MEMORIES OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
And one excursion I took part in with the greatest delight and one small satchel—for we wuz to stay one night—wuz to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott.
“I COULD SING TO YOU,” SEZ HE.
Josiah said he wanted to see Melrose Abbey by moonlight. He said it would be so romantic, and, sez he, “I wish I could have a guitar. How stylish and romantic it would be for you and me, Samantha, to visit it by moonlight, and I could sing to you,” sez he.
But I sez, “A old couple a-viewin’ that seen by moonlight, with thick blanket shawls on, and heavy overshues—and I should wear ’em, Josiah,” sez I, “and make you wear ’em, for our rumatizes is bad, and lookin’ up at the moon through spectacles hain’t what it would be in younger and less bundled-up days.”
“Throw a blanket onto it!” sez he; “wet a blanket wet as sop, and throw it onto my plan. I never can git you to foller up any idees of mine that are stylish and romantic.”
“I’ll foller ’em,” sez I, “but I’ve got to foller ’em with an eye on azmy and rumatiz. And as for your singin’,” sez I, “it don’t seem as if I can bear it.” And I shuddered imperceptibly; I thought of the near past.
But the rubber strings that men’s memories and consciences are strung on a good deal of the time had sprung back, and he wuz jest as ready to be sentimental and bust out in song as if he hadn’t been took for a Banshee.
But we visited the Abbey in broad daylight, which wuz better for our two healths at our age. We went to the Abbey Hotel, close by the Abbey, and after a comfortable dinner we went through the little iron gate that leads into the grand and wonderful ruin.
It must have been a sight, a sight, in its early days. But bein’ built in the first place in 1136, it hadn’t ort to be expected to be in the order it would have been if it had been built in 1836, and we’d call that bein’ pretty old in our young country.
Wall, we walked all round amongst the ruins, and the waves of the past swashed up aginst me in a powerful manner.
Here, sez I to myself, is the place where the heart of Robert Bruce is buried. That eager, restless heart that dared so much, and endured so much. Strange, passing strange that that great heart lays dumb and mute, and Samantha Allen and her pardner are a-walkin’ over it.
Here is the grave of the wizard that bold Deloraine visited, as I told Josiah, and he looked down with scornful mean, and sez he—
“He has stopped his wizardin’ now!”
Josiah has no veneration for the occult.
And here lies the Earl of Douglas, and here is the tomb of King Alexander 2nd.
Hero, king, and wizard, all dust, and through the tall, ruined arches the blue sky smiles down on all on ’em alike, and sweet Nater drops on their restin’-places; on grave and monuments the same posies, and flowers, and long sprays of ivy.
Nater is the true democrat; she treats all alike.
But what richness of carvin’ and design is to be seen on every side; every ornament that wuz ever carved, it seems to me, wuz here on the tall pillows and arches. And that east winder—wall, I wake up in the night now, and think on’t, the perfect wonder and symetry of its design, and the marvels of its stun sculptur.
But how different folks look at things! Al Faizi, as he looked up and around him, took in the beauty and majesty of the seen in every pore, as you may say—you could see that in his liniment.
Alice wuz took up with some of the marvellous statutes and sculpturs of wreath and blossom. And Adrian wuz a-pickin’ some flowers. It beat all what a case that child wuz for flowers. And Josiah wuz took up, I guess, with musin’ on the failure of his romantic idees, as he sauntered about. But Martin, when he’d been there about an hour, he come up to me, and sez he—
“Now, having seen everything there is to see here, I think we had better go. I expect some letters and telegrams,” sez he, “and I’ve seen sufficient to reply to any inquiries that could be made of me at home.”
Everything we could see! Why, I could have hung right round there for a week and discovered some new wonder and beauty every hour.
But it wuz compromised in this way: Martin went back to the hotel, and Josiah and Adrian went with him. And Al Faizi and Alice and I stayed till night wuz a-drawin’ down her mantilly previous to puttin’ it on.
The soft linin’ on’t of crimson and gold wuz turned over in the west as we walked back to the little hotel.
Wall, the next mornin’, bright and early, Martin got a carriage, and we drove three miles to Abbotsford, the home of Sir Walter Scott.
By Martin’s advice (that man has good practical idees) we took our waterproofs and umbrells. And glad enough wuz we that we did; why, in all our trips almost waterproofs wuz neccessary companions; for short, quick showers would descend upon us at any time seemin’ly, and then pass away jest as quick.
Three showers come up that very day, but two on ’em took place when we wuz inside, and the third jest before we got home at night, so umbrells and waterproofs saved us from damage.
Wall, we found it wuz a beautiful place, castle and mansion, about half and half. It stands in well-kep’, handsome grounds and sets down in a sort of a valley amongst the hills which stands round it, as if proud on’t and glad to shelter and protect it all they could.
Home of industrious talent, so hard-workin’ and constant as to be as good if not better than genius.
The mansion and all round it is full of relicks of the past.
The big entrance hall is panelled with dark wood, and all along the cornice the different Coats of Arms of the Border is painted in rich colors and shields, on which is this inscription—
“These be the coat armories of the clans and chief men of name wha keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld tyme for the kynge. True men were they, in their defence. God them defendyt.”
Here you see battle-axes and breastplates and weepons of all kinds. Most all on ’em with a tragic history. Here wuz several suits of armor: one on ’em holdin’ a big sword in its hand, captured at Bosworth’s Field. Another holds a immense claymore took from the battlefield of Culloden.
Josiah wuz took up with the looks of that, and he said he wished he owned one, and, sez he, “how nice it would be if I only had a coat of armor!
“Why, Samantha,” sez he, “how economical! When a man got one suit, he never would have to be measured for another suit of clothes—never be cheated by tailors or pinched by ’em. Cool in the summer,” sez he—“how cool and good they would feel in dog-days, when broadcloth jest clings to you; and warm in winter. The cold wind couldn’t blow through them collars,” sez he, alludin’ to the helmets.
“And then,” sez he, “when your clothes got dirty, jest wet a towel and clean ’em off—you could do it in half an hour, and then they’d be good for another twenty years. I wonder,” sez he, “if I could dicker with the Widder Scott for one of them suits? Scott’ll never wear ’em agin,” sez he.
“WHEN THEY GOT DIRTY, JEST WET A TOWEL AND CLEAN ’EM OFF.”
But I hastened to set him right, and, sez I, “Scott never wore one of ’em. He knew too much. How do you spoze,” sez I, “you could git round and do your spring’s work a-luggin’ round a ton of old iron?” Sez I, “You couldn’t lift one of the legs on’t with both your hands, and how could you plough with one on ’em on?”
Sez Josiah dreamily—he wuzn’t hearin’ a word I said—
“If I could git it cheaper without that head-piece, I might use our coal scuttle.” Sez he, “I believe its shape is more stylish. Oh!” sez he, “what a excitement I would make a-walkin’ into the Jonesville meetin’-house with the hull thing on! how stylish and uneek it would be!
“Where is the Widder Scott?” sez he; “I’ll tackle her about it.”
Sez I, “She’s with her noble husband in a land where style and folly have no home.”
And then with deep argument I made him see that a suit of armor was not suitable for farm work or meetin’-house duties.
But he gin it up reluctant, and at the last he sez—“How it would clank and rattle as I passed round the contribution plate—how all the other deacons would open their eyes!”
But I silently led him away to where there wuz a suit of Scott’s clothes, the last ones he wore.
And I had a very large variety of emotions as I looked on the clothes that had wropped round the magician who had the power to charm the hull world with his magic pen. My emotions drownded out the talk of the guide and the remarks of Martin and Josiah. And on one side of the fireplace stood the famous mistletoe trunk, as it’s called, that poor Genevra hid herself in on her weddin’ night. The Baron’s daughter, you know, the one that her Pa called “The star of that goodly company,” meanin’, I spoze, that she looked better than any of the rest of the young folks that he’d invited in to the weddin’. Poor, pretty, young creeter! I wuz always dretful sorry for her.
You know what she said to Lovell, the young feller she wuz married to (he worshipped the very ground she walked on).
“I am weary of dancing now, she cried;
Here tarry a moment, I’ll hide, I’ll hide;
And, Lovell, be sure thou’rt the first to trace
The clue to my secret hiding-place.”
And you probble remember how the crazed young bridegroom, and the old Baron, and all the rest of the weddin’ guests hunted for the pretty, young creeter all night and all day, and for weeks and months and years—all in vain, in vain.
Till at last, when Lovell (poor, broken-hearted creeter!) wuz a old white-headed man, a old chest wuz found in the castle, and they see, on liftin’ up the led—
“A skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal robes of the lady fair.
Oh, sad was her fate! In sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest;
It closed with a spring, and her bridal bloom
Lay withering there in a living tomb.
Oh, the mistletoe bough!
Oh, the mistletoe bough!”
But I don’t have any idee that it wuz the mistletoe that caused the trouble. I spoze that it would have been jest the same if it had been red cedar hung up there, or dog-wood.
It wuz more likely a lack of common sense and lookin’ ahead. Genevra ort to tried the lock and see how tight the led shet down, and had a little forethought afore she got into it.
But poor, young creeter! I don’t spoze she thought of anything, only jest her light-hearted happiness and gayety, and wuz carried away by the thought of foolin’ Lovell a little and havin’ a good time.
Poor, pretty young thing, how she must have felt when the realizin’ sense come to her that she wuz trapped in a death-trap, and should never see the light of day agin, and, what wuz worse, should never see the light of love a-shinin’ in her Lovell’s eyes!
Oh, dear me! I wiped my eyes as this heart-searchin’ thought come to me—what if it had been my Tirzah Ann. And I couldn’t help thinkin’ that it would be jest like Tirzah to be ketched in that way. Maggie, my son’s wife, would have looked at the ketch before she let the led down, and she’d never wrinkled up a long white dress in that contracted place.
But I am indeed a-eppisodin’ and to resoom.
The entrance hall and the rooms leadin’ out of it are jest as Mr. Scott left ’em, and that made me feel curous as a dog to look round me, and I meditated and eppisoded to extreme lengths, to myself mostly.
The library is a large and handsome room, lined with books, twenty thousand in all. And underneath its deep, big winders runs the river Tweed.
How many times, when he got tired of writin’ down his rushin’ thoughts, did Walter stand and lean up aginst the winder, and look down into the rushin’ river!
I leaned up aginst the side of the winder where he had leaned, and on lookin’ down, I see that the river wuz still a-flowin’ along jest the same. But the eager, active mind wuz—where?
The dead water, with no soul, rushed and flowed on; the rocks couldn’t stop it—no, it made a leap downward and flowed on more free and placider.
And I sez to myself—“Death’s rocky portals is jest the same; after the leap down into the oncertainty—the darkness, it goes on in the Certainty and the Light, fuller and freer than ever.”
I didn’t say anything of these thoughts to my pardner. He wuz a-lookin’ round at one thing and another, and not havin’ the deep feelin’s that I had, as I could see.
But Al Faizi wuz a-lookin’ down into the water or at the beautiful landscape from another winder. And I’ll bet if I’d atted him about it his idees would have been congenial to mine and inspirin’. I jedged so from the looks of his liniment.
But I knew he didn’t care about talkin’ much, so I restrained my tongue.
The rest on ’em wuz a-prowlin’ round and a-lookin’ at relicks—priceless ones, some on ’em—and I methought to myself volumes as I looked on ’em.
The clock of Marie Antoinette wuz there—what hours, what hours that clock ticked off for Marie!
And then there wuz the inkstand of Lord Byron—and what black, gloomy ink and sometimes kinder nasty, that poor creeter dipped his pen in a good deal of the time—but lofty and riz up, too, at times, very.
And then there wuz two gold bees took from Napoleon’s carriage—what bees buzzed and hummed in his ambitious brain as the carriage whirled him on! Then there wuz a crucifix that belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots; most probble held clost to her poor, frightened heart as the pretty creeter walked away to have her head cut off.
A miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, a box from Miss Edgeworth, a purse made by Joanna Baillie, a little case from Miss Martineau, a snuff-box of George IV., and lots, and lots, and lots of relicks from Egypt and Italy and everywhere else. But I d’no as I see any from Jonesville. But oversights will take place, and contrarytemps will occur.
Wall, in the armory we see bows, and arrers, and spears, and muskets, and rifles. A musket that belonged to Rob Roy, a sword gin by Charles 1st to the Marquis of Montrose, a pair of pistols that belonged to the 1st Napoleon, found after the battle of Waterloo. Poor creeter, how he must have felt! No wonder he lost ’em! James VI. hunting flask, the key of old Tolbooth prison. And then we see thumb-screws, and a gag for scoldin’ wives—I looked on that with scorn.
But Josiah jest peered and squinted at it, and walked all round it, and took out a piece of string out of his pocket and tried to measure it, and I sez, “What on earth are you a-doin’?”
“Wall,” sez he, “I believe I could make one of ’em after I got home, with a little of Ury’s help.”
“What do you want of one, Josiah Allen?” sez I coldly.
“I NEVER SHOULD THINK OF USIN’ IT.”
“Oh, nothin’, nothin’ in the world, only I thought it would be uneek to own one. I never should think of usin’ it,” sez he, as I looked still more stonily at him.
“I should think not!” sez I, and my axents wuz about the temperture of five ice suckles.
But after we’d all turned away and wuz a-lookin’ at other relicks, I see him furtively apply that string to it, and mark down the dimensions on’t in his account book.
I d’no what under the sun the man wuz a-thinkin’ on, and I don’t believe he did.
Wall, we wandered round through the rooms for a long time, I with memories a-walkin’ tight to my side—what a host of ’em wuz a-follerin’ me of them shadow shapes—
Sweet Ellen Douglas, and Ivanhoe, and Rebecca, Marmion, Rob Roy, Guy Mannering, Rosamond, Nigel, the Wild Huntsman, Meg Merrilies, etc., etc., etc.
Oh, what a crowd of phantoms, and what different lookin’ creeters they wuz that wuz a-walkin’ up and down that room with me, onbeknown to Josiah and the rest!
And what curous words they wuz a-pourin’ out into my ears—words that I only could hear—some on ’em wuz in poetry—
“Charge, Chester, charge—
On, Stanley, on”—
or—
“Oh, mother, mother, what is bliss,
Oh, mother, what is bale—
Without my lover, what is Heaven?
And with him, what were Hell?”
And noble, practical idees, and solemn, historical ones wuz a-soundin’ in my ears. And figgers of noble knights and heroes and fair ladies wuz by my side, up and down the room they walked with me and in and out.
Some of the picters on the walls of the different rooms wuz dretful interestin’—dretful. The one on ’em that gin my heart and mind the deepest shock wuz the head of poor Mary, Queen of Scots, said to have been took a few hours after her execution. The mournful, noble beauty of that white, still face gin me feelin’s I couldn’t express, and I didn’t try to.
It seemed as if the home where her soul had so lately sojourned had a dignity and peace gin it, a-flowin’ out from the seens that soul wuz a-beholdin’ after it had cast off the tribulations and persecutions of earth.
It wuz a dretful interestin’ picter to me.
Then there wuz Charles XII. of Sweden, Charles II. and Cromwell, and lots of picters by Turner and other great artists.
The house from top to bottom wuz full to over-flowin’ with objects of interest. I could have stayed there for days and not seen half, but Time and Martin wuz a-hastenin’.
And we went from there to Dryburgh Abbey, to see the spot where Scott wuz buried.
We see his tomb and the place where his ancestors are buried. His son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart, who wrote Scott’s biography, is buried here.
In Dryburgh Abbey we see the winder where the White Maid of Avenal ust to appear.
But she didn’t appear to us, much as I’d loved to seen her (right there in broad daylight, with my pardner with me).
The Abbey is said to be hanted, mebby by them who have been imprisoned and tortured in the dungeons onderneath.
There are holes in the walls where the hands of prisoners were held by heavy wedges.
It don’t seem right to have a meetin’-house used to torture folks in, and so I told Josiah.
But he said that he didn’t know about it; he thought once in awhile it would do good to jest pinch Deacon Garvin’s thumb a little, to make him do right, or to make Deacon Bobbett come to terms, when he got too rambunktious to business meetin’s and wanted his own way.
“Yes,” sez I, “or to make Deacon Josiah Allen more willin’ to give to charitable objects.”
His liniment fell.
“Oh, the Charitable Object has more done for him than I do, they’re always raisin’ money for him.”
That wuz his favorite mode of puttin’ off from givin’ to charity.
“And,” sez I, “you see from Loyola and Cromwell down to Josiah Allen the carnal mind wants to punish somebody else for doin’ suthin’ different from what you want ’em to do.”
“Wall,” sez he, “I wonder if Martin hain’t a-goin’ back? I believe it’s a-goin’ to rain, and you ort to have sunthin’ to eat, Samantha. It worries me to have you see so much on an empty stumick.”
“Wall,” sez I, for his thoughtfulness touched me, “some dinner would taste good.”
Sez he, in a low, thrillin’ voice—“Samantha,” and tears wuz almost in his eyes as he spoke, “imagine I am in the barn door, and the smell of roast chicken, and baked potatoes, and lemon puddin’, and cream biscuit floats out, a-wroppin’ you all round, as you are a-standin’ in the back door a-callin’ me in to dinner. As you stand there a-lookin’ perfectly beautiful,” sez he.
Agin my heart wuz touched, and sez I, “And roses under the winders, and voyalets, and the blossomin’ trees, and the new-mown grass in the orchard a-smellin’ sweet as the scent comes in on the warm south breeze.”
“Yes,” sez he, “and the good, rich coffee, and cream cheese, and honey, and things.”
“Yes,” sez I, “and after dinner we could set down, and set there as long as we wanted to.”
“I wouldn’t stir in over three days!” sez he, “not an inch from my good old rockin’-chair.
“But,” sez he, with a deep sithe, “them days wuz too happy to last.”
“No,” sez I, “Providence permittin’, we will see agin the cliffs of Jonesville; and home never seemed so sweet as it will when troubles and toil and foreign travel is all past, and our two barks are moored once more in our own peaceful door-yard.”
“Never to be onmoored!” sez he, with a almost fierce mean. And my own longin’ heart and achin’ back and tired-out eyeballs gin a deep assent to his remarks.
Sweet, sweet is the fruits of foreign travel, but lofty and precipitus are the thorny branches it hangs on, and wearin’ in the extreme is the job of pickin’ ’em offen foreign fields and bringin’ ’em home in our mind basket.
And happy are they who carry ’em back fresh and hull and sound—some folks carry ’em home in a sort of a jell or a jam—dretful mixed up and promiscus like.