“The Monastery,” which comes first in historic order, serves merely as a threshold to “The Abbot.” The general plan of the story was to closely associate two characters in that contentious age holding different views of the Reformation, both sincere, and both dedicated to the support of their own separate beliefs. The scene is laid in the valley of the Tweed, in the neighborhood of Melrose Abbey, which enjoyed for many years, even in the midst of border and national warfare, the immunities of peace. In the portrait of Julian Avenal we recall the fierce Laird of Black Ormiston, the friend and confidant of Bothwell, and his associate in Darnley’s murder. The White Lady of Avenal—a sort of astral spirit, neither fairy nor Brownie, but made up of many elements more Persian than Gothic—can only be excused as part and parcel of the superstition of the times; and the portrayal of Sir Percy Shafton is in no way edifying, save as a satire upon that dudish portion of humanity, the excrescence of that school of Euphuists which took its rise with Sir John Lilly in the age of Elizabeth, and blossomed out again but yesterday in the full blown sunflower of modern estheticism. It is remarkable how history repeats itself, not only in noble deeds and high daring, but also in the social expression of dress and language.
In “The Abbot” we find the government of Scotland almost entirely in the hands of the Protestant party; the queen a captive in Lochleven Castle; the regent Murray, half brother of the queen, at once governor and dictator. The monasteries are demolished, in some cases through religious zeal, in other cases as an act of jealousy and policy; the bold spirit of Knox, which dared to raise its voice in behalf of individual rights and conscience, permeates Scotland. The pulpit becomes a powerful engine for affecting the masses. The Catholics look to France and to Spain for help, and the Protestants to Holland. The prophecy is literally fulfilled: “Nation divided against nation, brother against brother;” the outgrowth of that uncompromising religion of Right, which came not to “bring peace, but a sword.”
The first pages of “The Abbott” portray life in the feudal castle of Julian Avenal, a retainer of the Protestant regent. In the strict character of Minister Warden we have a sketch of the preacher of the period, thoroughly in earnest, exceedingly austere, who seldom jested, believing that “life was not lent to us to be expended in idle mirth, which resembles the crackling of thorns under the pot.” We see the ruins of costly shrines and sainted springs, and, in the midst of desolation, hear the eloquent lamentations of mourners pouring out their sorrow like the prophets and poets of old over their lost Jerusalem. We come upon a party of mummers, headed by the “Abbot of Unreason,” desecrating the high altar of St. Mary, turning the ritual of the church into ridicule, emphasizing a custom which was not wholly discouraged at stated intervals by the clergy in their day of power; a custom inherited perhaps from the Roman carnival, tolerated alike by the Greek and Romish churches. We are conveyed to Edinburgh, then as now, the most picturesque city of Europe; we see the intrigues of the court; we witness a melée in the streets between the Leslies and the Seytons, and it is not until we are half through the volume that we are introduced to Queen Mary, the Captive, about whom the whole interest of the story gathers. We see her in an island fortress of the Douglas, confronting with haughty eloquence the stern Melville, Ruthven and Lindsey, sent by the regent to obtain her signature to renounce all right to the throne of Scotland. We hear the plea of both sides distinctly stated, and transcribe a passage which throws light upon the question at issue:
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “I will deal plainly with you. Your reign, from the dismal field of Pinkiecleuch, when you were a babe in the cradle, till now that you stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissensions and foreign wars, that the like is not to be found in our chronicles. The French and English have, with 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 commons. 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 untamable 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 offenses, and setting at defiance those wise laws which your ancestors made for stanching of such cruelty, rebelling against the lawful authority, and bearing yourselves 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 wrecked by your dissensions. Have I not myself been obliged to traverse wilds and mountains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to maintain peace and to put down oppression? Have I not worn harness on my person, and carried pistols in my saddle, fain to lay aside the softness of a woman, and the dignity of a queen, that I might show an example to my followers?”
We see the queen at last, under compulsion, and with hasty indifference, subscribe the roll of parchment; the boat containing the three envoys turns its bow toward Edinburgh, and the square tower of Lochleven holds a desolate heart, and a queen without a throne. The winter months go by, a long monotony, now and then relieved by sharp encounters of wit and sarcasm between Queen Mary and her keeper, the Lady Douglas, proprietress of the castle. We hear among her attendants whisperings of escape from the hated prison; we see George Douglas, moved by her beauty and gracious art, no longer her jailer, but a friend aiding in the attempt; we see in Scott’s graphic description the most minute and accurate account presented in any narrative or history, of the successful adventure after the first failure. We see her in that disastrous battle at Langside, where her followers were driven back by the regent’s forces, and hear the queen’s sad words, more sad because so literally true, as she pronounced them over the dead body of the young Douglas: “Look—look at him well,” said the queen, “thus has it been with all who loved Mary Stuart!—The royalty of Francis, the wit of Chastelar, the power and gallantry of the gay Gordon, the melody of Rizzio, the portly form and youthful grace of Darnley, the bold address and courtly manners of Bothwell—and now the deep-devoted passion of the noble Douglas—naught 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 victims formed a kind thought of me, than the poisoned cup, the ax and block, the dagger, the mine, were ready to punish them for casting away affection on such a wretch as I am!”
Defeated at every point the crownless queen turns for deliverance to Queen Elizabeth. In her great extremity it did not occur to her that she might risk her liberty and perhaps imperil her life by asking the hospitality of England. Ere she took the fatal step her friends and counselors kneeled at her feet and entreated her to go anywhere but there; but their entreaties were in vain; she crossed the Solway, gave herself up to the English deputy warden, and was lodged for the time in Carlisle Castle. Elizabeth, as Scott says in his “Tales of a Grandfather,” had two courses in her power, alike just and lawful; to afford her the succor petitioned for, or the liberty to depart from her dominions as she had entered them, voluntarily. But great as she was upon other occasions of her reign, she acted on the present from mean and envious motives. She saw in the fugitive a princess who possessed a right of succession to the crown of England. She remembered that Mary had been her rival in accomplishments; and certainly she did not forget that she was her superior in youth and beauty. Elizabeth treated her not as a sister and friend in distress, but as an enemy over whom circumstances had given her power. She determined upon reducing her to the condition of a captive. It is a question whether Elizabeth had a right to take cognizance of the charges against Mary. As a matter of fact her guilt was not proven when she demanded her first trial, and Elizabeth so states it over her own signature; but Mary was transported from castle to castle until the ax and the block at Fotheringay concluded the tragedy of her life.
As in “The Abbot,” so in “Kenilworth” the principal personage of the story—Queen Elizabeth—is not introduced until the story is well under way. In fact, we are introduced to the characters in the inverse ratio of their prominence. The curtain rises on a swaggering soldier of fortune in a country inn—a fit accomplice and lackey of Sir Richard Varney, perhaps the most despised villain in the pages of fiction. Anthony Foster comes next, a snivelling hypocrite, willing to coin soul and body for money. The stately Earl of Leicester, and his noble rival, the Earl of Essex, with gorgeous retinue pass along the stage before us; and the palace doors open at last upon Queen Elizabeth and her court. In the meantime we have caught glimpses, through the prison doors, of Anthony Foster’s dilapidated mansion, of the poor deluded Amy Robsart—the wedded but not acknowledged wife of the Earl of Leicester; we note the grief and manhood of her former lover, Tressilian, vainly entreating her to return to her home, where her broken-hearted father sits by his lonely fireside, too wretched and broken in spirit to find relief in tears.
The story of “Amy Robsart,” as here presented, is almost literally true to fact, although Scott has introduced dramatic incidents not found in the history. In the introduction Scott quotes at length the foundation of the story, as given in Ashmole’s “Antiquities of Berkshire:”
“Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, a very goodly personage, and singularly well featured, being a great favorite to Queen Elizabeth, it was thought and commonly reported, that had he been a bachelor or widower, the queen would have made him her husband; to this end to free himself of all obstacles, he commands his wife to repose herself at Anthony Foster’s house; and also prescribed to Sir Richard Varney, that he should first attempt to poison her, and if that did not take effect, then by any other way whatsoever to despatch her. The same accusation has been adopted and circulated by the author of Leicester’s Commonwealth, and alluded to in the Yorkshire Tragedy.”