CHAPTER XIV._Samantha in Europe

MEMORIES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

And one excursion I took part in with the greatest delight and one

small satchel--for we wuz to stay one night--wuz to Melrose Abbey and

Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott.

[Illustration: “I could sing to you,” sez he.]

Josiah said he wanted to see Melrose Abbey by moonlight. He said it

would be so romantic, and, sez he, “I wish I could have a guitar. How

stylish and romantic it would be for you and me, Samantha, to visit it

by moonlight, and I could sing to you,” sez he.

But I sez, “A old couple a-viewin’ that seen by moonlight, with thick

blanket shawls on, and heavy overshues--and I should wear ’em, Josiah,”

sez I, “and make you wear ’em, for our rumatizes is bad, and lookin’ up

at the moon through spectacles hain’t what it would be in younger and

less bundled-up days.”

“Throw a blanket onto it!” sez he; “wet a blanket wet as sop, and throw

it onto my plan. I never can git you to foller up any idees of mine

that are stylish and romantic.”

“I’ll foller ’em,” sez I, “but I’ve got to foller ’em with an eye on

azmy and rumatiz. And as for your singin’,” sez I, “it don’t seem as if

I can bear it.” And I shuddered imperceptibly; I thought of the near

past.

But the rubber strings that men’s memories and consciences are strung

on a good deal of the time had sprung back, and he wuz jest as ready

to be sentimental and bust out in song as if he hadn’t been took for a

Banshee.

But we visited the Abbey in broad daylight, which wuz better for our

two healths at our age. We went to the Abbey Hotel, close by the Abbey,

and after a comfortable dinner we went through the little iron gate

that leads into the grand and wonderful ruin.

It must have been a sight, a sight, in its early days. But bein’ built

in the first place in 1136, it hadn’t ort to be expected to be in the

order it would have been if it had been built in 1836, and we’d call

that bein’ pretty old in our young country.

Wall, we walked all round amongst the ruins, and the waves of the past

swashed up aginst me in a powerful manner.

Here, sez I to myself, is the place where the heart of Robert Bruce

is buried. That eager, restless heart that dared so much, and endured

so much. Strange, passing strange that that great heart lays dumb and

mute, and Samantha Allen and her pardner are a-walkin’ over it.

Here is the grave of the wizard that bold Deloraine visited, as I told

Josiah, and he looked down with scornful mean, and sez he--

“He has stopped his wizardin’ now!”

Josiah has no veneration for the occult.

And here lies the Earl of Douglas, and here is the tomb of King

Alexander 2nd.

Hero, king, and wizard, all dust, and through the tall, ruined arches

the blue sky smiles down on all on ’em alike, and sweet Nater drops

on their restin’-places; on grave and monuments the same posies, and

flowers, and long sprays of ivy.

Nater is the true democrat; she treats all alike.

But what richness of carvin’ and design is to be seen on every side;

every ornament that wuz ever carved, it seems to me, wuz here on the

tall pillows and arches. And that east winder--wall, I wake up in

the night now, and think on’t, the perfect wonder and symetry of its

design, and the marvels of its stun sculptur.

But how different folks look at things! Al Faizi, as he looked up and

around him, took in the beauty and majesty of the seen in every pore,

as you may say--you could see that in his liniment.

Alice wuz took up with some of the marvellous statutes and sculpturs

of wreath and blossom. And Adrian wuz a-pickin’ some flowers. It

beat all what a case that child wuz for flowers. And Josiah wuz took

up, I guess, with musin’ on the failure of his romantic idees, as he

sauntered about. But Martin, when he’d been there about an hour, he

come up to me, and sez he--

“Now, having seen everything there is to see here, I think we had

better go. I expect some letters and telegrams,” sez he, “and I’ve seen

sufficient to reply to any inquiries that could be made of me at home.”

Everything we could see! Why, I could have hung right round there for a

week and discovered some new wonder and beauty every hour.

But it wuz compromised in this way: Martin went back to the hotel, and

Josiah and Adrian went with him. And Al Faizi and Alice and I stayed

till night wuz a-drawin’ down her mantilly previous to puttin’ it on.

The soft linin’ on’t of crimson and gold wuz turned over in the west as

we walked back to the little hotel.

Wall, the next mornin’, bright and early, Martin got a carriage, and

we drove three miles to Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott.

By Martin’s advice (that man has good practical idees) we took our

waterproofs and umbrells. And glad enough wuz we that we did; why, in

all our trips almost waterproofs wuz neccessary companions; for short,

quick showers would descend upon us at any time seemin’ly, and then

pass away jest as quick.

Three showers come up that very day, but two on ’em took place when we

wuz inside, and the third jest before we got home at night, so umbrells

and waterproofs saved us from damage.

Wall, we found it wuz a beautiful place, castle and mansion, about half

and half. It stands in well-kep’, handsome grounds and sets down in a

sort of a valley amongst the hills which stands round it, as if proud

on’t and glad to shelter and protect it all they could.

Home of industrious talent, so hard-workin’ and constant as to be as

good if not better than genius.

The mansion and all round it is full of relicks of the past.

The big entrance hall is panelled with dark wood, and all along the

cornice the different Coats of Arms of the Border is painted in rich

colors and shields, on which is this inscription--

“These be the coat armories of the clans and chief men of name wha

keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld tyme for the kynge. True men

were they, in their defence. God them defendyt.”

Here you see battle-axes and breastplates and weepons of all kinds.

Most all on ’em with a tragic history. Here wuz several suits of armor:

one on ’em holdin’ a big sword in its hand, captured at Bosworth’s

Field. Another holds a immense claymore took from the battlefield of

Culloden.

Josiah wuz took up with the looks of that, and he said he wished he

owned one, and, sez he, “how nice it would be if I only had a coat of

armor!

“Why, Samantha,” sez he, “how economical! When a man got one suit, he

never would have to be measured for another suit of clothes--never be

cheated by tailors or pinched by ’em. Cool in the summer,” sez he--“how

cool and good they would feel in dog-days, when broadcloth jest clings

to you; and warm in winter. The cold wind couldn’t blow through them

collars,” sez he, alludin’ to the helmets.

“And then,” sez he, “when your clothes got dirty, jest wet a towel and

clean ’em off--you could do it in half an hour, and then they’d be good

for another twenty years. I wonder,” sez he, “if I could dicker with

the Widder Scott for one of them suits? Scott’ll never wear ’em agin,”

sez he.

[Illustration: “When they got dirty, jest wet a towel and clean ’em

off.”]

But I hastened to set him right, and, sez I, “Scott never wore one of

’em. He knew too much. How do you spoze,” sez I, “you could git round

and do your spring’s work a-luggin’ round a ton of old iron?” Sez I,

“You couldn’t lift one of the legs on’t with both your hands, and how

could you plough with one on ’em on?”

Sez Josiah dreamily--he wuzn’t hearin’ a word I said--

“If I could git it cheaper without that head-piece, I might use our

coal scuttle.” Sez he, “I believe its shape is more stylish. Oh!” sez

he, “what a excitement I would make a-walkin’ into the Jonesville

meetin’-house with the hull thing on! how stylish and uneek it would be!

“Where is the Widder Scott?” sez he; “I’ll tackle her about it.”

Sez I, “She’s with her noble husband in a land where style and folly

have no home.”

And then with deep argument I made him see that a suit of armor was not

suitable for farm work or meetin’-house duties.

But he gin it up reluctant, and at the last he sez--“How it would clank

and rattle as I passed round the contribution plate--how all the other

deacons would open their eyes!”

But I silently led him away to where there wuz a suit of Scott’s

clothes, the last ones he wore.

And I had a very large variety of emotions as I looked on the clothes

that had wropped round the magician who had the power to charm the

hull world with his magic pen. My emotions drownded out the talk of

the guide and the remarks of Martin and Josiah. And on one side of the

fireplace stood the famous mistletoe trunk, as it’s called, that poor

Genevra hid herself in on her weddin’ night. The Baron’s daughter, you

know, the one that her Pa called “The star of that goodly company,”

meanin’, I spoze, that she looked better than any of the rest of the

young folks that he’d invited in to the weddin’. Poor, pretty, young

creeter! I wuz always dretful sorry for her.

You know what she said to Lovell, the young feller she wuz married to

(he worshipped the very ground she walked on).

“I am weary of dancing now, she cried;

Here tarry a moment, I’ll hide, I’ll hide;

And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace

The clue to my secret hiding-place.”

And you probble remember how the crazed young bridegroom, and the old

Baron, and all the rest of the weddin’ guests hunted for the pretty,

young creeter all night and all day, and for weeks and months and

years--all in vain, in vain.

Till at last, when Lovell (poor, broken-hearted creeter!) wuz a old

white-headed man, a old chest wuz found in the castle, and they see, on

liftin’ up the led--

“A skeleton form lay mouldering there

In the bridal robes of the lady fair.

Oh, sad was her fate! In sportive jest

She hid from her lord in the old oak chest;

It closed with a spring, and her bridal bloom

Lay withering there in a living tomb.

Oh, the mistletoe bough!

Oh, the mistletoe bough!”

But I don’t have any idee that it wuz the mistletoe that caused the

trouble. I spoze that it would have been jest the same if it had been

red cedar hung up there, or dog-wood.

It wuz more likely a lack of common sense and lookin’ ahead. Genevra

ort to tried the lock and see how tight the led shet down, and had a

little forethought afore she got into it.

But poor, young creeter! I don’t spoze she thought of anything, only

jest her light-hearted happiness and gayety, and wuz carried away by

the thought of foolin’ Lovell a little and havin’ a good time.

Poor, pretty young thing, how she must have felt when the realizin’

sense come to her that she wuz trapped in a death-trap, and should

never see the light of day agin, and, what wuz worse, should never see

the light of love a-shinin’ in her Lovell’s eyes!

Oh, dear me! I wiped my eyes as this heart-searchin’ thought come to

me--what if it had been my Tirzah Ann. And I couldn’t help thinkin’

that it would be jest like Tirzah to be ketched in that way. Maggie, my

son’s wife, would have looked at the ketch before she let the led down,

and she’d never wrinkled up a long white dress in that contracted place.

But I am indeed a-eppisodin’ and to resoom.

The entrance hall and the rooms leadin’ out of it are jest as Mr. Scott

left ’em, and that made me feel curous as a dog to look round me, and I

meditated and eppisoded to extreme lengths, to myself mostly.

The library is a large and handsome room, lined with books, twenty

thousand in all. And underneath its deep, big winders runs the river

Tweed.

How many times, when he got tired of writin’ down his rushin’ thoughts,

did Walter stand and lean up aginst the winder, and look down into the

rushin’ river!

I leaned up aginst the side of the winder where he had leaned, and on

lookin’ down, I see that the river wuz still a-flowin’ along jest the

same. But the eager, active mind wuz--where?

The dead water, with no soul, rushed and flowed on; the rocks couldn’t

stop it--no, it made a leap downward and flowed on more free and

placider.

And I sez to myself--“Death’s rocky portals is jest the same; after

the leap down into the oncertainty--the darkness, it goes on in the

Certainty and the Light, fuller and freer than ever.”

I didn’t say anything of these thoughts to my pardner. He wuz a-lookin’

round at one thing and another, and not havin’ the deep feelin’s that I

had, as I could see.

But Al Faizi wuz a-lookin’ down into the water or at the beautiful

landscape from another winder. And I’ll bet if I’d atted him about it

his idees would have been congenial to mine and inspirin’. I jedged so

from the looks of his liniment.

But I knew he didn’t care about talkin’ much, so I restrained my tongue.

The rest on ’em wuz a-prowlin’ round and a-lookin’ at

relicks--priceless ones, some on ’em--and I methought to myself volumes

as I looked on ’em.

The clock of Marie Antoinette wuz there--what hours, what hours that

clock ticked off for Marie!

And then there wuz the inkstand of Lord Byron--and what black, gloomy

ink and sometimes kinder nasty, that poor creeter dipped his pen in a

good deal of the time--but lofty and riz up, too, at times, very.

And then there wuz two gold bees took from Napoleon’s carriage--what

bees buzzed and hummed in his ambitious brain as the carriage whirled

him on! Then there wuz a crucifix that belonged to Mary, Queen of

Scots; most probble held clost to her poor, frightened heart as the

pretty creeter walked away to have her head cut off.

A miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, a box from Miss Edgeworth, a

purse made by Joanna Baillie, a little case from Miss Martineau, a

snuff-box of George IV., and lots, and lots, and lots of relicks from

Egypt and Italy and everywhere else. But I d’no as I see any from

Jonesville. But oversights will take place, and _contrarytemps_ will

occur.

Wall, in the armory we see bows, and arrers, and spears, and muskets,

and rifles. A musket that belonged to Rob Roy, a sword gin by Charles

1st to the Marquis of Montrose, a pair of pistols that belonged to the

1st Napoleon, found after the battle of Waterloo. Poor creeter, how he

must have felt! No wonder he lost ’em! James VI. hunting flask, the key

of old Tolbooth prison. And then we see thumb-screws, and a gag for

scoldin’ wives--I looked on that with scorn.

But Josiah jest peered and squinted at it, and walked all round it, and

took out a piece of string out of his pocket and tried to measure it,

and I sez, “What on earth are you a-doin’?”

“Wall,” sez he, “I believe I could make one of ’em after I got home,

with a little of Ury’s help.”

“What do you want of one, Josiah Allen?” sez I coldly.

[Illustration: “I never should think of usin’ it.”]

“Oh, nothin’, nothin’ in the world, only I thought it would be uneek to

own one. I never should think of usin’ it,” sez he, as I looked still

more stonily at him.

“I should think not!” sez I, and my axents wuz about the temperture of

five ice suckles.

But after we’d all turned away and wuz a-lookin’ at other relicks, I

see him furtively apply that string to it, and mark down the dimensions

on’t in his account book.

I d’no what under the sun the man wuz a-thinkin’ on, and I don’t

believe he did.

Wall, we wandered round through the rooms for a long time, I with

memories a-walkin’ tight to my side--what a host of ’em wuz a-follerin’

me of them shadow shapes--

Sweet Ellen Douglas, and Ivanhoe, and Rebecca, Marmion, Rob Roy, Guy

Mannering, Rosamond, Nigel, the Wild Huntsman, Meg Merrilies, etc.,

etc., etc.

Oh, what a crowd of phantoms, and what different lookin’ creeters they

wuz that wuz a-walkin’ up and down that room with me, onbeknown to

Josiah and the rest!

And what curous words they wuz a-pourin’ out into my ears--words that I

only could hear--some on ’em wuz in poetry--

“Charge, Chester, charge--

On, Stanley, on”--

or--

“Oh, mother, mother, what is bliss,

Oh, mother, what is bale--

Without my lover, what is Heaven?

And with him, what were Hell?”

And noble, practical idees, and solemn, historical ones wuz a-soundin’

in my ears. And figgers of noble knights and heroes and fair ladies wuz

by my side, up and down the room they walked with me and in and out.

Some of the picters on the walls of the different rooms wuz dretful

interestin’--dretful. The one on ’em that gin my heart and mind the

deepest shock wuz the head of poor Mary, Queen of Scots, said to have

been took a few hours after her execution. The mournful, noble beauty

of that white, still face gin me feelin’s I couldn’t express, and I

didn’t try to.

It seemed as if the home where her soul had so lately sojourned had a

dignity and peace gin it, a-flowin’ out from the seens that soul wuz

a-beholdin’ after it had cast off the tribulations and persecutions of

earth.

It wuz a dretful interestin’ picter to me.

Then there wuz Charles XII. of Sweden, Charles II. and Cromwell, and

lots of picters by Turner and other great artists.

The house from top to bottom wuz full to over-flowin’ with objects of

interest. I could have stayed there for days and not seen half, but

Time and Martin wuz a-hastenin’.

And we went from there to Dryburgh Abbey, to see the spot where Scott

wuz buried.

We see his tomb and the place where his ancestors are buried. His

son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart, who wrote Scott’s biography, is buried here.

In Dryburgh Abbey we see the winder where the White Maid of Avenal ust

to appear.

But she didn’t appear to us, much as I’d loved to seen her (right there

in broad daylight, with my pardner with me).

The Abbey is said to be hanted, mebby by them who have been imprisoned

and tortured in the dungeons onderneath.

There are holes in the walls where the hands of prisoners were held by

heavy wedges.

It don’t seem right to have a meetin’-house used to torture folks in,

and so I told Josiah.

But he said that he didn’t know about it; he thought once in awhile it

would do good to jest pinch Deacon Garvin’s thumb a little, to make

him do right, or to make Deacon Bobbett come to terms, when he got too

rambunktious to business meetin’s and wanted his own way.

“Yes,” sez I, “or to make Deacon Josiah Allen more willin’ to give to

charitable objects.”

His liniment fell.

“Oh, the Charitable Object has more done for him than I do, they’re

always raisin’ money for him.”

That wuz his favorite mode of puttin’ off from givin’ to charity.

“And,” sez I, “you see from Loyola and Cromwell down to Josiah Allen

the carnal mind wants to punish somebody else for doin’ suthin’

different from what you want ’em to do.”

“Wall,” sez he, “I wonder if Martin hain’t a-goin’ back? I believe it’s

a-goin’ to rain, and you ort to have sunthin’ to eat, Samantha. It

worries me to have you see so much on an empty stumick.”

“Wall,” sez I, for his thoughtfulness touched me, “some dinner would

taste good.”

Sez he, in a low, thrillin’ voice--“Samantha,” and tears wuz almost in

his eyes as he spoke, “imagine I am in the barn door, and the smell

of roast chicken, and baked potatoes, and lemon puddin’, and cream

biscuit floats out, a-wroppin’ you all round, as you are a-standin’ in

the back door a-callin’ me in to dinner. As you stand there a-lookin’

perfectly beautiful,” sez he.

Agin my heart wuz touched, and sez I, “And roses under the winders,

and voyalets, and the blossomin’ trees, and the new-mown grass in

the orchard a-smellin’ sweet as the scent comes in on the warm south

breeze.”

“Yes,” sez he, “and the good, rich coffee, and cream cheese, and honey,

and things.”

“Yes,” sez I, “and after dinner we could set down, and set there as

long as we wanted to.”

“I wouldn’t stir in over three days!” sez he, “not an inch from my good

old rockin’-chair.

“But,” sez he, with a deep sithe, “them days wuz too happy to last.”

“No,” sez I, “Providence permittin’, we will see agin the cliffs of

Jonesville; and home never seemed so sweet as it will when troubles and

toil and foreign travel is all past, and our two barks are moored once