Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey
Washington Irving
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ABBOTSFORD AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY
BY
WASHINGTON IRVING
CONTENTS
ABBOTSFORD
NEWSTEAD ABBEY
ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY
ABBEY GARDEN
PLOUGH MONDAY
OLD SERVANTS
SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY
ANNESLEY HALL
THE LAKE
ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST
ROOK CELL
LITTLE WHITE LADY
ABBOTSFORD.
By WASHINGTON IRVING.
I sit down to perform my promise of giving you an account of a visit
made many years since to Abbotsford. I hope, however, that you do not
expect much from me, for the travelling notes taken at the time are so
scanty and vague, and my memory so extremely fallacious, that I fear I
shall disappoint you with the meagreness and crudeness of my details.
Late in the evening of August 29, 1817, I arrived at the ancient little
border town of Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had come down
from Edinburgh, partly to visit Melrose Abbey and its vicinity, but
chiefly to get sight of the "mighty minstrel of the north." I had a
letter of introduction to him from Thomas Campbell, the poet, and had
reason to think, from the interest he had taken in some of my earlier
scribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an intrusion.
On the following morning, after an early breakfast, I set off in a
postchaise for the Abbey. On the way thither I stopped at the gate of
Abbotsford, and sent the postilion to the house with the letter of
introduction and my card, on which I had written that I was on my way
to the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether it would be
agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not yet been made a Baronet) to receive
a visit from me in the course of the morning.
While the postilion was on his errand, I had time to survey the
mansion. It stood some short distance below the road, on the side of a
hill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet but a snug gentleman's
cottage, with something rural and picturesque in its appearance. The
whole front was overrun with evergreens, and immediately above the
portal was a great pair of elk horns, branching out from beneath the
foliage, and giving the cottage the look of a hunting lodge. The huge
baronial pile, to which this modest mansion in a manner gave birth was
just emerging into existence; part of the walls, surrounded by
scaffolding, already had risen to the height of the cottage, and the
courtyard in front was encumbered by masses of hewn stone.
The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the establishment.
Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leaping
on one of the blocks of stone, began a furious barking. His alarum
brought out the whole garrison of dogs:
"Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree;"
all open-mouthed and vociferous.--I should correct my quotation;--not a
cur was to be seen on the premises: Scott was too true a sportsman, and
had too high a veneration for pure blood, to tolerate a mongrel.
In a little while the "lord of the castle" himself made his appearance.
I knew him at once by the descriptions I had read and heard, and the
likenesses that had been published of him. He was tall, and of a large
and powerful frame. His dress was simple, and almost rustic. An old
green shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen
pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that
had evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding
himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor. By
his side jogged along a large iron-gray stag-hound of most grave
demeanor, who took no part in the clamor of the canine rabble, but
seemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to give
me a courteous reception.
Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty tone,
welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived at the
door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand: "Come, drive
down, drive down to the house," said he, "ye're just in time for
breakfast, and afterward ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey."
I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made my
breakfast. "Hout, man," cried he, "a ride in the morning in the keen
air of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast."
I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a few
moments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There was no one
present but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott, her eldest
daughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, two
or three years younger, Walter, a well-grown stripling, and Charles, a
lively boy, eleven or twelve years of age. I soon felt myself quite at
home, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I
had thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let
off so lightly. "You must not think our neighborhood is to be read in a
morning, like a newspaper," said Scott. "It takes several days of study
for an observant traveller that has a relish for auld world trumpery.
After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall not
be able to accompany you, as I have some household affairs to attend
to, but I will put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learned
in all things touching the old ruin and the neighborhood it stands in,
and he and my friend Johnny Bower will tell you the whole truth about
it, with a good deal more that you are not called upon to believe--
unless you be a true and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you come
back, I'll take you out on a ramble about the neighborhood. To-morrow
we will take a look at the Yarrow, and the next day we will drive over
to Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine old ruin well worth your seeing"--in
a word, before Scott had got through his plan, I found myself committed
for a visit of several days, and it seemed as if a little realm of
romance was suddenly opened before me.
* * * * *
After breakfast I accordingly set oft for the Abbey with my little
friend Charles, whom I found a most sprightly and entertaining
companion. He had an ample stock of anecdote about the neighborhood,
which he had learned from his father, and many quaint remarks and sly
jokes, evidently derived from the same source, all which were uttered
with a Scottish accent and a mixture of Scottish phraseology, that gave
them additional flavor.
On our way to the Abbey he gave me some anecdotes of Johnny Bower to
whom his father had alluded; he was sexton of the parish and custodian
of the ruin, employed to keep it in order and show it to strangers;--a
worthy little man, not without ambition in his humble sphere. The death
of his predecessor had been mentioned in the newspapers, so that his
name had appeared in print throughout the land. When Johnny succeeded
to the guardianship of the ruin, he stipulated that, on his death, his
name should receive like honorable blazon; with this addition, that it
should be from, the pen of Scott. The latter gravely pledged himself to
pay this tribute to his memory, and Johnny now lived in the proud
anticipation of a poetic immortality.
I found Johnny Bower a decent-looking little old man, in blue coat and
red waistcoat. He received us with much greeting, and seemed delighted
to see my young companion, who was full of merriment and waggery,
drawing out his peculiarities for my amusement. The old man was one of
the most authentic and particular of cicerones; he pointed out
everything in the Abbey that had been described by Scott in his "Lay of
the Last Minstrel:" and would repeat, with broad Scottish accent, the
passage which celebrated it.
Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made me remark the beautiful
carvings of leaves and flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisite
delicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of centuries, retaining their
sharpness as if fresh from the chisel; rivalling, as Scott has said,
the real objects of which they were imitations:
"Nor herb nor flowret glistened there
But was carved in the cloister arches as fair."
He pointed out, also, among the carved work a nun's head of much
beauty, which he said Scott always stopped to admire--"for the shirra
had a wonderful eye for all sic matters."
I would observe that Scott seemed to derive more consequence in the
neighborhood from being sheriff of the county than from being poet.
In the interior of the Abbey Johnny Bower conducted me to the identical
stone on which Stout "William of Deloraine" and the monk took their seat
on that memorable night when the wizard's book was to be rescued from
the grave. Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond Scott in the minuteness of
his antiquarian research, for he had discovered the very tomb of the
wizard, the position of which had been left in doubt by the poet. This
he boasted to have ascertained by the position of the oriel window, and
the direction in which the moonbeams fell at night, through the stained
glass, casting the shadow to the red cross on the spot; as had all been
specified in the poem. "I pointed out the whole to the shirra," said
he, "and he could na' gainsay but it was varra clear." I found
afterward that Scott used to amuse himself with the simplicity of the
old man, and his zeal in verifying every passage of the poem, as though
it had authentic history, and that he always acquiesced in his
deductions. I subjoin the description of the wizard's grave, which
called forth the antiquarian research of Johnny Bower.
"Lo warrior! now the cross of red,
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone,
Which the bloody cross was traced upon:
He pointed to a sacred nook:
An iron bar the warrior took;
And the monk made a sign with his withered hand,
The grave's huge portal to expand.
"It was by dint of passing strength,
That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there to see,
How the light broke forth so gloriously,
Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
And, issuing from the tomb,
Showed the monk's cowl and visage pale,
Danced on the dark brown warrior's mail,
And kissed his waving plume.
"Before their eyes the wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day:
His hoary beard in silver rolled,
He seemed some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapped him round;
With a wrought Spanish baldrie bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea;
His left hand held his book of might;
A silver cross was in his right:
The lamp was placed beside his knee."
The fictions of Scott had become facts with honest Johnny Bower. From
constantly living among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and pointing out
the scenes of the poem, the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" had, in a
manner, become interwoven with his whole existence, and I doubt whether
he did not now and then mix up his own identity with the personages of
some of its cantos.
He could not bear that any other production of the poet should be
preferred to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." "Faith," said he to me,
"it's just e'en as gude a thing as Mr. Scott has written--an' if he
were stannin' there I'd tell him so--an' then he'd lauff."
He was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. "He'll come here
sometimes," said he, "with great folks in his company, an' the first I
know of it is his voice, calling out 'Johnny!--Johnny Bower!'--and
when I go out, I am sure to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word.
Hell stand and crack and lauff wi' me, just like an auld wife--and to
think that of a man who has such an awfu' knowledge o' history!"
One of the ingenious devices on which the worthy little man prided
himself, was to place a visitor opposite to the Abbey, with his back to
it, and bid him bend down and look at it between his legs. This, he
said, gave an entire different aspect to the ruin. Folks admired the
plan amazingly, but as to the "leddies," they were dainty on the
matter, and contented themselves with looking from under their arms. As
Johnny Bower piqued himself upon showing everything laid down in the
poem, there was one passage that perplexed him sadly. It was the
opening of one of the cantos:
"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." etc.
In consequence of this admonition, many of the most devout pilgrims to
the ruin could not be contented with a daylight inspection, and
insisted it could be nothing unless seen by the light of the moon. Now,
unfortunately, the moon shines but for a part of the month; and, what
is still more unfortunate, is very apt in Scotland to be obscured by
clouds and mists. Johnny was sorely puzzled, therefore, how to
accommodate his poetry-struck visitors with this indispensable
moonshine. At length, in a lucky moment, he devised a substitute. This
was a great double tallow candle stuck upon the end of a pole, with
which he could conduct his visitors about the ruins on dark nights, so
much to their satisfaction that, at length, he began to think it even
preferable to the moon itself. "It does na light up a' the Abbey at
since, to be sure," he would say, "but then you can shift it about and
show the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only shines on one
side."
Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have elapsed since the time I treat
of, that it is more than probable his simple head lies beneath the
walls of his favorite Abbey. It is to be hoped his humble ambition has
been gratified, and his name recorded by the pen of the man he so loved
and honored.
* * * * *
After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott proposed a ramble to show me
something of the surrounding country. As we sallied forth, every dog in
the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-hound
Maida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal, and a great
favorite of Scott's, and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild,
thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived to the years of discretion; and
Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendent ears,
and a mild eye, the parlor favorite. When in front of the house, we
were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the kitchen
wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and
comrade.
In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in conversation to notice
his dogs and speak to them, as if rational companions; and indeed there
appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants
on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported
himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed to
consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and
decorum in our society. As he jogged along a little distance ahead of
us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at
his ears, and endeavor to tease him into a frolic. The old dog would
keep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then
seeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length he
would make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the
dust; then giving a glance at us, as much as to say, "You see,
gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense," would resume his
gravity and jog on as before.
Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. "I make no doubt," said
he, "when Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throw's gravity
aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to
do so in our company, and seems to say, 'Ha' done with your nonsense,
youngsters: what will the laird and that other gentleman think of me if
I give way to such foolery?'"
Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on board an armed yacht in
which he made an excursion with his friend Adam Ferguson. They had
taken much notice of the boatswain, who was a fine sturdy seaman, and
evidently felt flattered by their attention. On one occasion the crew
were "piped to fun," and the sailors were dancing and cutting all kinds
of capers to the music of the ship's band. The boatswain looked on with
a wistful eye, as if he would like to join in; but a glance at Scott
and Ferguson showed that there was a struggle with his dignity, fearing
to lessen himself in their eyes. At length one at his messmates came
up, and seizing him by the arm, challenged him to a jig. The boatswain,
continued Scott, after a little hesitation complied, made an awkward
gambol or two, like our friend Maida, but soon gave it up. "It's of no
use," said he, jerking up his waistband and giving a side glance at us,
"one can't dance always nouther."
Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another of his dogs, a
little shamefaced terrier, with large glassy eyes, one of the most
sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. If ever
he whipped him, he said, the little fellow would sneak off and hide
himself from the light of day, in a lumber garret, whence there was no
drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if
chopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth with humble and
downcast look, but would skulk away again if any one regarded him.
While we were discussing the humors and peculiarities of our canine
companions, some object provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and
petulant barking from the smaller fry, but it was some time before
Maida was sufficiently aroused to ramp forward two or three bounds and
join in the chorus, with a deep-mouthed bow-wow!
It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned instantly, wagging his
tail, and looking up dubiously in his master's face; uncertain whether
he would censure or applaud.
"Aye, aye, old boy!" cried Scott, "you have done wonders. You have
shaken the Eildon hills with your roaring; you may now lay by your
artillery for the rest of the day. Maida is like the great gun at
Constantinople," continued he; "it takes so long to get it ready, that
the small guns can fire off a dozen times first, but when it does go
off it plays the very d----l."
These simple anecdotes may serve to show the delightful play of Scott's
humors and feelings in private life. His domestic animals were his
friends; everything about him seemed to rejoice in the light of his
countenance; the face of the humblest dependent brightened at his
approach, as if he anticipated a cordial and cheering word. I had
occasion to observe this particularly in a visit which we paid to a
quarry, whence several men were cutting stone for the new edifice; who
all paused from their labor to have a pleasant "crack wi' the laird."
One of them was a burgess of Selkirk, with whom Scott had some joke
about-the old song:
"Up with the Souters o' Selkirk,
And down with the Earl of Horne."
Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, besides leading the psalmody on
Sunday, taught the lads and lasses of the neighborhood dancing on week
days, in the winter time, when out-of-door labor was scarce.
Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow, with a healthful
complexion and silver hair, and a small round-crowned white hat. He had
been about to shoulder a nod, but paused, and stood looking at Scott,
with a slight sparkling of his blue eye, as if waiting his turn; for
the old fellow knew himself to be a favorite.
Scott accosted him in an affable tone, and asked for a pinch of snuff.
The old man drew forth a horn snuff-box. "Hoot, man," said Scott, "not
that old mull: where's the bonnie French one that I brought you from
Paris?" "Troth, your honor," replied the old fellow, "sic a mull as
that is nae for week-days."
On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me that when absent at Paris, he
had purchased several trifling articles as presents for his dependents,
and among others the gay snuff-box in question, which was so carefully
reserved for Sundays, by the veteran. "It was not so much the value of
the gifts," said he, "that pleased them, as the idea that the laird
should think of them when so far away."
The old man in question, I found, was a great favorite with Scott. If I
recollect right, he had been a soldier in early life, and his straight,
erect person, his ruddy yet rugged countenance, his gray hair, and an
arch gleam in his blue eye, reminded me of the description of Edie
Ochiltree. I find that the old fellow has since been introduced by
Wilkie, in his picture of the Scott family.
* * * * *
We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar in Scottish song,
and rendered classic by pastoral muse, long before Scott had thrown the
rich mantle of his poetry over them. What a thrill of pleasure did I
feel when first I saw the broom-covered tops of the Cowden Knowes,
peeping above the gray hills of the Tweed: and what touching
associations were called up by the sight of Ettrick Vale, Galla Water,
and the Braes of Yarrow! Every turn brought to mind some household air
--some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by which I had been lulled
to sleep in my childhood; and with them the looks and voices of those
who had sung them, and who were now no more. It is these melodies,
chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected with the
memory of those we have loved, and who have passed away, that clothe
Scottish landscape with such tender associations. The Scottish songs,
in general, have something intrinsically melancholy in them; owing, in
all probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those who composed
them: who were often mere shepherds, tending their flocks in the
solitary glens, or folding them among the naked hills. Many of these
rustic bards have passed away, without leaving a name behind them;
nothing remains of them but their sweet and touching songs, which live,
like echoes, about the places they once inhabited. Most of these simple
effusions of pastoral poets are linked with some favorite haunt of the
poet; and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, green
shaw or running stream, in Scotland, but has some popular air connected
with it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train of
delicious fancies and feelings.
Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensible I was to the
power of these simple airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, the
birthplace of Robert Burns. I passed a whole morning about "the banks
and braes of bonnie Doon," with his tender little love verses running
in my head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at work among the ruins of
Kirk Alloway, which was to be converted into a school-house. Finding
the purpose of my visit, he left his work, sat down with me on a grassy
grave, close by where Burns' father was buried, and talked of the poet,
whom he had known personally. He said his songs were familiar to the
poorest and most illiterate of the country folk, "_and it seemed to
him as if the country had grown more beautiful, since Burns had written
his bonnie little songs about it._"
I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the subject of the popular
songs of his country, and he seemed gratified to find me so alive to
them. Their effect in calling up in my mind the recollections of early
times and scenes in which I had first heard them, reminded him, he
said, of the lines of his poor Mend, Leyden, to the Scottish muse:
"In youth's first morn, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had passed away,
Remembered like a morning dream,
I heard the dulcet measures float,
In many a liquid winding note,
Along the bank of Teviot's stream.
"Sweet sounds! that oft have soothed to rest
The sorrows of my guileless breast,
And charmed away mine infant tears;
Fond memory shall your strains repeat,
Like distant echoes, doubly sweet,
That on the wild the traveller hears."
Scott went on to expatiate on the popular songs of Scotland. "They are
a part of our national inheritance," said he, "and something that we
may truly call our own. They have no foreign taint; they have the pure
breath of the heather and the mountain breeze. All genuine legitimate
races that have descended from the ancient Britons; such as the Scotch,
the Welsh, and the Irish, have national airs. The English have none,
because they are not natives of the soil, or, at least, are mongrels.
Their music is all made up of foreign scraps, like a harlequin jacket,
or a piece of mosaic. Even in Scotland, we have comparatively few
national songs in the eastern part, where we have had most influx of
strangers. A real old Scottish song is a cairngorm--a gem of our own
mountains; or rather, it is a precious relic of old times, that bears
the national character stamped upon it--like a cameo, that shows what
the national visage was in former days, before the breed was crossed."
While Scott was thus discoursing, we were passing up a narrow glen,
with the dogs beating about, to right and left, when suddenly a
blackcock burst upon the wing.
"Aha!" cried Scott, "there will be a good shot for Master Walter; we
must send him this way with his gun, when we go home. Walter's the
family sportsman now, and keeps us in game. I have pretty nigh resigned
my gun to him; for I find I cannot trudge about as briskly as
formerly."
Our ramble took us on the hills commanding an extensive prospect.
"Now," said Scott, "I have brought you, like the pilgrim in the
Pilgrim's Progress, to the top of the Delectable Mountains, that I may
show you all the goodly regions hereabouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, and
Smalholme; and there you have Gallashiels, and Torwoodlie, and
Gallawater; and in that direction you see Teviotdale, and the Braes of
Yarrow; and Ettrick stream, winding along, like a silver thread, to
throw itself into the Tweed."
He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song, and
most of which had recently received a romantic interest from his own
pen. In fact, I saw a great part of the border country spread out
before me, and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances which
had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about me for a time with
mute surprise, I may almost say with disappointment. I beheld a mere
succession of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eye
could reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of trees,
that one could almost see a stout fly walking along their profile; and
the far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream, flowing between bare
hills, without a tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been
the magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it had
a greater charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England.
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