|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 47
During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of
the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the
banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water. It is a
dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river
has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a single day's ride
through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than
Abbotsford House. I was much disappointed in finding the premises
undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the
house and the river had been cut down. This is to be regretted the more,
because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand
that waved its wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain had been
removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the
centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the
favourite dog "Percy," had been taken up and thrown among some loose
stones. One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once
presided over it. Everything connected with the great Poet is of
interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to
diminish that interest. We entered the house, and were conducted through
the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all
descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times. The floor is of
white and black marble. In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow
arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at
each end. This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of
armour, which is arranged with great taste. We were next shown into the
Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room is
a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after
the execution. Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this
room. But by far the finest apartment in the building is the
Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony
furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand
volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same
chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which
was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of
this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.
There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid
trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all
in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of
the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In
passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was
from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and
dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and
return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse
plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase
Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure
its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place
will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late
Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I
left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.
In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a
drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's
Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to
where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own
grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed
the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his
grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would
shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his
wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more,
and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here.
The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in
this place, and the people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle,
passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leaving the latter
place, we had to travel by coach. But no matter how one travels here, he
travels at a more rapid rate than in America. The distance from Langholm
to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the
journey. It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the
inside had been taken up. We changed horses, and took in and put out
passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible. The road was
as smooth as a mirror.
We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna
Green. This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is
noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by
the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married
all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to
suit all. It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for
no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages
have taken place than in any other part in the world. A ride of eight or
nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly
through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with
sheep and cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns
of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle. I was really
glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion
than I of the top of that coach.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|