three miles off. The neighborhood of Melrose, leading to Abbotsford, has
many handsome residences of modern build and very recent date,--suburban
villas, each with its little lawn and garden ground, such as we see in
the vicinity of Liverpool. I noticed, too, one castellated house, of no
great size, but old, and looking as if its tower were built, not for
show, but for actual defence in the old border warfare.
We were not long in reaching Abbotsford. The house, which is more
compact, and of considerably less extent than I anticipated, stands in
full view from the road, and at only a short distance from it, lower down
towards the river. Its aspect disappointed me; but so does everything.
It is but a villa, after all; no castle, nor even a large manor-house,
and very unsatisfactory when you consider it in that light. Indeed, it
impressed me, not as a real house, intended for the home of human
beings,--a house to die in or to be born in,--but as a plaything,--
something in the same category as Horace Walpole's Strawberry Hill. The
present owner seems to have found it insufficient for the actual purposes
of life; for he is adding a wing, which promises to be as extensive as
the original structure.
We rang at the front door (the family being now absent), and were
speedily admitted by a middle-aged or somewhat elderly man,--the butler,
I suppose, or some upper servant,--who at once acceded to our request to
be permitted to see the house. We stepped from the porch immediately
into the entrance-hall; and having the great Hall of Battle Abbey in my
memory, and the ideal of a baronial hall in my mind, I was quite taken
aback at the smallness and narrowness and lowness of this; which,
however, is a very fine one, on its own little scale. In truth, it is
not much more than a vestibule. The ceiling is carved; and every inch of
the walls is covered with claymores, targets, and other weapons and
armor, or old-time curiosities, tastefully arranged, many of which, no
doubt, have a history attached to them,--or had, in Sir Walter's own
mind. Our attendant was a very intelligent person, and pointed out much
that was interesting; but in such a multitudinous variety it was almost
impossible to fix the eye upon any one thing. Probably the apartment
looked smaller than it really was, on account of being so wainscoted and
festooned with curiosities. I remember nothing particularly, unless it
be the coal-grate in the fireplace, which was one formerly used by
Archbishop Sharpe, the prelate whom Balfour of Burley murdered. Either
in this room or the next one, there was a glass case containing the suit
of clothes last worn by Scott,--a short green coat, somewhat worn, with
silvered buttons, a pair of gray tartan trousers, and a white hat. It
was in the hall that we saw these things; for there too, I recollect,
were a good many walking-sticks that had been used by Scott, and the
hatchet with which he was in the habit of lopping branches from his
trees, as he walked among them.
From the hall we passed into the study;--a small room, lined with the
books which Sir Walter, no doubt, was most frequently accustomed to refer
to; and our guide pointed out some volumes of the Moniteur, which he used
while writing the history of Napoleon. Probably these were the driest
and dullest volumes in his whole library. About mid-height of the walls
of the study there is a gallery, with a short flight of steps for the
convenience of getting at the upper books. A study-table occupied the
centre of the room, and at one end of the table stands an easy-chair,
covered with morocco, and with ample space to fling one's self back. The
servant told me that I might sit down in this chair, for that Sir Walter
sat there while writing his romances, "and perhaps," quoth the man,
smiling, "you may catch some inspiration." What a bitter word this would
have been if he had known me to be a romance-writer! "No, I never shall
be inspired to write romances!" I answered, as if such an idea had never
occurred to me. I sat down, however. This study quite satisfied me,
being planned on principles of common-sense, and made to work in, and
without any fantastic adaptation of old forms to modern uses.
Next to the study is the library, an apartment of respectable size, and
containing as many books as it can hold, all protected by wire-work. I
did not observe what or whose works were here; but the attendant showed
us one whole compartment full of volumes having reference to ghosts,
witchcraft, and the supernatural generally. It is remarkable that Scott
should have felt interested in such subjects, being such a worldly and
earthly man as he was; but then, indeed, almost all forms of popular
superstition do clothe the ethereal with earthly attributes, and so make
it grossly perceptible.
The library, like the study, suited me well,--merely the fashion of the
apartment, I mean,--and I doubt not it contains as many curious volumes
as are anywhere to be met with within a similar space. The drawing-room
adjoins it; and here we saw a beautiful ebony cabinet, which was
presented to Sir Walter by George IV.; and some pictures of much
interest,--one of Scott himself at thirty-five, rather portly, with a
heavy face, but shrewd eyes, which seem to observe you closely. There is
a full-length of his eldest son, an officer of dragoons, leaning on his
charger; and a portrait of Lady Scott,--a brunette, with black hair and
eyes, very pretty, warm, vivacious, and un-English in her aspect. I am
not quite sure whether I saw all these pictures in the drawing-room, or
some of them in the dining-room; but the one that struck me most--and
very much indeed--was the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, literally the
head cut off and lying on a dish. It is said to have been painted by an
Italian or French artist, two days after her death. The hair curls or
flows all about it; the face is of a death-like hue, but has an
expression of quiet, after much pain and trouble,--very beautiful, very
sweet and sad; and it affected me strongly with the horror and
strangeness of such a head being severed from its body. Methinks I
should not like to have it always in the room with me. I thought of the
lovely picture of Mary that I had seen at Edinburgh Castle, and reflected
what a symbol it would be,--how expressive of a human being having her
destiny in her own hands,--if that beautiful young Queen were painted as
carrying this dish, containing her own woful head, and perhaps casting a
curious and pitiful glance down upon it, as if it were not her own.
Also, in the drawing-room, there was a plaster cast of Sir Walter's face,
taken after death; the only one in existence, as our guide assured us.
It is not often that one sees a homelier set of features than this; no
elevation, no dignity, whether bestowed by nature or thrown over them by
age or death; sunken cheeks, the bridge of the nose depressed, and the
end turned up; the mouth puckered, and no chin whatever, or hardly any.
The expression was not calm and happy; but rather as if he were in a
perturbed slumber, perhaps nothing short of nightmare. I wonder that the
family allow this cast to be shown,--the last record that there is of
Scott's personal reality, and conveying such a wretched and unworthy idea
of it.
Adjoining the drawing-room is the dining-room, in one corner of which,
between two windows, Scott died. It was now a quarter of a century since
his death; but it seemed to me that we spoke with a sort of hush in our
voices, as if he were still dying here, or had but just departed. I
remember nothing else in this room. The next one is the armory, which is
the smallest of all that we had passed through; but its walls gleam with
the steel blades of swords, and the barrels of pistols, matchlocks,
firelocks, and all manner of deadly weapons, whether European or
Oriental; for there are many trophies here of East Indian warfare. I saw
Rob Roy's gun, rifled and of very large bore; and a beautiful pistol,
formerly Claverhouse's; and the sword of Montrose, given him by King
Charles, the silver hilt of which I grasped. There was also a superb
claymore, in an elaborately wrought silver sheath, made for Sir Walter
Scott, and presented to him by the Highland Society, for his services in
marshalling the clans when George IV. came to Scotland. There were a
thousand other things, which I knew must be most curious, yet did not ask
nor care about them, because so many curiosities drive one crazy, and
fret one's heart to death. On the whole, there is no simple and great
impression left by Abbotsford; and I felt angry and dissatisfied with
myself for not feeling something which I did not and could not feel. But
it is just like going to a museum, if you look into particulars; and one
learns from it, too, that Scott could not have been really a wise man,
nor an earnest one, nor one that grasped the truth of life; he did but
play, and the play grew very sad toward its close. In a certain way,
however, I understand his romances the better for having seen his house;
and his house the better for having read his romances. They throw light
on one another.
We had now gone through all the show-rooms; and the next door admitted us
again into the entrance-hall, where we recorded our names in the
visitors' book. It contains more names of Americans, I should judge,
from casting my eyes back over last year's record, than of all other
people in the world, including Great Britain.
Bidding farewell to Abbotsford, I cannot but confess a sentiment of
remorse for having visited the dwelling-place--as just before I visited
the grave of the mighty minstrel and romancer with so cold a heart and in
so critical a mood,--his dwelling-place and his grave whom I had so
admired and loved, and who had done so much for my happiness when I was
young. But I, and the world generally, now look at him from a different
point of view; and, besides, these visits to the actual haunts of famous
people, though long dead, have the effect of making us sensible, in some
degree, of their human imperfections, as if we actually saw them alive.
I felt this effect, to a certain extent, even with respect to
Shakespeare, when I visited Stratford-on-Avon. As for Scott, I still
cherish him in a warm place, and I do not know that I have any pleasanter
anticipation, as regards books, than that of reading all his novels over
again after we get back to the Wayside.
[This Mr. Hawthorne did, aloud to his family, the year following his
return to America.--ED.]
It was now one or two o'clock, and time for us to take the rail across
the borders. Many a mile behind us, as we rushed onward, we could see
the threefold Eildon Hill, and probably every pant of the engine carried
us over some spot of ground which Scott has made fertile with poetry.
For Scotland--cold, cloudy, barren little bit of earth that it is--owes
all the interest that the world feels in it to him. Few men have done so
much for their country as he. However, having no guide-book, we were
none the wiser for what we saw out of the window of the rail-carriage;
but, now and then, a castle appeared, on a commanding height, visible for
miles round, and seemingly in good repair,--now, in some low and
sheltered spot, the gray walls of an abbey; now, on a little eminence,
the ruin of a border fortress, and near it the modern residence of the
laird, with its trim lawn and shrubbery. We were not long in coming to