Abbot

By Sir Walter Scott


* * * * *

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,