MELROSE—ABBOTSFORD.

The ride from Edinburgh is through a farming district, and strongly reminds one of southern New England. As the reader anticipates, we are to stop at Melrose for two purposes; to visit the ruins of its abbey, and to make the short tour of five miles to Abbotsford. The town of Melrose is intensely rural and charming. In 1851 it had a population of 7,487. It has a number of small and comfortable hotels, and carriages are on hire at reasonable prices. There are avenues for rambling; and at the border-line is a grand hill, which stretches along the entire length of the village. The road winds along the hill at a good elevation, and displays to advantage the valley of the Tweed and the hills on the opposite side, from three to five miles away. In the level parts of the great valley the land is under excellent cultivation, though largely devoted to grazing. The groves, the heavy woodlands, and the single trees which remain from the primeval forest are arranged with scrupulous care and a view to the picturesque. It would seem that one like Scott could not help being inspired by scenes like these. As one considers beautiful Edinburgh, he gets the impression that there is the more befitting residence for the great romancer; but once in Melrose, and on the top of these lovely hills, he feels that here Scott was in his element.

Our first step was to go to a hotel, dine, and determine the proper course for sight-seeing. Talking the matter over with our hostess we were advised to join a party of two or three others, take a team, and go first to Abbotsford, and stop on our way back at the abbey, which was in fact but a few minutes' walk from the hotel. The advice was accepted, and we were soon on the way to Abbotsford.

We passed through several streets, and into the suburbs; then, over pleasant roads, by beautiful farms, the lovely Tweed more or less of the time in view; and next, through narrow lanes, till we came in sight of Abbotsford. The place has a low look, for it is on the slightly elevated part of the meadow, in a northern parish of Melrose. Sir Walter bought the estate in 1811, being then at the age of forty. He soon after rebuilt the mansion, enlarging it as his fortunes permitted. He named it from an adjoining ford, called the Abbot's Ford, on the River Tweed, which here is a small stream that runs through the estate. It is quite sluggish in summer, about thirty feet wide, but greatly swollen by freshets. The house is large, and low in general appearance. It is built of gray limestone, is very irregular in castellated outline, with numerous small towers and gables. It is so low that we can look down upon it from the travelled road. The estate is approached by a lane from the main road. The garden is walled in, and the meadow-land outside reaches to the river. The external walls of the house and garden have built into them relics of ancient abbeys and carvings from old castles. At the decease of Sir Walter, Sept. 21, 1832, the building was occupied by James Hope Scott, Esq.; and his wife, the sole surviving daughter of Sir Walter, lived there until her death, Oct. 26, 1858. It then went by inheritance to their daughter, but during her minority it was let for the use of a Roman Catholic seminary. On the day of our visit we found her in possession; but during the larger part of the day visitors are admitted to the principal rooms of the first story.

The business affairs appear to be managed by a matron who, after taking our shillings, explains, systematically and hurriedly, the various objects of interest for about half an hour,—all the time she can afford, and as much perhaps as we should give if standing in her place. The house is a source of great revenue, for no pleasant day passes without visitors. In the reception-room we await the return of the maiden, who is just then guiding another party. They come into the room wearing an expression that says they have seen, if they have not conquered. They wend their way slowly out of the grounds, up the narrow lane, to their carriages, and then, though breathing freer, they continue so absorbed in admiration that they have no energy to expend in regrets over the shortness of their stay. The experience of one party is that of all who have brains to comprehend the facts. A visit to Abbotsford is like a flash of lightning, which, for the moment, lights up miles of landscape, and then leaves the beholder to mentally repicture what is still there, but veiled from his view. An experience like this was ours at Strasburg, where a momentary light from our high hotel window exhibited the cathedral, the lofty roofs of the houses, and the storks standing on one leg on the chimney-tops. Brief was our half-hour at Abbotsford, but it was enough to write the spot indelibly upon memory's tablets.

But we now follow our guide, and are ushered first into the study. This is a room not far from twenty feet square and fifteen feet high. It is finished in oak, and has a heavy wrought ceiling of the same material. On one side is a coal grate, surrounded by a red marble mantel, with a lamp upon it, and a small marble obelisk monument. The grate, fire-screen, and poker remain as they were fifty-one years ago. At the centre of the room is the mahogany desk at which he sat,—plain and flat-topped. It has five drawers on each side, with an opening for the sitter's feet between the rows. The armchair is near it,—a good-sized comfortable chair, and covered with light-brown leather. The wall-spaces are filled with books, and a light cast-iron gallery extends partly around the room. Above this gallery are other reference books. On the side opposite the chimney, in front of a window, is a sort of casket, having a plate-glass top. It needs not that the maid should tell us that here are the last clothes worn by the poet. A well written paper so states, but the pictures of him have long before given the information. For their description we appeal to our note-books. At the left are the shoes,—large, thick, and made of coarse leather. They are moderately low-cut, much strained by his high instep, well blacked, and considerably worn. They have no binding or lining, and are tied with leather strings laced through four or five holes. In the centre is a well ironed and carefully folded pair of pants, once black and white, but now yellowish plaid,—the plaids a scant quarter-inch square; and there is the large waistcoat with alternating brown and white stripes, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch wide, and running lengthwise. Next there is a large white and wide-brimmed stove-pipe fur hat, with rather a short nap. It shows hard usage, for there are a number of dents in it. Finally, there is a dark-blue frock-coat,—said to have gilt buttons, but they are folded out of sight.

How pleasing it would be to pass into a reverie in this great presence! We pass into the splendid and unusual library. The ceiling has oak mouldings and deep panels, said to be copies from an ancient castle. The sides are covered with books from floor nearly to ceiling. The furniture is rich and various, much of it presented by distinguished men. In a square showcase on a table are exposed for exhibition small articles that were given to Sir Walter by kings, queens, and other persons of noble blood. Among them are snuff-boxes,—gold, silver, ivory, pearl, shell, and papier-machÉ. The floor is of polished oak, and without carpets. The library is not far from twenty-five feet wide, forty-five long, and fifteen feet high.

We next pass into the dining-room, which is about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, and is the one in which the great owner breathed his last. It also has an oak floor, and is without furniture, save a few chairs for the use of visitors. At one end is a large bay-window, looking out on the great lawn, extending from the house to the Tweed. It adds a peculiar interest to know that Sir Walter so loved nature that, when he saw the great consummation approaching, he desired to be removed from his chamber to this room, where he might once more gaze upon this scene and his favorite river, which was flowing away like his own life. A couch was brought, and placed against the side wall, with its foot towards the window, and there the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher shattered at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern, and the poet was no more a mortal.

The temptation is resistless to say a few words about Scott's previous life. He had become worn down with his attempts to earn enough to meet the claims made against him, $400,000, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, Ballantine. At first he left Abbotsford and went to London to do this work. Becoming a mere wreck of his former self, he went to the shores of the Mediterranean; but at last, when hope deferred had made the heart sick, he returned to London, went to a small hotel, the St. James, at 76 Jermyn Street, and there passed three melancholy weeks before going to his home on the Tweed. Mr. Lockhart, who was with him, gives the following graphic account:

When we reached the hotel, he recognized us with many marks of tenderness, but signified that he was totally exhausted; so no attempt was made to remove him farther, and he was put to bed immediately. To his children, all assembled once more about him, he repeatedly gave his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting immediate death; but he was never in a condition for conversation, and sank either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest effort.

Mr. Ferguson, who was seldom absent from his pillow, says:—

When I first saw Sir Walter, he was lying on the second-floor-back room of the St. James Hotel in Jermyn Street, in a state of stupor, from which, however, he would be roused for a moment by being addressed; and then he recognized those about him, but immediately relapsed. I think I never saw anything more magnificent than the symmetry of his colossal bust, as he lay on the pillow with his chest and neck exposed. During the time he was in Jermyn Street he was calm but never collected, and in general was either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. He never seemed to know where he was, but imagined himself to be still in the steamboat. The rattling of carriages and the noises of the street sometimes disturbed this illusion, and then he fancied himself at the polling of Jedburgh, where he had been insulted and stoned.... At length his constant yearnings to return to Abbotsford induced his physicians to consent to his removal,—a consent which, the moment it was notified to him, seemed to infuse new vigor into his frame. It was on a calm, clear afternoon of the 7th of July [1832] that every preparation was made for his embarkation on board the steamboat. He was placed on a chair by his faithful servant, Nicholson, half-dressed, and loosely wrapped in a quilted dressing-gown. He requested Lockhart and myself to wheel him towards the light of the open window, and we both remarked the vigorous lustre of his eye. He sat there silently gazing on space for more than half an hour, apparently wholly occupied with his own thoughts, and having no distinct perception of where he was, or how he came there. He suffered himself to be lifted into his carriage, which was surrounded by a crowd, among whom were many gentlemen on horseback, who loitered about to gaze on the scene. His children were deeply affected, and Mrs. Lockhart trembled from head to foot and wept bitterly. Thus surrounded by those nearest to him, he alone was unconscious of the cause or the depth of their grief, and while yet alive seemed to be carried to his grave.

He embarked on the steamer, and after a four days' sail, on the 11th of July his eye once more brightened as he caught sight of the familiar waters of the Tweed, and when at length he recognized the towers of his own Abbotsford, he sprang up in the carriage with delight. He was carried to his chamber, where he remained till his death on the 21st of September.

We have no apology to make for this digression, for Scott has given to Scotland and English literature a new glory.

We now resume our walk over the house, and pass through the museum, which is some twelve feet wide and forty feet long. Various kinds of armor prevail, and many interesting things that were presented to the "Lord of the domain." Fifty-one years are gone since the great poet was here, but all else remains as it was. We sit down in his study, as if waiting for him to come; and so real is everything that, should the sound of his heavy feet be heard in the hall, should he enter in person, the gulf of years would as by magic be bridged over and forgotten. He arranged this house only for his home; but he unwittingly made it a Jerusalem for countless pilgrims.

We passed meditatingly up the lane, mounted the team, and in spite of the clack of the driver, of hills and dales,—in spite of anything material,—those unmaterial memories held sway. We had been to Abbotsford, and its inspiration would evermore be ours.

An odor or a sunset was never fully described, though some can tell the story better than others. A lamp lighted from another does not reduce the original flame, and so it is with visits to any shrine. A million may go to Abbotsford, but it loses nothing by these draughts of pleasure.

Our carriage ride ended, we are at Melrose Abbey. How many times Sir Walter stood on this spot. His advice was:—

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 gray.

This we could not do, but we saw the abbey at the close of a fine day, as the sun threw its rays aslant in long lines across the grand ruins. We are met by a young maiden whose father has charge of the premises. We pay our shilling to enter, and first of all are impressed with the great beauty of the place. It is a large church, once belonging to the abbey, the latter having long since been destroyed. The nave, aisles, and transepts are roofless. Here and there, neatly piled against the walls, are fallen stones that once were part of the edifice. The floor is covered with that velvety grass which delights to take possession of places like this; and it is not to be blamed, for the grass is emblematic of mortals who would do the same if they could. The walls are solid and lofty, and a part of the groined ceiling of the choir remains. The windows are perfect in their stone tracery of mullions and transoms. Instinctively we look for the great chancel with its east window,—and adore, and see the force of Scott's description:—

The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined.
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,
In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell when work was done
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.

In this wall, under this window, was buried the heart of Robert Bruce.

Here are tombs of men too great to have their dust mingle with common soil. We are delighted with the ivy, climbing at random,—sometimes very thick and grand in its mantling power. We pass out of the side door, and are in the burial-ground of two or three acres. Not cared for by mortals, Nature—in great unison with her possessions and conscious of her sacred trust—prohibits the intrusion of rambling vine or unsightly weed. How varied are the views of tower and gable, of buttress unbroken or in partial ruin! Remove a stone, or repair one, and you do injury. Here repose the ashes of monk and nun, who centuries ago entered their free immortality.

The abbey was founded by David I. in 1136, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary ten years after. It was occupied first by monks of the Cistercian order, who had come from Yorkshire. In 1322, after a peaceable occupancy of 176 years, its quiet was disturbed by the invasion of an army under the authority of Edward II., and the building was greatly injured. Robert Bruce soon after commenced its rebuilding, after the present design. It was not favored, however, with long repose, for in 1385 it suffered again; but it was again repaired, and then enjoyed a rest of 160 years. In 1545 it once more suffered severely from English invaders. Again repaired, it remained quiet for a time, but during the Reformation, under Cromwell, its choicest sculptures were mutilated. To the shame of human nature be it said, in later times many of its stones have been carried away for the erection of other buildings; but yet, after full five centuries have flown, it remains one of the few grand and satisfying examples of Gothic architecture in the world.

We leave the ruins for a ramble over the town. In the business parts there is neatness and a limited commercial life. Then we go to the rear, through one of the most romantic roads imaginable, and up the hillside for the views already described. We had arranged to leave town that night, but the entire hill seemed to beseech us to "Come up hither." We halted "between two opinions." One of the hard questions was to decide whether to go or to stay. Body and spirit were in antagonism; but remembering a long line of good places ahead, we urged our unwilling feet to descend this hill of Zion, which yielded "a thousand sacred sweets." If anything makes travelling companions mute, it is such a condition. No jokes, no attempts to say smart things, no more eulogistic talk about fine scenery are in order; the effort is to try and forget we are losing it. The walk to a station is not a Galop, but is rather a Dead March in such a mood.

At 5 p. m. we take cars for Newcastle-on-Tyne, and so in a few hours shall be out of Scotland, for we are on the border. Dundee, Dunfermline, Aberdeen, are unvisited,—and Dryburgh Abbey, where Scott's ashes repose, though it is but five miles away. Jedburgh Abbey also is unseen; but we trust the reader will some day go over this ground, and then he can really sympathize with our loss.

ENGLAND.

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