A VISIT TO ABBOTSFORD

Evening Star, Issue 22881, 12 February 1938, Page 3

A VISIT TO ABBOTSFORD

[Written by A. H. M’Lintock, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

No amount of reading or viewing photographs can (Juite convey the charm and fascination of the Scott country, as the Border district round Abbotsford is now called. As in most of my wanderings about England and Scotland, I was favoured with ideal weather conditions. It was a lovely summer day, with big fleecy clouds sailing serenely overhead and throwing rich shadows across the thickly-wooded hills. _ln places the bell heather was bursting into full bloom and giving to the landscape that warmth of colour which must be seen to be really appreciated and understood.

Naturally enough, the Tweed Valley is a happy hunting ground for tourists, not merely for the Scott associations at Abbotsford, hut also on account of the ruins of those magnificent Border abbeys, Melrose, Jedburgh, and Dryburgh. It is comparatively easy to visit these places, along with Abbotsford, on a ’ single trip, for buses from Glasgow and Edinburgh make the journey in an afternoon. In fact, motor tours are so well organised and _ the time of travelling so short that in a single week it is possible for the visitor to Scotland to see a great many of the most interesting and famous scenes and places. Unfortunately when things are rushed mental confusion undoubtedly follows, and in my own case, even after a month’s leisurely tour of Scotland, I find it difficult to recall impressions clearly or accurately. My arrival at Abbotsford coincided with that of two huge buses packed with tourists. Outside the entrance gate a piper in Highland costume was playing lustily. A small box, prominently displayed, served as a reminder to one and all that his welcome_ did not spring from disinterested motives. I cast a quick eye over the new arrivals to see how; they reacted. The party was of the usual type that one meets in all these well-known resorts—some English visitors from the south, a few Scots, a sprinkling of Americans, one or two Indian students, and. as a final touch, a forlorn-looking Japanese. I wondered if he were an admirer of Scott or had merely joined the party out of boredom. During the whole course of the tour, however, he appeared really interested, and studied intently the historical treasures that were on view.

The glimpse of Abbotsford from the road, where the tourist entrance is, presents rather a disappointing aspect, and there is no doubt that Ruskin, when he described Scott’s creation as “ perhaps the most incongruous pile that gentlemanly modernism ever designed,” spoke the truth. It is certainly more extraordinary than beautiful. But it meant the world to Scott, who desired it for its outlook and romantic surroundings. Before Scott began his tree planting and building activities the spot was merely the site of an old farm. Where now are hundreds of acres of flourishing plantations which have all the appearance of being twice as old as they really are, there were in his day but a few struggling firs. It is difficult to imagine a more complete contrast to the of to-day, for, whatever the house might be, its setting and surroundings are exquisite. The entrance is through a turreted gateway—a copy from Linlithgow Palace—rising out of a lofty embattled wall. By its side, as emblems of feudal authority, hang two rusty jougs, relics of the great citadel of, the Old Douglasses, Thrieve Castle, in Galloway. This, indeed, provides the' key to Abbotsford. Scott ransacked all Scotland for ideas, while Abbotsford was being built, and incorporated them in its design. The result has been that Abbotsford seems more like an architectural museum, where odd scraps, introduced at .random mainly on account of their historical associations, are pieced together in more or less haphazard fashion. At each end of the house there is a tall tower, the one not the least like the other', and everywhere a myriad of indentations, parapets, and gables, gargoyles of fantastic shape, and stained glass windows, groups of Elizabethan chimneys, and balconies of various fashions, stones carved with innumerable heraldries, set in at odd corners of the walls, provide an amazing incongruity, surely unique in all Scotland.

At the entrance to the hall, where tickets of admission were supplied on payment of one shilling, each party was taken over by a guide. I don’t know how many people secure entrance to Abbotsford in the course of a season, but it must run to a considerable number. The money, I suppose, goes to the payment of the guides, as well as to the upkeep of Abbotsford itself, where Scott’s descendants still live. Whatever the feelings of disappointment experienced by viewing the house from the outside, there is no doubt that the interior affords ample compensations to the visitor, for the rooms open to the public constitute a treasure house of personal memorials and historical relics. Indeed, the marvel is that Scott found time.to collect so much. The hall itself is panelled with richlycarved oak brought from the old Abbey of Dunfermline, and floored with black and white marble from the Hebrides. Around the cornice of this most interesting room are escutcheons of many

famous Border families, some of which were pointed out as belonging to the Douglas, Maxwell, Kerr, Elliott, Home, and other heroes of the Border Minstrelsy. To add to the affebt, two full suits of armour fill niches at one end of the room. One is supposed to have belonged to Sir John Cheney. What a sight to have seen him in action, swinging his enormous two-handed sword that looks to-day beyond the power of one man to wield! Everywhere an endless variety of cuirasses—some from the field of Waterloo —helmets in equal profusion, stirrups and spurs, swords, claymores, rapiers—even chain mail from a corpse of one of Tipoo’s bodyguard at Seringapatam, and each possessing some historical association that made the inspection doubly interesting, _ were grouped about in carefree profusion. A series of German executioners’ swords was also showm us, on one of which w r as engraved, as our guide rendered it:

Dust, when I strike, to dust. From sleepless grave, Sweet J esu! stoop a sin-stained soul to save. If the hall is sufficiently imposing, the armoury simply overwhelms one. There is no private collection like it

in the world. Although I did my best to remember all that was pointed out, and, like one or two others, took notes frantically, I must admit that only a few of the more outstanding exhibits remained in my memory. Scott did not confine his collection to Scotland. From far and wide weapons and curios were gathered to delight his eye. The walls were entirely covered with small pieces of armour and weapons—swords, firelocks, spears, arrows, dirks, and daggers; Among a thousand such relics I remember Rob Roy’s gun, with his initials R.M.C.—Robert MacGregor Campbell; a magnificent swotd given to the great Montrose by Charles 1., and Napoleon’s pistols, found in his carriage at Waterloo. As a final touch, trophies of the chase wore suspended over all the doorways, and in one corner, a dark one as it, ought to be, there was a complete assortment of old Scottish instruments of torture. Finally, as if there were even yet not enough to see, a few interesting old prints occupied what little wall space was left. One of these was a picture of “ Mnckle-mouthed Meg,” who was so ill-favoured that she could find no one willing to become her husband. A young lad of good family, r under sentence of death for some escapade or other, was given the choice —the gallows or Meg. He chose the gallows. But things did not end quite there. _ At the sight of the halter his spirits quailed, and he willingly agreed to marry Meg for his life and liberty. The match, our guide assured us, was a success. The armoury was Scott’s smoking room, and it is easy to imagine him, - after the ladies had retired to the drawing room, pointing out with delight to his guests the various treasures grouped on all sides. Beyond the armoury lies what was in Scott’s day the dining room, richly carved and ornamented, most of the details being copies from Melrose Abbey.- The walls, hung in crimson, are almost covered with pictures, for the most part uninteresting. But the view, from the huge projecting bow window' is magnificent. I looked out across a lawn of greenest turf, bathed in the soft afternoon sunshine. Beyond it rippled the Tweed, fringed with birch woods and backed with the wooded hills of Ettrick forest. It was in this room that Scott died on September 21st, 1832. And the last garments he wore —dark green coat, striped waistcoat, drab trousers, beaver hat of fawn colour—are still on view for all to see.

The*drawing room -where Scott entertained Byron and Maria Edgeworth is notable for its furniture and its lovely old Chinese hand-painted wallpaper. Antique ebony chairs, crimson hangings, cabinets, china, mirrors, and portraits afford a pleasing contrast from the more sombre and serious rooms before visited. The chandelier, fitted for gas, is still the same, Abbotsford, so w© were told, being the second house in Scotland to have the new method of illumination installed. It was so great a marvel that people from far and near came to see the novelty. The largest room we saw was, naturally, the library. It is really in two sections, the larger being more or less for reference, and the smaller the study. The roof was again of' carved oak—a very rich pattern, borrowed from Roslin Castle and Melrose. The bookcases, also richly carved, reached high up the walls on all sides. It is said that there are 15,000 to 20,000 volumes, many of them exceedingly rare and valuable. A very fine set of books and manuscripts refer to the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. Scott gathered them from all corners of Scotland. A further evidence of his love for curios was shown in the odds and ends displayed in a cabinet by the wide window, which again overlooked the Tweed, There, for example, was a fragment of one of Queen Mary’s dresses; a crucifix used by her before her execution; a lock of Nelson’s hair; Prince Charlie’s drinking cup; Rob Roy’s purse; Napoleon’s blotting book and pen tray; and a host of other things, each interesting because of its history. What made Abbotsford indeed unforgettable to me was the inspection of Scott’s study, preserved undisturbed as he left it. This room, perhaps about 20ft square, contained nothing but a small writing table in the centre, a plain and rather uncomfortable armchair, covered with black leather, and a single chair beside, plain symptom that this was no place for company. The small table possessed an added interest to me, for our guide informed us that, but three years ago, when certain portions were being renovated, a bundle of Scott’s old love-letters, written to his wife before theix; marriage, was discovered in a secret drawer. Even to-day, then, for all its changes, Abbotsford still possesses something of the charm of old romance. On the wall were hanging two portraits, one of Rob Roy and a head of Claverhouse—Bonnie Dundee. A few Highland weapons, targets, and the like completed the furnishing. In a corner of this room a private staircase leading to Scott’s bedroom attracted my attention. Down this Scott climbed in the quiet hours of the night and worked, as perhaps no other writer has done, in a desperate effort to pay off his debts. While the other rooms to me possessed no appeal beyond what a fine museum collection possesses, I really felt in this plain study that tho visit to Abbotsford was worth while. Here, at any rate, I could recapture the past. But I was not allowed to dream for long. A fresh invasion of tourists had arrived, pressing in eagerly to see all the siglits, so with something of a sigh I said farewell to Scott and Abbotsford, and the lovely Tweed, and began my journey westward to Dumfries and the land of Burns.