WALK FROM EDINBURG OVER THE BORDER AND ARRIVAL AT LONDON.
We left Glasgow on the morning after returning from the Burns Festival,
taking passage in the open cars for Edinburg, for six shillings. On
leaving the depot, we plunged into the heart of the hill on which
Glasgow Cathedral stands and were whisked through darkness and sulphury
smoke to daylight again. The cars bore us past a spur of the Highlands,
through a beautiful country where women were at work in the fields, to
Linlithgow, the birth-place of Queen Mary. The majestic ruins of its
once-proud palace, stand on a green meadow behind the town. In another
hour we were walking through Edinburg, admiring its palace-like
edifices, and stopping every few minutes to gaze up at some lofty
monument. Really, thought I, we call Baltimore the "Monumental City" for
its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every
street-corner! These, too, not in the midst of glaring red buildings,
where they seem to have been accidentally dropped, but framed in by
lofty granite mansions, whose long vistas make an appropriate background
to the picture.
We looked from Calton Hill on Salisbury Crags and over the Firth of
Forth, then descended to dark old Holyrood, where the memory of lovely
Mary lingers like a stray sunbeam in her cold halls, and the fair,
boyish face of Rizzio looks down from the canvass on the armor of his
murderer. We threaded the Canongate and climbed to the Castle; and
finally, after a day and a half's sojourn, buckled on our knapsacks and
marched out of the Northern Athens. In a short time the tall spire of
Dalkeith appeared above the green wood, and we saw to the right, perched
on the steep banks of the Esk, the picturesque cottage of Hawthornden,
where Drummond once lived in poetic solitude. We made haste to cross the
dreary waste of the Muirfoot Hills before nightfall, from the highest
summit of which we took a last view of Edinburg Castle and the Salisbury
Crags, then blue in the distance. Far to the east were the hills of
Lammermuir and the country of Mid-Lothian lay before us. It was all
_Scott_-land. The inn of Torsonce, beside the Gala Water, was our
resting-place for the night. As we approached Galashiels the next
morning, where the bed of the silver Gala is nearly emptied by a number
of dingy manufactories, the hills opened, disclosing the sweet vale of
the Tweed, guarded by the triple peak of the Eildon, at whose base lay
nestled the village of Melrose.
I stopped at a bookstore to purchase a view of the Abbey; to my surprise
nearly half the works were by American authors. There wore Bryant,
Longfellow, Channing, Emerson, Dana, Ware and many others. The
bookseller told me he had sold more of Ware's Letters than any other
book in his store, "and also," to use his own words, "an immense number
of the great Dr. Channing." I have seen English editions of Percival,
Willis, Whittier and Mrs. Sigourney, but Bancroft and Prescott are
classed among the "standard _British_ historians."
Crossing the Gala we ascended a hill on the road to Selkirk, and behold!
the Tweed ran below, and opposite, in the midst of embowering trees
planted by the hand of Scott, rose the grey halls of Abbotsford. We went
down a lane to the banks of the swift stream, but finding no ferry,
B---- and I, as it looked very shallow, thought we might save a long
walk by wading across. F---- preferred hunting for a boat; we two set
out together, with our knapsacks on our backs, and our boots in our
hands. The current was ice-cold and very swift, and as the bed was
covered with loose stones, it required the greatest care to stand
upright. Looking at the bottom, through the rapid water, made my head so
giddy, I was forced to stop and shut my eyes; my friend, who had firmer
nerves, went plunging on to a deeper and swifter part, where the
strength of the current made him stagger very unpleasantly. I called to
him to return; the next thing I saw, he gave a plunge and went down to
the shoulder in the cold flood. While he was struggling with a
frightened expression of face to recover his footing, I leaned on my
staff and laughed till I was on the point of falling also. To crown our
mortification, F---- had found a ferry a few yards higher up and was on
the opposite shore, watching us wade back again, my friend with dripping
clothes and boots full of water. I could not forgive the pretty Scotch
damsel who rowed us across, the mischievous lurking smile which told
that she too had witnessed the adventure.
We found a foot-path on the other side, which led through a young forest
to Abbotsford. Rude pieces of sculpture, taken from Melrose Abbey, were
scattered around the gate, some half buried in the earth and overgrown
with weeds. The niches in the walls were filled with pieces of
sculpture, and an antique marble greyhound reposed in the middle of the
court yard. We rang the bell in an outer vestibule, ornamented with
several pairs of antlers, when a lady appeared, who, from her
appearance, I have no doubt was Mrs. Ormand, the "Duenna of Abbotsford,"
so humorously described by D'Arlincourt, in his "Three Kingdoms." She
ushered us into the entrance hall, which has a magnificent ceiling of
carved oak and is lighted by lofty stained windows. An effigy of a
knight in armor stood at either end, one holding a huge two-handed sword
found on Bosworth Field; the walls were covered with helmets and
breastplates of the olden time.
Among the curiosities in the Armory are Napoleon's pistols, the
blunderbuss of Hofer, Rob Roy's purse and gun, and the offering box of
Queen Mary. Through the folding doors between the dining-room,
drawing-room and library, is a fine vista, terminated by a niche, in
which stands Chantrey's bust of Scott. The ceilings are of carved
Scottish oak and the doors of American cedar. Adjoining the library is
his study, the walls of which are covered with books; the doors and
windows are double, to render it quiet and undisturbed. His books and
inkstand are on the table and his writing-chair stands before it, as if
he had left them but a moment before. In a little closet adjoining,
where he kept his private manuscripts, are the clothes he last wore, his
cane and belt, to which a hammer and small axe are attached, and his
sword. A narrow staircase led from the study to his sleeping room above,
by which he could come down at night and work while his family slept.
The silence about the place is solemn and breathless, as if it waited to
be broken by his returning footstep. I felt an awe in treading these
lonely halls, like that which impressed me before the grave of
Washington--a feeling that hallowed the spot, as if there yet lingered a
low vibration of the lyre, though the minstrel had departed forever!
Plucking a wild rose that grew near the walls, I left Abbotsford,
embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to
Melrose. We went immediately to the Abbey, in the lower part of the
village, near the Tweed. As I approached the gate, the porteress came
out, and having scrutinized me rather sharply, asked my name. I told
her;--"well," she added, "there is a _prospect_ here for you." Thinking
she alluded to the ruin, I replied: "Yes, the view is certainly very
fine." "Oh! I don't mean that," she replied, "a young gentleman left a
prospect here for you!"--whereupon she brought out a spy-glass, which I
recognized us one that our German comrade had given to me. He had gone
on, and hoped to meet us at Jedburgh.
Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in
Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are
remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows--the south and
east oriels--are of a lightness and grace of execution really
surprising. We saw the tomb of Michael Scott, of King Alexander II, and
that of the Douglas, marked with a sword. The heart of Bruce is supposed
to have been buried beneath the high altar. The chancel is all open to
the sky, and rooks build their nests among the wild ivy that climbs over
the crumbling arches. One of these came tamely down and perched upon the
hand of our fair guide. By a winding stair in one of the towers we
mounted to the top of the arch and looked down on the grassy floor. I
sat on the broken pillar, which Scott always used for a seat when he
visited the Abbey, and read the disinterring of the magic book, in the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel." I never comprehended its full beauty till
then: the memory of Melrose will give it a thrilling interest, in the
future. When we left, I was willing to say, with the Minstrel:
"Was never scene so sad and fair!"
After seeing the home and favorite haunt of Scott, we felt a wish to
stand by his grave, but we had Ancrum Moor to pass before night, and the
Tweed was between us and Dryburgh Abbey. We did not wish to try another
watery adventure, and therefore walked on to the village of Ancrum,
where a gate-keeper on the road gave us lodging and good fare, for a
moderate price. Many of this class practise this double employment, and
the economical traveller, who looks more to comfort than luxury, will
not fail to patronize them.
Next morning we took a foot-path over the hills to Jedburgh. From the
summit there was a lovely view of the valley of the Teviot, with the
blue Cheviots in the distance. I thought of Pringle's beautiful
farewell:
"Our native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu,
farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Cheviot's mountains blue!"
The poet was born in the valley below, and one that looks upon its
beauty cannot wonder how his heart clung to the scenes he was leaving.
We saw Jedburgh and its majestic old Abbey, and ascended the valley of
the Jed towards the Cheviots. The hills, covered with woods of a
richness and even gorgeous beauty of foliage, shut out this lovely glen
completely from the world. I found myself continually coveting the
lonely dwellings that were perched on the rocky heights, or nestled,
like a fairy pavilion, in the lap of a grove. These forests formerly
furnished the wood for the celebrated Jedwood axe, used in the Border
forays.
As we continued ascending, the prospect behind us widened, till we
reached the summit of the Carter Fell, whence there is a view of great
extent and beauty. The Eildon Hills, though twenty-five miles distant,
seemed in the foreground of the picture. With a glass, Edinburgh Castle
might be seen over the dim outline of the Muirfoot Hills. After crossing
the border, we passed the scene of the encounter between Percy and
Douglass, celebrated in "Chevy Chase," and at the lonely inn of
Whitelee, in the valley below, took up our quarters for the night.
Travellers have described the Cheviots as being bleak and uninteresting.
Although they are bare and brown, to me the scenery was of a character
of beauty entirely original. They are not rugged and broken like the
Highlands, but lift their round backs gracefully from the plain, while
the more distant ranges are clad in many an airy hue. Willis quaintly
and truly remarks, that travellers only tell you the picture produced in
their own brain by what they see, otherwise the world would be like a
pawnbroker's shop, where each traveller wears the cast-off clothes of
others. Therefore let no one, of a gloomy temperament, journeying over
the Cheviots in dull November, arraign me for having falsely praised
their beauty.
I was somewhat amused with seeing a splendid carriage with footmen and
outriders, crossing the mountain, the glorious landscape full in view,
containing a richly dressed lady, _fast asleep!_ It is no uncommon thing
to meet carriages in the Highlands, in which the occupants are
comfortably reading, while being whirled through the finest scenery. And
_apropos_ of this subject, my German friend related to me an incident.
His brother was travelling on the Rhine, and when in the midst of the
grandest scenes, met a carriage containing an English gentleman and
lady, both asleep, while on the seat behind was stationed an artist,
sketching away with all his might. He asked the latter the reason of his
industry, when he answered, "Oh! my lord wishes to see every night what
he has passed during the day, and so I sketch as we go along!"
The hills, particularly on the English side, are covered with flocks of
sheep, and lazy shepherds lay basking in the sun, among the purple
heather, with their shaggy black dogs beside them. On many of the hills
are landmarks, by which, when the snow has covered all the trucks, they
can direct their way. After walking many miles through green valleys,
down which flowed the Red Water, its very name telling of the conflicts
which had crimsoned its tide, we came to the moors, and ten miles of
blacker, drearier waste I never saw. Before entering them we passed the
pretty little village of Otterburn, near the scene of the battle. I
brought away a wild flower that grew on soil enriched by the blood of
the Percys. On the village inn, is their ancient coat of arms, a lion
rampant, on a field of gold, with the motto, "_Esperance en Dieu_."
Scarcely a house or a tree enlivened the black waste, and even the road
was marked on each side by high poles, to direct the traveller in
winter. We were glad when at length the green fields came again in
sight, and the little village of Whelpington Knowes, with its old
ivy-grown church tower, welcomed us after the lonely walk.
As one specimen of the intelligence of this part of England, we saw a
board conspicuously posted at the commencement of a private road,
declaring that "all persons travelling this way will be _persecuted_."
As it led to a _church_, however, there may have been a design in the
expression.
On the fifth day after leaving Edinburgh, we reached a hill, overlooking
the valley of the Tyne and the German Ocean, as sunset was reddening in
the west. A cloud of coal-smoke made us aware of the vicinity of
Newcastle. On the summit of the hill a large cattle fair was being held,
and crowds of people were gathered in and around a camp of gaudily
decorated tents. Fires were kindled here and there, and drinking,
carousing and horse-racing were flourishing in full vigor.
We set out one morning to hunt the Roman Wall. Passing the fine
buildings in the centre of the city and the lofty monument to Earl Grey,
we went towards the western gate and soon came to the ruins of a
building, about whose origin there could be no doubt. It stood there,
blackened by the rust of ages, a remnant of power passed away. There was
no mistaking the massive round tower, with its projecting ornaments,
such as are often seen in the ruder works of the Romans. On each side a
fragment of wall remained standing, and there appeared to be a chamber
in the interior, which was choked up with rubbish. There is another
tower, much higher, in a public square in another part of the city, a
portion of which is fitted up as a dwelling for the family which takes
care of it; but there was such a ridiculous contrast between the
ivy-grown top, and the handsome modern windows and doors of the lower
story, that it did not impress me half as much as the other, with all
its neglect. These are the farthest limits of that power whose mighty
works I hope hereafter to view at the seat of her grandeur and glory.
I witnessed a scene at Newcastle that cannot soon be forgotten; as it
showed more plainly than I had before an opportunity of observing, the
state to which the laboring classes of England are reduced. Hearing
singing in the street, under my window, one morning, I looked out and
saw a body of men, apparently of the lower class, but decent and sober
looking, who were singing in a rude and plaintive strain some ballad,
the purport of which I could not understand. On making inquiry, I
discovered it was part of a body of miners, who, about eighteen weeks
before, in consequence of not being able to support their families with
the small pittance allowed them, had "struck" for higher wages. This
their employers refused to give them, and sent to Wales, where they
obtained workmen at the former price. The houses these laborers had
occupied were all taken from them, and for eighteen weeks they had no
other means of subsistence than the casual charity given them for
singing the story of their wrongs. It made my blood boil to bear those
tones, wrung from the heart of poverty by the hand of tyranny. The
ignorance, permitted by the government, causes an unheard amount of
misery and degradation. We heard afterwards in the streets, another
company who played on musical instruments. Beneath the proud swell of
England's martial airs, there sounded to my ears a tone whose gathering
murmur will make itself heard ere long by the dull cars of Power.
At last at the appointed time, we found ourselves on board the "London
Merchant," in the muddy Tyne, waiting for the tide to rise high enough
to permit us to descend the river. There is great competition among the
steamboats this summer, and the price of passage to London is reduced to
five and ten shillings. The second cabin, however, is a place of
tolerable comfort, and as the steward had promised to keep berths for
us, we engaged passage. Following the windings of the narrow river, we
passed Sunderland and Tynemouth, where it expands into the German Ocean.
The water was barely stirred by a gentle wind, and little resembled the
stormy sea I expected to find it. We glided over the smooth surface,
watching the blue line of the distant shore till dark, when I went below
expecting to enjoy a few hours' oblivion. But the faithless steward had
given up the promised berth to another, and it was only with difficulty
that I secured a seat by the cabin table, where I dozed half the night
with my head on my arms. It grew at last too close and wearisome; I
went up on deck and lay down on the windlass, taking care to balance
myself well before going to sleep. The earliest light of dawn awoke me
to a consciousness of damp clothes and bruised limbs. We were in sight
of the low shore the whole day, sometimes seeing the dim outline of a
church, or group of trees over the downs or flat beds of sand, which
border the eastern coast of England. About dark, the red light of the
Nore was seen, and we hoped before many hours to be in London. The
lights of Gravesend were passed, but about ten o'clock, as we entered
the narrow channel of the Thames, we struck another steamboat in the
darkness, and were obliged to cast anchor for some time. When I went on
deck in the gray light of morning again, we were gliding up a narrow,
muddy river, between rows of gloomy buildings, with many vessels lying
at anchor. It grew lighter, till, as we turned a point, right before, me
lay a vast crowd of vessels, and in the distance, above the wilderness
of buildings, stood a dim, gigantic dome in the sky; what a bound my
heart gave at the sight! And the tall pillar that stood near it--I did
not need a second glance to recognize the Monument. I knew the majestic
bridge that spanned the river above; but on the right bank stood a
cluster of massive buildings, crowned with many a turret, that attracted
my eye. A crowd of old associations pressed bewilderingly upon the mind,
to see standing there, grim and dark with many a bloody page of
England's history--the Tower of London! The morning sky was as yet but
faintly obscured by the coal-smoke, and in the misty light of coming
sunrise, all objects seemed grander than their wont. In spite of the
thrilling interest of the scene, I could not help thinking of Byron's
ludicrous but most expressive description:
"A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping,
Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Can reach; with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge dun cupola, like a fool's-cap crown
On a fool's head,--and there is London town."