The Monastery

Chapter 2

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

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

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

one exception to the general rule.

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

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

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

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

tenants of the feuar. The site was a beautiful green knoll, which

started up suddenly in the very throat of a wild and narrow glen, and

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

stream, afforded a position of considerable strength.

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

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

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

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

encountered at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock or

precipitous bank on the one side, which altered its course, and caused

it to shoot off in an oblique direction to the other. The hills which

ascend on each side of this glen are very steep, and rise boldly over

the stream, which is thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides

of the glen are impracticable for horse, and are only to be traversed

by means of the sheep-paths which lie along their sides. It would not

be readily supposed that a road so hopeless and so difficult could

lead to any habitation more important than the summer shealing of a

shepherd.

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

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

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

verdant as if it had occupied the scythes of a hundred gardeners once

a-fortnight; and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies and

wild flowers, which the scythes would certainly have destroyed. The

little brook, now confined betwixt closer limits, now left at large to

choose its course through the narrow valley, danced carelessly on from

stream to pool, light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits

who pass their way through life, yielding to insurmountable obstacles,

but as far from being subdued by them as the sailor who meets by

chance with an unfavourable wind, and shapes his course so as to be

driven back as little as possible.

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

_Scottice_ the steep _braes_, rose abruptly over the little

glen, here presenting the gray face of a rock, from which the turf had

been peeled by the torrents, and there displaying patches of wood and

copse, which had escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep of the

feuars, and which, feathering naturally up the beds of empty torrents,

or occupying the concave recesses of the bank, gave at once beauty and

variety to the landscape. Above these scattered woods rose the hill,

in barren, but purple majesty; the dark rich hue, particularly in

autumn, contrasting beautifully with the thickets of oak and birch,

the mountain ashes and thorns, the alders and quivering aspens, which

checquered and varied the descent, and not less with the dark-green

and velvet turf, which composed the level part of the narrow glen.

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

termed sublime nor beautiful, and scarcely even picturesque or

striking. But its extreme solitude pressed on the heart; the traveller

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

was to terminate, which, at times, strikes more on the imagination

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

distance of the inn where your dinner is bespoke, and at the moment

preparing. These are ideas, however, of a far later age; for at the

time we treat of, the picturesque, the beautiful, the sublime, and all

their intermediate shades, were ideas absolutely unknown to the

inhabitants and occasional visitors of Glendearg.

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

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

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

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

colour of the rocks, and of the precipitous earthen banks, which in

that country are called _scaurs_. Another glen, about the head of

Ettrick, has acquired the same name from similar circumstances; and

there are probably more in Scotland to which it has been given.

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

that it might not be absolutely destitute of inhabitants, had peopled

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

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

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

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

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

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

times capriciously benevolent, were more frequently adverse to

mortals, were also supposed to have formed a residence in a

particularly wild recess of the glen, of which the real name was, in

allusion to that circumstance, _Corrie nan Shian_, which, in

corrupted Celtic, signifies the Hollow of the Fairies. But the

neighbours were more cautious in speaking about this place, and

avoided giving it a name, from an idea common then throughout all the

British and Celtic provinces of Scotland, and still retained in many

places, that to speak either good or ill of this capricious race of

imaginary beings, is to provoke their resentment, and that secrecy and

silence is what they chiefly desire from those who may intrude upon

their revels, or discover their haunts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

these successive cataracts, lay a wild and extensive morass,

frequented only by waterfowl, wide, waste, apparently almost

interminable, and serving in a great measure to separate the

inhabitants of the glen from those who lived to the northward.

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

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

down the glen--called at this tower--asked and received

hospitality--but still with a sort of reserve on the part of its more

peaceful inhabitants, who entertained them as a party of

North-American Indians might be received by a new European settler, as

much out of fear as hospitality, while the uppermost wish of the

landlord is the speedy departure of the savage guests.

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

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

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

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

evenings, the feats of the family to which he belonged, one of whom

fell by the side of the brave Earl of Douglas at Otterbourne. On these

occasions Simon usually held upon his knee an ancient broadsword,

which had belonged to his ancestors before any of the family had

consented to accept a fief under the peaceful dominion of the monks of

St. Mary's. In modern days, Simon might have lived at ease on his own

estate, and quietly murmured against the fate that had doomed him to

dwell there, and cut off his access to martial renown. But so many

opportunities, nay so many calls there were for him, who in those days

spoke big, to make good his words by his actions, that Simon

Glendinning was soon under the necessity of marching with the men of

the Halidome, as it was called, of St. Mary's, in that disastrous

campaign which was concluded by the battle of Pinkie.

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that national quarrel,

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

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

called out their vassals, under an experienced leader. Many of

themselves had taken arms, and marched to the field, under a banner

representing a female, supposed to personify the Scottish Church,

kneeling in the attitude of prayer, with the legend, _Afflictae

Sponsae ne obliviscaris_. [Footnote: Forget not the afflicted

spouse.]

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

cautious generals, than for excitation, whether political or

enthusiastic. Their headlong and impatient courage uniformly induced

them to rush into action without duly weighing either their own

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

was frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of Pinkie we have

nothing to do, excepting that, among ten thousand men of low and high

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

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

his descent.

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

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

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

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

agricultural labour, and the helpless widows and families of those who

had fallen with their master. The feeling of desolation was

universal;--but what availed it? The monks, their patrons and

protectors, were driven from their Abbey by the English forces, who

now overran the country, and enforced at least an appearance of

submission on the part of the inhabitants. The Protector, Somerset,

formed a strong camp among the ruins of the ancient Castle of

Roxburgh, and compelled the neighbouring country to come in, pay

tribute, and take assurance from him, as the phrase then went. Indeed,

there was no power of resistance remaining; and the few barons, whose

high spirit disdained even the appearance of surrender, could only

retreat into the wildest fastnesses of the country, leaving their

houses and property to the wrath of the English, who detached parties

everywhere to distress, by military exaction, those whose chiefs had

not made their submission. The Abbot and his community having

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

their sentiments were held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with

England.

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

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

of the blunt and unpretending gallantry and generosity which has so

often distinguished that nation. Resistance was in vain. Elspeth

Brydone, when she descried a dozen of horsemen threading their way up

the glen, with a man at their head, whose scarlet cloak, bright

armour, and dancing plume, proclaimed him a leader, saw no better

protection for herself than to issue from the iron grate, covered with

a long mourning veil, and holding one of her two sons in each hand, to

meet the Englishman--state her deserted condition--place the little

tower at his command--and beg for his mercy. She stated, in a few

brief words, her intention, and added, "I submit, because I have nae

means of resistance."

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

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

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

them."

"At least, sir," said Elspeth Brydone, "take share of what our spence

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

refreshment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

bonnet."

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

with many a _fye_ and _nay pshaw_, and such sarsenet

chidings as tender mothers give to spoiled children, at length

succeeded in snatching the bonnet from him, and handing it to the

English leader.

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

and putting it into the loop of the boy's bonnet, said to the

mistress, (for the title of lady was not given to dames of her

degree,) "By this token, which all my people will respect, you will be

freed from any importunity on the part of our forayers." [Footnote: As

gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of thinking and

acting, so it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the civil

war 1745-6, a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to

Rose Castle, the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by

the family of Squire Dacre of Cumberland. They demanded quarters,

which of course were not to be refused to armed men of a strange

attire and unknown language. But the domestic represented to the

captain of the mountaineers, that the lady of the mansion had been

just delivered of a daughter, and expressed her hope, that, under

these circumstances, his party would give as little trouble as

possible. "God forbid," said the gallant chief, "that I or mine should

be the means of adding to a lady's inconvenience at such a time. May I

request to see the infant?" The child was brought, and the Highlander,

taking his cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning it on the child's

breast, "That will be a token," he said, "to any of our people who may

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

family of Rose Castle under his protection." The lady who received in

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

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

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

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

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

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

interfere, skimmed it into the brook. The other boy ran instantly to

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

cross, which, with great veneration, he kissed and put into his bosom.

The Englishman was half diverted, half surprised, with the scene.

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

the elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest and earnest.

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

"Good"--said Stawarth Bolton.--"And what did you mean by taking it out

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

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

good Christians."

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

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

Stawarth Bolton had reason to put the question, for Halbert

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

plumage, black eyes, large, bold, and sparkling, that glittered under

eyebrows of the same complexion; a skin deep embrowned, though it

could not be termed swarthy, and an air of activity, frankness, and

determination, far beyond his age. On the other hand, Edward, the

younger brother, was light-haired, blue-eyed, and of fairer

complexion, in countenance rather pale, and not exhibiting that rosy

hue which colours the sanguine cheek of robust health. Yet the boy had

nothing sickly or ill-conditioned in his look, but was, on the

contrary, a fair and handsome child, with a smiling face, and mild,

yet cheerful eye.

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

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

both my children."

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

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

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

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

borrow one, for Dame Bolton and I live childless in our old

hall.--Come, little fellows, which of you will go with me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fine white-head, will you not go with me, to ride a c**k-horse?"

"No," said Edward, demurely, "for you are a heretic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and steady; feed him on what you will, but give him not over much

liquor."

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but with a faltering

voice, and an obvious desire her invitation should not be accepted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

service, had any violence been intended, and saw with joy she could

not disguise, the little party of horse countermarch, in order to

descend the glen. Her feelings did not escape Bolton: "I forgive you,

dame," he said, "for being suspicious that an English falcon was

hovering over your Scottish moor-brood. But fear not--those who have

fewest children have fewest cares; nor does a wise man covet those of

another household. Adieu, dame; when the black-eyed rogue is able to

drive a foray from England, teach him to spare women and children, for

the sake of Stawarth Bolton."

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

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

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

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

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

Southern."

"Mother," said the younger, more reverentially, "is it right to pray

for a heretic?"

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

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

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

and, whether blessing or banning, I never wish to hear them

more.--Follow me to the Place, sir," she said to Brittson, "and such

as we have to offer you shall be at your disposal."