(_For the Mirror._)
"I do love these ancient ruins;
We never tread upon them, but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history."
This fine ruin has a double interest attached to it, for, independent of
that which is created by the antiquity and splendour of the edifice, the
visiter should bear in mind that it is the _Kennaquhair_ of the
northern magician; and here the scenes so finely depicted in the
_Monastery_ are vividly brought to our recollection; it gives a
"local habitation and a name" to some of the most interesting creations
of Sir Walter Scott's genius. The abbey is situated in a valley,
surrounded by the Eildon hills. Some ruins of the abbey mill, with the
dam belonging to "Hob Miller," the father of the "lovely Mysinda," are
still to be seen; and the ford across the Tweed, where the worthy
Sacristan was played so scurvy a trick by the White Lady, is also
pointed out. Some miles off, on a wild and romantic spot on the course
of the river, Elwin, or Allan, is Fairy Dean, or Nameless Dean, which is
at once identified to be that place above the tower and vale of
Glendearg, which was the favourite haunt of the White Lady, and the spot
where Sir Piercie Shafton's _stoccatas_, _embroccatas_, and
_passados_ first failed him, when opposed to the less polished and
rustic skill of Halbert Glendinning, assisted by the machinations of the
queen of the elfin tribe. On this place are found a number of small
stones, of a singular shape and appearance, resembling guns, cradles
with children in them, bonnets, &c., several of which I obtained in a
tour to Scotland. They are called _elf-stones_ by the neighbouring
peasantry.
Many parts of the abbey are still in a state of tolerable preservation;
the marks of cannon-shot and fire are visible on the walls in some
places, the abbey having been bombarded by Oliver Cromwell, with his
usual zeal against every thing that adorned the country. Many Roman
medals of Vespasian, Adrian, &c. have been found about it. I hardly know
a more interesting place to visit than Melrose and its neighbourhood;
while the abbey affords a fine moral lesson on the instability and
perishableness of even the most magnificent works raised by human skill
and industry.
"Here naked stand the melancholy walls,
Lash'd by the wint'ry tempests, cold and bleak,
That whistle mournful through the empty aisles,
And piece-meal crumble down the towers to dust,"
When viewed by moonlight, the solemnity and grandeur of the effect is
charming. An enthusiastic friend of mine, on paying the abbey a visit a
year or two ago, had it lighted up with tapers. I subjoin a few passages
from a letter I received at the time from him;--"Yesterday, being
Valentine's day, in the evening I went to vespers, and had six tapers
burning at the high altar in the abbey; also several in each of the
(eight) confessionals, holy water, fonts, shrines, and altars.--The
church-yard, the abbey, were silent as the grave; you might have heard a
pin drop; there was not a breath of air stirring, so the tapers burnt,
beautifully." This must have strongly reminded the spectator of the
introduction to the _Monastery_, and the visit of the worthy
benedictine, accompanied by Captain Clutterbuck, for the purpose of
taking up his patron's heart. My friend adds, "not a taper has been
burnt in St. Mary's of Melrose since the days of Knox.--On Monday I went
to the tower of Glendearg; at the fountain, where Sir Piercie Shafton
and Halbert Glendinning fought, I got, with the help of my guide, some
curious stones, said to be the work of the _White Lady_." The
scenery is picturesque in the highest degree. "Yesterday I went to Old
Melrose. The windings of the Tweed there are beautiful; but the tolling
the abbey bell recalls me from my wanderings."
The impression made on Sir Walter Scott by the ruins may be inferred
from the following lines:--
"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 grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower,
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go--but go alone the while--
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!"
One of your correspondents (with whom I had once a disputation on the
_weighty_ subject of ghosts) sent you a version of the subjoined
epitaph, with a trifling alteration in the spelling, (which is copied
from a very ancient tomb-stone in Melrose Abbey,) with these remarks,
(see MIRROR, vol. 4, p. 392):--"The following beautiful lines were
written by a cow-boy [!] in Sussex on a wall, with a piece of red chalk,
[mark the precision.] They have only been inserted in a Sussex paper,
and may be quite unknown to many London readers," &c. &c. &c. This is a
regular hoax.