You wanted us to write about our visit to Melrose; so here you have it.
On Tuesday morning Mr. S. and C---- had agreed to go back to Glasgow for
the purpose of speaking at a temperance meeting, and as we were
restricted for time, we were obliged to make the visit to Melrose in
their absence, much to the regret of us all. G---- thought we would make
a little quiet run out in the cars by ourselves, while Mr. S. and
C---- were gone back to Glasgow.
It was one of those soft, showery, April days, misty and mystical, now
weeping and now shining, that we found ourselves whirled by the cars
through this enchanted ground of Scotland. Almost every name we heard
spoken along the railroad, every stream we passed, every point we looked
at, recalled some line of Walter Scott's poetry, or some event of
history. The thought that he was gone forever, whose genius had given
the charm to all, seemed to settle itself down like a melancholy mist.
To how little purpose seemed the few, short years of his life, compared
with the capabilities of such a soul! Brilliant as his success had been,
how was it passed like a dream! It seemed sad to think that he had not
only passed away himself, but that almost the whole family and friendly
circle had passed with him--not a son left to bear his name!
Here we were in the region of the Ettrick, the Yarrow, and the Tweed. I
opened the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and, as if by instinct, the first
lines my eye fell upon were these:--
"Call it not vain: they do not err
Who say, that when the poet dies,
Mute nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies;
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
For the departed bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distil;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave."
"Melrose!" said the loud voice of the conductor; and starting, I looked
up and saw quite a flourishing village, in the midst of which rose the
old, gray, mouldering walls of the abbey. Now, this was somewhat of a
disappointment to me. I had been somehow expecting to find the building
standing alone in the middle of a great heath, far from all abodes of
men, and with no companions more hilarious than the owls. However, it
was no use complaining; the fact was, there was a village, and what was
more, a hotel, and to this hotel we were to go to get a guide for the
places we were to visit; for it was understood that we were to "_do_"
Melrose, Dryburgh, and Abbotsford, all in one day. There was no time for
sentiment; it was a business affair, that must be looked in the face
promptly, if we meant to get through. Ejaculations and quotations of
poetry could, of course, be thrown in, as William, of Deloraine pattered
his prayers, while riding.
We all alighted at a very comfortable hotel, and were ushered into as
snug a little parlor as one's heart could desire.
[Illustration: East Window of Melrose Abbey.]
The next thing was to hire a coachman to take us, in the rain,--for the
mist had now swelled into a rain,--through the whole appropriate round.
I stood by and heard names which I had never heard before, except in
song, brought into view in their commercial relations; so much for
Abbotsford; and so much for Dryburgh; and then, if we would like to
throw in Thomas the Rhymer's Tower, why, that would be something extra.
"Thomas the Rhymer?" said one of the party, not exactly posted up. "Was
he any thing remarkable? Well, is it worth while to go to his tower? It
will cost something extra, and take more time."
Weighed in such a sacrilegious balance, Thomas was found wanting, of
course: the idea of driving three or four miles farther to see an old
tower, supposed to have belonged to a man who is supposed to have
existed and to have been carried off by a supposititious Queen of the
Fairies into Elfland, was too absurd for reasonable people; in fact, I
made believe myself that I did not care much about it, particularly as
the landlady remarked, that if we did not get home by five o'clock "the
chops might be spoiled."
As we all were packed into a tight coach, the rain still pouring, I
began to wish mute Nature would not be quite so energetic in distilling
her tears. A few sprinkling showers, or a graceful wreath of mist, might
be all very well; but a steady, driving rain, that obliged us to shut up
the carriage windows, and coated them with mist so that we could not
look out, why, I say it is enough to put out the fire of sentiment in
any heart. We might as well have been rolled up in a bundle and carried
through the country, for all the seeing it was possible to do under such
circumstances. It, therefore, should be stated, that we did keep bravely
up in our poetic zeal, which kindly Mrs. W. also reënforced, by
distributing certain very delicate sandwiches to support the outer man.
At length, the coach stopped at the entrance of Abbotsford grounds,
where there was a cottage, out of which, due notice being given, came a
trim, little old woman in a black gown, with pattens on; she put up her
umbrella, and we all put up ours; the rain poured harder than ever as we
went dripping up the gravel walk, looking much, I inly fancied, like a
set of discomforted fowls fleeing to covert. We entered the great court
yard, surrounded with a high wall, into which were built sundry
fragments of curious architecture that happened to please the poet's
fancy.
I had at the moment, spite of the rain, very vividly in my mind
Washington Irving's graceful account of his visit to Abbotsford while
this house was yet building, and the picture which he has given of
Walter Scott sitting before his door, humorously descanting on various
fragments of sculpture, which lay scattered about, and which he intended
to immortalize by incorporating into his new dwelling.
Viewed as a mere speculation, or, for aught I know, as an architectural
effort, this building may, perhaps, be counted as a mistake and a
failure. I observe, that it is quite customary to speak of it, among
some, as a pity that he ever undertook it. But viewed as a development
of his inner life, as a working out in wood and stone of favorite
fancies and cherished ideas, the building has to me a deep interest. The
gentle-hearted poet delighted himself in it; this house was his stone
and wood poem, as irregular, perhaps, and as contrary to any established
rule, as his Lay of the Last Minstrel, but still wild and poetic. The
building has this interest, that it was throughout his own conception,
thought, and choice; that he expressed himself in every stone that was
laid, and made it a kind of shrine, into which he wove all his treasures
of antiquity, and where he imitated, from the beautiful, old, mouldering
ruins of Scotland, the parts that had touched him most deeply.
The walls of one room were of carved oak from the Dunfermline Abbey; the
ceiling of another imitated from Roslin Castle; here a fireplace was
wrought in the image of a favorite niche in Melrose; and there the
ancient pulpit of Erskine was wrought into a wall. To him, doubtless,
every object in the house was suggestive of poetic fancies; every
carving and bit of tracery had its history, and was as truly an
expression of something in the poet's mind as a verse of his poetry.
A building wrought out in this way, and growing up like a bank of coral,
may very possibly violate all the proprieties of criticism; it may
possibly, too, violate one's ideas of mere housewifery utility; but by
none of these rules ought such a building to be judged. We should look
at it rather as the poet's endeavor to render outward and visible the
dream land of his thoughts, and to create for himself a refuge from the
cold, dull realities of life, in an architectural romance.
These were thoughts which gave interest to the scene as we passed
through the porchway, adorned with petrified stags' horns, into the long
entrance hall of the mansion. This porch was copied from one in
Linlithgow palace. One side of this hall was lighted by windows of
painted glass. The floor was of black and white marble from the
Hebrides. Round the whole cornice there was a line of coats armorial,
richly blazoned, and the following inscription in old German text:
"These be the coat armories of the clanns and chief men of name wha
keepit the marchys of Scotland in the old tyme for the kynge. Trewe men
war they in their tyme, and in their defence God them defendyt."
There were the names of the Douglases, the Elliots, the Scotts, the
Armstrongs, and others. I looked at this arrangement with interest,
because I knew that Scott must have taken a particular delight in it.
The fireplace, designed from a niche in Melrose Abbey, also in this
room, and a choice bit of sculpture it is. In it was an old grate, which
had its history also, and opposite to it the boards from the pulpit of
Erskine were wrought into a kind of side table, or something which
served that purpose. The spaces between the windows were decorated with
pieces of armor, crossed swords, and stags' horns, each one of which
doubtless had its history. On each side of the door, at the bottom of
the hall, was a Gothic shrine, or niche, in both of which stood a figure
in complete armor.
Then we went into the drawing room; a lofty saloon, the woodwork of
which is entirely of cedar, richly wrought; probably another of the
author's favorite poetic fancies. It is adorned with a set of splendid
antique ebony furniture; cabinet, chairs, and piano--the gift of George
IV. to the poet.
We went into his library; a magnificent room, on which, I suppose, the
poet's fancy had expended itself more than any other. The roof is of
carved oak, after models from Roslin Castle. Here, in a niche, is a
marble bust of Scott, as we understood a present from Chantrey to the
poet; it was one of the best and most animated representations of him I
ever saw, and very much superior to the one under the monument in
Edinburgh. On expressing my idea to this effect, I found I had struck
upon a favorite notion of the good woman who showed us the
establishment; she seemed to be an ancient servant of the house, and
appeared to entertain a regard for the old laird scarcely less than
idolatry. One reason why this statue is superior is, that it represents
his noble forehead, which the Edinburgh one suffers to be concealed by
falling hair: to cover _such_ a forehead seems scarcely less than a
libel.
The whole air of this room is fanciful and picturesque in the extreme.
The walls are entirely filled with the bookcases, there being about
twenty thousand volumes. A small room opens from the library, which was
Scott's own private study. His writing table stood in the centre, with
his inkstand on it, and before it a large, plain, black leather arm
chair.
In a glass case, I think in this room, was exhibited the suit of clothes
he last wore; a blue coat with large metal buttons, plaid trousers, and
broad-brimmed hat. Around the sides of this room there was a gallery of
light tracery work; a flight of stairs led up to it, and in one corner
of it was a door which the woman said led to the poet's bed room. One
seemed to see in all this arrangement how snug, and cozy, and
comfortable the poet had thus ensconced himself, to give himself up to
his beloved labors and his poetic dreams. But there was a cold and
desolate air of order and adjustment about it which reminds one of the
precise and chilling arrangements of a room from which has just been
carried out a corpse; all is silent and deserted.
The house is at present the property of Scott's only surviving daughter,
whose husband has assumed the name of Scott. We could not learn from our
informant whether any of the family was in the house. We saw only the
rooms which are shown to visitors, and a coldness, like that of death,
seemed to strike to my heart from their chilly solitude.
As we went out of the house we passed another company of tourists coming
in, to whom we heard our guide commencing the same recitation, "this
is," and "this is," &c., just as she had done to us. One thing about the
house and grounds had disappointed me; there was not one view from a
single window I saw that was worth any thing, in point of beauty; why a
poet, with an eye for the beautiful, could have located a house in such
an indifferent spot, on an estate where so many beautiful sites were at
his command, I could not imagine.
As to the external appearance of Abbotsford, it is as irregular as can
well be imagined. There are gables, and pinnacles, and spires, and
balconies, and buttresses any where and every where, without rhyme or
reason; for wherever the poet wanted a balcony, he had it; or wherever
he had a fragment of carved stone, or a bit of historic tracery, to put
in, he made a shrine for it forthwith, without asking leave of any
rules. This I take to be one of the main advantages of Gothic
architecture; it is a most catholic and tolerant system, and any kind of
eccentricity may find refuge beneath its mantle.
Here and there, all over the house, are stones carved with armorial
bearings and pious inscriptions, inserted at random wherever the poet
fancied. Half way up the wall in one place is the door of the old
Tolbooth at Edinburgh, with the inscription over it, "The Lord of armeis
is my protector; blissit ar thay that trust in the Lord. 1575."
A doorway at the west end of the house is composed of stones which
formed the portal of the Tolbooth, given to Sir Walter on the pulling
down of the building in 1817.
On the east side of the house is a rude carving of a sword with the
words, "Up with ye, sutors of Selkyrke. A.D. 1525." Another inscription,
on the same side of the house, runs thus:--
"By night, by day, remember ay
The goodness of ye Lord;
And thank his name, whose glorious fame
Is spread throughout ye world.--A.C.M.D. 1516."
In the yard, to the right of the doorway of the mansion, we saw the
figure of Scott's favorite dog Maida, with a Latin inscription--
"Maidæ marmorea dormis sub imagine, Maida,
Ad januam domini: sit tibi terra levis."