(_From the Note Book of a Tourist_.)
In the summer of 1829, I made a Tour of the Borders. On the 16th of
August, I arrived in Melrose. I came on the top of the coach from
Jedburgh, in company with two intelligent fellows, a young Englishman of
fortune (apparently,) and a Russian nobleman. We put up at the George,
where we found about five tourists, redolent of sketch and note books,
drinking toddy and lying in wait to catch a sight of the lion of the
neighbourhood, Sir Walter. The voracity with which they devoured any
anecdotes of him was amusing. In the evening it came on a peppering
storm. I had foreseen this on our route from _Jeddart_. The Eildons
had mounted their misty cap, always a sure prognostic of rain; in fact
they are the barometer of the district. I then prevailed on my two
companions to forego their visit to the Abbey that night. We therefore
had in old Davidson, the landlord of the Inn, and my companions
submitted him to an interrogatory of three long hours' duration.
One little anecdote of fresh occurrence struck me as possessing some
interest. I will record it. About a month before, a poor maniac
presented herself at the gates of Abbotsford. She desired to see Sir
Walter. The servant denied her admittance, but such was the earnestness
of the poor creature, that _auld Saunders_, on her pressing
application, went and informed his master, "that a puir demented lassie
was at the gett (gate) greetin' like a bairn." Sir Walter had the
kindest of hearts; "O admit her puir thing," he said. The woman no
sooner entered than she fell on her knees in reverential awe before Sir
Walter. Her story was simply this. She belonged to Aberdeen; she was
married to a young farmer in that neighbourhood and had not long before
given birth to a beautiful infant, the first pledge of their loves.
The pains of birth had injured her mental equanimity, and eluding the
vigilance of her keepers she set forward one evening in search of the
great enchanter, whose works had in happier hours beguiled her with
their beauty. She travelled for a week; the distance from Aberdeen to
Abbotsford was about a hundred and fifty miles. She had walked every
step. Sir Walter did what he could to soothe her distracted mind,
and get her wasted frame recruited. But after some time he deemed it
advisable to exercise his judicial power and put her in a place of
security, until definite intelligence could be procured of her friends
and relations. Jedburgh is the county town of Roxburgh; and thither all
wanderers of this and a less gentle race are sent. A post-chaise was
sent for from old Davidson, of the George, and when it was at the door
of Abbotsford, Sir Walter induced the poor girl to enter it, promising
to accompany her "out a ridin'." She entered--looking for him to follow.
The door was instantly closed, and the post-boy lashing and spurring his
horses, darted off in a second. She gave a piercing shriek, looked
wildly round her, and abandoned herself to the most agonizing despair;
exclaiming in a tone of the utmost pathos, "ah! deceitfu' man, hae ye
beguiled me too!"--and then she sunk back in the carriage, and buried
herself in the deepest silence. * *
18th August. Set out to view the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey. Called
on Capt. (now Sir David) Erskine, from whom I received the politest
attention. His housekeeper acted as my cicerone, and conducted me over
the venerable pile. These time-worn ruins stand on the north bank of
the Tweed, by which they are almost surrounded, and are backed by hills
covered with wood, of the richest foliage. The abbey as well as the
modern mansion house of the proprietor, is completely embosomed in wood.
Around this sylvan spot the Tweed winds in a beautiful crescent form,
and the scene is extremely interesting, embracing both wood and water,
mountain and rock scenery. The whole gives rise to sentiments of the
most pleasing, devotional tranquillity. The place, however, at which I
paused, was St. Mary's Aisle: "here," I said to myself, "will the mighty
minstrel sleep, when his harp shall be silent!"--and here I offered the
votive tribute in anticipation, which thousands will follow me in, now
that he is, too truly, alas! no more. At the little iron palisading I
stood, and said, "here Scott will sleep:" in this, fate has not deceived
me. He rests there now. Peace to his manes!
August 20. Down at the Abbey this night. It would be absolute folly
to note down what I saw or thought of this most remarkable monastic
structure. Every album possesses it, in all the beauty of its fairy
architecture; its tabernacles, its niches and canopies, and statues,
pinnacles, pediments, spires, and the tracery of its vaultings.
The decorated work is most exquisitely executed. The mouldings are
still so sharp, that they seem as lately from the chisel of the mason.
The south transept window and door are the most perfect of the ruins.
The day light of the window is twenty-four feet by sixteen, divided by
four mullions. The tracery and cuspings are all of the decorated style
of the Gothic. It is furnished with crotchets and creeping foliage.
There are a number of niches, canopies, and tabernacles, on the south
transept; and the corbels that support the statues, are carved with
grotesque figures; some representing monks with cowls upon their heads,
others musicians playing upon different kinds of instruments; some are
most hideous to look at. Sir Walter procured casts of many of these
grotesque figures, which on a visit to Abbotsford, I observed placed in
the ceiling of the hall. He has clothed them in a new dress, more suited
to the social scene of their present locality. But, I always ramble
into the _shop_, when I get on architecture. Let me narrate the
occurrence of this night. As I was pacing the great aisle of the abbey,
a carriage drove up to the gate. "Sir Walter Scott!" said the keeper,
brushing past me to receive him. A lady alighted. I heard "good night!"
responded by a person in the carriage, who drove off with it. Who can
this be, thought I to myself. It was dusk--the lady advanced with a
stately step. I moved aside. "In these deep solitudes and awful cells!"
methought I heard her say. She ascended to the bell-tower. "Who is that
lady?" said I to the keeper when he entered. "That, sir," said he,
"is Mistress Hemmins, the poet writer, wha is on a visit to Maistre
Lockhart, and she cam just noo in Sir Walter's carriage, and she wants
to be alane, sir, by hersel." I took the hint, and made for the George
and my glass of toddy, unwilling to deprive the world of those lays,
which Melrose, the rush of the Tweed, and midnight would, no doubt,
inspire in the fair authoress.
August 23. At Galashiels, a semi-rural demi-manufacturing town on the
banks of the "braw, braw Gala water." Not having the good fortune to get
to Abbotsford from Melrose, I started over the hill which looks down on
Galashiels, towards that destination. Abbotsford I need not render an
account of. But my approach to it was not deficient in interest.
On arriving at the summit of the hill overlooking the Tweed, it burst
upon my sight. I looked down on the grounds in which it is settled, as
on a map. The skill and industry of Sir Walter is not more remarkable in
his literary than in his rural works. The house stands in a bare, barren
corner of Selkirkshire, (I think) but by admirable management, he has
enclosed it with fine, hardy young wood, and quite altered its
appearance.
At the bottom of the hill I took the boat at the ferry, and resting in
the middle of the stream, the Tweed, and looked around me. I saw a
person on the opposite bank appearing and disappearing in the wood which
comes down to the water's edge. I drew near. He was dressed in a short,
green coat and cap, and was amusing himself with the antics of a large
dog. The place--the time--the air--the gait--every thing conspired:
"Who's that, lassie?" said I to my little boat rower; "That, sir? that's
_himsel_, that's the shirra" (sheriff.) Yes, it was the man--he
himself--the pride of Scotland--her boast--the intellectual beacon of
her hills--it was Sir Walter Scott!
Sept. 3. At Selkirk. At Mitchell's Inn, where I was introduced to the
celebrated Jamie Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He had come, I think, from
a fair held at the Eildons. We got over a jug of toddy. Our conversation
turned on the church service of the kirk of Scotland, and we rambled
into poetry in conversing on the psalms. I pointed out to the shepherd,
that a fair fame might be achieved by arranging the Psalms of David, and
superseding the barbarities of Sternhold and Hopkins. James maintained
that the present edition in use in Scotland, could _not_ be
improved. He said that the question had been agitated in the General
Assembly, and Sir Walter Scott was applied to, to furnish an improved
versification, but he answered, stating that it would be a more
difficult matter to get the people to adopt them, than to furnish the
same. Any alteration in this respect would be looked upon as little
better than sacrilege, and he therefore advised that the present form
should be continued in. "Watty's a sensible chap," said the shepherd,
speaking familiarly of Sir Walter, "and if he laid a finger on o'or
venerable psalmody, I wad pitch a louse at him, wha hae ever loved the
man as my ain brether."
* * * * *
During the last years of Sir Walter's life, he visited in the counties
of Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk, the various scenes which his graphic
pen has delineated and incorporated in his minstrelsy and romance. The
summer when the preceding notes were made, I happened to be in Kelso,
and took ride one day to visit the worthy minister of a neighbouring
parish, in which the celebrated border _keep_ Smailholme tower is
situated, the scene of the fearful legend embodied in the poem "The Eve
of St. John."
We rode over to it: it is situated on a crag or ridge of rock, high
in the north range of hills, the Lammer-muir, which spring from the
splendid vale of Teviot and Tweed, commanding an unbounded prospect
on the east and west; the south is terminated by the Cheviots and
the English border.
We found the Tower in possession of a party, and the Rev. Mr. C---- rode
forward to report, in case we should be deemed intruders. He came back
shortly, and it was no other than Sir Walter himself, with several
members of his family, who had accompanied him to bid a final farewell
to _Smaillum keep_. As I afterwards heard, he was in the highest
spirits, and repeated the poem for the gratification of his party, in
that impressive manner for which he was remarkable, in giving the
necessary effect to his own compositions. The party brought a cold
collation with them: before leaving, Sir Walter surveyed the beautiful
prospect at his feet, the Tweed and Teviot meeting in sisterly
loveliness, and joining their waters in the valley, with the golden
fields of England in the distance; when filling a glass of wine he drank
with fervour, in which all joined him, "baith sides of the Tweed."