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           THE ABBOT.

BEING THE SEQUEL TO THE MONASTERY.

     By Sir Walter Scott



[Illustration: ROLAND GRAEME AND CATHERINE SETON BEFORE QUEEN MARY.]




INTRODUCTION--(1831.)

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. It is true, the booksellers did not
complain of the sale, because, unless on very felicitous occasions,
or on those which are equally the reverse, literary popularity is not
gained or lost by a single publication. Leisure must be allowed for the
tide both to flow and ebb. But I was conscious that, in my situation,
not to advance was in some Degree to recede, and being naturally
unwilling to think that the principle of decay lay in myself, I was
at least desirous to know of a certainty, whether the degree of
discountenance which I had incurred, was now owing to an ill-managed
story, or an ill-chosen subject.

I was never, I confess, one of those who are willing to suppose the
brains of an author to be a kind of milk, which will not stand above
a single creaming, and who are eternally harping to young authors to
husband their efforts, and to be chary of their reputation, lest it grow
hackneyed in the eyes of men. Perhaps I was, and have always been, the
more indifferent to the degree of estimation in which I might be held
as an author, because I did not put so high a value as many others upon
what is termed literary reputation in the abstract, or at least upon the
species of popularity which had fallen to my share; for though it
were worse than affectation to deny that my vanity was satisfied at my
success in the department in which chance had in some measure enlisted
me, I was, nevertheless, far from thinking that the novelist or
romance-writer stands high in the ranks of literature. But I spare the
reader farther egotism on this subject, as I have expressed my opinion
very fully in the Introductory Epistle to the Fortunes of Nigel, first
edition; and, although it be composed in an imaginary character, it is
as sincere and candid as if it had been written "without my gown and
band."

In a word, when I considered myself as having been unsuccessful in the
Monastery, I was tempted to try whether I could not restore, even at
the risk of totally losing, my so-called reputation, by a new hazard--I
looked round my library, and could not but observe, that, from the time
of Chaucer to that of Byron, the most popular authors had been the
most prolific. Even the aristarch Johnson allowed that the quality
of readiness and profusion had a merit in itself, independent of the
intrinsic value of the composition. Talking of Churchill, I believe,
who had little merit in his prejudiced eyes, he allowed him that of
fertility, with some such qualification as this, "A Crab-apple can bear
but crabs after all; but there is a great difference in favour of that
which bears a large quantity of fruit, however indifferent, and that
which produces only a few."

Looking more attentively at the patriarchs of literature, whose earner
was as long as it was brilliant, I thought I perceived that in the
busy and prolonged course of exertion, there were no doubt occasional
failures, but that still those who were favourites of their age
triumphed over these miscarriages. By the new efforts which they
made, their errors were obliterated, they became identified with the
literature of their country, and after having long received law from the
critics, came in some degree to impose it. And when such a writer was at
length called from the scene, his death first made the public sensible
what a large share he had occupied in their attention. I recollected a
passage in Grimm's Correspondence, that while the unexhausted Voltaire
sent forth tract after tract to the very close of a long life, the first
impression made by each as it appeared, was, that it was inferior to
its predecessors; an opinion adopted from the general idea that the
Patriarch of Ferney must at last find the point from which he was to
decline. But the opinion of the public finally ranked in succession
the last of Voltaire's Essays on the same footing with those which had
formerly charmed the French nation. The inference from this and similar
facts seemed to me to be, that new works were often judged of by the
public, not so much from their own intrinsic merit, as from extrinsic
ideas which readers had previously formed with regard to them, and over
which a writer might hope to triumph by patience and by exertion. There
is risk in the attempt;

   "If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim."

But this is a chance incident to every literary attempt, and by which
men of a sanguine temper are little moved.

I may illustrate what I mean, by the feelings of most men in travelling.
If we have found any stage particularly tedious, or in an especial
degree interesting, particularly short, or much longer than we expected,
our imaginations are so apt to exaggerate the original impression, that,
on repeating the journey, we usually find that we have considerably
over-rated the predominating quality, and the road appears to be duller
or more pleasant, shorter or more tedious, than what we expected, and,
consequently, than what is actually the case. It requires a third or
fourth journey to enable us to form an accurate judgment of its beauty,
its length, or its other attributes.

In the same manner, the public, judging of a new work, which it receives
perhaps with little expectation, if surprised into applause, becomes
very often ecstatic, gives a great deal more approbation than is due,
and elevates the child of its immediate favour to a rank which, as it
affects the author, it is equally difficult to keep, and painful to
lose. If, on this occasion, the author trembles at the height to which
he is raised, and becomes afraid of the shadow of his own renown, he may
indeed retire from the lottery with the prize which he has drawn, but,
in future ages, his honour will be only in proportion to his labours.
If, on the contrary, he rushes again into the lists, he is sure to be
judged with severity proportioned to the former favour of the public. If
he be daunted by a bad reception on this second occasion, he may again
become a stranger to the arena. If, on the contrary, he can keep his
ground, and stand the shuttlecock's fate, of being struck up and down,
he will probably, at length, hold with some certainty the level in
public opinion which he may be found to deserve; and he may perhaps
boast of arresting the general attention, in the same manner as the
Bachelor Samson Carrasco, of fixing the weathercock La Giralda of
Seville for weeks, months, or years, that is, for as long as the wind
shall uniformly blow from one quarter. To this degree of popularity the
author had the hardihood to aspire, while, in order to attain it, he
assumed the daring resolution to keep himself in the view of the public
by frequent appearances before them.

It must be added, that the author's incognito gave him greater courage
to renew his attempts to please the public, and an advantage similar to
that which Jack the Giant-killer received from his coat of darkness.
In sending the Abbot forth so soon after the Monastery, he had used the
well-known practice recommended by Bassanio:--

  "In my school days, when I had lost one shaft,
  I shot another of the self-same flight,
  The self-same way, with more advised watch,
  To find the other forth."

And, to continue the simile, his shafts, like those of the lesser Ajax,
were discharged more readily that the archer was as inaccessible
to criticism, personally speaking, as the Grecian archer under his
brother's sevenfold shield.

Should the reader desire to know upon what principles the Abbot was
expected to amend the fortune of the Monastery, I have first to request
his attention to the Introductory Epistle addressed to the imaginary
Captain Clutterbuck; a mode by which, like his predecessors in this walk
of fiction, the real author makes one of his _dramatis personae_ the
means of communicating his own sentiments to the public, somewhat more
artificially than by a direct address to the readers. A pleasing French
writer of fairy tales, Monsieur Pajon, author of the History of Prince
Soly, has set a diverting example of the same machinery, where he
introduces the presiding Genius of the land of Romance conversing with
one of the personages of the tale.

In this Introductory Epistle, the author communicates, in confidence, to
Captain Clutterbuck, his sense that the White Lady had not met the taste
of the times, and his reason for withdrawing her from the scene. The
author did not deem it equally necessary to be candid respecting another
alteration. The Monastery was designed, at first, to have contained some
supernatural agency, arising out of the fact, that Melrose had been the
place of deposit of the great Robert Bruce's heart. The writer shrunk,
however, from filling up, in this particular, the sketch as it was
originally traced; nor did he venture to resume, in continuation, the
subject which he had left unattempted in the original work. Thus, the
incident of the discovery of the heart, which occupies the greater
part of the Introduction to the Monastery, is a mystery unnecessarily
introduced, and which remains at last very imperfectly explained. In
this particular, I was happy to shroud myself by the example of the
author of "Caleb Williams," who never condescends to inform us of the
actual contents of that Iron Chest which makes such a figure in his
interesting work, and gives the name to Mr. Colman's drama.

The public had some claim to inquire into this matter, but it seemed
indifferent policy in the author to give the explanation. For, whatever
praise may be due to the ingenuity which brings to a general combination
all the loose threads of a narrative, like the knitter at the finishing
of her stocking, I am greatly deceived if in many cases a superior
advantage is not attained, by the air of reality which the deficiency
of explanation attaches to a work written on a different system. In life
itself, many things befall every mortal, of which the individual never
knows the real cause or origin; and were we to point out the most marked
distinction between a real and a fictitious narrative, we would say,
that the former in reference to the remote causes of the events it
relates, is obscure, doubtful, and mysterious; whereas, in the latter
case, it is a part of the author's duty to afford satisfactory details
upon the causes of the separate events he has recorded, and, in a word,
to account for every thing. The reader, like Mungo in the Padlock, will
not be satisfied with hearing what he is not made fully to comprehend.

I omitted, therefore, in the Introduction to the Abbot, any attempt to
explain the previous story, or to apologize for unintelligibility.

Neither would it have been prudent to have endeavoured to proclaim,
in the Introduction to the Abbot, the real spring, by which I hoped
it might attract a greater degree of interest than its immediate
predecessor. A taking title, or the announcement of a popular subject,
is a recipe for success much in favour with booksellers, but which
authors will not always find efficacious. The cause is worth a moment's
examination.

There occur in every country some peculiar historical characters, which
are, like a spell or charm, sovereign to excite curiosity and attract
attention, since every one in the slightest degree interested in the
land which they belong to, has heard much of them, and longs to hear
more. A tale turning on the fortunes of Alfred or Elizabeth in England,
or of Wallace or Bruce in Scotland, is sure by the very announcement
to excite public curiosity to a considerable degree, and ensure the
publisher's being relieved of the greater part of an impression,
even before the contents of the work are known. This is of the last
importance to the bookseller, who is at once, to use a technical phrase,
"brought home," all his outlay being repaid. But it is a different case
with the author, since it cannot be denied that we are apt to feel least
satisfied with the works of which we have been induced, by titles and
laudatory advertisements, to entertain exaggerated expectations.
The intention of the work has been anticipated, and misconceived or
misrepresented, and although the difficulty of executing the work again
reminds us of Hotspur's task of "o'er-walking a current roaring loud,"
yet the adventurer must look for more ridicule if he fails, than
applause if he executes, his undertaking.

Notwithstanding a risk, which should make authors pause ere they adopt
a theme which, exciting general interest and curiosity, is often
the preparative for disappointment, yet it would be an injudicious
regulation which should deter the poet or painter from attempting to
introduce historical portraits, merely from the difficulty of executing
the task in a satisfactory manner. Something must be trusted to the
generous impulse, which often thrusts an artist upon feats of which he
knows the difficulty, while he trusts courage and exertion may afford
the means of surmounting it.

It is especially when he is sensible of losing ground with the public,
that an author may be justified in using with address, such selection of
subject or title as is most likely to procure a rehearing. It was with
these feelings of hope and apprehension, that I venture to awaken, in
a work of fiction, the memory of Queen Mary, so interesting by her
wit, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the mystery which still does, and
probably always will, overhang her history. In doing so, I was aware
that failure would be a conclusive disaster, so that my task was
something like that of an enchanter who raises a spirit over whom he
is uncertain of possessing an effectual control; and I naturally paid
attention to such principles of composition, as I conceived were best
suited to the historical novel.

Enough has been already said to explain the purpose of composing the
Abbot. The historical references are, as usual, explained in the notes.
That which relates to Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, is a
more minute account of that romantic adventure, than is to be found in
the histories of the period.

ABBOTSFORD,

1_st January_, 1831.





INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE.

FROM THE AUTHOR OF "WAVERLEY," TO CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, LATE OF HIS
MAJESTY'S ---- REGIMENT OF INFANTRY.

DEAR CAPTAIN:

I am sorry to observe, by your last favour, that you disapprove of
the numerous retrenchments and alterations which I have been under the
necessity of making on the Manuscript of your friend, the Benedictine,
and I willingly make you the medium of 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 of the liberty of curtailment you have allowed me, some
parts of the story have been huddled up without the necessary details.
But, after all, it is better that the travellers should have to step
over a ditch, 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 of dull explanation. I have struck out, for example, the whole
machinery of 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 alternately the delight and the terror of
our predecessors. In like manner, much is omitted illustrative of
the impulse of enthusiasm in favour of 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 of that of 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 have been
more suitable to the Work, in its present state, than that of THE ABBOT,
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 of 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 THE MONASTERY, which I was unwilling to do,
as the period, and several of the personages, were the same.

After all, my good friend, it is of little consequence what the work
is called, or on what interest it turns, provided it catches the public
attention; for the quality of the wine (could we but insure it) may,
according to the old proverb, render the bush unnecessary, or of little
consequence.

I congratulate you upon your having found it consistent with prudence
to establish your Tilbury, and approve of the colour, and of your
boy's livery, (subdued green and pink.)--As you talk of completing
your descriptive poem on the "Ruins of 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

Yours, &c. &c. &c.

THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY.




THE ABBOT.




Chapter the First.


  _Domum mansit--lanam fecit._
              Ancient Roman Epitaph.

  She keepit close the hous