune­ teller, w itch 245.9 sp eed assist, cause to prosp er 1 2 6 .1 6 , 3 7 2 .4 , 3 7 2 .5 sp e ll1 u n d erstand, m ake out 3 3 7 .8 , 3 5 1 .2 5 sp ell2 tell 1 6 0 . 1 1 sp ire s coils 1 1 0 . 3 1 sp lit go to pieces 1 1 3 .2 7 sp o il strip , despoil 3 2 5 .1 4 sp rin g ju m p 1 5 0 .33 sp rin g a ld yo u th 3 4 .3 9 , 1 1 7 . 1 7 , 1 5 2 . 1 sq u a b sh ort and stou t 1 0 6 .3 1 sta b death b y stab bin g 8 3.38 sta g e station, position 4 5 .2 5 ; step in the ‘ la d d er’ o f v irtue or honour 2 6 3 .1 1 st a id sober, sedate 13 4 .5 st a m m e l coarse w oollen cloth, dyed red 1 6 4 . 1 3 , 1 6 4 .3 0 , 1 6 4 .3 2 , 1 6 6 .1 1 st a n d noun barrel set on end 1 1 6 .2 7 ; fo r 10 7 .3 0 see note st a n d verb haggle, m ake term s 1 7 3 . 1 7 sta u n c h p u t an end to 2 0 1.3 8 sta v e verb d rive apart w ith a sta f f 1 5 7 .2 2 , 2 4 9 .2 3 (see note) st a v e noun verse ( o f a song) 17 0 .7 st a y arrest 3 2 5 .9 st ea d place 17 6 .3 6 ; fo r 1 1 6 . 1 4 see no te st ern u t a t ion sneezing 2 5 3 .2 0 stic k hesitate, scru ple (at) 3 4 .1 3 , 2 0 1 . 3 6 , 296.42 st ilet sh ort dagger 40.5 stin t restric t 200 .2 st in t ed u nd evelop ed, u ndersized 1 2 7 .1 6 stip e n d ia r y pen sioner 4 7 .10 stom a c h e r ornam ental coverin g fo r the chest 2 4 4 .35 sto op noun, fa lc o n ry the sw oop o f a haw k o nto its p rey 56.38 sto op verb, fa lc o n ry descend to the lure 1 7 3 .4 0 stou p drin k in g-vessel, flagon 1 6 3 .1 4 , 1 6 3 . 1 5 , 2 7 1 . 1 8 , 3 1 7 .2 2 stou t valian t, stro n g 6 .37 e tc. stra ik e norm al pro po rtion o f m alt u sed in b rew in g, a bushel (36 .4

litres) 1 6 1 . 2 1 str a it adjectiv e narrow , d ifficu lt 90 .22 str a it noun difficu lty 3 0 1.4 str a p S c o ts be hanged 15 9 .2 7 stric k e n see no te to 15 5 .3 strik e r see note to 15 8 .4 1 stu f f eq u ip m en t, fu rn itu re 2 3 4 .3 7 etc. s u b lim a t e m ercu ry chloride, a v io len t poison 308.4 su b lu n a r y earth ly , tem poral 1 2 .2 5 su b sist su p p o rt 4 6 .2 3; have existence 19 7 4 su b tr is t nonce m ord som ew hat sad 2 7 1- 3 s u c c o r y -w a t e r, s u c c o r y w a t e r cool­ in g d rin k m ade from the plant suc­ co ry, or ch ico ry 2 9 9 .4 0 , 3 0 1.6 , 3 0 3 .11 su c co u r, s u c c o u r s aid, rein fo rce­ m en ts 7 7 .1 7 , 2 6 3 .2 7 , 3 2 4 .2 1, 354-28 su ffe r a n c e su fferin g 2 06 .30 su rc e a se leave o f f 1 1 0 .7 su re ty secu rity 2 7 3 .3 3 sw a g g e r qu arrel, behave b lu ste rin g ly or in solen tly 8 5 .3 3 , 2 1 2 . 2 6 , 2 7 2 .2 6 , 2 7 2 .2 8 s w a in ru s tic 2 4 0 .1 8 sw a r d the plants w h ich cover the su rface o f the soil, grass 2 5 . 1 , 1 8 4 .1 4 s w a r t black, dark 2 7 9 .9 , 2 9 5 .3 5 sw a sh -b u c k le r boastfu l ru ffian or b ravo 2 4 2 .2 0 , 3 1 8 .4 s w a y verb d iv ert 15 6 .2 2 ; w ield 18 6 .9 S w itze r S w is s 2 4 .3 2 sw o rd e r sw ord sm an , cu t- throat 2 6 4 .3 3 , 336 .6 S y b il pro p h etess, fem ale fo rtu n e­ teller 3 10 .8 s y lp h sp irit inhabitin g the air, a gracefu l and slen der w om an 79 .8 , 3 3 9 .3 6 sy n e S c o ts ago 5 5 .4 (see n o te) sy re n see no te to 2 3 3 .1 4 t a b o r sm all d ru m 1 1 0 . 7 , 1 1 0 . 2 9 , 1 1 3 .2 8 , 1 16 .2 8 (also see note to 1 10 .7 ) t a c e fo r 1 1 6 .2 6 , 15 0 .2 7 see no te to 1 1 6 .2 6 t a ’ en S c o ts taken 1 4 8 .4 2 , 2 4 5 .2 2 t a il see n o te to 24 9 .2 2 t ak e take effec t 1 5 7 . 1 t a le -p y o t te ll-tale 5 1 .4 1

GLO SSARY ta m p e r en ter in to secret dealings 3 1 5 .3 3 t a p e r tap erin g 7 9 .1 2 t a p st er barm an 1 6 3 . 1 2 t a re w eed in fe stin g cornfields 2 6 6 .35 t a r g e t lig h t rou n d shield 13 6 .9 , 36 9 .24 t a st er household officer resp on sible fo r tastin g food in ord er to detect poison 3 0 1.4 0 etc. t e a l-d u c k species o f sm all du ck 8.7 t ell cou n t 6 8 .3 6 , 7 1 . 9 , 3 3 4 .2 3 t e m p e r verb d ilu te 2 14 .6 te m p o ra lity in p lu ra l m aterial posses­ sions o f the clergy 1 4 8 .6 , 2 2 9 .18 ; lay con dition, tem poral ju risd ic tion 2 4 1 .4 1 t en d an ce train, retinue 1 5 6 .1 9 t en d er form al o ffer 2 9 3 .1 1 ten em en t d w ellin g-p lace 2 5 9 .16 t ent treat, tend carefu lly 15 6 .2 8 tercel fa lc o n ry m ale peregrine falcon 3 3 . 1 7 (also see note) t e r m fixed period o f tim e 10 0 .2 3 , 2 0 3 .4 , 2 9 1 . 1 7 t e r m a g a n t vio len t, quarrelsom e w om an 1 7 2 .1 8 testifi c a t e S c o ts la w docum ent in w h ich a fact is attested 3 7 3 .1 2 t esto on see no te to 2 3 8 .2 3 t et e -a -t et e French tête à tête, p rivate con versation 8 9 .19 th ick adjectiv e a n d adverb fast, rapid 3 3 4 . 1 7 , 3 6 2 .19 th ir d s -m a n m ed iator 1 5 7 .2 1 th irl S c o ts b in d tenants, as part o f the term s o f their lease, to have their grain grou n d at a certain m ill 2 4 1.9 t h r i f t in d u stry , m eans o f th riv in g 3 3 8 .1 4 th u m b ik in s thu m bscrew 3 0 8 .17 tilb u ry ligh t open tw o -w h eeled car­ riage 4 .1 7 t illy v a lle y exclam ation fidd lesticks! 10 4 .9 tire head -d ress 294 .20 tir e -w o m a n w om an w h o assists in dressin g, la d y’s m aid 3 0 5 .1 5 titt sm all horse 13 9 .4 3 to ilet t e d ressin g -table 1 9 5 .1 ; cos­ tu m e 2 9 2 .2 9 to lb o o th tow n p riso n 2 4 5 .1 top see no te to 3 0 5 .16 tou c h verb in ju re, w ou nd 15 5 .2 4 , 1 5 8 .2 7 , 2 0 4 .36 ; m en tion 1 3 1 . 1 0 ;

551

con cern 2 1 2 . 1 2 tou c h noun note, sound 1 6 5 .1 5 to w fibre o f flax or hem p 14 9 .2 6 tow e r fa lc o n ry m ou nt u p so as to be able to sw oop dow n on the q u arry 15 0 .2 3 to w n farm , dw ellin g-place, village 5 2 .2 3 etc. (see note to 2 2 7 .1 ) to y am orous spo rt 2 1 0 .3 7 ; trifle 2 4 2 .4 ; am usem ent 2 5 8 .3 7 tr a d u c e speak ill o f 3 2 7 .4 tr a n g a m trin ket 15 9 .3 2 tr a n s la t e transform , transm u te 16 6 .6 tr a n sp ire becom e know n 3 1 6 .4 1 tr a v is e traverse 2 0 2 .1 tre n ch e r plate, p latter 1 6 .2 8 , 16 3 .2 5 , 2 14 .6 tre ssu re h era ld ry narrow band fo llow ­ in g the outline o f a shield 1 4 1 .28 tr ic k dress 4 5 .3 0 tr ip lie s see note to 7.9 tro th tru th 1 6 0 .3 , 2 1 7 . 1 3 ; indeed 5 8 .19 ; good faith 1 8 1 .38 tr o w think, believe 4 3 .3 1 etc. tr o w lin g ro llin g 3 6 .2 1 tru ck le low bed ru n n in g on castors 17 4 .8 tr u c k lin g servile 2 7 0 .2 7 tr u m p e r y trash 48.25 tru n ch eo n clu b 3 3 .2 1 ; sta f f o f office 2 5 0 .2 8 ; fragm en t o f a broken spear 3 6 3 .9 tu m u ltu a r y con fused 1 0 3 .1 0 tu sh exclam ation o f im patience 1 3 8 .4 1 etc. tu ssis L a tin cou gh 2 4 2 .19 tu t e la r actin g as guardian or patron 3 3 6 .3 5 ty rin g -h o u se dressin g room fo r actors 2 5 0 .13 ty th e tax paid to the ch urch 87.36 ty th in g paym en t o f ty thes 1 3 1 .4 2 u n a p p re h e n siv e stu pid 32 8 .2 u n c a n n y S c o ts not safe to tru st to , as h av in g dealings w ith sup ern atural p o w ers 14 7 .3 9 u n d e rt ake com m it o n eself to an en­ terp rise 30 7 .4 u n frie n d S c o ts en em y 17 8 .2 9 u n h e lm d ivest o f a helm et 3 6 5 .3 7 u p -s e ttin g settin g up, raisin g to a p o sition o f po w er 2 3 4 .2 3 u sq u e b a u g h G a elic lite ra lly w ater o f life, w h isk y 5 3 . 3 3 , 5 3 .3 6 , 54 .2 6 , 3 1 7 .2 2

5 52

GLO SSARY

v a n vangu ard 34 4 .7 v a rle t knave, rascal 1 4 . 1 9 , 1 1 6 . 7 , 1 17 .13 v a sq u in e S co ts p etticoat 29 6 .39 v a s s a l one ho ld in g lands fro m a su p er­ io r on con ditions o f hom age and ser­ vice, a hu m ble servan t 15 .8 etc. v e n d isse S c o ts sm all fresh w ater fish fo u nd in the lake o f L o ch m a b en 2 2 6 .30 v e r ju ic e con dim ent m ade fro m the con centrated ju ice o f sou r fru it 16 0 .1 v e sp e rs even so n g 89 .25 v e stm e n ts cloth in g 1 5 . 1 9 v e s tu re garm ent 6 7.7 v ia n d s articles o f food 3 0 3 .1 3 v in -d e -p a is French cou ntr y w in e 1 6 3 .1 4 v ir a g o m an -like w om an, fem ale w ar­ rio r 1 7 2 . 1 8 , 2 5 2 .2 8 v itrio l one o f vario u s sulph ates o f m etals 30 8 .5 v iv r e s v ic tuals, food 16 0 .2 7 v iz a r d m ask 12 8 .2 w a d S c o ts w ou ld 2 4 5 .14 w a in w agon 2 3 4 .3 8 etc. w a k e annual village festival 2 3 9 .18 w a llo p (m ake a) v io len t, jerk y, c lu m sy, n o isy m ovem ent 1 0 7 . 1 2 , 1 1 3 . 2 2 w a n d slen der stick, rod 2 0 .2 4 , 5 3.4 2 , 54.4; sta f f o f office 3 3 .2 7 w a n io n fo r 5 7 .3 4 and 13 9 .3 9 see note to 57.34 w a n ton lecherous 2 5 0 .2 5 w a p S c o ts flap 1 3 3 .4 w a r d verb guard 2 8 1 . 5 , 3 2 4 .1 w a r d noun custod y , confinem ent 2 8 3 .1 6 , 3 0 0 .2 1 , 3 1 5 .4 ; in cision in a k ey corresp on d in g to the rid g es on the in sid e p late o f a lock 3 3 1 .2 2 ; cir­ cu it o f the w alls o f a castle 3 3 5 .3 3 ; w atch, gu ardianship 3 5 9 .2 7 w a rd e n govern or o f a pro vin ce o r dis­ tric t 3 6 8 .3 2 , 3 6 9 .4 2 , 3 7 0 .3 2 w a r d sh ip gu ardianship 3 7 2 .2 4 w a rlo c k w izard 2 1 7 . 1 4 w a r ra n d S c o ts w arrant 3 1 8 . 1 0 w a r ra n t verb p ledge, pro m ise, assure, u n d ertake 5 3 .1 2 etc .; (fo r 1 1 7 . 1 6 see note) w a t e r -fla g yello w flag o r iris 15 4 .3 9 w a u r S c o ts w orse 14 6 .4 2 w e a l w elfare, p ro sp erity , h ap p in ess 7 2 .1 8 etc.

w e a r ad van ce 12 5 .4 w e a sa n d throat 15 0 .2 2 w e e l S c o ts w ell 2 4 5 .16 w e ft the ho istin g o f a flag as a sign al 2 7 1 . 1 9 , 2 7 2 .9 w e ird S c o ts d estin y 17 .2 5 w e lk in sk y 1 1 6 .2 9 w e lted adorned w ith a strip o f m aterial as a b o rd er or hem 14 6 .3 8 w e n d go fo rw ard , jo u rn ey 1 2 3 .3 6 w h a e , w h a S c o ts w h o 2 4 5 . 1 3 , 2 4 5 .16 w h a u p S c o ts cu rlew 16 0 .2 5 w h e n e v e r as soon as 2 6 3 .3 2 , 3 2 8 .4 3 ,

370.37

w h illy S c o ts cheat, cajole 1 3 1 .3 9 w h ilo m som e tim e ago, once 10 6 .4 1 w h in g e r S c o ts sh ort stab b in g sw o rd 4 0 .7 , 1 7 1 .4 3 w h it e arch ery w h ite m ark at the cen tre o f the target 2 5 6 .18 w h it e -b o y p et 1 4 9 .1 1 w ic k e t sm all gate 7 5 .3 0 e tc. w ig h t person 19 .3 3 w in d b lo w (a w in d -in stru m en t) 2 1 . 1 4 etc. w in k con n ive, shu t o n e’s eyes 2 9 .1 4 ,

297.34

w it noun in telligen ce, sense 3 7 .8 etc. w it verb kn o w 2 1 7 .3 8 w it ch e rie s deeds o f w itch craft 2 4 5 .8 w it c h in g b ew itch in g, fascin atin g

93.43

w it c h -w ife w itch 2 4 5 .15 w ith a l w ith 1 3 1 .3 0 etc. w ith d r a w in g -r o o m d raw in g -ro o m

43.35

w ith o u t o u tsid e 6 6 .35 e tc. w o n o t w ill not 14 0 .4 w o n t p a st p a rticip le accu stom ed , u sed 2 5 .4 0 etc. w o n t noun h abit, cu stom 4 4 .1 0 e tc. w o n t verb be in the h abit o f 8 7 .3 3 w o n t ed accu stom ed 3 1 1 . 1 0 , 3 3 7 .2 7 w o t know 2 3 . 3 1 e tc. w r a c k w reck 2 0 1.4 3 w r a n g S c o ts w ro n g 1 1 4 . 1 6 w r a th m ake an gry 2 5 5 .4 1 w r it e decree 9 . 1 0 , 2 9 9 .3 w ro u g h t w orked 2 2 0 .2 8 w r y cross 13 4 .2 ; crooked 3 2 4 .4 w y lie -c o a t S c o ts fro ck -lik e o u ter gar­ m en t o f coarse w o o llen clo th w o rn b y ch ild ren 9.29 y cle p e d called 4 3 .1 8 y e o m a n servan t o r atten d an t in a

GLO SSARY noble hou sehold 1 5 7 .3 1 etc. y e st e r belo n gin g to y e sterd ay 288.40 yo k e pair 12 8 .3 7 y o ld r in g S c o ts yello w -h am m er 13 9 .2 3

5

5

3

y o n S co ts that, that (or those) o ver there 44.40 etc. zo n e gird le, b elt 3 7 5 .6

Edinburgh at the time of TheAbott.