MELROSE--ABBOTSFORD.
The ride from Edinburgh is through a farming district, and strongly
reminds one of southern New England. As the reader anticipates, we are
to stop at Melrose for two purposes; to visit the ruins of its abbey,
and to make the short tour of five miles to Abbotsford. The town of
Melrose is intensely rural and charming. In 1851 it had a population of
7,487. It has a number of small and comfortable hotels, and carriages
are on hire at reasonable prices. There are avenues for rambling;
and at the border-line is a grand hill, which stretches along the
entire length of the village. The road winds along the hill at a good
elevation, and displays to advantage the valley of the Tweed and the
hills on the opposite side, from three to five miles away. In the level
parts of the great valley the land is under excellent cultivation,
though largely devoted to grazing. The groves, the heavy woodlands, and
the single trees which remain from the primeval forest are arranged
with scrupulous care and a view to the picturesque. It would seem that
one like Scott could not help being inspired by scenes like these. As
one considers beautiful Edinburgh, he gets the impression that _there_
is the more befitting residence for the great romancer; but once in
Melrose, and on the top of these lovely hills, he feels that here Scott
was in his element.
Our first step was to go to a hotel, dine, and determine the proper
course for sight-seeing. Talking the matter over with our hostess we
were advised to join a party of two or three others, take a team, and
go first to Abbotsford, and stop on our way back at the abbey, which
was in fact but a few minutes' walk from the hotel. The advice was
accepted, and we were soon on the way to Abbotsford.
We passed through several streets, and into the suburbs; then, over
pleasant roads, by beautiful farms, the lovely Tweed more or less
of the time in view; and next, through narrow lanes, till we came
in sight of Abbotsford. The place has a low look, for it is on the
slightly elevated part of the meadow, in a northern parish of Melrose.
Sir Walter bought the estate in 1811, being then at the age of forty.
He soon after rebuilt the mansion, enlarging it as his fortunes
permitted. He named it from an adjoining ford, called the Abbot's
Ford, on the River Tweed, which here is a small stream that runs
through the estate. It is quite sluggish in summer, about thirty feet
wide, but greatly swollen by freshets. The house is large, and low in
general appearance. It is built of gray limestone, is very irregular
in castellated outline, with numerous small towers and gables. It is
so low that we can look down upon it from the travelled road. The
estate is approached by a lane from the main road. The garden is walled
in, and the meadow-land outside reaches to the river. The external
walls of the house and garden have built into them relics of ancient
abbeys and carvings from old castles. At the decease of Sir Walter,
Sept. 21, 1832, the building was occupied by James Hope Scott, Esq.;
and his wife, the sole surviving daughter of Sir Walter, lived there
until her death, Oct. 26, 1858. It then went by inheritance to their
daughter, but during her minority it was let for the use of a Roman
Catholic seminary. On the day of our visit we found her in possession;
but during the larger part of the day visitors are admitted to the
principal rooms of the first story.
The business affairs appear to be managed by a matron who, after
taking our shillings, explains, systematically and hurriedly, the
various objects of interest for about half an hour,--all the time she
can afford, and as much perhaps as we should give if standing in her
place. The house is a source of great revenue, for no pleasant day
passes without visitors. In the reception-room we await the return of
the maiden, who is just then guiding another party. They come into the
room wearing an expression that says they _have seen_, if they have
not conquered. They wend their way slowly out of the grounds, up the
narrow lane, to their carriages, and then, though breathing freer, they
continue so absorbed in admiration that they have no energy to expend
in regrets over the shortness of their stay. The experience of one
party is that of all who have brains to comprehend the facts. A visit
to Abbotsford is like a flash of lightning, which, for the moment,
lights up miles of landscape, and then leaves the beholder to mentally
repicture what is still there, but veiled from his view. An experience
like this was ours at Strasburg, where a momentary light from our high
hotel window exhibited the cathedral, the lofty roofs of the houses,
and the storks standing on one leg on the chimney-tops. Brief was our
half-hour at Abbotsford, but it was enough to write the spot indelibly
upon memory's tablets.
But we now follow our guide, and are ushered first into the study.
This is a room not far from twenty feet square and fifteen feet high.
It is finished in oak, and has a heavy wrought ceiling of the same
material. On one side is a coal grate, surrounded by a red marble
mantel, with a lamp upon it, and a small marble obelisk monument. The
grate, fire-screen, and poker remain as they were fifty-one years ago.
At the centre of the room is the mahogany desk at which he sat,--plain
and flat-topped. It has five drawers on each side, with an opening
for the sitter's feet between the rows. The armchair is near it,--a
good-sized comfortable chair, and covered with light-brown leather.
The wall-spaces are filled with books, and a light cast-iron gallery
extends partly around the room. Above this gallery are other reference
books. On the side opposite the chimney, in front of a window, is a
sort of casket, having a plate-glass top. It needs not that the maid
should tell us that here are the last clothes worn by the poet. A well
written paper so states, but the pictures of him have long before given
the information. For their description we appeal to our note-books. At
the left are the shoes,--large, thick, and made of coarse leather. They
are moderately low-cut, much strained by his high instep, well blacked,
and considerably worn. They have no binding or lining, and are tied
with leather strings laced through four or five holes. In the centre is
a well ironed and carefully folded pair of pants, once black and white,
but now yellowish plaid,--the plaids a scant quarter-inch square; and
there is the large waistcoat with alternating brown and white stripes,
perhaps a sixteenth of an inch wide, and running lengthwise. Next there
is a large white and wide-brimmed stove-pipe fur hat, with rather a
short nap. It shows hard usage, for there are a number of dents in it.
Finally, there is a dark-blue frock-coat,--said to have gilt buttons,
but they are folded out of sight.
How pleasing it would be to pass into a reverie in this great presence!
We pass into the splendid and unusual library. The ceiling has oak
mouldings and deep panels, said to be copies from an ancient castle.
The sides are covered with books from floor nearly to ceiling. The
furniture is rich and various, much of it presented by distinguished
men. In a square showcase on a table are exposed for exhibition small
articles that were given to Sir Walter by kings, queens, and other
persons of noble blood. Among them are snuff-boxes,--gold, silver,
ivory, pearl, shell, and papier-maché. The floor is of polished oak,
and without carpets. The library is not far from twenty-five feet wide,
forty-five long, and fifteen feet high.
We next pass into the dining-room, which is about twenty feet wide and
thirty feet long, and is the one in which the great owner breathed
his last. It also has an oak floor, and is without furniture, save a
few chairs for the use of visitors. At one end is a large bay-window,
looking out on the great lawn, extending from the house to the Tweed.
It adds a peculiar interest to know that Sir Walter so loved nature
that, when he saw the great consummation approaching, he desired to be
removed from his chamber to this room, where he might once more gaze
upon this scene and his favorite river, which was flowing away like his
own life. A couch was brought, and placed against the side wall, with
its foot towards the window, and there the silver cord was loosed, the
golden bowl broken, the pitcher shattered at the fountain, the wheel
broken at the cistern, and the poet was no more a mortal.
The temptation is resistless to say a few words about Scott's previous
life. He had become worn down with his attempts to earn enough to meet
the claims made against him, $400,000, in consequence of the failure
of his publisher, Ballantine. At first he left Abbotsford and went
to London to do this work. Becoming a mere wreck of his former self,
he went to the shores of the Mediterranean; but at last, when hope
deferred had made the heart sick, he returned to London, went to a
small hotel, the St. James, at 76 Jermyn Street, and there passed three
melancholy weeks before going to his home on the Tweed. Mr. Lockhart,
who was with him, gives the following graphic account:
When we reached the hotel, he recognized us with many marks of
tenderness, but signified that he was totally exhausted; so no
attempt was made to remove him farther, and he was put to bed
immediately. To his children, all assembled once more about him, he
repeatedly gave his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting
immediate death; but he was never in a condition for conversation,
and sank either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest
effort.
Mr. Ferguson, who was seldom absent from his pillow, says:--
When I first saw Sir Walter, he was lying on the second-floor-back
room of the St. James Hotel in Jermyn Street, in a state of stupor,
from which, however, he would be roused for a moment by being
addressed; and then he recognized those about him, but immediately
relapsed. I think I never saw anything more magnificent than the
symmetry of his colossal bust, as he lay on the pillow with his
chest and neck exposed. During the time he was in Jermyn Street he
was calm but never collected, and in general was either in absolute
stupor or in a waking dream. He never seemed to know where he was,
but imagined himself to be still in the steamboat. The rattling of
carriages and the noises of the street sometimes disturbed this
illusion, and then he fancied himself at the polling of Jedburgh,
where he had been insulted and stoned.... At length his constant
yearnings to return to Abbotsford induced his physicians to consent
to his removal,--a consent which, the moment it was notified to him,
seemed to infuse new vigor into his frame. It was on a calm, clear
afternoon of the 7th of July [1832] that every preparation was made
for his embarkation on board the steamboat. He was placed on a chair
by his faithful servant, Nicholson, half-dressed, and loosely wrapped
in a quilted dressing-gown. He requested Lockhart and myself to wheel
him towards the light of the open window, and we both remarked the
vigorous lustre of his eye. He sat there silently gazing on space
for more than half an hour, apparently wholly occupied with his own
thoughts, and having no distinct perception of where he was, or how
he came there. He suffered himself to be lifted into his carriage,
which was surrounded by a crowd, among whom were many gentlemen on
horseback, who loitered about to gaze on the scene. His children were
deeply affected, and Mrs. Lockhart trembled from head to foot and
wept bitterly. Thus surrounded by those nearest to him, he alone was
unconscious of the cause or the depth of their grief, and while yet
alive seemed to be carried to his grave.
He embarked on the steamer, and after a four days' sail, on the 11th of
July his eye once more brightened as he caught sight of the familiar
waters of the Tweed, and when at length he recognized the towers of
his own Abbotsford, he sprang up in the carriage with delight. He was
carried to his chamber, where he remained till his death on the 21st of
September.
We have no apology to make for this digression, for Scott has given to
Scotland and English literature a new glory.
We now resume our walk over the house, and pass through the museum,
which is some twelve feet wide and forty feet long. Various kinds of
armor prevail, and many interesting things that were presented to the
"Lord of the domain." Fifty-one years are gone since the great poet
was here, but all else remains as it was. We sit down in his study,
as if waiting for him to come; and so real is everything that, should
the sound of his heavy feet be heard in the hall, should he enter
in person, the gulf of years would as by magic be bridged over and
forgotten. He arranged this house only for his home; but he unwittingly
made it a Jerusalem for countless pilgrims.
We passed meditatingly up the lane, mounted the team, and in spite of
the clack of the driver, of hills and dales,--in spite of anything
material,--those unmaterial memories held sway. We had been to
Abbotsford, and its inspiration would evermore be _ours_.
An odor or a sunset was never fully described, though some can tell
the story better than others. A lamp lighted from another does not
reduce the original flame, and so it is with visits to any shrine. A
million may go to Abbotsford, but it loses nothing by these draughts of
pleasure.
Our carriage ride ended, we are at Melrose Abbey. How many times Sir
Walter stood on this spot. His advice was:--
If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight,
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins gray.
This we could not do, but we saw the abbey at the close of a fine
day, as the sun threw its rays aslant in long lines across the grand
ruins. We are met by a young maiden whose father has charge of the
premises. We pay our shilling to enter, and first of all are impressed
with the great _beauty_ of the place. It is a large church, once
belonging to the abbey, the latter having long since been destroyed.
The nave, aisles, and transepts are roofless. Here and there, neatly
piled against the walls, are fallen stones that once were part of the
edifice. The floor is covered with that velvety grass which delights to
take possession of places like this; and it is not to be blamed, for
the grass is emblematic of mortals who would do the same if they could.
The walls are solid and lofty, and a part of the groined ceiling of
the choir remains. The windows are perfect in their stone tracery of
mullions and transoms. Instinctively we look for the great chancel with
its east window,--and adore, and see the force of Scott's description:--
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined.
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,
In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell when work was done
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
In this wall, under this window, was buried the heart of Robert Bruce.
Here are tombs of men too great to have their dust mingle with common
soil. We are delighted with the ivy, climbing at random,--sometimes
very thick and grand in its mantling power. We pass out of the side
door, and are in the burial-ground of two or three acres. Not cared
for by mortals, Nature--in great unison with her possessions and
conscious of her sacred trust--prohibits the intrusion of rambling vine
or unsightly weed. How varied are the views of tower and gable, of
buttress unbroken or in partial ruin! Remove a stone, or repair one,
and you do injury. Here repose the ashes of monk and nun, who centuries
ago entered their free immortality.
The abbey was founded by David I. in 1136, and dedicated to the Virgin
Mary ten years after. It was occupied first by monks of the Cistercian
order, who had come from Yorkshire. In 1322, after a peaceable
occupancy of 176 years, its quiet was disturbed by the invasion of an
army under the authority of Edward II., and the building was greatly
injured. Robert Bruce soon after commenced its rebuilding, after the
present design. It was not favored, however, with long repose, for in
1385 it suffered again; but it was again repaired, and then enjoyed a
rest of 160 years. In 1545 it once more suffered severely from English
invaders. Again repaired, it remained quiet for a time, but during the
Reformation, under Cromwell, its choicest sculptures were mutilated. To
the shame of human nature be it said, in later times many of its stones
have been carried away for the erection of other buildings; but yet,
after full five centuries have flown, it remains one of the few grand
and satisfying examples of Gothic architecture in the world.
We leave the ruins for a ramble over the town. In the business parts
there is neatness and a limited commercial life. Then we go to the
rear, through one of the most romantic roads imaginable, and up the
hillside for the views already described. We had arranged to leave
town that night, but the entire hill seemed to beseech us to "Come up
hither." We halted "between two opinions." One of the hard questions
was to decide whether to go or to stay. Body and spirit were in
antagonism; but remembering a long line of good places ahead, we urged
our unwilling feet to descend this hill of Zion, which yielded "a
thousand sacred sweets." If anything makes travelling companions mute,
it is such a condition. No jokes, no attempts to say smart things, no
more eulogistic talk about fine scenery are in order; the effort is to
try and forget we are losing it. The walk to a station is not a Galop,
but is rather a Dead March in such a mood.
At 5 P. M. we take cars for Newcastle-on-Tyne, and so in a
few hours shall be out of Scotland, for we are on the border. Dundee,
Dunfermline, Aberdeen, are unvisited,--and Dryburgh Abbey, where
Scott's ashes repose, though it is but five miles away. Jedburgh Abbey
also is unseen; but we trust the reader will some day go over this
ground, and then he can really sympathize with our loss.
ENGLAND.