The Abbot

Chapter 13

Roland Graeme 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 sternness 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 only human affection 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 grandson--a

fondness carried almost to the verge of dotage, in circumstances 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 discourse by

the way, excepting on 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 of raising up

the fallen honours of the Church, and replacing a Catholic sovereign

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; [Footnote: A fanatic nun, called the Holy Maid

of Kent, who pretended to the gift of prophecy and power of miracles.

Having denounced the doom of speedy death against Henry VIII. for his

marriage with Anne Boleyn, the prophetess was attainted in Parliament,

and executed with her accomplices. Her imposture was for a time so

successful, that even Sir Thomas More was disposed to be a believer.]

or whether she dwelt upon the general duty which was incumbent on all

Catholics of the time, and the pressure of which she felt in an

extraordinary degree.

Yet though Magdalen Graeme gave no direct intimation of her

pretensions to be considered as something beyond the ordinary class of

mortals, the demeanour of one or two persons amongst the travellers

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 cattle--one or two village wenches, who seemed bound

for some merry-making--a strolling soldier, in a rusted morion, and a

wandering student, as his threadbare black cloak and his satchel of

books proclaimed him--passed our travellers without observation, or

with a look of 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 mass-monger!" But

one or two, who nourished 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 schismatics,

spoilers of the church's lands, and scoffers at saints and sacraments,

there is left a remnant."

"It is true, my mother," said Roland Graeme; "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 of

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 from the

shrine of Saint Ringan, whither he now travels by my counsel, and by

the aid of good Catholics,--when he returns, healed, of 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 St. 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 showed the

inclination."

"And has this land deserved it?" said the Catholic matron, advancing

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 of that ancient monastery, the light

of the land, the abode of Saints, and the grave of monarchs--Where is

now that emblem of our faith? It lies 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

battlements, 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

miracles but those of 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

of 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 torn up and destroyed. A

half-hour's walk placed them in front of the once 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 Monastery, 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 mutilated statue, inverted or laid on its side, made the

door-post, 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 devastation had stopped short at this point, could we have

considered the preservation of these 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 Graeme 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 eastern

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 of 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 Graeme followed accordingly; and Magdalen, casting a hasty

glance to see whether they were observed, (for she had learned caution

from the danger of 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 of 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 of those who stood

without; but endeavouring at the same time to gain a sight of them

without being himself seen. How different from the proud consciousness

of dignity 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, mei filii,_" was exchanged for

a tremulous "You cannot enter now--the brethren are in their

chambers." But, when Magdalen Graeme asked, in an under tone of voice,

"Hast thou forgotten me, my brother?" 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 of an Abbott.--Ah, Benedicite!

there must be no ringing of 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 robbers

who choose a leader, than godly priests who elect a mitred Abbot."

"Regard not that, my brother," answered Magdalen Graeme; "the first

successors of Saint Peter himself were elected, not in sunshine, but

in tempests--not in the halls of the Vatican, but in the subterranean

vaults and dungeons of heathen Rome--they were not gratulated with

shouts and salvos of cannon-shot and of musketry, and the display of

artificial fire--no, my brother--but by the hoarse summons of 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 of tribulation. On whom, my brother, will the choice

fall?"

"On whom can it fall--or, alas! who would dare to reply to the call,

save the worthy pupil of the Sainted Eustatius--the good and valiant

Father Ambrose?"

"I know it," said Magdalen; "my heart told 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 battle, brave raiser of the fallen

standard!--Wield crook and slang, noble shepherd of 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 of 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 among relics, 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 recumbent,

or kneeled in an attitude of devotion, where their mortal relics 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

stations.

The most fatal symptom of the whole appeared to be, that, though this

violence had now been committed for many months, the Fathers had lost

so totally all heart and resolution, that they had not adventured 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 this ancient seat

by connivance and from compassion, they did not venture upon taking

any step which might be construed into an assertion 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 pressure of

the times, and the ruins had been partly cleared away to permit their

interment. One stone had been laid over Father Nicholas, which

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 _Hic jacet Eustatius

Abbas_; for no one dared to add a word of commendation in favour of

his learning, and strenuous zeal for the Roman Catholic faith.

Magdalen Graeme looked at and perused the brief records of 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, of 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 crosier, his hoary standard-bearers

and his juvenile dispensers of incense preceding 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

appearance was a signal for the magnificent _jubilate_ to rise

from the organ and music-loft, and to be joined by the corresponding

bursts of 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 choosing a chief in the wilderness of Arabia; or

a shipwrecked 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, when

neither ease nor parade attend the possession of 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

generosity, 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 Kennaqubair, whose designs

must be condemned, as their success would have riveted on Scotland the

chains of antiquated superstition and spiritual tyranny; but whose

talents 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 ceremonial

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 ruin 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 circumstances

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 to which he had devoted himself.

At length he stood on the broken steps of the high altar, barefooted,

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 of 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

spiritual homage. Mass was then hastily performed, but in such

precipitation 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 faltered 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 to that which, short as it was, they

wished yet more abridged.[Footnote: In Catholic countries, in order to

reconcile the pleasures of the great with the observances of religion,

it was common, when a party was bent for the chase, to celebrate mass,

abridged and maimed of its rites, called a hunting-mass, the brevity

of which was designed to correspond with the impatience of the

audience.]

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 concert; 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 of those of children,

mingling with the deeper clamour 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

interruption will be explained in the next chapter.