Melrose is a village of rather antique aspect, situated on the slope and
at the bottom of the Eildon Hills, which, from this point of view, appear
like one hill, with a double summit. The village, as I said, has an old
look, though many of the houses have at least been refronted at some
recent date; but others are as ancient, I suppose, as the days when the
Abbey was in its splendor,--a rustic and peasant-like antiquity, however,
low-roofed, and straw-thatched. There is an aged cross of stone in the
centre of the town.
Our first object, of course, was to see the Abbey, which stands just on
the outskirts of the village, and is attainable only by applying at a
neighboring house, the inhabitant of which probably supports himself, and
most comfortably, too, as a showman of the ruin. He unlocked the wooden
gate, and admitted us into what is left of the Abbey, comprising only the
ruins of the church, although the refectory, the dormitories, and the
other parts of the establishment, formerly covered the space now occupied
by a dozen village houses. Melrose Abbey is a very satisfactory ruin,
all carpeted along its nave and transepts with green grass; and there are
some well-grown trees within the walls. We saw the window, now empty,
through which the tints of the painted glass fell on the tombstone of
Michael Scott, and the tombstone itself, broken in three pieces, but with
a cross engraven along its whole length. It must have been the monument
of an old monk or abbot, rather than a wizard. There, too, is still the
"marble stone" on which the monk and warrior sat them down, and which is
supposed to mark the resting-place of Alexander of Scotland. There are
remains, both without and within the Abbey, of most curious and
wonderfully minute old sculpture,--foliage, in places where it is almost
impossible to see them, and where the sculptor could not have supposed
that they would be seen, but which yet are finished faithfully, to the
very veins of each leaf, in stone; and there is a continual variety of
this accurate toil. On the exterior of the edifice there is equal
minuteness of finish, and a great many niches for statues; all of which,
I believe, are now gone, although there are carved faces at some points
and angles. The graveyard around the Abbey is still the only one which
the village has, and is crowded with gravestones, among which I read the
inscription of one erected by Sir Walter Scott to the memory of Thomas
Pardy, one of his servants. Some sable birds--either rooks or jackdaws--
were flitting about the ruins, inside and out.
Mr. Bowman and I talked about revisiting Melrose by moonlight; but,
luckily, there was to be no moon that evening. I do not myself think
that daylight and sunshine make a ruin less effective than twilight or
moonshine. In reference to Scott's description, I think he deplorably
diminishes the impressiveness of the scene by saying that the alternate
buttresses, seen by moonlight, look as if made of ebon and ivory. It
suggests a small and very pretty piece of cabinet-work; not these gray,
rough walls, which Time has gnawed upon for a thousand years, without
eating them away.
Leaving the Abbey, we took a path or a road which led us to the river
Tweed, perhaps a quarter of a mile off; and we crossed it by a
foot-bridge,--a pretty wide stream, a dimpling breadth of transparent
water flowing between low banks, with a margin of pebbles. We then
returned to our inn, and had tea, and passed a quiet evening by the
fireside. This is a good, unpretentious inn; and its visitors' book
indicates that it affords general satisfaction to those who come here.
In the morning we breakfasted on broiled salmon, taken, no doubt, in the
neighboring Tweed. There was a very coarse-looking man at table with us,
who informed us that he owned the best horse anywhere round the Eildon
Hills, and could make the best cast for a salmon, and catch a bigger fish
than anybody,--with other self-laudation of the same kind. The waiter
afterwards told us that he was the son of an Admiral in the neighborhood;
and soon, his horse being brought to the door, we saw him mount and ride
away. He sat on horseback with ease and grace, though I rather suspect,
early as it was, that he was already in his cups. The Scotch seem to me
to get drunk at very unseasonable hours. I have seen more drunken
people here than during all my residence in England, and, generally,
early in the day. Their liquor, so far as I have observed, makes them
good-natured and sociable, imparting a perhaps needed geniality to their
cold natures.
After breakfast we took a drosky, or whatever these fore-and-aft-seated
vehicles are called, and set out for