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 A.tbMLY 1 (JEI/T ^TAN^I^L'T'ErS^KE 
 
 *& vol. 8, So. ia. Sept. & , ills. Annual Subscription, SiO.tX^ff 
 
 ABBOTSFORD 
 
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LOVELL'S LIBRARY-CATALOGUE. 
 
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 46. 
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 50. 
 
 Hyperion, by H. W, Longfellow. .20 
 Outre-Mer, by H. W. Longfellow. 20 
 
 The Happy Boy, by BjOrnson 10 
 
 Arne, by Bjornson 10 
 
 Frankenstein, by Mrs. Shelley... 10 
 
 The Last of the Mohicans 20 
 
 Clytie, by Joseph Hatton 20 
 
 The Moonstone, by ( ollins.P'tI.10 
 The Moonstone, by Collins, P' til. 10 
 Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. 20 
 
 The Coming Race, by Lytton 10 
 
 Leila, by Lord Lytton 10 
 
 The Three Spaniards, bv Walker. 20 
 TheTricks of the GreeksUnveiled.20 
 L'Abbe Constantin, by Halevy..20 
 Freckles, by R. F. Redcliff. . . .20 
 The Dark Colleen, by Harriett Jay.20 
 They Were Married! by Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice 10 
 
 Seeker? after God, by Farrar 20 
 
 The Spanish Nun, byDeQuincey.10 
 
 The Green Mountain Boys 20 
 
 Fleurette, by Eugene Scribe 20 
 
 Second Thoughts, by Broughton.20 
 The New Magdalen, by Collins.. 20 
 
 Divorce, by Margaret Lee 20 
 
 Life of Washington, by Henley. .20 
 Social Etiquette, by Mrs. Saville.15 
 Single Heart and Double Face.. 10 
 
 Irene, by Carl Detlef 20 
 
 Vice VersS, by F. Anstey 20 
 
 Ernest Mai tra vers, by Lord Lytton20 
 The Haunted House and Calileron 
 
 the Courtier, by Lord Lytton. . 10 
 John Halifax, by Mips Mulock. . .20 
 
 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 
 
 The Cryptogram, by Jules Verne. 10 
 
 Life of Marion, by Horry 20 
 
 Paul and Virginia 10 
 
 Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens. .2) 
 
 The Hermits, by Kingsley 20 
 
 An Adventure in Thulc, and Mar- 
 riage of Moira Fergus, Black .10 
 
 A Marriage in High Life 20 
 
 Robin, by Mrs. Parr 20 
 
 Two on a Tower, by Thos. Hardy.20 
 
 Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson 10 
 
 Alice; or, the Mysteries, being 
 
 Part II. of Ernest Mai tra vers. .20 
 Duke of Kandos, by A. Mathey . ..20 
 
 Baron Munchausen 10 
 
 A Princess of Thule, by Black.. 20 
 The Secret Despatch, by Grant, 20 
 Early Days of Christianity, by 
 
 Canon Farrar, D D., Part I. . . .20 
 Early Days of Christianity, Pt. 11.20 
 Vicar of Wakefield, by Goldsmith . 10 
 Progress and Poverty, by Henry 
 
 George 20 
 
 The Spy, by Cooper 20 
 
 East Lyune, by Mrs. Wood... 20 
 A Strange Story, by Lord Lytton.. .20 
 
 Adam Bede, by Eliot, Part 1 15 
 
 Adam Bede, Part II 15 
 
 The Golden Shaft, by Gibbon. . . .20 
 
 Portia, by The Duchess 20 
 
 Last Days of Pompeii, by Lytton.. 20 
 The Two Duchesses, by Mathey. .20 
 Tom Brown's School Days — 20 
 
 62. The Wooing O't, by Mrs. Alex- 
 
 ander, Part 1 15 
 
 The Wooing O't, Part II 15 
 
 63. The Vendetta, by Balzac 20 
 
 64. Hypatia,byChas.'Kingsley,P'tI.15 
 Hypatia, by Kingsley, Part II 16 
 
 65. Selma, by Mrs. J. G. Smith. . . .15 
 
 66. Margaret and her Bridesmaids. .20 
 
 67. Horse Shoe Robinson, Part I 15 
 
 Horse Shoe Robinson, Part II ... 1 5 
 
 68. Gulliver's Travels, by Swift 20 
 
 69. Amos Barton, by George Eliot... 10 
 
 70. The Berber, by W E . Mayo 20 
 
 71. Silas Marner, by George Eliot. . .10 
 
 72. The Queen of the County 20 
 
 73. Life of Cromwell, by 'Hood... 15 
 
 74. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte'. 20 
 
 75. Child's History of England 20 
 
 76. Molly Bawn, by The Duchess... 20 
 
 77. Pillone, bv William Bergsoe 15 
 
 | 78. Phyllis, by The Duchess 20 
 
 79. Romola, by Geo. Eliot, Parti. . .15 
 Romola, by Geo. El iot. Part II . . 1 5 
 
 80. Science in Short Chanters 20 
 
 81. Zanoni, by Lord Lytton 20 
 
 82. A Daughter of Heth 20 
 
 83. The Right and Wrong Uses of 
 
 the Bible, R. Heber Newton... 20 
 
 84. NigJ* and Moruine, Pt. 1 15 
 
 Ni^T»and Morning, Part II 15 
 
 85. Shannon Bells, by Win. Black. .20 
 
 86. Monica, by the Duchess 10 
 
 87. Heart and Science, by Collins. . .20 
 
 88. The Golden Calf, by Braddon. . .20 
 
 89. The Dean's Daughter 20 
 
 90. Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess. .20 
 
 91. Pickwick Papers, Part 1 20 
 
 Pickwick Papers, Part II 20 
 
 93. Airy. Fairy Lilian, The Dm). 
 
 93. McLeod of Dare, by Wm. Blacs.20 
 
 94. Tempest Tossed, by Tilton. Pt I 20 
 Tempest Tossed.by Tilton, P'tllSO 
 
 95. Letters from High Latitudes, by 
 
 Lord Dufferin 20 
 
 96. Gideon Fleyce, by Lncy 20 
 
 97. India and Cevlon, by E. Hffickel . .20 
 
 98. The Gypsy Queen 20 
 
 99. The Admiral's Ward 20 
 
 100. N import, by E. L. Bynner, P't I . .1 5 
 Nimport, byE. L. Bynner, P't 11.15 
 
 101. Harry Holbrooke 20 
 
 102. Tritons, by E. L. Bynnor,P'tI. ..15 
 Tritons, by E.L. Bynner. P til .35 
 
 103. Let Nothing You Di f-nay, by 
 
 Walter Besant 10 
 
 104. Lady Audley's Secret, )y Miss 
 
 M.*E. Braddon 20 
 
 105. Woman's Place To-day. by Mrs. 
 
 Lillie Devereu X Blake 20 
 
 106. Dunallan, by Kennedy, Parti. . .15 
 Dunallan, by Kennedy, Part II. .15 
 
 107. Housekeeping and Home-mak- 
 
 ing, by Marion Harland 15 
 
 108. No New Thing, by W. E. Norris.20 
 
 109. The Spoopendyke Papers 20 
 
 110. False Hopes, by Golawin Smith. 1 ' 
 
 111. Labor and Capital 2t 
 
 112. War.da, by Ouida, Part I i 
 
 Wanda, by Ouida, Partll 
 
AI3BOTSFOUD 
 
 AND 
 
 
 NEWSTESTIHaBBEY 
 
 / 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 
 
 1-i & 16 "Vesey Street, 
 1883, 
 1 
 \ . 
 

 
I / 
 
 ABBOTSFOED. 
 
 I sit down to perform my promise of giving you an account of 
 
 - i t made many years since to Abbotsf ord. I hope, however, 
 
 that you do not expect much from me, for the travelling notes 
 
 >n at the time are so scanty and vague, and my memory so 
 
 rxtremely 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 an- 
 cient little border town of Selkirk, where I put up for the 
 night. I had come down from Edinburgh, partly to visit 
 <>se 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 earljer 
 scribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an in- 
 trusion. 
 
 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 
 
 side of a hill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet 
 
 .-.an's cottage, with something rural and pic- 
 
 [ue in its a] mearanco. The whole front was overrun with 
 
 greens, and immediately above the portal was a great pair 
 
 f elk horns, branching out from beneath the foliage, and giv- 
 
 • look of a hunting lodge. The huge bar 
 
 to which tl lis modest mansion in a manner gave birth. 
 
Q ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 was just emerging into existence; part of the walls, sur- 
 rounded 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 estab- 
 lishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black grey- 
 hound, 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 quota- 
 tion; — 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 bim 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 panta- 
 loons, 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 re- 
 ception. 
 
 Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty 
 tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Camp- 
 bell. 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 
 
Alir.OTSFORD. 7 
 
 seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, two or three years younger, Walter, 
 a well-grown stripling, and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or 
 twelve years of ago. 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 ac- 
 company 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 neighbor- 
 hood 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 noth- 
 ing-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 Dry burgh 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 be- 
 fore me. 
 
 After breakfast I accordingly set off for the Abbey with my 
 little friend Charles, whom I found a most sprightly and enter- 
 taining 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 ac- 
 cent 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 with- 
 out ambition in his humble sphere. The death of his predeces- 
 sor had been mentioned in the newspapers, so that his name 
 li;yl appeared in print throughout the land. When Johnny 
 succeeded to the guardianship of the ruin, hestipulated that, on 
 his death, his name should receive like honorable blazon; with 
 
8 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 this addition, that it should he 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 greet- 
 ing, and seemed delighted to see my young companion, who 
 was full of merriment and waggery, drawing out his peculiari- 
 ties for my amusement. The old man was one of the most 
 authentic and particular of cicerones; he pointed out every- 
 thing 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 : 
 
 i 
 
 " 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 win- 
 dow, 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' gain- 
 say but it was varra clear." I found afterward that Scott us6d 
 to amuse himself with the simplicity of the old man, and his 
 zeal in verifying every passage of the poem, as though it had 
 
ABBOTSFORD. ' 9 
 
 been 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 ol tlu> mighty dead; 
 
 Slow moved the monk to the broad Mag-stone, 
 
 Which the bloody cross was traced upon: 
 
 He pointed toa 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 1 
 
 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 baldric 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 
 bis 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 tho affability of Scott. " He'll 
 come here sometimes," said he, "with great folks in his com- 
 pany, an' the first I know of it is his voice, calling out 
 'Johnny!— Johnny Bower ! '—and when I go out, I am sure to 
 
10 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word. He'll 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 be- 
 tween 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 in- 
 spection, 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 aince, 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 ram- 
 ble to show me something of the surrounding country. As we 
 sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to 
 
ABBOT>F<)lll). -q 
 
 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 Mend 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 in- 
 timacy 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 woidd make a sudden 
 turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust; then 
 Riving 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 throws gravity aside, and plays the boy as nuich 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 fooler y ? ' " 
 
 Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on board an armed 
 yacht in which he mado 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 1. :,:y]f in their eyes. At 
 
12 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 length one of 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 woidd 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 ^hen it does go off it plays the very d — 1. " 
 
 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 cor- 
 dial and cheering word. I had occasion to observe this par- 
 ticularly 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 dowa with the Ear] of Home." 
 
ABB0TSF01W. 13 
 
 Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, besides leading the 
 psalmody on Sunday, taught the lads and lasses of the neigh- 
 borhood 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 health- 
 ful complexion and silver hair, and a small round-crowned 
 Avhite hat. He had been about to shoulder a hod, 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 r "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 counte- 
 nance, 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 lias since been introduced by Wilkie, in his picture of the 
 Scott family. 
 
 We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar in 
 bisb 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 house- 
 In >1<1 air— some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by which 
 I had been lulled to sleep in my ehildhood ; and with them the 
 looks and voices of those who had sung them, and who were 
 
14 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 now no more. It is these melodies, chanted in our ears in the 
 days of infancy, and connected with the memory of those wc 
 have, loved, and who have passed away, that clothe Scot- 
 tish 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 morn- 
 ing about " the banks and braes of bonnie Doon," with his ten- 
 der little love verses running in my head. .1 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 beautifid, since Bums 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 
 friend, 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. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 15 
 
 " Swcot 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 wont on to expatiate on the popular songs of Scot- 
 land. " They are a pa<rt 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, o%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 here- 
 abouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, and Smalholme; and there 
 you have Gallashiels, and Torwoodlie, and Galla water ; and in 
 that direction you see Tcviotdale, and the Braes ©f 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 recentl^received a romantic in- 
 terest from his own pen. In fact, lsaw a great part of the 
 border country spread out before me, and could trace the 
 
16 ABBOTSFOED. 
 
 scenes of those poenis 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. 
 
 I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott 
 hummed for a moment to himself, and looked grave ; he had no 
 idea of having his muse complimented at the expense of Ms 
 native hills. "It may be partiality," said he, at length; "but 
 to my eye, these gray hills and all this 'wild border country 
 have beauties peculiar to themselves. I like the very naked- 
 ness of the land ; it has something bold, and stern, and solitary 
 about it. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery 
 about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I be- 
 gin to wish myself back again among my own honest gray 
 hills ; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I 
 think I should die ! " 
 
 The last words were said with an honest warmth, accom- 
 panied with a thump on the ground with his staff, by way of 
 emphasis, that showed his heart was in his speech. He vindi- 
 cated the Tweed, too, as a beautiful stream in itself, and ob- 
 served that he did not dislike it for being bare of trees, prob- 
 ably from having been much of an angler in his time, and an 
 angler does not like to have a stream overhung by trees, which 
 embarrass him in the exercise of his rod and line. 
 
 I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the associations of 
 early life, for my disappointment in respect to the surrounding 
 scenery. I had been so accustomed to hills crowned with for- 
 ests, and streams breaking their way through a wilderness of 
 trees, that all my ideas of romantic landscape were apt to be 
 well wooded. 
 
 "Aye, and that's the great charm of your country," cried 
 Scott. "You love the forest as I do the heather — but I would 
 not have you think I do not feel the glory of a great woodland 
 prospect. There is nothing I shoidd like more than to be in the 
 midst of one of your graj^l, wild, original forests with the idea 
 of hundreds of miles of untrodden forest around me. I once 
 
AUBOTSFORD. 17 
 
 saw, at Leith, an immense stick of timber, just landed from 
 America. It must have been an enormous tree when it stood 
 on its native soil, at its full height, and with all its branches. 
 I gazed at it with admiration ; it seemed like one of the gigantic 
 obelisks which are now and then brought from Egypt, to shame 
 pigmy monuments of Europe; and, in fact, these vast 
 aboriginal trees, that have sheltered the Indians before the in- 
 trusion of the white men, are the monuments and antiquities of 
 your country." 
 
 The conversation here turned upon Campbell's poem of 
 "Gertrude of Wyoming," as illustrative of the poetic materials 
 furnished by American scenery. Scott spoke of it in that lib- 
 eral stjde in which I always found him to speak of the writings 
 of his contemporaries. He cited several passages of it with 
 great delight. ''What a pity it is," said he, "that Campbell 
 does not write more and oftener, and give full sweep to his 
 genius. He has wings that would bear him to the skies ; and 
 he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up 
 again and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch 
 away. He don't know or won't trust his own strength. Even 
 when he has done a thing well, he has often misgivings about 
 it. He left out several fine passages of his Lochiel, but I got 
 him to restore some of them." Here Scott repeated several 
 passages in a magnificent style. "What a grand idea is 
 that," said he, "about prophetic boding, or, in common par- 
 lance, second sight — 
 
 ' Coming events cast their shadows before.' 
 
 It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed. And there's that 
 glorious little poem, too, of ' Hohenlinden ;' after he had written 
 it, he did not seem to think much of it, but considered some of 
 
 it 'd d drum and trumpet fines.' I got him to recite it to 
 
 me, and I believe that the delight I felt and expressed had an 
 effect in inducing him to print it. The fact is," added he, 
 "Campbell is, in a manner, a bugbear to himself. The bright- 
 ness of his early success is a detriment to all his further efforts. 
 He is afraid of the shadoiv that his oivnfame casts before him." 
 While we were thus chatting, we heard the report of a gun 
 among the hills. "That's Walter, I think," said Scott; "he 
 has finished his morning's studies, and is out with his gun. I 
 should not be surprised if he had met with the blackcock; if 
 so, we shall have an addition to our u larder, for Walter is a 
 pretty sure shot." 
 
18 ABB0TSF01W. 
 
 I inquired into the nature of Walter's studies. " Faith," said 
 Scott, "I can't say much on that head. I am not over bent 
 upon making prodigies of any of my children. As to Walter, 
 I taught him, while a hoy, to ride, and shoot, and speak the 
 truth ; as to the other parts of his education, I leave them to a 
 very worthy young man, the son of one of our clergymen, who 
 instructs all my children." 
 
 I afterward became acquainted with the young man in ques- 
 tion, George Thomson, son of the minister of Melrose, and 
 found him possessed of much learning, intelligence, and modest 
 worth. He used to come every day from his father's residence 
 at Melrose to superintend the studies of the young folks, and 
 occasionally took his meals at Abbotsf ord, where he was highly 
 esteemed. Nature had cut hi m out, Scott used to say, for a 
 stalwart soldier, for he was tall, vigorous, active, and fond of 
 athletic exercises, but accident had marred her work, the loss 
 of a limb in boyhood having reduced him to a wooden leg. He 
 was brought up, therefore, for the Church, whence he was 
 occasionally called the Dominie, and is supposed, by his mix- 
 ture of learning, simplicity, and amiable eccentricity, to have 
 furnished many traits for the character of Dominie Sampson. 
 I believe he often acted as Scott's amanuensis, when composing 
 his novels. With him the young people were occupied in 
 general during the early part of the day, after which they took 
 all kinds of healthful recreations in the open air ; for Scott was 
 as solicitous to strengthen their bodies as their minds. 
 
 We had not walked much further before we saw the two 
 Miss Scotts advancing along the hillside to meet us. The 
 morning studies being over, they had set off to take a ramble 
 on the hills, and gather heather blossoms, with which to 
 decorate their hair for dinner. As they came bounding lightly 
 like young fawns, and their dresses fluttering in the pure sum- 
 mer breeze, I was reminded of Scott's own description of his 
 children in his introduction to one of the cantos of Marmion — 
 
 " My imps, though hardy, hold, and wild, 
 As best befits the mountain child, 
 Their summer gambols tell and mourn, 
 And anxious ask will spring return, 
 And birds and lambs again be gay, 
 And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray? 
 
 " Yes, prattlers, yes, the daisy's flower 
 Again shall paint your summer bower; 
 Again the hawthorn shall supply 
 The garlands you delight to tie; 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 19 
 
 The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
 The wild liinls carol to the round, 
 And while you frolic light as they, 
 Too short shall seem the summer day." 
 
 As they approached, the dogs all sprang forward and gam- 
 bolled around them. They played with them for a time, and 
 then joined us with countenances full of health and glee. 
 Sophia, the eldest, was the most lively and joyous, having 
 much of her father's varied spirit in conversation, and seem- 
 ing to catch excitement from his words and looks. Ann was 
 of quieter mood, rather silent, owing, in some measure, no 
 doubt, to her being some years younger. 
 
 At dinner Scott had laid by his half -rustic dress, and ap- 
 peared clad in black. The girls, too, in completing their toilet, 
 had twisted in their hair the sprigs of purple heather which 
 they had gathered on the hillside, and looked all fresh and 
 blooming from their breezy walk. 
 
 There was no guest at dinner but myself. Around the table 
 were two or three dogs in attendance. Maida, the old stag- 
 hound, took his seat at Scott's elbow, looking up wistfully in 
 his master's eye, while Finette, the pet spaniel, placed herself 
 near Mrs. Scott, by whom, I soon perceived, she was com- 
 pletely spoiled. 
 
 The conversation happening to turn on the merits of his dogs, 
 Scott spoke with great feeling and affection of his favorite, 
 Camp, who is depicted by his side in the earlier engravings of 
 him. He talked of him as of a real friend whom he had lost, 
 and Sophia Scott, looking up archly in his face, observed that 
 Papa shed a few tears when poor Camp died. I may here 
 mention another testimonial of Scott's fondness for his dogs, 
 and his humorous mode of showing it, which I subsequently 
 met with. Rambling with him one morning about the grounds 
 adjacent to the house, I observed a small antique monument, 
 on which was inscribed, in Gothic characters — 
 
 " Cy git le preux Percy." 
 (Here lies the brave Percy.) 
 
 I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some stark warrior of 
 the olden time, but Scott drew me on. " Pooh !" cried he, "it's 
 nothing but one of the monuments of my nonsense, of which 
 you'll find enough hereabouts." I learnt afterward that it was 
 the grave of a favorite greyhound. 
 
20 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 Among the other important and privileged members of the 
 household who figured in attendance at the dinner, was a large 
 gray cat, who, I observed, was regaled from time to time with 
 titbits from the table. This sage grimalkin was a favorite of 
 both master and mistress, and slept at night in their room ; and 
 Scott laughingly observed, that one of the least wise parts of 
 their establishment was, that the window was left open at 
 night for puss to go in and out. The cat assumed a kind of 
 ascendancy among the quadrupeds — sitting in state in Scott's 
 arm-chair, and occasionally stationing himself on a chair beside 
 the door, as if to review his subjects as they passed, giving 
 each dog a cuff beside the ears as he went by. This clapper- 
 clawing was always taken in good part ; it appeared to be, in 
 fact, a mere act of sovereignty on the part of grimalkin, to 
 remind the others of their vassalage ; which they acknowledged 
 by the most perfect acquiescence. A general harmony pre- 
 vailed between sovereign and subjects, and they would all 
 sleep together in the sunshine. 
 
 Scott was fidl of anecdote and conversation during dinner. 
 He made some admirable remarks upon the Scottish character, 
 and spoke strongly in praise of the quiet, orderly, honest 
 conduct of his neighbors, which one would hardly expect, said 
 he, from the descendants of moss troopers, and borderers, in a 
 neighborhood famed in old times for brawl and feud, and 
 violence of all kinds. He said he had, in bis official capacity 
 of sheriff, administered the laws for a number of years, during 
 which there had been very few trials. The old feuds and local 
 interests, and rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, however, 
 still slept, he said, in their ashes, and might easily be roused. 
 Their hereditary feeling for names was still great. It was not 
 always safe to have even the game of foot-ball between villages, 
 the old clannish spirit was too apt to break out. The Scotch, 
 he said, were more revengeful than the English ; they carried 
 their resentments longer, and would sometimes lay them by 
 for years, but would be sure to gratify them in the end. 
 
 The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders and the Low- 
 landers still continued to a certain degree, the former looking 
 upon the latter as an inferior race, less brave and hardy, but at 
 the same time, suspecting them of a disposition to take airs 
 upon themselves under the idea of superior refinement. This 
 made them techy and ticklish company for a stranger on 
 his first coming among them; ruffling up and putting them- 
 selves upon their mettle on the slightest occasion, so that he 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 21 
 
 had in a manner to quarrel and fight h\, jray into their good 
 graces. 
 
 i ! ■ instanced a case in point in a brotl ier of Mungo Park 
 wh< > went to take up his residence in a ^vild neighborhood of •» 
 the Highlands. He soon found himself considered as an intru- 
 der, and that there was a disposition among these cocks of the 
 hills, to fix a quarrel on him, trusting that, being a Lowlander, 
 he would show the white feather. 
 
 For a time he bore their flings and taunts with great coolness, 
 until one, presuming on his forbearance, drew forth a dirk, and 
 holding it before him, asked him if he had ever seen a weapon 
 like that in his part of the country. Park, who was a Hercules 
 in frame, seized the dirk, and, with one blow, drove it through 
 an oaken table: — " Yes, "replied he, "and tell your friends that 
 a man from the Lowlands drove it where the devil himself can- 
 not draw it out again." All persons were delighted with the 
 feat, and the words that accompanied it. They drank with 
 Park to a better acquaintance, and were staunch friends ever 
 afterwards. 
 
 After dinner we adjourned to the drawing-room, which served 
 also for study and library. Against the wall on one side was a 
 long writing-table, with drawers; surmounted by a small 
 cabinet of polished wood, with folding doors richly studded 
 with brass ornaments, within which Scott kept his most valu- 
 able papers. Above the cabinet, in a kind of niche, was a 
 complete corslet of glittering steel, with a closed helmet, and 
 flanked by gauntlets and battle-axes. Around were hung 
 trophies and relics of various kinds : a cimeter of Tippoo Saib ; 
 a Highland broadsword from Flodden Field ; a pair of Eippon 
 spurs from Bannockburn; and above all, a gun which had be- 
 longed to Rob Roy, and bore his initials, R. M. G., an object of 
 peculiar interest to me at the time, as it was understood Scott 
 was actually engaged in printing a novel founded on the story 
 of that famous outlaw. 
 
 On each side of the cabinet were book-cases, well stored with 
 works of romantic fiction in various languages, many of them 
 rare and antiquated. ' This, however, was merely his cottage 
 library, the principal part of his books being at Edinburgh. 
 
 From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott drew forth a 
 manuscript picked up on the field of Waterloo, containing 
 copjes of several songs popular at the time in Franco. The 
 
22 ABB0T8F0RD. 
 
 paper was dabbled a^.^ blood— " the very life-blood, very possi- 
 bly," said Scott, " of gome gay young officer, who bad cberisbed 
 tbese songs as a keep^ P vo from some lady-love in Paris." 
 
 He adverted, in a mellow and delightful manner, to the little 
 half -gay, half -melancholy, campaigning song, said to have been 
 composed by General Wolfe, and sung by him at the mess 
 table, on the eve of the storming of Quebec, in which he fell so 
 gloriously : 
 
 " Why, soldiers, why, 
 Should we be melancholy, boys? 
 Why, soldiers, why, 
 Whose business 'tis to die ! 
 For should next campaign 
 Send us to him who made us, boys 
 We're free from pain: 
 But should we remain, 
 A bottle and kind landlady 
 Makes all well again." 
 
 "So," added he, "the poor lad who fell at Waterloo, in al 
 probability, had been singing these songs in his tent the night 
 before the battle, and thinking of the fair dame who had 
 taught him them, and promising himself, should he outlive 
 the campaign, to return to her all glorious from the wars." 
 
 I find- since that Scott published translations of these songs 
 among some of his smaller poems. 
 
 The evening passed away delightfully in this quaint-looking 
 apartment, half study, half drawing-room. Scott read several 
 passages from the old romance of "Arthur," with a fine, deep 
 sonorous voice, and a gravity of tone that seemed to suit the 
 antiquated, black-letter volume. It was a rich treat to hear 
 such a work, read by such a person, and in such a place ; and 
 his appearance as he sat reading, in a large armed chair, with his 
 favorite hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books and 
 relics, and border trophies, would have formed an admirable 
 and most' characteristic picture. 
 
 While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin, already men- 
 tioned, had taken his seat in a chair beside the fire, and re- 
 mained with fixed eye and grave demeanor, as if listening to 
 the reader. I observed to Scott that his cat seemed to have a 
 black-letter taste in literature. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "these cats are a very mysterious kind of 
 folk. There is always more passing in their minds than we are 
 aware of. It comes no doubt from their being so familiar with 
 witches and warlocks," He went on to tell a little story aftout 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 23 
 
 q glide man who was returning to his cottage one night, when, 
 lonely out-of-the-way place, he met with a funeral proces- 
 sion of cats all in mourning, bearing one of their race to the 
 grave in a coffin covered with a black velvet pall. The worthy 
 man, astonished and half-frightened at so strange a pageant, 
 hastened home and told what he had seen to his wife and chil- 
 dren. Scarce had he finished, when a great black cat that sat 
 beside the fire raised himself up, exclaimed "Then I am king 
 of the cats !" and vanished up the chimney. The funeral seen 
 by the gude man, was one of the cat dynasty. 
 
 " Our grimalkin here," added Scott, " sometimes reminds me 
 of the story, by the airs of sovereignty which he assumes ; and 
 I am apt to treat him with respect from the idea that he may 
 be a great prince incog., and may some time or other come to 
 the throne." 
 
 In this way Scott would make the habits and peculiarities of 
 even the dumb animals about him subjects for humorous re- 
 mark or whimsical story. 
 
 Our evening was enlivened also by an occasional song from 
 Sophia Scott, at the request of her father. She never wanted 
 to be asked twice, but complied frankly and cheerfully. Her 
 song,-; were all Scotch, sung without any accompaniment, in a 
 simple manner, but with great spirit and expression, and in 
 their native dialects, which gave them an additional charm. 
 It was delightful to hear her carol off in sprightly style, and 
 with an animated air, some of those generous-spirited old 
 Jacobite songs, once current among the adherents of the Pre- 
 tender in Scotland, in which he is designated by the appellation 
 of " The Young Chevalier." 
 
 These songs were much relished by Scott, notwithstanding 
 his loyalty; for the unfortunate " Chevalier" has always been 
 a hero of romance with him, as he has with many other 
 Staunch adherents to the House of Hanover, now that the 
 Stuart lin nil its terrors. In speaking on the subject, 
 
 ntioncd as a curious fact, that, among the papers of 
 the " Chevalier," which had been submitted by government to 
 his inspection, he had found a memorial to Charles from some 
 adherents in America, dated 1778, proposing to set up his stan- 
 dard in the back settlements. I regret that, at the time, I did 
 not make more particular inquiries of Scott on the subject ; the 
 document in question, however, m all probability, still exists 
 among the Pretender's papers, which arc in the possession of 
 the 'British Government. 
 
24 ABBOTSFOED. 
 
 In the course of the evening, Scott related the story of a whim- 
 sical picture hanging in the room, which had been drawn for him 
 by a lady of his acquaintance. It represented the doleful per- 
 plexity of a wealthy and handsome young English knight of 
 the olden time, who, in the course of a border foray, had been 
 captured and carried off to the castle of a hard-headed and 
 high-handed old baron. The unfortunate youth was thrown 
 into a dungeon, and a tall gallows erected before the castle 
 gate for his execution. When all was ready, he was brought 
 into the castle hall where the grim baron was seated in 
 state, with his warriors armed to the teeth around him, and 
 was given his choice, either to swing on the gibbet or to marry 
 the baron's daughter. The last may be thought an easy alterna- 
 tive, but unfortunately, the baron's young lady was hideously 
 ugly, with a mouth from ear to ear, so that not a suitor was to 
 be had for her, either for love or money, and she was known 
 throughout the border country by the name of Muckle-mouthed 
 Mag! 
 
 The picture in question represented the unhappy dilemma of 
 the handsome youth. Before him sat the grim baron, with a 
 face worthy of the father of such a daughter, and looking dag- 
 gers and ratsbane. On one side of him w#s Muckle-mouthed 
 Mag, with an amorous smile across the whole breadth of her 
 countenance, and a leer enough to turn a man to stone ; on the 
 other side was the father confessor, a sleek friar, jogging the 
 youth's elbow, and pointing to the gallows, seen in perspective 
 through the open portal. 
 
 The story goes, that after long laboring in mind, between the 
 altar and the halter, the love of life prevailed, and the youth 
 resigned himself to the charms of Muckle-mouthed Mag. Con- 
 trary to all the probabilities of romance, the match proved a 
 happy one. The baron's daughter, if not beautiful, was a most 
 exemplary wife ; her husband was never troubled with any of 
 those doubts and jealousies which sometimes mar the hap- 
 piness of connubial life, and was made the father of a fair 
 and undoubtedly legitimate line, which still flourishes on the 
 border. 
 
 I give but a faint outline of the story from vague recollection ; 
 it may, perchance, be more richly related elsewhere, by some 
 one who may retain something of the delightful humor with 
 which Scott recounted it. 
 
 When I retired for the night. I found it almost impossible to 
 sleep ; the idea of being under the roof of Scott ; of being on the 
 
AMB0T8F0RD. gg 
 
 borders of the Tweed, in 1he very centre of that region which 
 hart tor some time past been the favorite scene of romantic 
 fiction; and above all, the recollections of the ramble I had 
 taken, the company in which I had taken it, and the conversa- 
 tion Which had passed, all Tormented in my mind, and nearly 
 drove sleep from my pillow. 
 
 On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from 
 over the hills through the low lattice window. I rose at an 
 early bom*, and looked out between the branches of eglantine 
 which overhung the casement. To my surprise Scott was already 
 up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and chatting with 
 the workmen employed on the new building. I had supposed, 
 after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be 
 closely occupied this morning, but he appeared like a man of 
 leisure, who had nothing to do but bask in the sunshine and 
 amuse himself. 
 
 I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his 
 proposed plans of Abbotsford ; happy would it have been for 
 him could he have contented himself with his delightful little 
 vine-covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty and hospitable 
 style, in which he lived at the time of my visit. The great 
 pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense it entailed upon him, 
 of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a drain 
 upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a weight upon 
 his mind, that finally crushed him. 
 
 As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and 
 Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future residence, 
 as he would one of the fanciful creations of his own romances. 
 " It was one of his air castles," he said, " which he was reduc- 
 ing to solid stone and mortar." About the place were strewed 
 various morsels from the ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were 
 to bo incorporated in his mansion. Re had already constructed 
 out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a spring, 
 and had but .!■ >unted it by a small stone cross. 
 
 Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before 
 us, was a most quaint and antique little lion, either of red 
 stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose 
 cognizance it was; but I shall never forget the delightful obser- 
 vations concerning old Melrose to which it accidentally gave 
 rise. 
 
26 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all Scott's 
 poetic and romantic feelings ; and one to which he was enthu- 
 siastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of his 
 early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection. 
 "There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that 
 glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder ; 
 there are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, 
 and old time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it 
 as a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste — the mouldier the 
 better." 
 
 He went onto mention circumstances of " mighty import " 
 connected with the Abbey, which had never been touched, and 
 which had even escaped the researches of Johnny Bower. 
 The heart of Eobert Bruce, the hero of Scotland, had been 
 buried in it. He dwelt on the beautiful story of Bruce's pious 
 and chivalrous request in his dying hour, that his heart might 
 be carried to the Holy Land and placed in the Holy Sepulchre, 
 in fulfilment of a vow of pilgrimage ; and of the loyal expedi- 
 tion of Sir James Douglas to convey the glorious relic. Much 
 might be made, he said, out of the adventures of Sir James in 
 that adventurous age ; of his fortunes in Spain, and his death 
 in a crusade against the Moors ; with the subsequent fortunes 
 of the heart of Robert Bruce, until it was brought back to 
 its native land, and enshrined within the holy walls of old 
 Melrose. 
 
 As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way, and knocking 
 with his staff against the little red lion which lay prostrate 
 before him, his gray eyes twinkled beneath his shagged eye- 
 brows ; scenes, images, incidents, kept breaking upon his mind 
 as he proceeded, mingled with touches of the mysterious and 
 supernatural as connected with the heart of Bruce. It seemed 
 as if a poem or romance were breaking vaguely on his imagina- 
 tion. That he subsequently contemplated something of the 
 kind, as connected with this subject, and with his favorite ruin 
 of Melrose, is evident from his introduction to "The Monas- 
 tery ;" and it is a pity that he never succeeded in following out 
 these shadowy, but enthusiastic conceptions. 
 
 A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation, when I 
 begged to recommend to Scott's attention my friend the little 
 red lion, who had led to such an interesting topic, and hoped 
 he might receive some niche or station in the future castle, 
 worthy of his evident antiquity and apparent dignity. Scott 
 assured me, with comic gravity, that the valiant little lion 
 
ABBOTSFORD, 27 
 
 should bo most honorably entertained ; I hope, therefore, that 
 he still nourishes at Abbotsford. 
 
 Before dismissing tlie theme of the relics from the Abbey, I 
 ■will mention another, illustrative of Scott's varied humors. 
 This was a human skull, which had probably belonged of yore 
 to one of those jovial friars, so honorably mentioned in the old 
 border ballad : 
 
 " O the monks of Melrose made gude kale 
 On Fridays, when they fasted; 
 They wanted neither beef nor ale, 
 As long as their neighbors lasted." 
 
 This skull he had caused t® be cleaned and varnished, and 
 placed it on a chest of drawers in his chamber, immediately 
 opposite his bed ; where I have seen it, grinning most dismally*. 
 It was an object of great awe and horror to the superstitious 
 housemaids ; and Scott used to amuse himself with their appre- 
 hensions. Sometimes, in changing his dress, he would leave 
 his neck-cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none of the 
 ' ' lasses" dared to remove it. It was a matter of great wonder 
 nnd speculation among them that the laird should have such 
 an " awsome fancy for an auld girning skull." 
 
 At breakfast that morning Scott gave an amusing accoimt of 
 a little Highlander called Campbell of the North, who had a 
 lawsuit of many years' standing with a nobleman in his neigh- 
 borhood about the boundaries of their estates. It was the lead- 
 ing object of the little man's life ; the running theme of all his 
 conversations ; he used to detail all the circumstances at full 
 length to everybody he met, and, to aid him in his description 
 of the premises, and make his story "mair preceese," he had a 
 great map made of his estate, a huge roll several feet long, 
 which he used to carry about on his shoulder. Campbell was 
 a long-bodied, but short and bandy-legged little man, always 
 clad in the Highland garb ; and as he went about with this 
 great roll on his shoulder, and his little legs curving like a pair 
 of parentheses below his kilt, he was an odd figure to behold. 
 He was like little David shouldering the spear of Goliath, 
 which was "like unto a weaver's beam." 
 
 Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell usod to set 
 out for Edinburgh to attend to his lawsuit. At the inns ho 
 paid double for all his meals and his night's lodgings, telling 
 the landlords to keep it in mind until his return, so that he 
 might come back that way at free cost; for he knew, he said, 
 
28 ABBUrxi'OED. 
 
 that he would spend all his money among the lawyers at Edin- 
 burgh, so he thought it best to secure a retreat home again. 
 
 On one -of his visits he called upon his lawyer, but was told 
 he was not at home, but his lady was.' "It's just the same 
 thing, " said little Campbell. On being shown into the parlor, 
 he unrolled his map, stated his case at full length, and, having 
 gone through Avith his story, gave her the customary fee. She 
 would have declined it, but he insisted on her taking it. "I 
 ha' had just as much pleasure," said he, "in telling the whole 
 tale to you, as I should have had in telling it to your husband, 
 and I believe full as much profit. " 
 
 The last time he saw Scott, he told him he believed he and 
 the laird were near a settlement, as they agreed to within a few 
 miles of the boundary. If I recollect right, Scott added that 
 he advised the little man to consign his cause and his map to 
 the care of "Slow Willie Mowbray," of tedious memory, an 
 Edinburgh worthy, much employed by the country people, for 
 he tired out everybody in office by repeated visits and drawling, 
 endless prolixity, and gained every suit by dint of boring. 
 
 These little stories and anecdotes, which abounded in Scott's 
 conversation, rose naturally out of the subject, and were per- 
 fectly unforced ; though, in thus relating them in a detached 
 way, without the observations or circumstances which led to 
 them, and which have passed from my recollection, they want 
 their setting to give them proper relief. They will serve, how- 
 ever, to show the natural play of his mind, in its familiar 
 moods, and its fecundity in graphic and characteristic detail. 
 
 His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were those of his 
 family who seemed most to feel and understand his humors, 
 and to take delight in Ins conversation. Mrs. Scott did not 
 always pay the same attention, and would now and then make 
 a casual remark which would operate a little like a damper. 
 Thus, one morning at breakfast, when Dominie Thomson, the 
 tutor, was present, Scott was going on with great glee to relate 
 an anecdote of the laird of Macnab, "who, poor fellow," pre- 
 mised he, "is dead and gone — " "Why, Mr. Scott," exclaimed 
 the good lady, " Macnab's not dead, is he?" " Faith, my dear," 
 replied Scott, with humorous gravity, "if he's not dead they've 
 done him great injustice — for they've buried him." 
 
 The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by Mrs. Scott, but 
 hit the poor Dominie just as he had raised a cup of tea to his 
 lips, causing a burst of laughter which sent half of the contents 
 about the table. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 29 
 
 After breakfast, Scott was occupied for sometime correcting 
 proof-sheets which he had received by the mail. The novel of 
 Rob Roy, as I have already observed, was at that time in the 
 press, and I supposed them to be the proof-sheets of that work. 
 The authorship of the Waverley novels was still a matter of 
 conjecture and uncertainty; though few doubted their being 
 principally written by Scott. One proof to me of his being the 
 author, was that he never adverted to them. A man so fond 
 of anything Scottish, and anything relating to national history 
 or local legend, could not have been mute respecting such 
 productions, had they been written by another. He was fond 
 of quoting the works of his contemporaries ; he was continually 
 reciting scraps of border songs, or relating anecdotes of border 
 story. With respect to his own poems, and their merits, how- 
 r, he was mute, and while with him I observed a scrupulous 
 silence on the subject. 
 
 I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not 
 aware at the time, that Scott was very reserved with his chil- 
 dren respecting his own writings, and was even disinclined to 
 their reading his romantic poems. I learnt this, some time 
 after, from a passage in one of his letters to me, adverting to a 
 set of the American miniature edition of his poems, which, on 
 ni}* return to England, I forwarded to one of the young ladies. 
 "In my hurry," writes he, "I have not thanked you, in 
 Sophia's name, for the kind attention which furnished her with 
 the American volumes. I pro. not quite sure I can add my 
 own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of 
 papa's folly than she would otherwise have learned ; for I have 
 taken special care they should never see any of these things 
 during their earlier years." 
 
 To return to the thread of my narrative. When Scott had 
 got through his brief literary occupation, we set out on a ram- 
 ble. The young ladies started to accompany us, but they had 
 not gone far, when they met a poor old laborer and his dis- 
 tressed family, and turned back to take them to the house, 
 and relieve them. 
 
 On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we came upon a 
 bleak-looking farm, with a* forlorn, crazy old manse, or farm- 
 house, standing in naked desolation. This, however, Scott 
 told me, was an ancient hereditary property called Lauckend, 
 about as valuable as the patrimonial estate of Don Quixote, 
 and which, in like manner, conferred an hereditary dignity 
 upon its proprietor, who was a laird, and, though poor as a rat, 
 
30 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 prided himself upon his ancient blood, and the standing of his 
 house. He was accordingly called Lauckend, according to the 
 Scottish custom of naming a man after his family estate, but 
 he was more generally known through the country round by 
 the name of Lauckie Long Legs, from the length of his limbs. 
 While Scott was giving this account of Mm, we saw him at a 
 distance striding along one of his fields, with his plaid flutter- 
 ing about him, and he seemed well to deserve his appellation, 
 for he looked all legs and tartan. 
 
 Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his neighborhood. 
 Scott told me that on returning to Abbotsford from his visit to 
 France, immediately after the war, he was called on by his 
 neighbors generally to inquire after foreign parts. Among 
 the number came Lauckie Long Legs and an old brother as 
 ignorant as himself. They had many inquiries to make about 
 the French, whom they seemed to consider some remote and 
 semi-barbarous horde — " And what like are thae barbarians in 
 their own country?" said Lauckie, " can they write? — can they 
 cipher?" He was quite astonished to learn that they were 
 nearly as much advanced in civilization as the gude folks of 
 Abbotsford. 
 
 After living for a long time in single blessedness, Lauckie all 
 at once, and not long before my visit to the neighborhood, took 
 it into his head to get married. The neighbors were all sur- 
 prised ; but the family connection, who were as proud as they 
 were poor, were grievously scandalized, .for they thought the 
 young woman on whom he had set his mind quite beneath him. 
 It was in vain, however, that they remonstrated on the misal- 
 liance he was about to make ; he was not to be swayed from 
 his determination. Arraying himself in his best, and saddling 
 a gaunt steed that might have rivalled Eosinante, and placing 
 a pillion behind his saddle, he departed to wed and bring home 
 the humble lassie who was to be made mistress of the venera- 
 ble hovel of Lauckend, and who lived in a village on the oppo- 
 site side of the Tweed. 
 
 A small event of the kind makes a great stir in a little quiet 
 country neighborhood. The word soon circulated through the 
 village of Melrose, and the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie 
 Long Legs had gone over the Tweed to fetch home his bride. 
 All the good folks assembled at the bridge to await his return. 
 Lauckie, however, disappointed them ; for he crossed the river 
 at a distant ford, and conveyed his bride safe to his mansion 
 without being perceived. 
 
MiBOTSFORD. 31 
 
 Let me step forward in the course of events, and relate the 
 fate of poor Lauckie, as it was communicated to me a year or 
 two afterward in letter by Scott. From the time of his mar- 
 riage he had no longer any peace, owing to the constant inter- 
 meddling of his relations, who would not permit him to be 
 happy in his own way, but endeavored to set him at variance 
 with his wife. Lauckie refused to credit any of their stories to 
 her disadvantage ; but the incessant warfare he had to wage in 
 defence of her good name, wore out both flesh and spirit. His 
 last conflict was with his own brothers, in front of his paternal 
 mansion. A furious scolding match took place between them ; 
 Lauckie made a vehement profession of faith in favor of her 
 immaculate honesty, and then fell dead at the threshold of his 
 own door. His person, his character, his name, his story, and 
 his fate, entitled him to be immortalized in one of Scott's 
 novels, and I looked to recognize him in some of the succeed- 
 ing works from his pen ; but I looked in vain. 
 
 After passing by the domains of honest Lauckie, Scott 
 pointed out, at a distance, the Eildon stone. There in ancient 
 days stood the Eildon tree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer, 
 according to popidar tradition, dealt forth his prophecies, some 
 of which still exist in antiquated ballads. 
 
 Here we turned up a little glen with a small burn or brook 
 whimpering and dashing along it, making an occasional water- 
 fall, and overhung in some places with mountain ash and 
 weeping birch. We are now, said Scott, treading classic, or 
 rather fairy ground. This is the haunted glen of Thomas the 
 Rhymer, where he met with the queen of fairy land, and this 
 the bogle burn, or goblin brook, along which ,she rode on her 
 dapple-gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the bridle. 
 
 "Here," said he, pausing, "is Huntley Bank, on which 
 Thomas the Rhymer lay musing and sleeping when he saw, 
 or dreamt he saw, the queen of Elfland : 
 
 " ' True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; 
 A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; 
 And there he saw a ladye bright, 
 Come riding down by the Eildon tree. 
 
 " ' Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
 n.-r mantle o' the velvet fyne; 
 At ilka tett of her horse's mane 
 Hung fifty siller bells and nine.'" 
 
32 ABBOTSFOIW. 
 
 Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and recounted the 
 circumstance of Thomas the Rhymer's interview with the 
 fairy, and his being transported by her to fairy land— 
 
 " And til seven years were gone and past, 
 True Thomas on earth was never seen." 
 
 " It's a fine old story," said he, "and might be wrought up into 
 a capital tale. " 
 
 Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and limping up 
 the wizard glen, talking as he went, but, as his back was 
 toward me, I could only hear the deep growling tones of his 
 voice, like the low breathing of an organ, without distin- 
 guishing the words, until pausing, and turning his face toward 
 me, I found he was reciting some scrap of border minstrelsy 
 about Thomas the Rhymer. This was continually the case in my 
 ramblings with him about this storied neighborhood. His 
 mind was fraught with the traditionary fictions connected 
 with every object around him, and he would breathe it forth as 
 he went, apparently as much for his own gratification as for 
 that of his companion. 
 
 " Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 
 But had its legend or its song." 
 
 His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with a Scottish ac- 
 cent, and with somewhat of the Northumbrian "burr," 
 which, to my mind, gave a Doric strength and simplicity to 
 his elocution. His recitation of poetry was, at times, magnifi- 
 cent. 
 
 I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend 
 Hamlet, the black greyhound, got into a bad scrape. The dogs 
 were beating about the glens and fields as usual, and had been 
 for some time out of sight, when we heard a barking at some 
 distance to the left. Shortly after we saw some sheep scamper- 
 ing on the hills, with the dogs after them. Scott applied to 
 his lips the ivory whistle, always hanging at his button-hole, 
 and soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hastening 
 up a bank which commanded a view along a fold or hollow of 
 the hills, we beheld the sable prince of Denmark standing by 
 the bleeding body of a sheep. The carcass was still warm, the 
 throat bore marks of the fatal grip, and Hamlet's muzzle was 
 stained with blood. Never was culprit more completely caught 
 in flagrante delicto. I supposed the doom of poor Hamlet to be 
 sealed; for no higher offence can bo committed by a clog in £> 
 country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, however, had a 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 33 
 
 greater value for his dogs than for his sheep. They were his 
 panions and friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, 
 impertinent kind of youngster^ was evidently a favorite. He 
 would not for some time believe it could be he who had killed 
 the sheep. It must have been some cur 01 the neighborhood, 
 that had made off on our approach and left poor Hamlet in the 
 lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet was gen- 
 erally condemned. "Well, well," said Scott, "it's partly my 
 own fault. I have given up coursing for some time past, and 
 the poor dog has had no chance after game to take the fire edge 
 off of him. If he was put after a hare occasionally he never 
 would meddle with sheep." 
 
 I understood, afterward, that Scott actually got a pony, and 
 went out now and then coursing with Hamlet, who, in conse- 
 quence, showed no further inclination for mutton. 
 
 A further stroll among the hills brought us to what Scott 
 pronounced the remains of a Roman camp, and as we sat upon 
 a hillock which had once formed a part of the ramparts, he 
 pointed out the traces of the lines and bulwarks, and the prse- 
 torium, and showed a knowledge of castramatation that would 
 not have disgraced the antiquarian Oldbuck himself. Indeed, 
 various circumstances that I observed about Scott during my 
 visit, concurred to persuade me that many of the antiquarian 
 humors of Monkbarns were taken from his own richly com- 
 pounded character, and that some of the scenes and personages 
 of that admirable novel were furnished by his immediate 
 neighborhood. 
 
 He gave me several anecdotes of a noted pauper named An- 
 drew Gemmells, or Gammel, as it was pronounced, who had 
 once flourished on the banks of Galla Water, immediately 
 opposite Abbotsford, and whom he had seen and talked and 
 joked with when a boy; and I instantly recognized the likeness 
 of that mirror of philosophic vagabonds and Nestor of beggars, 
 Edie Ochiltree. I was on the point of pronouncing the name 
 and recognizing the portrait, when I recollected the incognito 
 observed by Scott with respect to his novels, and checked my- 
 
 but it was one 'mong many things that tended to convince 
 me of his authorship. 
 
 3 picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly accorded with that 
 of Edie as to his height, carriage, and soldier-like air, as well as 
 
84 ABBOTSFOBD. 
 
 his arch and sarcastic humor. His home, if home he had, 
 was at Galashiels; but he went " daundering " about the coun- 
 try, along the green shav/s and beside the burns, and was a 
 kind of walking chronicle throughout the valleys of the Tweed, 
 the Ettrick, and the Yarrow ; carrying the gossip from house 
 to house, commenting on the inhabitants and their concerns, 
 and never hesitating to give them a dry rub as to any of their 
 faults or follies. 
 
 A shrewd beggar like Andrew Gemmells, Scott added, who 
 could sing the old Scotch airs, tell stories and traditions, and 
 gossip away the long winter evenings, was by no means an un- 
 welcome visitor at a lonely manse or cottage. The children 
 would run to welcome him, and place his stool in a warm 
 corner of the ingle nook, and the old folks would receive him a-r 
 a privileged guest. 
 
 As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a parson does 
 upon his parishioners, and considered the alms he received as 
 much his due as the other does his tithes. "I rather think," 
 added Scott, " Andrew considered himself more of a gentleman 
 than those who toiled for a living, and that he secretly looked 
 down upon the painstaking peasants that fed and sheltered 
 Mm." 
 
 He had derived his aristocratical notions in some degree from, 
 being admitted occasionally to a precarious sociability with 
 some of the small country gentry, who were sometimes in want 
 of company to help while away the time. With these Andrew 
 would now and then play at cards and dice, and he never lacked 
 " siller in pouch" to stake on a game, which he did with a per- 
 fect air of a man to whom money was a matter of little moment, 
 and no one could lose his money with more gentlemanlike 
 coolness. 
 
 Among those who occasionally admitted him to this f amiliar- 
 ity, was old John Scott of Galla, a man of family, who inhab- 
 ited his paternal mansion of Torwoodlee. Some distinction of 
 rank, however, was still kept up. The laird sat on the inside 
 of the window and the beggar on the outside, and they played 
 cards on the sill. 
 
 Andrew now and then told the laird a piece of his mind very 
 freely ; especially on one occasion, when he had sold some of 
 his paternal lands to build himself a larger house with the pro- 
 ceeds. The speech of honest Andrew smacks of the shrewdness 
 of Edie Ochiltree. 
 
 " It's a' varra weel — it's a' varra weel, Torwoodlee," said he; 
 
auuotsford. 35 
 
 " but who would ha' thought that your father's son would ha' 
 sold two gude estates to build a shaw's (cuckoo's) nest on the 
 side of a hill?" 
 
 That day there was an arrival at Abbotsford of two English 
 tourists; one a gentleman of fortune and landed estate, the 
 other a young clergyman whom he appeared to have under his 
 patronage, and to have brought with him as a travelling com- 
 panion. 
 
 The patron was one of those well-bred, commonplace gentle- 
 men with which England is overrun. He had great deference 
 for Scott, and endeavored to acquit himself learnedly in his 
 company, aiming continually at abstract disquisitions, for 
 which Scott had little relish. The conversation of the latter, 
 as usual, was studded with anecdotes and stories, some of them 
 of great pith and humor ; the well-bred gentleman was either 
 too dull to feel their point, or too decorous to indulge in hearty 
 merriment; the honest parson, on the contrary, who was not 
 too refined to be happy, laughed loud and long at every joke, 
 and enjoyed them with the zest of a man who has more merri- 
 ment in his heart than coin in his pocket. 
 
 After they were gone, some comments were made upon their 
 different deportments. Scott spoke very respectfully of the 
 good breeding and measured maimers of the man of wealth, 
 but with a kindlier feeling of the honest parson, and the homely 
 but hearty enjoyment with which he relished every pleasantry. 
 " I doubt," said he, " whether the parson's lot in life is not the 
 best ; if he cannot command as many of the good things of this 
 world by his own purse as his patron can, he beats him all hol- 
 low hi his enjoyment of them when set before him by others. 
 Upon the whole," added he, " I rather think I prefer the honest 
 parson's good humor to his patron's good breeding; I have a 
 great regard for a hearty laugher." 
 
 He went on to speak of the great influx of English travellers 
 which of late years had inundated Scotland; and doubted 
 whether they had not injured the old-fashioned Scottish char- 
 acter. ' ' Formerly they came here occasionally as sportsmen, " 
 said he, " to shoot moor game, without any idea of looking at 
 scenery ; and they moved about the country in hardy simple 
 style, coping with the country p<?«plo in their own way; but 
 now they come rolling about in their equipages, to see ruins, 
 and Bpend money, and their lavish extravagance has played 
 
36 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 the vengeance with the common people. It has made them 
 rapacious in their dealings with strangers, greedy after money, 
 and extortionate in their demands for the most trivial 
 services. Formerly ," continued he, " the poorer classes of our 
 
 people were, comparatively, disinterested; they offered their 
 services gratuitously, in promoting the amusement, or aiding 
 the curiosity of strangers, and were gratified by the smallest 
 compensation; but now they make a trade of showing rocks 
 and ruins, and are as greedy as Italian cicerones. They look 
 upon the English as so many walking money-bags ; the more 
 they are shaken and poked, the more they will leave behind 
 them." 
 
 I told him that he Sad a great deal to answer for on that 
 head, since it was the romantic associations he had thrown by 
 his writings over so many out-of-the-way places in Scotland, 
 that had brought in the influx of curious travellers. 
 
 Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be in some meas- 
 ure in the right, as he recollected a circumstance in point. 
 Being one time at Glenross, an old woman who kept a small 
 inn, which had but little custom, was uncommonly officious in 
 her attendance upon him, and absolutely incommoded him with 
 her civilities. The secret at length came out. As he was about 
 to depart, she addressed him with many curtsies, and said she 
 understood he was the gentleman that had written a bonnie 
 book about Loch Katrine. She begged him to write a little 
 about their lake also, for she understood his book had done the 
 inn at Loch Katrine a muckle deal of good. 
 
 On the following day I made an excursion with Scott and the 
 young ladies to Dryburgh Abbey. We went in an open car- 
 riage, drawn by two sleek old black horses, for which Scott 
 seemed to have an affection, as he had for every dumb animal 
 that belonged to him. Our road lay through a variety of 
 scenes, rich in poetical and historical associations, about most 
 of which Scott had something to relate. In one part of the 
 drive, he pointed to an old border keep, or fortress, on the 
 summit of a naked hill, several miles off, which he called Small- 
 holm Tower, and a rocky knoll on which it stood, the "Sandy 
 Knowe crags." It was a place, he said, peculiarly dear to him, 
 from the recollections of childhood. His father had lived there 
 in the old Smallholm Grange, or farm-house ; and he had been 
 sent there, when but two years old, on account of his lameness, 
 that he might have the benefit of the pure air of the hills, and 
 be under the care of his grandmother and aunts. 
 
ABBOTSFORI). 37 
 
 In the introduction of one of the cantos of Marmion, he has 
 depicted his grandfather, and the fireside of the farm-house; 
 and has given an amusing picture of himself in his boyish 
 years: 
 
 " St' 11 with vain fondness could I trace 
 Anew each kind familiar face, 
 That brightened at our evening fire; 
 From the thatched mansion's gray-haired sire, 
 Wise without learning, plain and good, 
 And sprang- Ox Scotland's gentler blood; 
 Whose eye in age, quick, clear ami keen. 
 Showed what in youth its glance had !>cen ; 
 Whose doom discording neighbors sought, 
 Content with equity unbought; 
 To him the venerable priest. 
 Our freouent and familiar guest, 
 Whose life and manners well could paint 
 Alike the student and the saint; 
 Alas! whose speech too oft I broke 
 With gambol rude and timeless joke; 
 For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
 A self-willed imp, a grandame's child; 
 But half a plague* and half a jest, 
 Was still eudurcd, beloved, carest." 
 
 It was, he said, during his residence at Smallholm crags that 
 he first imbibed his passion for legendary tales, border tradi- 
 tions, and old national songs and ballads. His grandmother 
 and aunts were well versed in that kind of lore, so current in 
 Scottish country life. They used to recount them in long, 
 gloomy winter days, and about the ingle nook at night, in con- 
 clave with their gossip visitors; and little Walter would sit 
 and listen with greedy ear ; thus taking into his infant mind 
 the seeds of many a splendid fiction. 
 
 There was an old shepherd, he said, in the service of the 
 family, who used to sit under the sunny wall, and tell marvel- 
 lous stories, and recite old time ballads, as he knitted stock- 
 ings. Scott used to be wheeled out in his chair, in fine wea- 
 ther, and would sit beside the old man, and listen to him for 
 hours. 
 
 The situation of Sandy Enowe was favorable both for story- 
 teller and listener. It commanded a wide view over all the 
 border country, with its feudal towers, its haunted glens, and 
 wizard streams. As the old shepherd told his tales, he could 
 point out the very scene of action. Thus, before Scott could 
 walk, he was made familiar with the scenes of his future sto- 
 res; they wer< all Been as through a magic medium, and took 
 that tinge of romance, which they ever after retained in his 
 
3g ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 imagination. From the height of Sandy Knowe, he may he 
 said to have had the first look-out upon the promised land of 
 his future glory. 
 
 On referring to Scott's works, I find many of the circum- 
 stances related in this conversation, about the old tower, and 
 the boyish scenes connected with it, recorded in the introduc- 
 tion to Marmion, already cited. This was frequently the case 
 with Scott; incidents and feelings that had appeared in his 
 writings, were apt to be mingled up in his conversation, for 
 they had been taken from what he had witnessed and felt in 
 real life, and were connected with those scenes among which 
 he lived, and moved, and had his being. I make no scruple at 
 quoting the passage relative to the tower, though it repeats 
 much of the foregone imagery, and with vastly superior effect: 
 
 Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
 
 Of tales that charmed me yet a child, 
 
 Rude though they be, still with the chime 
 
 Return the thoughts of early time ; 
 
 And feelings roused in life's first day, 
 
 Glow in the. line, and prompt the lay. 
 
 Then rise those crags, that mountain tower. 
 
 Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour, 
 
 Though no broad river swept along 
 
 To claim perchance heroic song ; 
 
 Though sighed no groves in summer gale 
 
 To prompt of love a softer tale ; 
 
 Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 
 
 Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed; 
 
 Yet was poetic impulse given, 
 
 By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 
 
 It was a barren scene, and wild, 
 
 Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; 
 
 But ever and anon between 
 
 Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; 
 
 ADd well the lonely infant knew 
 
 Recesses where the wall -flower grew, 
 
 And honey-suckle loved to crawl 
 
 Up the low crag and ruined wall. 
 
 I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade 
 
 The sun in all his round surveyed; 
 
 And still I thought that shattered tower 
 
 The mightiest work of human power; 
 
 And maivell'd as the aged hind 
 
 With some strange tale bewitched my mind, 
 
 Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 
 
 Down from that strength had spurred their horse, 
 
 Their southern rapine to renew, 
 
 Far in the distant Cheviot's blue, 
 
 And, home returning, filled the hall 
 
 With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl — 
 
ABBOTSFOIW. 39 
 
 Methought that still, with tramp anil clang 
 
 The gate-way's broken arches rau-, r ; 
 
 Methought grim features, seamed with scars, 
 
 Glared through the window's rusty bars. 
 
 And ever by the winter hearth, 
 
 Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 
 
 Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
 
 Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 
 
 Of patriot battles, won of old, 
 
 By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; 
 
 < )f lator fields of feud and fight, 
 
 When pouring from the Highland height, 
 
 The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 
 
 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
 
 While stretched at length upon the floor, 
 
 Again 1 fought each combat o'er. 
 
 Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
 
 The mimic ranks of war displayed; 
 
 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 
 
 And still the scattered Southron fled before." 
 
 Scott eyed the distant height of Sandy Knowe with an ear- 
 nest gaze as we rode along, and said he had often thought of 
 buying the place, repairing the old tower, and making it his 
 residence. He has in some measure, however, paid off his 
 early debt of gratitude, in clothing it with poetic and romantic 
 associations, by his tale of " The Eve of St. John." It is to be 
 hoped that those who actually possess so interesting a monu- 
 ment of Scott's early days, will preserve it from further dilapi- 
 dation. 
 
 Not far from Sandy Knowe, Scott pointed out another old 
 border hold, standing on the summit of a hill, which had been 
 a kind of enchanted castle to him in his boyhood. It was the 
 tower of Bemerside, the baronial residence of the Haigs, or De 
 Hagas, one of the oldest families of the border. "There had 
 seemed to him," he said, "almost a wizard spell hanging over 
 it, in consequence of a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer, in 
 which, in his young days, he most potently believed:" 
 
 " Betide, betide, whate'er betide, 
 Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside." 
 
 Scott added some particidars which showed that, in the pre- 
 sent instance, the venerable Thomas had not proved a false 
 prophet, for it was a noted fact that, amid all the changes and 
 chances of the border; through all the feuds, and forays, and 
 sackings, and burnings, which had reduced most of the castles 
 to ruins, and the proud families that once possessed them to 
 
40 >ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 poverty, the tower of Bemerside still remained unscathed, and 
 was still the stronghold of the ancient family of Haig. 
 
 Prophecies, however, often insure their own fulfilment. It 
 is very probable that the prediction of Thomas the Rhymer 
 has linked the Haigs to their tower, as their rock of safety, and 
 has induced them to cling to it almost superstitiously, through 
 hardships and inconveniences that would, otherwise, have 
 caused its abandonment. 
 
 I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the burying place of 
 this predestinated and tenacious family, the inscription of 
 which showed the value they set upon their antiquity: 
 
 Locus Sepulturae, 
 
 AntiquessiniEe Familiae 
 
 De Haga 
 
 De Bemerside. 
 
 In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott observed 
 that the lameness which had disabled bim in infancy gradually 
 decreased ; he soon acquired strength in his limbs, and though 
 he always limped, he became, even in boyhood, a great walker. 
 He used frequently to stroll from home and wander about the 
 country for days together, picking up all kinds of local gossip, 
 and observing popular scenes and characters. His father used 
 to be vexed with him for this wandering propensity, and, 
 shaking his head, would say he fancied the boy would make 
 nothing but a peddler. As he grew older he became a keen 
 sportsman, and passed much of his time hunting and shooting. 
 His field sports led him into the most wild and unfrequented 
 parts of the country, and in this way he picked up much 
 of that local knowledge which he has since evinced in his 
 writings. 
 
 His first visit to Loch Katrine, he says, was in his boyish 
 days, on a shooting excursion. The island, which he has made 
 the romantic residence of the "Lady of the Lake," was then 
 garrisoned by an old man and his wife. Their house was 
 vacant ; they had put the key under the door, and were absent 
 fishing. It was at that time a peaceful residence, but became 
 afterward a resort of smugglers, until they were ferreted out. 
 
 In after years, when Scott began to turn this local know- 
 ledge to literary account, he revisited many of those scenes of 
 his early ramblings, and endeavored to secure the fugitive 
 remains of the traditions and songs that had charmed his boy- 
 hood. When collecting materials for his ' ' Border Minstrelsy, " 
 
ABBOTSFOWS. 41 
 
 housed, he said, to go from cottage to cottage, and make tho 
 old wives repeat all they knew, if but two lines; and by put- 
 ting these scraps together, he retrieved many a fine character- 
 istic old ballad or tradition from oblivion. 
 
 I regret to say that I can scarce recollect anything of our 
 visit to Dry burgh Abbey. It is on the estate of the Earl of 
 Blichan. The religious edifice is a mere ruin, rich in Gothic 
 antiquities, but especially interesting to Scott, from containing 
 the family vault, and the tombs and monuments of his ances- 
 tors. He appeared to feel much chagrin at their being in the 
 n, and subject to the intermeddlings of the Earl, who 
 was represented as a nobleman of an eccentric character. The 
 latter, however, set great value on these sepulchral relics, and 
 had expressed a lively anticipation of one day or other having 
 the honor of burying Scott, and adding his monument to the 
 collection, which he intended should be worthy of the "mighty 
 minstrel of the north" — a prospective compliment which was 
 by no means relished by the object of it. 
 
 One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the neighbor- 
 hood of Abbatsford, was taken in company with Mr. William 
 Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman for 
 whom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born 
 to a competency, bad been well educated, his mind was richly 
 stored with varied information, and he was a man of sterling 
 moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune, Scott 
 had got him to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small 
 farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, and was treated by 
 • as a cherished and confidential friend, rather than a 
 dependent. 
 
 As the day was showery, Scott was attended by one of his 
 retainers, named Tommie Purdie, who carried his plaid, and 
 who deserves especial mention. Sophia Scott used to call him 
 her father's grand vizier, and she gave a playful account one 
 evening, as she was hanging on her father's arm, of the con- 
 sultations which he and Tommie used to have about matters 
 relative to farming. Purdie was tenacious of his opinions, 
 and he and Scott woidd have long disputes in front of the 
 house, as to something that was to be done on the estate, until 
 the latter, fairly tired out, would abandon the ground and the 
 argument, exclaiming, "Well, well, Tom, have it your own 
 way." 
 
 After a time, however, Purdie would present himself at the 
 door of the parlor, and observe, "I ha' been thinking over the 
 
42 AEBOTSFOED. 
 
 matter, and upon the whole, I think I'll take your honor's 
 advice." 
 
 Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was told of him. 
 " It was with him and Tom," he said, " as it was with an old 
 laird and a pet servant, whom he had indulged until he was 
 positive beyond all endurance." "This won't do!" cried the 
 old laird, in a passion, "we can't live together any longer — we 
 must part." "An' where the deil does your honor mean to 
 go?" replied the other. 
 
 I would, moreover, observe of Tom Purdie, that he was a 
 firm believer in ghosts, and warlocks, and all kinds of old 
 wives' fable. He was a religious man, too, mingling a little 
 degree of Scottish pride in his devotion ; for though his salary 
 was but twenty pounds a year, he had managed to afford 
 seven pounds for a family Bible. It is true, he had one hun- 
 dred pounds clear of the world, and was looked up to by his 
 comrades as a man of property. 
 
 In the course of our morning's walk, we stopped at a small 
 house belonging to one of the laborers on the estate. The 
 object of Scott's visit was to inspect a relic which had been 
 digged up in a Eoman camp, and which, if I recollect right, ho 
 pronounced to have been a tongs. It was produced by the 
 cottager's wife, a ruddy, healthy -looking dame, whom Scott 
 addressed by the name of Ailie. As he stood regarding the 
 relic, turning it round and round, and making comments upon 
 it, half grave, half comic, with the cottage group around him, 
 all joining occasionally in the colloquy, the inimitable char- 
 acter of Monkbarns was again brought to mind, and I seemed 
 to see before me that prince of antiquarians and humorists 
 holding forth to his unlearned and unbelieving neighbors. 
 
 Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon local antiquities, 
 and in all his familiar conversations about local traditions and 
 superstitions, there was always a sly and quiet humor running 
 at the bottom of his discourse, and playing about Ms counte- 
 nance, as if he sported with the subject. It seemed to me as 
 if he distrusted his own enthusiasm, and was disposed to droll 
 upon his own humors and peculiarities, yet, at the same time, 
 a poetic gleam in his eye would show that he really took a 
 strong relish and interest in them. "It was a pity," he said, 
 "that antiquarians were generally so dry, for the subjects 
 they handled were rich in historical and poetical recollections, 
 in picturesque details, in quaint and heroic characteristics, and 
 in all kinds of curious and obsolete ceremonials. They are 
 
. I fsBOTSFORD. 43 
 
 iys groping among the rarest materials for poetry, but 
 they have no idea of turning them to poetic use. Now every 
 ment from old times has, in some degree, its story with it, 
 or gives an inkling of something characteristic of the circum- 
 stances and manners of its day, and so sets the imagination at 
 work.'" 
 
 F< »r my own part I never met with antiquarian so delight fid, 
 either in his writings or his conversation; and the quiet sub- 
 acid humor that was prone to mingle in his disquisitions, gave 
 them, to me, a peculiar and an exquisite flavor. But he seemed, 
 in fact, to undervalue everything that concerned himself. The 
 play of his genius was so easy that he was unconscious of its 
 mighty power, and made light of those sports of intellect that 
 shamed the efforts and labors of other minds. 
 
 Our ramble this morning took us again up the Rhymer's 
 Glen, and by Huntley Bank, and Huntley Wood, and the silver 
 waterfall overhung with weeping birches and mountain ashes, 
 those delicate and beautiful trees which grace the green shaws 
 and burnsides of Scotfand. The heather, too, that closely 
 n robe of Scottish landscape which covers the nakedness 
 of its hills and mountains, tinted the neighborhood with soft 
 and rich e< dors. As we ascended the glen, the prospects opened 
 upon us; Melrose, with its towers and pinnacles, lay below; 
 beyond were the Eildon hills, the Cowden Knowes, the Tweed, 
 the Galla Water, and all the storied vicinity ; the whole land- 
 scape varied by gleams of sunshine and driving showers. 
 
 Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping along with great 
 ify. and in joyous mood, giving scraps of border rhymes 
 and In trder stories ; two or three times in the course of our walk 
 there were drizzling Bhowers, which I supposed would put an 
 i id to our ramble, but my companions trudged on as uncon- 
 cernedly as if it had been fine weather. 
 
 At length, I asked whether we had not better seek some shel- 
 ■ ■ True, *' sa id Scott, " I did not recollect that you were not 
 aca ist omed to our Scottish mists. This is a lachrymose climate, 
 evermore showering. Wc, however, are children of the mist, 
 and must not mind a little whimpering of the clouds any more 
 than a man must mind the weeping of an hysterical wife. As 
 you are not accustomed to bo wet through, as a matter of 
 course, in a morning's walk, we will bide a bit under the lee of 
 this bank until the shower is over." Taking Iris seat under 
 shelter of a thicket, he culled to his man George for his tartan, 
 then turning to me, "Come," said he, " come under my plaidy, 
 
44 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 as the old song goes ;" so, making me nestle down beside him, 
 he wrapped a part of the plaid round me, and took me, as he 
 said, under his wing. 
 
 While we were thus nestled together, he pointed to a hole 
 in the opposite bank of the glen. That,' he said, was the hole of 
 an old gray badger, who was doubtless snugly housed in this bad 
 weather. Sometimes he saw him at the entrance of his hole, 
 like a hermit at the door of his cell, telling his beads, or reading 
 a homily. He had a great respect for the venerable anchorite, 
 and would not suffer him to be disturbed. He was a kind of 
 successor to Thomas the Rhymer, and perhaps might be Thomas 
 himself returned from fairy land, but still under fairy spell. 
 
 Some accident turned the conversation upon Hogg, the poet, 
 in which Laidlaw, who was seated beside us, took a part. 
 Hogg had once been a shepherd in the service of his father, and 
 Laidlaw gave many interesting anecdotes of him, of which I 
 now retain no recollection. They used to tend the sheep 
 together when Laidlaw was a boy, and Hogg would recite the 
 first struggling conceptions of his muse. At night when Laid- 
 law was quartered comfortably in bed, in the farmhouse, poor 
 Hogg would take to the shepherd's hut in the field on the hill- 
 side, and there lie awake for hours together, and look at the 
 stars and make poetry, which he would repeat the next day to 
 his companion. 
 
 Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and repeated passages 
 from his beautiful poem of " Kelmeny," to which he gave great 
 and well-merited praise. He gave, also, some amusing anec- 
 dotes of Hogg and his piiblisher, Blackwood, who was at that 
 time just rising into the bibliographical importance which he 
 has since enjoyed. 
 
 Hogg, in one of his poems, I believe the "Pilgrims of the 
 Sun, " had dabbled a little in metaphysics, and like his heroes, 
 had got into the clouds. Blackwood, who began to affect criti- 
 cism, argued stoutly with him as to the necessity of omitting 
 or elucidating some obscure passage. Hogg was immovable. 
 
 "But, man," said Blackwood, "I dinna ken what ye mean 
 in this passage. " ' ' Hout tout, man, " replied Hogg, impatiently, 
 "I dinna ken always what I menu mysel." There is many a 
 metaphysical poet in the same predicament with honest Hogg. 
 
 Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Abbotsford during 
 my visit, and I anticipated much gratification in meeting with 
 him, from the account I bad received of his character and 
 maimers, and the great pleasure I had derived from his works. 
 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 45 
 
 Circumstances, however, prevented Scott from performing his 
 promise ; and to my great regret I left Scotland without seeing 
 one of its most original and national characters. 
 
 When the weather held up, we continued our walk until we 
 came to a beautiful sheet of water, in the bosom of the moun- 
 tain, called, if I recollect right, the lake of Cauldshiel. Scott 
 prided himself much upon this little Mediterranean sea in his 
 dominions, and hoped I was not too much spoiled by our great 
 lakes in America to relish it. He proposed to take me out to 
 the centre of it, to a fine point of view, for which purpose we 
 embarked in a small boat, which had been put on the lake by 
 his neighbor, Lord Somerville. As I was about to step on 
 board, I observed in large letters on one of the benches, " Search 
 No. 2." I paused for a moment and repeated the inscription 
 aloud, trying to recollect something I had heard or read to 
 which it alluded. "Pshaw," cried Scott, "it is only some of 
 Lord Somerville's nonsense— get in !" In an instant scenes in 
 the Antiquary connected with "Search No. 1," flashed upon my 
 mind. "Ah! I remember now," said I, and with a laugh took 
 my seat, but adverted no more to the circumstance. 
 
 We had a pleasant row about the lake, which commanded 
 some pretty scenery. The most interesting circumstance con- 
 nected with it, however, according to Scott, was, that it was 
 haunted by a bogle in the shape of a water bull, which lived in 
 the deep parts, and now and then came forth upon dry land 
 and made a tremendous roaring, that shook the very hills. 
 This story had been current in the vicinity from time immemo- 
 rial;— there was a man living who declared he had seen the 
 bull,— nnd he was believed by many of his simple neighbors. 
 " I don't choose to contradict the tale," said Scott, "for I am 
 willing to h-ive my lake stocked with any fish, flesh, or fowl 
 my neighbors think proper to put into it; and these old 
 «' fables are a kind of property in Scotland that belongs to 
 the estates and c;oes with the soil. Our streams and lochs are 
 like the rivers and pools in Germany, that have all their Wasser 
 or water witches, and I have a fancy for these kind of 
 amphibious bogles and hobgoblins." 
 
 Scott went on after we had landed to make many remarks, 
 
 mingled with picturesque anecdotes, concerning the fabulous 
 
 itli which the Scotch were apt to people the wild 
 
 streams and lochs that occur in the solemn and lonely scenes 
 
46 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 of their mountains ; and to compare thorn with similar supe:'- 
 stitions among the northern nations of Em-ope; but Scotland, 
 he said, was above all other countries for this wild and vivid 
 progeny of the fancy, from the nature of the scenery, the 
 misty magnificence and vagueness of the climate, the wild and 
 gloomy events of its history; the clannish divisions of its peo- 
 ple; their local feelings, notions, and prejudices; the individu- 
 ality of their dialect, in which all kinds of odd and peculiar 
 notions were incorporated ; by the secluded life of their moun- 
 taineers; the lonely habits of their pastoral people, much of 
 whose time was passed on the solitary hillsides; their tradi- 
 tional songs, which clothed every rock and stream with old 
 world stories, handed down from age to age, and generation to 
 generation. The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of 
 poetry and strong common sense ; and the very strength of the 
 latter gave perpetuity and luxuriance to the former. It was a 
 strong tenacious soil, into which, when once a seed of poetry 
 fell, it struck deep root and brought forth abundantly. ' ' You 
 will never weed these popular stories and songs and super- 
 stitions out of Scotland," said he. " It is not so much that the 
 people believe in them, as that they delight in them. They be- 
 long to the native hills and streams of which they are fond, 
 and to the history of their forefathers, of which they are 
 proud." 
 
 " It would do your heart good," continued he, " to see a num- 
 ber of our poor country people seated round the ingle nook, 
 which is generally capacious enough, and passing the long 
 dark dreary winter nights listening to some old wife, or stroll- 
 ing gaberlunzie, dealing out auld world stories about bogles 
 and warlocks, or about raids and forays, and border skir- 
 mishes; or reciting some ballad stuck full of those fighting 
 names that stir up a true Scotchman's blood like the sound of 
 a trumpet. These traditional tales and ballads have lived for 
 ages in mere oral circulation, being passed from father to son, 
 or rather from grandam to grandchild, and are a kind of 
 hereditary property of the poor peasantry, of which it would 
 be hard to deprive them, as they have not circulating libraries 
 to supply them with works of fiction in their place." 
 
 I do not pretend to give the precise words, but, as nearly as 
 I can from scantv memorandums and vague recollections, the 
 leading ideas of Scott. I am constantly sensible, however, how 
 far I fall short of his copiousness and richness. 
 
 He went on to speak of the elves and sprites, so frequent 
 
ABBOTSFOBD. 47 
 
 in Scottish legend. " Our fairies, however,'' said he, " though 
 they dress in green, and gambol by moonlight about the banks, 
 and shaws, and burnsides, are not such pleasant little folks as 
 the English fairies, but are apt to bear more odj the warlock in 
 their natures, and to play spiteful tricks. When I was a boy, I 
 used to look wistfully at the green hillocks that were said to 
 be haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes as if I should like to 
 lie down by them and sleep, and be carried off to Fairy Land, 
 only that I did not like some of the cantrips which used now 
 and then to be played off upon visitors." 
 
 Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and with' much 
 t minor, a little story which used to be current in the neigh- 
 borhood, of an honest burgess of Selkirk, who, being at work 
 upon the hill of Peatlaw, fell asleep upon one of these "fairy 
 knowes," or hillocks. When he awoke, he rubbed his eyes 
 and gazed about him with astonishment, for he was in the 
 market-place of a great city, with a crowd of people bustling 
 about him, not one of whom he knew. At length he accosted 
 a bystander, and asked him the name of the place. "Hout 
 man," replied the other, "are ye in the heart o' Glasgow, and 
 spcer the name of it?" The poor man was astonished, and 
 would not believe either ears or eyes; he insisted that he had 
 lain down to sleep but half an hour before on the Peatlaw, 
 near Selkirk. He came well nigh being taken up for a mad- 
 man, when, fortunately, a Selkirk man came by, who knew 
 him, and took charge of him, and conducted him back to his 
 native place. Here, however, he was likely to fare no better, 
 when he spoke of having been whisked in his sleep from the 
 Peatlaw to Glasgow. The truth of the matter at length came 
 out?; his coat, which he had taken off when at work on the 
 Peatlaw, was found lying near a "fairy knowe," and his bon- 
 net, which was missing, was discovered on the weathercock of 
 Lanark steeple. So it was as clear as day that he had been 
 earned through the air by the fairies while he was sleeping, 
 and his bonnet had been blown off by the way. 
 
 I give this little story but meagrely from a scanty memo- 
 randum; Scott has related it in somewhat different style in a 
 note to one of his poems: but in narration these anecdotes de- 
 rived their chief zest, from the quiet but delightful humor, 
 the bonhomie with which he seasoned them, and the sly glance 
 of the eye from under bis bushy eyebrows, with which they 
 were accompanied. 
 
48 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 That day at dinner, we had Mr. Laidlaw and his wife, and a 
 female friend who accompanied them. The latter was a very 
 intelligent, respectable person, about the middle age, and was 
 treated with particular attention and courtesy by Scott. Our 
 dinner was a most agreeable one ; for the guests were evidently 
 cherished visitors to the house, and felt that they were appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 When they were gone, Scott spoke of them in the most 
 cordial manner. "I wished to show you," said he, " some of 
 our reaUy excellent, plain Scotch people ; not fine gentlemen 
 and ladies, for such you can meet everywhere, and they are 
 everywhere the same. The character of a nation is not to be 
 learnt from its fine folks." 
 
 He then went on with a particular eulogium on the lady who 
 had accompanied the Laidlaws. She was the daughter, he said, 
 of a poor country clergyman, who had died in debt, and left 
 her an orphan and destitute. Having had a good plain educa- 
 tion, she immediately set up a child's school, and had soon a 
 numerous flock under her care, by which she earned a decent 
 maintenance. That, however, was not her main object. Her 
 first care was to pay off her father's debts, that no ill word or 
 ill will might rest upon his memory. 
 
 This, by dint of Scottish economy, backed by filial reverence 
 and pride, she accomplished, though in the effort, she subjected 
 herself to every privation. Not content with this, she in cer- 
 tain instances refused to take pay for the tuition of the chil- 
 dren of some of her neighbors, who had befriended her father 
 in his need, and had since fallen into poverty. "In a word," 
 added Scott, "she is a fine old Scotch girl ; and I delight in her, 
 more than in many a fine lady I have known, and I have known 
 many of the finest." 
 
 It is time, however, to draw this rambling narrative to a 
 close. Several days were passed by me, in the way I have at- 
 tempted to describe, in almost constant, familiar, and joyous 
 conversation with Scott ; it was as if I were admitted to a social 
 communion with Shakespeare, for it was with one of a kindred, 
 if not equal genius. Every night I retired with my mind filled 
 with delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I 
 rose with the certainty of new enjoyment The days thus 
 spent, I shall ever look back to, as among the very happiest 
 of my life; for I was conscious at the time of being happy. 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 49 
 
 The only sad moment that I experienced at Abbotsford was 
 that of my departure ; but it was cheered with the prospect of 
 soon returning; for I had promised, after making a tour in the 
 Highlands, to come and pass a few more days on the banks of 
 the Tweed, when Scott intended to invite Hogg the poet to meet 
 me. I took a kind farewell of the family, with each of whom 
 I had been highly pleased. If I have refrained from dwelling 
 particularly on their several characters, and giving anecdotes 
 of them individually, it is because I consider them shielded by 
 the sanctity of domestic life; Scott, on the contrary, belongs to 
 history. As he accompanied me on foot, however, to a small 
 gate on the confines of his premises, I could not refrain] from 
 expressing the enjoyment I had experienced in his domestic 
 circle, and passing some warm eulogiunis on the young folks 
 from whom I had just parted. I shall never forget his reply. 
 " They have kind hearts," said he, "and that is the main point 
 as to human happiness. They love one another, poor things, 
 which is every thing in domestic life. The best wish I can 
 make you, my friend, " added he, laying his hand upon my 
 shoulder, ' ' is, that when you return to your own country, you 
 may get married, and have a family of young bairns about 
 you. If you are happy, there they are to share your happi- 
 ness — and if you are otherwise — there they are to comfort 
 you." 
 
 By this time we had reached the gate, when he halted, and 
 took my hand. "I will not say farewell," said he, "for it is 
 always a painful word, but I will say, come again. When you 
 have made your tour to the Highlands, come here and give me 
 a few more days — but come when you please, you will always 
 find Abbotsford open to you, and a hearty welcome." 
 
 I have thus given, in a rude style, my main recollections of 
 what occurred during my sojourn at Abbotsford, and I feel 
 mortified that I can give but such meagre, scattered, and color- 
 less details of what was so copious, rich, and varied. During 
 several days that I passed there Scott was in admirable vein. 
 From early morn until dinner time he was rambling about, 
 showing me the neighborhood, and during dinner and until 
 late at night, engaged in social conversation. No time was re- 
 served for himself; he seemed as if his only occupation was to 
 entertain me; and yet I was almost an entire stranger to him, 
 one of whom he knew nothing, but an idle book I had written, 
 
50 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 and which, some years before, had amused him. But such was 
 Scott — he appeared to have nothing to do hut lavish his time, 
 attention, and conversation on those around. It was difficult 
 to imagine what time he found to write those volumes that 
 were incessantly issuing from the press ; all of which, too, were 
 of a nature to require reading and research. I could not find 
 that his life was ever otherwise than a life of leisure and hap- 
 hazard recreation, such as it was during my visit. He scarce 
 ever balked a party of pleasure, or a sporting excursion, and 
 rarely pleaded his own concerns as an excuse for rejecting those 
 of others. During my visit I heard of other visitors who had 
 preceded me, and who must have kept him occupied for many 
 days, and I have had an opportunity of 'knowing the course of 
 his daily life for some time subsequently. Not long after my 
 departure from Abbotsford, my friend Wilkie arrived there, 
 to paint a picture of the Scott family. He found the house full 
 of guests. Scott's whole time was taken up in riding and driv- 
 ing about the country, or in social conversation at home. ' 'All 
 this time," said Wilkie to me, " I did not presume to ask Mr. 
 Scott to sit for his portrait, for I saw he had not a moment to 
 spare; I waited for the guests to go away, but as fast as one 
 went another arrived, and so it continued for several days, and 
 with each set he was completely occupied. A.t length all went 
 off, and we were quiet. I thought, however, Mr. Scott will now 
 shut himself up among his books and papers, for he has to make 
 up for lost time ; it won't do for me to ask him now to sit for 
 his picture. Laidlaw, who managed his estate, came in, and 
 Scott turned to him, as I supposed, to consult about business. 
 'Laidlaw,' said he, 'to-morrow morning we'll go across the 
 water and take the dogs with us — there's a place where I think 
 we shall be able to find a hare. ' 
 
 "In short," added Wilkie, "I found that instead of business, 
 he was thinking only of amusement, as if he had nothing in 
 the world to occupy him; so I no longer feared to intrude upon 
 him." 
 
 The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, picturesque, 
 and dramatic. During the time of my visit he inclined to the 
 comic rather than the grave, in his anecdotes and stories, and 
 such, I was told, was his general inclination. He relished a 
 joke, or a trait of humor in social intercourse, and laughed 
 with right good will. He talked not for effect nor display, but 
 from the flow of his spirits, the stores of his memory, and the 
 vigor of his imagination. He had a natural turn for narration, 
 
ABBOTSFORD. 51 
 
 and his narratives and descriptions were without effort, yet 
 wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you like a 
 picture; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect or 
 peculiarities, and described the appearance and characters of 
 his personages with that spirit and felicity evinced in his 
 writings. Indeed, his conversation reminded me continually 
 of his novels; and it seemed to me, that during the whole 
 time I was with him, he talked enough to fill volumes, and 
 that they could not have been filled more delightfully. 
 
 Ho was as good a listener as talker, appreciating everything 
 that others said, however humble might be their rank or pre- 
 tensions, and was quick to testify his perception of any point 
 in their discourse. He arrogated nothing to himself, but was 
 perfectly unassuming and unpretending, entering with heart 
 and soul into the business, or pleasure, or, I had almost said, 
 folly, of the hour and the company. No one's concerns, no 
 , one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastes and pleasures 
 seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the 
 companion of those with whom he happened to be, that they 
 forgot for a time his vast superiority, and only recollected and 
 wondered, when all was over, that it was Scott with whom 
 they had been on such familiar terms, and in whose society 
 they had felt so perfectly at their ease. 
 
 It was delightful to observe the generous spirit in which he 
 sp< >ke of all lus literary contemporaries, quoting the beauties 
 of their works, and this, too, with respect to persons with 
 whom he might have been supposed to be at variance in litera- 
 ture or politics. Jeffrey, it was thought, had ruffled lus plumes 
 in one of his reviews, yet Scott spoke of him in terms of high 
 and warm eulogy, both as an author and as a man. 
 
 His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and 
 free from all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults 
 and foibles, but ho looked upon poor human nature with an in- 
 dulgent eye, relishing what was good and pleasant, tolerating 
 what wis frail, and pitying what was evil. It is this beneficent 
 spi rit which gives such an air of bonhomie to Scott's humor 
 throughout all his works. He played with the foibles and 
 errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in a thousand 
 whimsical and characteristic lights, but the kindness and gen- 
 erosity of his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do 
 not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation any more 
 than there is throughout his works. 
 
 Such is a rotigh sketch of Scott, as I saw him in private life, 
 
52 ABBOTSFORD. 
 
 not merely at the time of the visit here narrated, but in the 
 casual intercourse of subsequent years. Of his public charac- 
 ter and merits, all the world can judge. His works have incor- 
 porated themselves with the thoughts and concerns of the 
 whole civilized world, for a quarter of a century, and have had 
 a controlling influence over the age in which he lived. But 
 when did a human being ever exercise an influence more 
 salutary and benignant? "Who is there that, on looking back 
 over a great portion of his life, does not find the genius of 
 Scott administering to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and 
 soothing his lonely sorrows? Who does not still regard his 
 works as a treasury of pure enjoyment, an armory to which to 
 resort in time of need, to find weapons with which to fight off 
 the evils and the griefs of life? For my own part, in periods 
 of dejection, I have hailed the announcement of a new work 
 from his pen as an earnest of certain pleasure in store for me, 
 and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a waste looks to 
 a green spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace and 
 refreshment. When I consider how much he has thus contri- 
 buted to the better hours of my past existence, and how inde- 
 pendent his works still make me, at times, of all the world for 
 my enjoyment, I bless my stars that cast my lot in his days, 
 to be thus cheered and gladdened by the outpourings of his 
 genius. I consider it one of the greatest advantages that I 
 have derived from my literary career, that it has elevated me 
 into genial communion with such a spirit ; and as a tribute of 
 gratitude for his friendship, and veneration for his memory, I 
 cast this humble stone upon bis cairn, which will soon, I 
 trust, be piled aloft with the contributions of abler hands. 
 
NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 HISTORICAL NOTICE. 
 
 Being about to give a few sketches taken during a three 
 weeks' sojourn in the ancestral mansion of the late Lord 
 Byron, I think it proper to premise some brief particulars 
 concerning its history. 
 
 Newstead Abbey is one of the finest specimens in existence of 
 those quaint and romantic piles, half castle, half convent, which 
 remain as monuments of the olden times of England. It stands, 
 too, in the midst of a legendary neighborhood; being in the 
 heart of Sherwood Forest, and surrounded by the haunts of 
 Eobin Hood and his band of outlaws, so famous in ancient 
 ballad and nursery tale. It is true, the forest scarcely exists 
 but in name, and the tract of country over which it once ex- 
 tended its broad solitudes and shades, is now an open and 
 smiling region, cidtivated with parks and farms, and en- 
 livened with villages. 
 
 Newstead, which probably once exerted a monastic sway over 
 this region, and controlled the consciences of the rude fores- 
 ters, was originally a priory, founded in the latter part of the 
 twelfth century, by Henry II., at the time when he sought, by 
 bmlding of shrines and convents, and by other acts of external 
 piety, to expiate the murder of Thomas a Becket. The priory 
 was dedicated to God and the Virgin, and was inhabited by a 
 fraternity of canons regular of St. Augustine. This order 
 was originally simple and abstemious in its mode of living, 
 and exemplary in its conduct ; but it would seem that it grad- 
 ually lapsed into those abuses which disgraced too many of 
 the wealthy monastic establishments; for there are documents 
 among its archives which intimate the prevalence of gross mis- 
 rule and dissolute sensuality among its members. 
 
56 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 At the time of the dissolution of the convents during the 
 reign of Henry VIII., Newstead underwent a sudden reverse, 
 being given, with the neighboring manor and rectory of Papel- 
 wick, to Sir John Byron, Steward of Manchester and Rochdale, 
 and Lieutenant of Sherwood Forest. This ancient family 
 worthy figures in the traditions of the Abbey, and in the ghost 
 stories with which it abounds, under the quaint and graphic 
 appellation of "Sir John Byron the Little, with the great 
 Beard." He converted the saintly edifice into a castellated 
 dwelling, making it his favorite residence and the seat of his 
 forest jurisdiction. 
 
 The Byron family being subsequently ennobled by a baronial 
 title, and enriched by various possessions, maintained great 
 style and retinue at Newstead. The proud edifice partook, 
 however, of the vicissitudes of the times, and Lord Byron, in 
 one of his poems, represents it as alternately the scene of 
 lordly wassailing and of civil war: 
 
 " Hark, how the hall resounding to the strain, 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel dinl 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
 High crested banners wave thy walls within. 
 
 " Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 
 The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms." 
 
 About the middle of the last century, the Abbey came into 
 the possession of another noted character, who makes no less 
 figure in its shadowy traditions than Sir John the Little with 
 the great Beard. This was the grand-uncle of the poet, fami- 
 liarly known among the gopsipiDg chroniclers of the Abbey as 
 "the Wicked Lord Byron." He is represented as a man of 
 irritable passions and vindictive temper, in the indulgence of 
 which an incident occurred which gave a turn to his whole char- 
 acter and life, and in some measure affected the fortunes of 
 the Abbey. In his neighborhood lived his kinsman and friend, 
 Mr. Chaworth, proprietor of Annesley Hall. Being together in 
 London in 1765, in a chamber of the Star and Garter tavern in 
 Pall Mall, a quarrel rose between them. Byron insisted upon 
 settling it upon the spot by single combat. They fought with- 
 out seconds, by the dim light of a candle, and Mr. Chaworth, 
 although the most expert swordsman, received a mortal 
 wound. With his dying breath he related such particulars 
 the contest as induced the coroner's jury to return a verdict 
 
HISTORICAL NOTICE. 57 
 
 of wilful murder. Lord Byron was sent to the Tower, and 
 subsequently tried before the House of Peers, where an ulti- 
 mate verdict was given of manslaughter. 
 
 He retired after this to the Abbey, where he shut himself up 
 to brood over his disgraces ; grew gloomy, morose, and fantas- 
 tical, and indulged in fits of passion and caprice, that made him 
 the theme of rural wonder and scandal. No tale was too wild 
 or too monstrous for vulgar belief. Like his successor the 
 poet, he was accused of all lands of vagaries and wickedness. 
 It was said that he always went armed, as if prepared to 
 commit murder on the least provocation. At one time, when a 
 gentleman of his neighborhood was to dine tete a tete with him, 
 it is said a brace of pistols were gravely laid with the knives 
 and forks upon the table, as part of the regular table furniture, 
 and implements that might be needed in the course of the re- 
 past. Another rumor states that being exasperated at his coach- 
 man for disobedience to orders, he shot him on the spot, threw 
 his body into the coach where Lady Byron was seated, and, 
 mounting the box, officiated in his stead. At another time, 
 according to the same vulgar rumors, he threw her ladyship 
 into the lake in front of the Abbey, where she would have been 
 drowned, but for the timely aid of the gardener. These stories 
 are doubtless exaggerations of trivial incidents which may 
 have occurred; but it is certain that the wayward passions 
 of this unliappy man caused a separation from his wife, and 
 finally spread a solitude around him. Being displeased at the 
 marriage of his son and heir, he displayed an inveterate malig- 
 nity toward him. Not being able to cut off his succession to 
 the Abbey estate, which descended to him by entail, he endeav- 
 ored to injure it as much as possible, so that it might come a 
 mere wreck into his hands. For this purpose he suffered the 
 Abbey to fall out of repair, and everything to go to waste 
 about it, and cut down all the timber on the estate, laying low 
 many a tract of old Sherwood Forest, so that the Abbey lands 
 lay stripped and bare of all their arioient honors. He was baf- 
 fled in his unnatural revenge by the premature death of his son, 
 and passed the remainder of his days in his deserted and dilapi- 
 dated halls, a gloomy misanthrope, brooding amidst the scenes 
 he had laid desolate. 
 
 His wayward humors drove from him all neighborly society, 
 and for a part of the time .he was almost without domestics. 
 In his misanthropic mood, when at variance with all human 
 kind, he took to feeding crickets, s< i that in pr< icess of time the 
 
58 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 i 
 
 Abbey was overrun with them, and its lonely halls made more 
 lonely at night by their monotonous music. Tradition adds 
 that, at his death, the crickets seemed aware that they had lost 
 theis patron and protector, for they one and all packed up bag 
 and baggage, and left the Abbey, trooping across its courts and 
 corridors in all directions. 
 
 The death of the " Old Lord," or " The Wicked Lord Byron," 
 for he is known by both appellations, occurred in 1798 ; and the 
 Abbey then passed into the possession of the poet, The latter 
 was but eleven years of age, and living in humble style with 
 his mother in Scotland. They came soon after to England, to 
 take possession. Moore gives a simple but striking anecdote of 
 the first arrival of the poet at the domains of his ancestors. 
 
 They had arrived at the Newstead toll-bar, and saw the 
 woods of the Abbey stretching out to receive them, when Mrs. 
 Byron, affecting to be ignorant of the place, asked the woman 
 of the toll-house to whom that seat belonged? She was told 
 that the owner of it, Lord Byron, had been some months dead. 
 "And who is the next heir?" asked the proud and happy 
 mother. " They say," answered the old woman, "it is a little 
 boy who lives at Aberdeen." " And this is he, bless him!" ex- 
 claimed the nurse, no longer able to contain herself, and turn- 
 ing to kiss with delight the young lord who was seated on her 
 lap.* 
 
 During Lord Byron's minority, the Abbey was let to Lord 
 Grey de Ruthen, but the poet visited it occasionally during the 
 Harrow vacations, when he resided with his mother at lodgings 
 in Nottingham. It was treated little better by its present ten- 
 ant, than by the old lord who preceded him ; so that when, in 
 the autumn of 1808, Lord Byron took up his abode there, it was 
 in a ruinous condition. The following lines from his own pen 
 may give some idea of its condition : 
 
 " Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle, 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 Have choked up the rose which once bloomed in the way. 
 
 " Of the mail-covered barons who, proudly, to battle 
 Led thy vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with every wind rattle, 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain, "t 
 
 * Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 
 
 + Lines on leaving Newstead Abbey. 
 
HISTORICAL NOTICE. 59 
 
 In another poem he expresses the melancholy feeling with 
 which he took possession of his ancestral mansion: 
 
 " Newstoad ! what saddening scene of change is thine, 
 Thy yawning arch betokens sure decay: 
 The last and youngest of a noble line, 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 
 " Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers, 
 Thy vaults, where dead of f eudal ages sleep, 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers, 
 These— these he views, and views them but to weep. 
 
 " Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 
 Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great ; 
 Yet lingers mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate." * 
 
 Lord Byron had not fortune sufficient to put the pile in ex- 
 tensive repair, nor to maintain anything like the state of his 
 ancestors. He restored some of the apartments, so as to 
 furnish his mother with a comfortable habitation, and fitted up 
 a quaint study for himself, in which, among books and bus* s, 
 and other library furniture, were two skulls of the ancient 
 friars, grinning on each side of an antique cross. One of his 
 gay companions gives a picture of Newstead when thus repaired, 
 and the picture is sufficiently desolate. 
 
 " There are two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells and 
 rooms about them, which, though not inhabited, nor in an in- 
 habitable state, might easily be made so; and many of the 
 original rooms, among which is a fine stone hall, are still in use. 
 Of the Abbey church, one end only remains; and the old 
 kitchen, with a long range of apartments, is reduced to a 
 heap of rubbish. Leading from the Abbey to the modern part 
 of the habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in length, and 
 twenty-three in breadth; but every part of the house displays 
 neglect and decay, save those which the present lord has lately 
 fitted up."t 
 
 Even the repairs thus made were but of transient benefit, for 
 the roof being left in its dilapidated state, the rain soon pene- 
 tratcil into the apartments which Lord Byron had restored and 
 decorated, and in a few years rendered them almost as desolate 
 as the rest of the Abbey. 
 
 Still he felt a pride in the ruinous old edifice ; its very dreary 
 and dismantled state, addressed itself to his poetical imagina- 
 
 * Elegy on Newetead ^.bbey. 
 
 t Letter of the late Charles Skinner Mathews, Esq. 
 
60 NEWSTEAD AillJEY. 
 
 tion, and to that love of the melancholy and the grand which 
 is evinced in all his writings. "Come what may," said he in 
 one of his letters, ' ' Newstead and «I stand or fall together. I 
 have now lived on the spot. I have fixed my heart upon it, 
 and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter 
 the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within 
 me Avliich will enable me to support difficulties : could I obtain 
 in exchange for Newstead Abbey, the first fortune in the coun- 
 try, I would reject the proposition. " 
 
 His residence at the Abbey, however, was fitful and uncer- 
 tain. He passed occasional portions of time there, sometimes 
 studiously and alone, oftener idly and recklessly, and occasion- 
 ally with young and gay companions, in riot and revelry, and 
 the indulgence of all kinds of mad caprice. The Abbey was by 
 no means benefited by these roystering inmates, who some- 
 times played off monkish mummeries about the cloisters, at 
 other times turned the state chambers into schools for boxing 
 and single-stick, and shot pistols in the great hall. The coun- 
 try people of the neighborhood were as much puzzled by these 
 madcap vagaries of the new incumbent, as by the gloomier 
 habits of the "old lord," and began to think that madness was 
 inherent in the Byron race, or that some wayward star ruled 
 over the Abbey. 
 
 It is needless to enter into a detail of the circumstances 
 which led his Lordship to sell his ancestral estate, notwith- 
 standing the partial predilections and hereditary feeling which 
 he had so eloquently expressed. Fortunately, it fell into the 
 hands of a man who possessed something of a poetical tempera- 
 ment, and who cherished an enthusiastic admiration for Lord 
 Byron. Colonel (at that time Major) Wildman had been a 
 schoolmate of the poet, and sat with him on the same form at 
 Harrow. He had subsequently distinguished himself in the 
 war of the Peninsula, and at the battle of Waterloo, and it was 
 a great consolation to Lord Byron, in parting with his family 
 estate, to know that it would be held by one capable of restor- 
 ing its faded glories, and who would respect and preserve all 
 the monuments and memorials of his line.* 
 
 * The following letter, written in the course of the transfer of the estate, has 
 never been published:— 
 
 Venice, November 18, 1818. 
 My Dear Wildman, 
 
 Mr. Hanson is on the eve of his return, so that I have only time to return a few 
 inadequate thanks for your veiy kind letter. I should regret to trouble you with 
 
EISTOMIOAL NOTJUM 61 
 
 The confidence of Lord Byron in the good feeling and good 
 • of Colonel Wildman has been justified by the event. 
 Under his judicious eye and munificent hand the venerable 
 ami romantic pile has risen from ii-s ruins in all its old monastic 
 anil baronial splendor, and additions have been made to it in 
 perfect conformity of style. The groves and forests have been 
 replanted; the lakes and fish-ponds cleaned out, and the gar- 
 dens rescued from the "hemlock and thistle," and restored to 
 their pristine and dignified formality. 
 
 The farms on the estate have been put in complete order, new 
 farm-houses budt of stone, in the picturesque and comfortable 
 style of the old English granges ; the hereditary tenants secured 
 in their paternal homes, and treated with the most considerate 
 indulgence ; everything, in a word, gives happy indications of 
 a liberal and beneficent landlord. 
 
 What most, however, will interest the visitors to the Abbey 
 in favor of its present occupant, is the reverential care with 
 which he has preserved and renovated every monument and 
 relic of the Byron family, and every object in anywise con- 
 nected with the memory of the poet. Eighty thousand pounds 
 have already been expended upon the venerable pile, yet the 
 work is still going on, and Newstead promises to realize the 
 hope faintly breathed by the poet when bidding it a melancholy 
 farewell — 
 
 "Haply thy sun emerging:, yet may shine, 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 
 Hours spleudi*} a s the past may still be thine, 
 And bless thy future, as thy former day." 
 
 any requests of mine, in regard to the preservation of any signs of my family, which 
 i ill exist at Newstead. and leave everything of that kind to your own feelings, 
 present or future, upon the subject. The portrait which you flatter rne by desiring, 
 would not be worth to you your trouble and expense of such an expedition, but 
 i.iy rely upon having the very first that may be painted, and which may seem 
 Worth your acceptance. 
 
 I trust that Newstead will, being yours, remain so, and that it may see you as 
 happy, as I am very sure that you will make your dependents. With regard to 
 DO] -elf, you may be sure that whether in the fourth, or fifth, or sixth form at Har- 
 row, or in the fluctuations of after life, I shall always remember with regard my 
 choolfellow— fellow monitor, and friend, and recognize with respect the gal- 
 lant soldier, who, with ail the advantages of fortune and allurements of youth to a 
 life of pleasure, devoted leu. self to duties of a nobler order, and will receive his 
 reward in the esteem and admiration of his country. 
 
 Ever yours most truly and affectionately, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
62 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY. 
 
 I had been passing a merry Christmas in the good old style 
 at Barlboro' Hall, a venerable family mansion in Derbyshire, 
 and set off to finish the holidays with the hospitable proprietor 
 of Newstead Abbey. A drive of seventeen miles through a 
 pleasant country, part of it the storied region of Sherwood 
 Forest, brought me to the gate of Newstead Park. The aspect 
 of the park was by no means imposing, the fine old trees that 
 once adorned it having been laid low by Lord Byron's wayward 
 predecessor. 
 
 Entering the gate, the postchaise rolled heavily along a sandy 
 road, between naked declivities, gradually descending into one 
 of those gentle and sheltered valleys, in which the sleek monks 
 of old loved to nestle themselves. Here a sweep of the road 
 round an angle of a garden wall brought us fidl in front of the 
 venerable edifice, embosomed in the valley, with a beautiful 
 sheet of water spreading out before it. 
 
 The irregular gray pile, of motley architecture, answered to 
 the description given by Lord Byron: 
 
 " An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
 Mixed Gothic" 
 
 One end was fortified by a castellated tower, bespeaking the 
 baronial and warlike days of the edifice ; the other end main- 
 tained its primitive monastic character. A ruined chapel, 
 flanked by a solemn grove, still reared its front entire. It is 
 true, the threshold of the once frequented portal was grass- 
 grown, and the great lancet window, once glorious with painted 
 glass, was now entwined and overhung with ivy ; but the old 
 convent cross still braved both time and tempest on the pinna- 
 cle of the chapel, and below, the blessed effigies of the Virgin 
 and child, sculptured in gray stone, remained uninjured in 
 their niche, giving a sanctified aspect to the pile.* 
 
 A flight of rooks, tenants of the adjacent grove, were hover- 
 ing about the ruin, and balancing themselves upon every airy 
 
 ' in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born child 
 With her son in her blessed arms, looked round, 
 
 Spared by some chance, when all beside toqs spoil'd: 
 She made the earth below seem holy ground." — Don Jwan, Canto IE. 
 
'arrival at the abbey. 63 
 
 projection, and looked down with curious eye and cawed as 
 the postchaise rattled along below. 
 
 The chamberlain of the Abbey, a most decorous personage, 
 dressed in black, received us at the portal. Here, too, we 
 encountered a memento of Lord Byron, a great black and 
 white Newfoundland dog, that had accompanied his remains 
 from Greece. He was descended from the famous Boatswain, 
 and inherited his generous qualities. He was a cherished in- 
 mate of the Abbey, and honored and caressed by every visitor. 
 Conducted by the chamberlain, and followed by the dog, who 
 assisted in doing the honors of the house, we passed through a 
 long low vaulted hall, supported by massive Gothic arches, and 
 not a little resembling the crypt of a cathedral, being the base- 
 ment story of the Abbey. 
 
 From this we ascended a stone staircase, at the head of which 
 a pair of folding doors admitted us into a broad corridor that 
 ran round the interior of the Abbey. The windows of the cor- 
 ridor looked into a quadrangular grass-grown court, forming the 
 hollow centre of the pile. In the midst of it rose a lofty and 
 fantastic fountain, wrought of the same gray stone as the main 
 edifice, and which has been well described by Lord Byron. 
 
 "Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 
 Symmetrica], but deck'd with carvings quaint, 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
 The spring rush'd through grim mouths of granite made, 
 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles."* 
 
 Around this quadrangle were low vaulted cloisters, with 
 Gothic arches, once the secluded walks of the monks : the cor- 
 ridor along which we were passing was built above these clois- 
 ters, and their hollow arches seemed to reverberate every foot- 
 fall. Everything thus far had a solemn monastic air; but, on 
 arriving at an angle of the corridor, the eye, glancing along a 
 shadowy gallery, caught a sight of two dark figures in plate 
 armor, with closed visors, bucklers braced, and swords drawn, 
 standing motionless against the wall. They seemed two phan- 
 toms of the chivalrous era of the Abbey. 
 
 Here the chamberlain, throwing open a folding door, ushered 
 us at once into a spacious and lofty saloon, which offered a 
 brilliant contrast to the quaint and sombre apartments we had 
 
 * Don Juan, Canto III. 
 
64 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 traversed. It was elegantly furnished, and the walls hung 
 with paintings, yet something of its original architecture had 
 been preserved and blended with modern embellishments. 
 There were the stone-shafted casements and the deep bow- 
 window of former times. The carved and panelled wood- work 
 of the lofty ceiling had likewise been caref ully restored, and 
 its Gothic and grotesque devices painted and gilded in their 
 ancient style. 
 
 Here, too, were emblems of the former and latter days of the 
 Abbey, in the effigies of the first and last of the Byron fine that 
 held sway over its destinies. At the upper end of the saloon, 
 above the door, the dark Gothic portrait of ' ' Sir John Byron 
 the Little with the great Beard," looked grimly down from his 
 canvas, while, at the opposite end, a white marble bust of the 
 genius loci, the noble poet, shone conspicuously from its 
 pedestal. 
 
 The whole air and style of the apartment partook more of 
 the palace than the monastery, and its windows looked forth 
 on a suitable prospect, composed of beautiful groves, smooth 
 verdant lawns, and silver sheets of water. Below the windows 
 was a small flower-garden, inclosed by stone balustrades, on 
 which were stately peacocks, sunning themselves and display- 
 ing their plumage. About the grass-plots in front, were gay 
 cock pheasants, and plump partridges, and nimble-footed water 
 hens, feeding almost in perfect security. 
 
 Such was the medley of objects presented to the eye on first 
 visiting the Abbey, and I found the interior fully to answer 
 the description of the poet — 
 
 " The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 Elsewhere preserved ; the cloisters still were stable, 
 
 The cells, too, and refectory, I ween; 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene; 
 The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, 
 And spoke more of the friar than the monk. 
 
 " Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined 
 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
 Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined 
 
 Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts, 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 
 
 At least of those whose eyes were in their hearts." 
 
 It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domestic life 
 at the Abbey, nor to describe the festivities of which I was a 
 
ARRIVAL AT TBE ABBEY. 05 
 
 partaker during my sojourn within its hospitable walls. I 
 wish merely to present a picture of the edifice itself, and of 
 those personages and circumstances about it, connected with 
 the memory of Byron. 
 
 I forbear, therefore, to dwell on my reception by my excel- 
 lent and amiable host and hostess, or to make my reader ac- 
 quainted with the elegant inmates of the mansion that I met in 
 the saloon ; and I shall pass on at once with him to the cham- 
 ber allotted me, and to which I was most respectfully con- 
 ducted by the chamberlain. 
 
 It was one of a magnificent suite of rooms, extending between 
 the court of the cloisters and the Abbey garden, the windows 
 looking into the latter. The whole suite formed the ancient 
 state apartment, and had fallen into decay during the neglected 
 days of the Abbey, so as to be in a ruinous condition in the 
 time of Lord Byron. It had since been restored to its ancient 
 splendor, of which my chamber may be cited as a specimen. 
 It was lofty and well proportioned ; the lower part of the walls 
 was panelled with ancient oak, the upper part hung with gobe- 
 lin tapestry, representing oriental hunting scenes, wherein the 
 figures were of the size of life, and of great vivacity of attitude 
 and color. 
 
 The furniture was antique, dignified, and cumbrous. High- 
 backed chairs curiously carved, and wrought in needlework ; 
 8 massive clothes-press of dark oak, well polished, and inlaid 
 with landscapes of various tinted woods ; a bed of state, ample 
 and lofty, so as only to be ascended by a movable flight of 
 steps, the huge posts supporting a high tester with a tuft of 
 crimson plumes at each corner, and rich curtains of crim- 
 son damask hanging in broad and heavy folds. 
 
 A venerable mirror of plate glass stood on the toilet, in which 
 belles of former centuries may have contemplated and deco- 
 rated their charms. The floor of the chamber was of tesse- 
 latfd oak, shining with wax, and partly covered by a Turkey 
 carpet. In the centx*e stood a massy oaken table, waxed and 
 polished as smooth as glass, and furnished with a writing-desk 
 of perfumed rosewood. 
 
 A sober light was admitted into the room through Gothic 
 stone- shafted casements, partly shaded by crimson curtains, 
 and partly overshadowed by the trees of the garden. This 
 solemnly tempered light added to the effect of the stately and 
 antiquated interior. 
 
 Two portraits, suspended over the doors, were in keeping 
 
with the scene. They were in ancient Vandyke dresses ; one 
 was a cavalier, who may have occupied this apartment in days 
 of yore, the other was a lady with a black velvet mask in her 
 hand, who may once have arrayed herself for conquest at the 
 very mirror I have described. 
 
 The most curious relic of old times, however, in this quaint 
 but richly dight apartment, was a great chimney-piece of 
 panel- work, carved in high relief, with niches or compartments, 
 each containing a human bust, that protruded almost entirely 
 from the wall. Some of the figures were in ancient Gothic 
 garb ; the most striking among them was a female, who was 
 earnestly regarded by a fierce Saracen from an adjoining niche. 
 
 This panel-work is among the mysteries of the Abbey, 
 and causes as much wide speculation as the Egyptian hiero- 
 glyphics. Some suppose it to illustrate an adventure in 
 the Holy Land, and that the lady in effigy had been rescued by 
 some Crusader of the family from the turbaned Turk who 
 watches her so earnestly. What tends to give weight to these 
 suppositions is, that similar pieces of panel- work exist in other 
 parts of the Abbey, in all of which are to be seen the Chris- 
 tian lady and her Saracen guardian or lover. At the bot- 
 tom of these sculptures are emblazoned the armorial bearings 
 of the Byrons 
 
 I shall not detain the reader, however, with any further 
 description of my apartment, or of the mysteries connected 
 with it. As he is to pass some days with me at the Abbey, 
 we shall have time to examine the old edifice at our leisure, 
 and to make ourselves acquainted, not merely with its interior, 
 but Likewise with its environs. 
 
 THE ABBEY GABDEN. 
 
 The morning after my arrival, I rose at an early hour. The 
 daylight was peering brightly between the window curtains, 
 and drawing them apart, I gazed through the Gothic casement 
 upon a scene that accorded in character with the interior of the 
 ancient mansion. It was the old Abbey garden, but altered to 
 suit the tastes of different times and occupants. In one direc- 
 tion were shady walls and alleys, broad terraces and lofty 
 groves ; in another, beneath a gray monastic-looking angle of 
 
TILE ABBEY GARDEN. 67 
 
 the edifice, overrun with ivy and surmounted by a cross, lay a 
 small French garden, with formal flower -pots, gravel walks, 
 and stately stone balustrades. 
 
 The beauty of the morning, and the quiet of the hour, 
 tempted me to an early stroll ; for it is pleasant to enjoy such 
 old-time places alone, when one may indulge poetical reveries, 
 and spin cobweb fancies, without interruption. Dressing my- 
 self, therefore, with all speed, I descended a small flight of steps 
 from the state apartment into the long corridor over the clois- 
 ters, along which I passed to a door at the farther end. Here I 
 emerged into the open air, and, descending another flight of 
 stone steps, found myself in the centre of what had once been 
 the Abbey chapel. 
 
 Nothing of the sacred edifice remained, however, but the 
 Gothic front, with its deep portal and grand lancet window, 
 already described. The nave, the side walls, the choir, the sa- 
 cristy, all had disappeared. The open sky was over my head, 
 a smooth shaven grass-plot beneath my feet. Gravel walks 
 and shrubberies had succeeded to the shadow/lsles, and stately 
 trees to the clustering columns. k 
 
 " Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 
 The humid pall of h'fe-extinguished clay, 
 In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
 
 Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 
 
 Soon as the gloaming spreads her warning shade, 
 The choir did oft thejr mingling vespers blend, 
 
 Or matin orisons to Mary paid." 
 
 Instead of the matin orisons of the monks, however, the 
 ruined walls of the chapel now resounded to the cawing of in- 
 numerable rooks that were fluttering and hovering about the 
 dark grove winch they inhabited, and preparing for their morn- 
 ing flight. 
 
 My ramble led me along quiet alleys, bordered by shrubbery, 
 where the solitary water-hen would now and then scud across 
 my path, and take refuge among the bushes. From hence I 
 entered upon a broad terraced walk, once a favorite resort of 
 the friars, which extended the whole length of the old Abbey 
 garden, passing along the ancient stone wall which bounded it. 
 In the centre of the garden lay one of the monkish fish-pools, 
 an oblong sheet of water, deep set like a mirror, in green slop- 
 ing banks of turf. In its glassy bosom was reflected the dark 
 mass of a neighboring grove, one of the most important 
 features of the garden. 
 
68 NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 
 
 This grove goes by the sinister name of ' ' the Devil's Wood," 
 and enjoys but an equivocal character in the neighborhood.- It 
 ■.vas planted by "The Wicked Lord Byron," during the early 
 part of his residence at the Abbey, before his fatal duel with 
 Mr. Ohaworth. Having something of a foreign and classical 
 e, he set up leaden statues of satyrs or fauns at each end of 
 tiie grove. The statues, like everything else about the old 
 Lord, fell under the suspicion and obloquy that overshadowed 
 iiim in the latter part of his life. The country people, who 
 knew nothing of heathen mythology and its sylvan deities, 
 looked with horror at idols invested with the diabolical attri- 
 butes of horns and cloven feet. They probably supposed them 
 some object of secret worship of the gloomy and secluded 
 misanthrope and reputed murderer, and gave them the name 
 of "The old Lord's Devils." 
 
 I penetrated the recesses of the mystic grove. There 
 stood the ancient and much slandered statues, overshadowed 
 by tall larches, and stained by dank green mold. It is not a 
 matter of surprise that strange figures, thus behoof ed and be- 
 horned, and set up in a gloomy grove, should perplex the sainds 
 of the simple and superstitious yeomanry. There are many of 
 the tastes and caprices of the rich, that in the eyes of the un- 
 educated must savor of insanity. 
 
 I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials of a 
 more touching character. It had been one of the favorite 
 haunts of the late Lord Byron. In his farewell visit to the 
 Abbey, after he had parted with the possession of it, ne passed 
 some time in this grove, in company with his sister ; and as a 
 last memento, engraved their names on the bark of a tree. 
 
 The feelings that agitated his bosom during this farewell 
 visit, when he beheld round him objects dear to his pride, and 
 dear to his juvenile recollections, but of which the narrowness 
 of his fortune would not permit him to retain possession, may 
 be gathered from a passage in a poetical epistle, written to his 
 sister in after years: 
 
 I did remind you of our own dear lake 
 
 By the old hall, which may be mine no more', 
 Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake 
 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 
 
THE ABBEY GAHDSfN. 69 
 
 t feel almost at (imps as T have felt 
 in hippy childhood; Wees, and flowers, and brooks. 
 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 My heart with recognition of their looks; 
 
 And even at moments I would think I see 
 
 Some living things I love— but none like thee." 
 
 I searched the grove for some time, before I found the tree 
 on which Lord Byron had left his frail memorial. It was an 
 elm of peculiar form, having two trunks, which sprang from 
 the same root, and, after growing side by side, mingled their 
 branches together. He had selected it, doubtless, as em- 
 blematical of his sister and himself. The names of Byron and 
 Augusta were still visible. They had been deeply cut in the 
 hark, but the natural growth of the tree was gradually render- 
 ing them illegible, and a few years hence, strangers will seek 
 in vain for this record of fraternal affection. 
 
 Leaving the grove, I continued my ramble along a spacious 
 terrace, overlooking what had once been the kitchen garden of 
 the Abbey. Below me lay the monks' stew, or fish pond, a 
 dark pool, overhung by gloomy cypresses, with a solitary 
 water-hen swimming about in it. 
 
 A little farther on, and the terrace looked down upon the 
 stately scene on the south side oi tne Abbey ; the flower garden, 
 with its stone balustrades and stately peacocks, the lawn, with 
 its pheasants and partridges, and the soft valley of Newstead 
 beyond. 
 
 At a distance, on the border of the lawn, stood another me- 
 mento of Lord Byron; an oak planted by him in his boyhood, 
 on his first visit to the Abbey. With a superstitious feeling in- 
 herent in him, he linked his own destiny with that of the tree. 
 "As it fares," said he, "so will fare my fortunes." Several 
 years elapsed, many of them passed in idleness and dissipation. 
 He returned to the Abbey a youth scarce grown to manhood, 
 but, as he thought, with vices and follies beyond his years. He 
 found his emblem oak almost choked by weeds and brambles, 
 and took the lesson to himself. 
 
 " Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine, 
 That thy dark waving branches would flourish around, 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 " Such, such was my hope— when in infancy's years 
 On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride; 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears— 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide." 
 
70 NEWSTEAD ' ABBEY. 
 
 I leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, and gazec 
 upon the valley of Newstead, with its silver sheets of water 
 gleaming in the morning sun. It was a sabbath morning, 
 which always seems to have a hallowed influence over the land- 
 scape, probably from the quiet of the day, and the cessation of 
 all kinds of week-day labor. As I mused upon the mild and 
 beautiful scene, and the wayward destinies of the man, whose 
 stormy temperament forced him from this tranquil paradise to 
 battle with the passions and perils of the world, the sweet 
 chime of bells from a village a few miles distant came stealing 
 up the valley. Every sight and sound this morning seemed 
 calculated to summon up touching recollections of poor Byron. 
 The chime was from the village spire of Hucknall Torkard, be- 
 neath which his remains he buried ! 
 
 1 have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray 
 
 country church, venerable with the lapse of centuries. He lies 
 buried beneath the pavement, at one end of the principal aisle. 
 A light falls on the spot through the stained glass of a Gothic 
 window, and a tablet on the adjacent wall announces the 
 family vault of the Byrons. It had been the wayward inten- 
 tion of the poet to be entombed, with his faithful dog, in the 
 monument erected by him in the garden of Newstead Abbey. 
 His executors showed better judgment and feeling, in consign- 
 ing his ashes to the family sepulchre, to mingle with those of 
 his mother and his kindred. Here, 
 
 " After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well. 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
 Can touch him further I" 
 
 How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish made by 
 him, but a few years previously, in one of his fitful moods of 
 melancholy and misanthropy: 
 
 " When time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
 Oblivion ' may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 
 
 " No band of friends or heirs be there, 
 To weep or wish the coming blow: 
 No maiden with dishevelled hair, 
 To feel, or fein decorous woe. 
 
 " But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourners near: 
 Iwould not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a tear." 
 
 ed 
 
PLOUGH MONDAY. 71 
 
 He died among strangers, in a foreign land, without a kindred 
 hand to close his eyes; yet he did not die unwept. With all 
 his faults and errors, and passions and caprices, he had the gift 
 of attaching his humble dependents warmly to him. One of 
 them, a poor Greek, accompanied his remains to England, and 
 followed them to the grave. I am told that, during the cere- 
 mony, he stood r.olding on by a pew in an agony of grief, and 
 when all was over, seemed as if he would have gone down into 
 the tomb with the body of his master. — A nature that could in- 
 spire such attachments, must have been generous and benefi- 
 cent. 
 
 PLOUGH MONDAY. 
 
 Sherwood Forest is a region that still retains much of the 
 quaint customs and holiday games of the olden time. A day 
 or two after my arrival at the Abbey, as I was walking in the 
 cloisters, I heard the sound of rustic music, and now and then 
 a burst of merriment, proceeding from the interior of the man- 
 sion. Presently the chamberlain came and informed me that 
 a party of country lads were in the servants' hall, performing 
 Plough Monday antics, and invited me to witness their mum- 
 mery. I gladly assented, for I am somewhat curious about 
 these relics of popular usages. The servants' hall was a fit 
 place for the exhibition of an old Gothic game. It was a 
 chamber of great extent, which in monkish times had been the 
 refectory of the Abbey. A row of massive columns extended 
 lengthwise through the centre, whence sprung Gothic arches, 
 supporting the low vaulted ceiling. Here was a set of rustics 
 dressed up in something of the style represented in the books 
 concerning popular antiquities. One was in a rough garb of 
 frieze, with his head muffled in bear-skin, and a bell dangling 
 behind him, that jingled at every movement. He was the clown, 
 or fool of the party, probably a traditional representative i >f 
 the ancient satyr. The rest were decorated with ribbons and 
 armed with wooden swords. The leader of the troop recited 
 the old ballad of St. George and the Dragon, which had been 
 current among the country people for ages; his companions 
 accompanied the recitation with some rude attempt at acting, 
 while the clown cut all kinds of antics. 
 
 To these succeeded a set of morris-dancers, gayly dressed up 
 
72 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 with ribbons and hawks'-bells. In this troop we had Robin 
 Hood and Maid Marian, the latter represented by a smooth- 
 faced boy ; also Beelzebub, equipped with a broom, and accom- 
 panied by his wife Bessy, a termagant old beldame. These 
 rude pageants are the lingering remains of the old customs of 
 Plough Monday, when bands of rustics, fantastically dressed, 
 and furnished with pipe and tabor, dragged what was called 
 the "fool plough" from house to house, singing ballads and per- 
 forming antics, for which they were rewarded with money and 
 good cheer. 
 
 But it is not in "merry Sherwood Forest" alone that these 
 remnants of old times prevail. They are to be met with in 
 most of the counties north of the Trent, which classic stream 
 seems to be the boundary line of primitive customs. During 
 my recent Christmas sojourn at Barlboro' Hall, on the skirts of 
 Derbyshire and Yorkshire, I had witnessed many of the rustic 
 festivities peculiar to that joyous season, which have rashly 
 been pronounced obsolete, by those who draw their experience 
 merely from city life. I had seen the great Yule log put on the 
 fire on Christmas Eve, and the wassail bowl sent round, brim- 
 ming with its spicy beverage. I had heard carols beneath my 
 window by the choristers of the neighboring village, who went 
 their rounds about the ancient Hall at midnight, according to 
 immemorial custom. We had nmmmers and mimers too, with 
 the story of St. George and the Dragon, and other ballads and 
 traditional dialogues, together with the famous old interlude of 
 the Hobby Horse, all represented in the antechamber and ser- 
 vants' hall by rustics, who inherited the custom and the poetry 
 from preceding generations. 
 
 The boar's head, crowned with rosemary, had taken its hon- 
 ored station among the Christmas cheer ; the festal board had 
 been attended by glee singers and minstrels from the village to 
 entertain the company with hereditary songs and catches dur- 
 ing their repast ; and the old Pyrrhic game of the sword dance, 
 handed down since the time of the Romans, was admirably 
 performed in the court-yard of the mansion by a band of young 
 men, lithe and supple in their forms and graceful in their 
 movements, who, I was told, went the rounds of the villages 
 and country-seats during the Christmas holidays. 
 
 I specify these rural pageants and ceremonials, which I saw 
 during my sojourn in this neighborhood, because it has been 
 deemed that some of the anecdotes of holiday customs given in 
 my preceding writings, related to usages which have entirely 
 
OLD SERVANTS. 73 
 
 passed away. Critics who reside in cities have little idea of the 
 primitive manners and observances, which still prevail in re- 
 mote and rural neighborhoods. 
 
 In fact, in crossing the Trent one seems to step back into old 
 t imes ; and in the villages of Sherwood Forest we are in a black- 
 letter region. The moss-green cottages, the lowly mansions of 
 gray stone, the Gothic crosses at each end of the villages, and 
 the tall Maypole in the centre, transport us in imagination to 
 foregone centuries; everything has a quaint and antiquated 
 air. 
 
 The tenantry on the Abbey estate partake of this primitive 
 character. Some of the families have rented farms there for 
 nearly three hundred years; and, notwithstanding that their 
 mansions fell to decay, and every thing about them partook of 
 the general waste and misrule of the Byron dynasty, yet noth- 
 ing could uproot them from their native soil. I am happy to 
 say, that Colonel Wildman has taken these stanch loyal fami- 
 lies under his peculiar care. He has favored them in their 
 rents, repaired, or rather rebuilt their farm-houses, and has 
 enabled families that had almost sunk into the class of mere 
 rustic laborers, once more to hold up their heads among the 
 yeomanry of the land. 
 
 I visited one of these renovated establishments that had but 
 lately been a mere rum, and now was a substantial grange. It 
 was inhabited by a young couple. The good woman showed 
 every part of the establishment with decent pride, exulting in 
 its comfort and respectability. Her husband, I understood, 
 had risen in consequence « with the improvement of his man- 
 sion, and now began to be known among his rustic neighbors 
 by the appellation of "the young Squire." 
 
 OLD SERVANTS. 
 
 In an old, time-worn, and mysterious looking mansion like 
 New st<\ul Abbey, and one so haunted by monkish, and feudal, 
 and poetical associations, it is a prize to meet with some ancient 
 crone, who has passed a long life about the place, so as to have 
 become a living chronicle of its fortunes and vicissitudes. Such 
 a one is Nanny Smith, a worthy dame, near seventy years of 
 age, who for a long thne served as housekeeper to the Byrons. 
 
74 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 The Abbey and its domains comprise her world, beyond which 
 she knows nothing, but within which she has ever conducted 
 herself with native shrewdness and old-fashioned honesty. 
 When Lord Byron sold the Abbey her vocation was at an end, 
 still she lingered about the place, having for it the local attach- 
 ment of a cat. Abandoning her comfortable housekeeper's 
 apartment, she took shelter in one of the " rock houses," which 
 are nothing more than a little neighborhood of cabins, exca- 
 vated in the perpendicular walls of a stone quarry, at no great 
 distance from the Abbey. Three ceils cut in the living rock, 
 formed her dwelling ; these she fitted up humbly but comforta- 
 bly ; he: son William labored in the neighborhood, and aided 
 to support her, and Nanny Smith maintained a cheerful aspect 
 and an independent spirit. One of her gossips suggested to her 
 that William should marry, and bring home a young wife to • 
 help her and take care of her. "Nay, nay," replied Nanny, 
 tartly, "I want no young mistress in my house.'''' So much for 
 the love of rule — poor Nanny's house was a hole in a rock ! 
 
 Colonel Wildman, on taking possession of the Abbey, found 
 Nanny Smith thus humbly nestled. With that active benevo- 
 lence which characterizes him, he immediately set William up 
 in a small farm on the estate, where Nanny Smith has a com- 
 fortable mansion in her old days. Her pride is roused by her 
 son's advancement. She remarks with exultation that people 
 treat William with much more respect now that he is a farmer, 
 than they did when he was a laborer. A farmer of the neigh- 
 borhood has even endeavored to make a match between him 
 and bis sister, but Nanny Smith has* grown fastidious, and in- 
 terfered. The girl, she said, was too old for her son, besides, 
 she did* not see that he was in any need of a wife. 
 
 "No," said William, "I ha' no great mind to marry the 
 wench : but if the Colonel and his lady wish it, I am willing. 
 They have been so kind to me that I should think it my duty 
 to please them." The Colonel and his lady, however, have 
 not thought proper to put honest William's gratitude to so 
 severe a test. 
 
 Another worthy whom Colonel Wildman found vegetating 
 upon the place, and who had lived there for at least sixty years, 
 was old Joe Murray. He had come there when a mere boy in 
 the train of the " old lord," about the middle of the last century, 
 and had continued with him until his death. Having been a 
 cabin boy when very young, Joe always fancied himself a bit 
 of a sailor, and had charge of all the pleasure-boats on the lake, 
 
 
OLD SERVANTS. 75 
 
 though he afterward rose to the dignity of butler. In the 
 latter days of the old Lord Byron, when he shut himself up 
 from all the world, Joe Murray was the only servant retained 
 by him, excepting his housekeeper, Betty Hardstaff, who was 
 reputed to have an undue sway over him, and was derisively 
 called Lady Betty among the country folk. 
 
 When the Abbey came into the possession of the late Lord 
 Byron, Joe Murray accompanied it as a fixture. He was re- 
 instated as butler in the Abbey, and high admiral on the lake, 
 and his sturdy honest mastiff qualities won so upon Lord 
 Byron as even to rival his Newfoundland dog in his affections. 
 Often when dining, he would pour out a bumper of choice 
 Madeira, and hand it to Joe as he stood behind his chair. In 
 fact, when he built the monumental tomb which stands in the 
 Abbey garden, he intended it for himself, Joe Murray, and the 
 dog. The two latter were to he on each side of him. Boat- 
 swain died not long afterward, and was regularly interred, and 
 the well-known epitaph inscribed on one side of the monument. 
 Lord Byron departed for Greece ; during his absence, a gentle- 
 man to whom Joe Murray was showing the tomb, observed, 
 "Well, old boy, you will take your place here some twenty 
 years hence." 
 
 "I don't know that, sir," growled Joe, in reply, "if I was 
 sure his Lordship would come here, I should like it well enough, 
 but I should not like to he alone with the dog." 
 
 Joe Murray was always extremely neat in his dress, and 
 attentive to his person, and made a most respectable appear- 
 ance. A portrait of him still hangs in the Abbey, representing 
 him a hale fresh-looking fellow, in a flaxen wig, a blue coat 
 and buff waistcoat, with a pipe in his hand. He discharged all 
 the duties of his station with great fidelity, unquestionable 
 honesty, and much outward decorum, but, if we may believe 
 his contemporary, Nanny Smith, who, as housekeeper, shared 
 the sway of the household with him, he was very lax in his 
 minor morals, and used to sing loose and profane songs as he 
 presided at the table in the servants' hall, or sat taking his ale 
 and smoking his pipe by the evening fire. Joe had evidently 
 derived his convivial notions from the race of English country 
 squires who flourished in the days of his juvenility. Nanny 
 Smith was scandalized at his ribald songs, but being above 
 harm herself, endured them in silence. At length, on his sing- 
 ing them before a young girl of sixteen, she could contain her- 
 self no longer, but read him a lecture that made his ears ring, 
 
76 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 
 and then flounced off to bed. The lecture seems, by her ac- 
 count, to have staggered Joe, for he told her the next morning 
 that he had had a terrible dream in the night. An Evangel- 
 ist stood at the foot of his bed with a great Dutch Bible, -which 
 he held with the printed part toward him, and after a while 
 pushed it in his face. Nanny Smith undertook to interpret 
 the vision, and read from it such a homily, and deduced such 
 awfid warnings, that Joe became quite serious, left off singing, 
 and took to reading good books for a month ; but after that, 
 continued Nanny, he relapsed and became as bad as ever, and 
 continued to sing loose and profane songs to his dying day. 
 
 When Colonel Wildman became proprietor of the Abbey he 
 found Joe Murray flourishing in a green old age, though up- 
 ward of fourscore, and continued him in his station as butler. 
 The old man was rejoiced at the extensive repairs that were 
 immediately commenced, and anticipated with pride the day 
 when the Abbey should rise out of its ruins with renovated 
 splendor, its gates be thronged with trains and equipages, and 
 its halls once more echo to the sound of joyous hospitality. 
 
 What chiefly, however, concerned Joe's pride and ambition, 
 was a plan of the Colonel's to have the ancient refectory of the 
 convent, a great vaulted room, supported by Gothic columns, 
 converted into a servants' hall. Here Joe looked forward to 
 rule the roast at the head of the servants' table, and to make 
 the Gothic arches ring with those hunting and hard-drinking 
 ditties which were the horror of the discreet Nanny Smith. 
 Time, however, was fast wearing away with him, and his great 
 fear was that the hall would not be completed in his day. In 
 his eagerness to hasten the repairs, he used to get up early in 
 the morning, and ring up the workmen. Notwithstanding his 
 great age, also, he would turn out half -dressed in cold weather 
 to cut sticks for the fire. Colonel Wildman kindly remon- 
 strated with him for thus risking his health, as others would 
 do the work for Mm. 
 
 "Lord, sir," exclaimed th^hale old fellow, "it's my air-bath, 
 I'm all the better for it." 
 
 Unluckily, as he was thus employed one morning a splinter 
 flew up and wounded one of his eyes. An inflammation took 
 place ; he lost the sight of that eye, and subsequently of the 
 other. Poor Joe gradually pined away, and grew melancholy. 
 Colonel Wildman kindly tried to cheer him up—" Come, come, 
 old boy," cried he, " be of good heart, you will yet take your 
 place in the servants' hall." 
 
BXJPERSTITIONB OF TIIE ABBEY. 77 
 
 "Nay, nay, sir," replied he, "I did hope once that I should 
 live to see it — I looked forward to it with pride, I confess, but 
 it is all over with me now— I shall soon go home!" 
 
 He died shortly afterward, at the advanced age of eighty-six, 
 
 seventy of which had been passed as an honest and faithful 
 
 servant at the Abbey. Colonel Wildman had him decently in- 
 
 •d in the church of HucknaD. Torkard, near the vault of 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 SUPEESTITIONS OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The anecdotes I had heard of the quondam housekeeper of 
 Lord Byron, rendered me desirous of paying her a visit. I 
 rode in company' with Colonel Wildman, therefore, to the cot- 
 tage of her son William, where she resides, and found her 
 seated by her fireside, with a favorite cat perched upon her 
 shoidder and purring in her ear. Nanny Smith is a large, 
 good-looking woman, a specimen of the old-fashioned country 
 housewife, combining antiquated notions and prejudices, and 
 very limited information, with natural good sense. She loves 
 to gossip about the Abbey and Lord Byron, and was soon 
 drawn into a course of anecdotes, though mostly of an humble 
 kind, such as suited the meridian of the housekeeper's room 
 and servants' hall. She seemed to entertain a kind recollec- 
 tion of Lord Byron, though she had evidently been much per- 
 plexed by some of his vagaries; and especially by the means 
 he adopted to counteract his tendency to corpulency. He used 
 various modes to sweat himself down; sometimes he would lie 
 l'i >r a long time in a warm bath, sometimes he would walk up 
 hills in the park, wrapped up and loaded with great coats; 
 sad toil for the poor youth," added Nanny, "he behig so 
 lame." 
 
 iiis meals were scanty and irregular, consisting of dishes 
 which Nanny seemed to hold in great contempt, such as pillau, 
 :aroni, and lnzht puddings. 
 
 She contradicted the report of the licentious life which he 
 was reported to lead at the Abbey, and of the paramours said 
 to have been brought with him from London. "A great part 
 of his time used to be passed lying on a sofa reading. Some- 
 times he had young gentlemen of his acquaintance with him, 
 
78 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 and they played some mad pranks; but nothing but what 
 young gentlemen may do, and no harm done." 
 
 " Once, it is true," she added, "he had with him a beautiful 
 boy as a page, which the housemaids said was a girl. For my 
 part, I know nothing about it. Poor soul, he was so lame he 
 «ould not go out much with the men ; all the comfort he had 
 was to be a little with the lasses. The housemaids, however, 
 were very jealous ; one of them, in particular, took the matter 
 in great dudgeon. Her name was Lucy; she was a great 
 favorite with Lord Byron, and had been much noticed by him, 
 and began to have high notions. She had her fortune told by 
 a man who squinted, to whom she gave two-and-sixpence. He 
 told her to hold up her head and look high, for she would come 
 to great things. Upon this," added Nanny, "the poor thing 
 dreamt of nothing less than becoming a lady, and mistress of 
 the Abbey ; and promised me, if such luck shoidd happen to 
 her, she would be a good friend to me. Ah well-a-day ! Lucy 
 never had the fine fortune she dreamt of ; but she had better 
 than I thought for; she is now married, and keeps a public 
 house at Warwick." 
 
 Finding that we listened to her -with great attention, Nanny 
 Smith went on with her gossiping. "One time," said she, 
 "Lord Byron took a notion that there was a deal of money 
 buried about the Abbey by the monks in old times, and noth- 
 ing would serve him but he must have the flagging taken up 
 in the cloisters ; and they digged and digged, but found noth- 
 ing but stone coffins full of bones. Then he must needs have 
 one of the coffins put in one end of the great hall, so that the 
 servants were afraid to go there of nights. Several of the 
 skulls were cleaned and put in frames in his room. I used to 
 have to go into the room at night to shut the windows, and if 
 I glanced an eye at them, they all seemed to grin ; which I be- 
 lieve skulls always do. I can't say but I was glad to get out of 
 the room. 
 
 "There was at one time (and for that matter there is still) 
 a good deal said about ghosts haunting about the Abbey. The 
 keeper's wife said she saw two standing in a dark part of the 
 cloisters just opposite the chapel, and one in the garden by the 
 lord's well. Then there was a young lady, a cousin of Lord 
 Byron, who was staying in the Abbey and slept in the room 
 next the clock ; and she told me that one night when she was 
 lying in bed, she saw a lady in white come out of the wall on 
 one side of the room, and go into the wall on the opposite side, 
 
SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY. 79 
 
 "Lord Byron ono day said to me, 'Nanny, what nonsense 
 they toll about ghosts, as if there ever were any such things. 
 f have never seen any thing of the kind about the Abbey, and 
 I warrant you have not.' This was all done, do you see, to 
 draw me out; but I said nothing, but shook my head. How- 
 <ver, they say his lordship did once see something. It was in 
 the great hall — something all black and hairy, he said it was 
 the devil. 
 
 " For my part," continued Nanny Smith, "I never saw any- 
 thing of the kind — but I heard something otice. I was one 
 :ing scrubbing the floor of the little dining-room at the end 
 of the long gallery; it was after dark; I expected every mo- 
 ment to be called to tea, but wished to finish what I was about. 
 All at once I heard heavy footsteps in the great hall. They 
 sounded like the tramp of a horse. I took the light and went 
 t< > see what it was. I heard the steps come from the lower end 
 of the hall to the fireplace in the centre, where they stopped; 
 but I could see nothing. I returned to my work, and in a little 
 time heard the same noise again. I went again with the light ; 
 the footsteps stopped by the fireplace as before; still I could 
 nothing. I returned to my work, when I heard the steps 
 for a third time. I then went into the hall without a light, but 
 they stopped just the same, by the fireplace, half way up the 
 hall. I thought this rather odd, but returned to my work. 
 When it was finished, I took the light and went through the 
 hall, as that was my way to the kitchen. I heard no more 
 footsteps, and thought no more of the matter, when, on coming 
 to the lower end of the hall, I found the door locked, and then, 
 on one side of the door, I saw the stone coffin with the skull 
 and bones that had been digged up in the cloisters." 
 
 Here Nanny paused. I asked her if she believed that the 
 mysterious footsteps had any connection with the skeleton in 
 the coffin; but she shook her head, and would not eommit her- 
 We took our leave of the good old dame shortly after, 
 and the story she had related gave subject for conversation on 
 our ride homeward. It was evident she had spoken the truth 
 as to what she had heard, but had been deceived by some pecu- 
 liar effect of sound. Noises are propagated about a huge irreg- 
 ular edifice of the kind in a very deceptive manner ; footsteps 
 are prolonged and reverberated by the vaulted cloisters and 
 halls; the creaking and slamming of distant gates, the 
 blast through the groves and among the ruined 
 arches of the chapel, have all a strangely delusive effect at night. 
 
80 NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Colonel Wildman gave an instance of the kind from his own 
 experience. Not long after he had taken up his residence at 
 the Abbey, he heard one moonlight night a noise as if a car- 
 riage was passing at a distance. He opened the window and 
 leaned out. It then seemed as if the great iron roller was 
 dragged along the gravel walks and terrace, but there was 
 nothing to be seen. When he saw the gardener on the follow- 
 ing morning, he questioned him about working so late at night. 
 The gardener declared that no one had been at work, and the 
 roller was chained up. He was sent to examine it, and came 
 back with a countenance full of surprise. The roller had been 
 moved in the night, but he declared no mortal hand could 
 have moved it. " Well," replied the Colonel, good-humoredly, 
 " I am glad to find I have a brownie to work for me." 
 
 Lord Byron did much to foster and give currency to the 
 superstitious tales connected with the Abbey, by believing, or 
 pretending to believe in them. Many have supposed that his 
 mind was really tinged with superstition, and that this innate 
 infirmity was increased by passing much of his time in a lonely 
 way, about the empty halls and cloisters of the Abbey, then in 
 a ruinous melancholy state, and brooding over the skulls and 
 effigies of its former inmates. I should rather think that he 
 found poetical enjoyment in these supernatural themes, and 
 that his imagination delighted to people this gloomy and 
 romantic pile with all kinds of shadowy inhabitants. Certain 
 it is, the aspect of the mansion under the varying influence of 
 twilight and moonlight, and cloud and sunshine operating 
 upon its halls, and galleries, and monkish cloisters, is enough 
 to breed all kinds of fancies in the minds of its inmates, espe- 
 cially if poetically or superstitiously inclined. 
 
 I have already mentioned some of the fabled visitants of the 
 Abbey. The goblin friar, however, is the one to whom Lord 
 Byron has given the greatest importance. It walked the clois- 
 ters by night, and sometimes glimpses of it were seen in other 
 
 arts of the Abbey. Its appearance was said to portend some 
 tending evil to the master of the mansion. Lord Byron 
 pretended to have seen it about a month before he contracted 
 his ill-starred marriage with Miss Milbanke. 
 
 He has embodied this tradition in the following ballad, in 
 •which he represents the friar as one of the ancient inmates 
 of the Abbey, maintaining by night a kind of spectral pos- 
 session of it, in right of the fraternity. Other traditions, 
 however, represent him as one of the friars doomed to wan- 
 
SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY. 81 
 
 der about the place in atonement for his crimes. But to the 
 ballad — 
 
 '• Beware ! beware I of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who skteth by Norman stone, 
 For he mutters his prayers in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey, 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 " Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right, 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay, 
 A monk remain'd, uiichased, unchain'd. 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
 For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the church, 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 " And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say; 
 But still to the house of Amundeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage bed of their lords, 'tis said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve; 
 And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death, 
 
 He comes— but not to grieve. 
 
 " When an heir is born, he is heaiM to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his'face, 
 
 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl; 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 " But beware ! beware of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway, 
 For he is yet the church's heir, 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Anmndeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night, 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 " Say noupht to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 Anil he'll say nought to you; 
 Ur sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then gramercyl for the Black Friar; 
 
 Heaven sain him! fair or foul, 
 And whfttsoe'eV may be his prayer 
 
 Let ours be for his soul." 
 
82 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Such is the story of the goblin friar, which, partly through 
 old tradition, and partly through the influence of Lord Byron's 
 rhymes, has become completely established in the Abbey, and 
 threatens to hold possession so long as the old edifice shall en- 
 dure. Various visitors have either fancied, or pretended to 
 have seen him, and a cousin of Lord Byron, Miss Sally Parkins, 
 is even said to have made a sketch of him from memory. As 
 to the servants at the Abbey, they have become possessed with 
 all kinds of superstitious fancies. The long corridors and 
 Gothic halls, with their ancient portraits and dark figures in 
 armor, are all haunted regions to them ; they even fear to sleep 
 alone, and will scarce venture at night on any distant errand 
 about the Abbey unless they go in couples. 
 
 Even the magnificent chamber in which I was lodged was 
 subject to the supernatural influences which reigned over the 
 Abbey, and was said to be haunted by "Sir John Byron the 
 Little with the great Beard." The ancient black-looking 
 portrait of this family worthy, which hangs over the door of 
 the great saloon, was said to descend occasionally at midnight 
 from the frame, and walk the rounds of the state apartments. 
 Nay, his visitations were not confined to the night, for a young 
 lady, on a visit to the Abbey some years since, declared 
 that, on passing in broad day by the door of the identi- 
 cal chamber I have described, which stood partly open, she 
 saw Sir John Byron the Little seated by the fireplace, reading 
 out of a great black-letter book. From this circumstance some 
 have been led to suppose that the story of Sir John Byron may 
 be in some measure connected with the mysterious sculptures 
 of the chimney-piece already mentioned ; but this has no coun- 
 tenance from the most authentic antiquarians of the Abbey. 
 
 For my own part, the moment I learned the wonderful stories 
 and strange suppositions connected with my apartment, it be- 
 came an imaginary realm to me. As I lay in bed at night and 
 gazed at the mysterious panel- work, where Gothie knight, and 
 Christian dame, and Paynim lover gazed upon me in effigy, I 
 used to weave a thousand fancies concerning them. The great 
 figures in the tapestry, also, were almost animated by the 
 workings of my imagination, and the Vandyke portraits of the 
 cavalier and lady that looked down with pale aspects from the 
 wall, had almost a spectral effect, from their immovable gaze 
 and silent companionship — 
 
 " For by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 
 
A2WE8L&7 HALL. 83 
 
 Their buried looks still wave 
 
 Along the canvas: their eyes glance like dreams 
 On ours, as spars within some dusky cave, 
 
 But death is mingled iu their shadowy beams." 
 
 In this way I used to conjure up fictions of the brain, and 
 clothe the objects around me with ideal interest and import, 
 until, as the Abbey clock tolled midnight, I almost looked to 
 see Sir John Byron the Little with the long beard stalk into the 
 room with his book under his arm, and take his seat beside the 
 mysterious chimney-piece. 
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 At about three miles' distance from Newstead Abbey, and 
 contiguous to its lands, is situated Annesley Hall, the old family 
 mansion of the Chaworths. The families, like^he estates, of the 
 Byrons and Chaworths, were connected in former times, until 
 the fatal duel between their two representatives. The feud, 
 however, which prevailed for a time, promised to be cancelled 
 by the attachment of two youthful hearts. While Lord Byron 
 was yet a boy, he beheld Mary Ann Chaworth, a beautiful girl, 
 and the sole heiress of Annesley. With that susceptibility to 
 female charms, which he evinced almost from childhood, he be- 
 came almost immediately enamored of her. According to one 
 of his biographers, it would appear that at first their attachment 
 was mutual, yet clandestine. The father of Miss Chaworth was 
 then living, and may have retained somewhat of the family 
 hostility, for we are told that the interviews of Lord Byron and 
 the young lady were private, at a gate which opened from her 
 father's grounds to those of Newstead. However, they were 
 so young at the time that these meetings could not have been 
 regarded as of any importance: they were little more than 
 children in years ; but, as Lord Byron says of himself, nis feel- 
 ings were beyond his age. 
 
 The passion thus early conceived was blown into a flame, 
 during a six weeks' vacation which he passed with his mother 
 at Nottingham. The father of Mbs Chaworth was dead, and 
 she resided with her mother at the old Hall of Annesley. Dur- 
 ing Byron's minority, the estate of Newstead was let to Lord 
 Grey de Ruthen, but its youthful Lord was always a welcome 
 
g4 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 guest at the Abbey. He would pass days at a time there, and 
 make frequent visits thence to Annesley Hall. His visits were 
 encouraged by Miss Chaworth's mother; she partook of none of 
 the family feud, and probably looked with complacency upon 
 an attachment that might heal old differences and unite two 
 neighboring estates. 
 
 The six weeks' vacation passed as a dream amongst the beau- 
 tiful flowers of Annesley. Byron was scarce fifteen years of 
 Mary Chaworth was two years older ; but his heart, as I ] 
 said, was beyond his age, and his tenderness for her was deep 
 and passionate. These early loves, like the first run of the un- 
 crushed grape, are the sweetest and strongest gushings of the 
 heart, and however they may be superseded by other attach- 
 ments in after years, the memory will continually recur to 
 them, and fondly dwell upon their recollections. 
 
 His love for Miss Chaworth, to use Lord Byron's own expres- 
 sion, was "the romance of the most romantic period of his life," 
 and I think we can trace the effect of it throughout the whole 
 course of his writings, coming up every now and then, like 
 some lurking theme which runs through a complicated piece of 
 music, and links it all in a pervading chain of melody. 
 
 How tenderly and mournfully does he recall, in after years, 
 the feelings awakened in his youthful and inexperienced bosom 
 by this impassioned, yet innocent attachment; feelings, he 
 says, lost or hardened in the intercourse of life : 
 
 " The love of better things and better clays; 
 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is called the world, and the world's ways; 
 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 
 Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own, 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone." 
 
 Whether this love was really responded to by the object, is 
 uncertain. Byron sometimes speaks as if he had met with 
 kindness in return, at other times he acknowledges that she 
 never gave him reason to believe she loved him. It is probable, 
 however, that at first she experienced some flutterings of the 
 heart. She was of a susceptible age; had as yet formed no 
 other attachments; her lover, though boyish in years, was a 
 man in intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a countenance 
 of remarkable beauty. 
 
 With the six weeks' vacation ended this brief romance 
 Byron returned to school deeply enamored, but if he had reall 
 
 e. 
 
ANNB8LKY HALL. 85 
 
 made any impression on Miss Chaworth's heart, it was too 
 slight to stand the test of absence. She was at that age when 
 a female soon changes from the girl to a woman, and leaves 
 her boyish lovers far behind her. While Byron was pursuing 
 his school-boy studies, she was mingling with society, and 
 met with a gentleman of the name of Musters, remarkable, it 
 is said, for manly beauty. A story is told of her having first 
 seen him from the top of Annesley Hall, as he dashed through 
 the park, with hound and horn, taking the lead of the whole 
 field in a fox chase, and that she was struck by the spirit of his 
 appearance, and his admirable horsemanship. Under such 
 favorable auspices, he wooed and won her, and when Lord 
 Byron next met her, he learned to his dismay that she was the 
 affianced bride of another. 
 
 With that pride of spirit which always distinguished him, 
 he controlled his feelings and maintained a serene countenance. 
 He even affected to speak calmly on the subject of her ap- 
 proaching nuptials. "The next time I see you," said he, "I 
 suDuose you will be Mrs. Chaworth" (for she was to retain her 
 family name). Her reply was, " I hope so." 
 
 I have given these brief details preparatory to a sketch of a 
 visit which I made to the scene of this youthful romance. An- 
 nesley Hall I understood was shut up, neglected, and almost 
 in a state of desolation ; for Mr. Musters rarely visited it, resid- 
 ing with his family in the neighborhood of Nottingham. I set 
 out for the Hall on horseback, in company with Colonel Wild- 
 man, and followed by the great Newfoundland dog Boatswain. 
 In the course of our ride we visited a spot memorable in the 
 love story I have cited. It was the scene of this parting inter- 
 view between Byron and Miss Chaworth, prior to her marriage. 
 A long ridge of upland advances into the valley of Newstead, 
 like a promontory into a lake, and was formerly crowned by a 
 beautiful grove, a landmark to the neighboring country. The 
 grove and promontory are graphically described by Lord Byron 
 in his " Dream," and an exquisite picture given of himself, and 
 the lovely object of his boyish idolatry— 
 
 " I saw two beinps in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a lull, a gentle hill, 
 Green, and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Saw was no sea !" lave its base, 
 
 But a most living land the wave 
 
 Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men, 
 Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 
86 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Arising from such rustic roofs;— the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, iu circular array, so feed, 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man: 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing— the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
 And both were fair, and one was beautiful: 
 And both were youDg— yet not alike in youth: 
 As the sweet moon in the horizon's verge, 
 The maid was on the verge of womanhood; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 And that was shining on him." 
 
 I stood upon the spot consecrated by this memorable inter- 
 view. Below me extended the "living landscape," once con- 
 templated by the loving pair ; the gentle valley of Newstead, 
 diversified by woods and corn-fields, and village spires, and 
 gleams of water, and the distant towers and pinnacles of the 
 venerable Abbey. The diadem of trees, however, was gone. 
 The attention drawn to it by the poet, and the romantic man- 
 ner in which he had associated it with his early passion for 
 Mary Cbaworth, had nettled the irritable v feelings of her hus- 
 band, who but ill brooked the poetic celebrity conferred on his 
 wife by the enamored verses of another. The celebrated grove 
 stood on his estate, and in a fit of spleen he ordered it to be 
 levelled with the dust. At the time of my visit the mere roots 
 of the trees were visible; but the hand that laid them low is 
 execrated by every poetical pilgrim. 
 
 Descending the hill, we soon entered a part of what once was 
 Annesley Park, and rode among time-worn and tempest-riven 
 oaks and elms, with ivy clambering about their trunks, and 
 rooks' nests among their branches. The park had been cut up 
 by a post-road, crossing which, we came to the gate-house of 
 Annesley Hall. It was an old brick building that might have 
 served as an outpost or barbacan to the Hall during the civil 
 wars, when every gentleman's house was liable to become a 
 fortress. Loopholes were still visible in its walls, but the 
 peaceful ivy had mantled the sides, overrun the roof, and almost 
 buried the ancient clock in front, that still marked the waning 
 hours of its decay. 
 
 An arched way led through the centre of the gate-house, 
 secured by grated doors of open iron work, wrought into flow- 
 ers and flourishes. These being thrown open, we entered a 
 paved court-yard, decorated with sb*ubs and antique flower- 
 
ANNESLET HALL. 87 
 
 pots, with a ruined stone fountain in the centre. The whole 
 approach resembled that of an old French chateau. 
 
 On one side of the court-yard was a range of stables, now 
 tenantless, but which bore traces of the fox-hunting squire; 
 .1'. >r there were stalls boxed up, into which the hunters might 
 I « foirfied loose when they came home from the chase. 
 
 At the lower end of the court, and immediately opposite the 
 gate-house, extended the Hall itself ; a rambling, irregular pile, 
 patched and pieced at various times, and in various tastes, 
 with gable ends, stone balustrades, and enormous chimneys, 
 that strutted out like buttresses from the walls. The whole 
 front of the edifice was overrun with evergreens. 
 
 We applied for admission at the front door, which was under 
 a heavy porch. The portal was strongly barricaded, and out 
 k nocking was echoed by waste and empty halls. Every thing 
 bore an .appearance of abandonment. After a time, however, 
 our knocking summoned a solitary tenant from some remote 
 corner of the pile. It was a decent-looking little dame, who 
 emerged from a side door at a distance, and seemed a worthy 
 inmate of the antiquated mansion. She had, in fact; grown old 
 -with it. Her name, she said, was Nanny Marsden; if she lived 
 until next August, she would be seventy-one ; a great part of 
 her life had been passed in the Hall, and when the family had 
 removed to Nottingham, she had been left in charge of it. The 
 front of the house had been thus warily barricaded in conse- 
 quence of the late riots at Nottingham, in the course of which 
 the dwelling of her master had been sacked by the mob. To 
 guard against any attempt of the kind upon the Hall, she had 
 pat it in this state of defence; though I rather think she and a 
 superannuated gardener comprised the whole garrison. "You 
 must be attached to the old building," said I, "after having 
 lived so long in it." "Ah, sir!" replied she, "I am getting in 
 yean, and have a furnished cottage of my own in Annesley 
 Wood, and begin to feel as if I should like to go and live in my 
 own home." 
 
 (i aided by the worthy little custodian of the fortress, we 
 entered through the sally port by which she had issued forth, 
 and soon found ourselves in a spacious, but somewhat gloomy 
 hall, where the light was partially admitted through square 
 stone - shafted windows, overhung with ivy. Everything 
 around us had the air of an old-fashioned country squire's 
 establishment. In the centre of the hall was a billiard-table, 
 and about the walls were hung portraits of race -horses, 
 
88 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 hunters, and favorite dogs, mingled indiscriminately with 
 family pictures. 
 
 Staircases led up from the hall to various apartments. In 
 one of the rooms we were shown a couple of buff jerkins, and 
 a pair of ancient jackboots, of the time of the cavaliers ; relics 
 which are often to be met with in the old English family man- 
 sions. These, however, had peculiar value, for the good little 
 dame assured us that they had belonged to Robin Hood. As 
 we were in the midst of the region over which that famous out- 
 iaw once bore ruffian sway, it was not for us to gainsay his 
 claim to any of these venerable relics, though we might have 
 demurred that the articles of dress here shown were of a date 
 much later than his time. Every antiquity, however, about 
 Sherwood Forest is apt to be linked with the memory of Robin 
 Hood and his gang. 
 
 As we were strolling about the mansion, our four-footed at- 
 tendant, Boatswain, followed leisurely, as if taking a survey of 
 the premises. I turned to rebuke him for his intrusion, but the 
 moment the old housekeeper understood he had belonged to 
 Lord Byron, her heart seemed to yearn toward him. 
 
 " Nay, nay," exclaimed she, "let him alone, let him go where 
 he pleases. He's welcome. Ah, dear me ! If he lived here I 
 should take great care of him — he should want for nothing. — 
 Well !" continued she, fondling him, "who would have thought 
 that I should see a dog of Lord Byron in Annesley Hall !" 
 
 "I suppose, then," said I, "you recollect something of Lord 
 Byron, when he used to visit here?" "Ah, bless him 1" cried 
 she, "that I do! He used to ride over here and stay three 
 days at a time, and sleep in the blue room. Ah ! poor fellow ! 
 He was very much taken with my young mistress ; he used to 
 walk about the garden and the terraces with her, and seemed 
 to love the very ground she trod on. He used to call her his 
 bright morning star of Annesley. " 
 
 I felt the beautiful poetic phrase thrill through me. 
 
 ' ' You appear to like the memory of Lord Byron, " said I. 
 
 " Ah, sir! why shoidd not I! He was always main good to 
 me when he came here. Well, well, they say it is a pity he 
 and my young lady did not make a match. 'Her mother would 
 have liked it. He was always a welcome guest, and some think 
 it would have been well for him to have had her ; but it was 
 not to be ! He went away to school, and then Mr. Musters saw 
 her, and so things took their course." 
 
 The simple soul now showed us into the favorite sitting-room 
 
 . 
 
ANNESLEY HALL. S9 
 
 of Miss Chaworth, with a small flower-garden under the win- 
 dows, in which she had delighted. In this room Byron used 
 to sit and listen to her as she played and sang, gazing upon her 
 with the passionate, and almost painful devotion of a love-sick 
 stripling. He himself gives us a glowing picture of his mute 
 idolatry : 
 
 " He had no breath, no being, but in hers; 
 She was his voice; he did not speak to her, 
 ButHrembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 For his e}'e followed hers, and saw with hers, 
 Which colored .ill liis objects; he had ceased 
 To live within himself; she was his life, 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all: upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony." 
 
 There was a little Welsh air, call "Mary Ann," which, from 
 bearing her own name, he associated with herself, and often 
 persuaded her to sing it over and over for him. 
 
 The chamber, like all the other parts of the house, had a look 
 of sadness and neglect ; the flower-pots beneath the window, 
 which once bloomed beneath the hand of Mary Chaworth, were 
 overrun with weeds ; and the piano, which had once vibrated 
 to her touch, and thrilled the heart of her strij)ling lover, was 
 now unstrung and out of tune. 
 
 We continued our stroll about the waste apartments, of all 
 shapes and sizes, and without much elegance of decoration. 
 Some of them were hung with family portraits, among which 
 was pointed out that of the Mr. Chaworth who was killed by 
 the " wicked Lord Byron." 
 
 These dismal looking portraits had a powerful effect upon 
 the imagination of the stripling poet, on his first visit to the 
 hall. As they gazed down from the wall, he thought they 
 scowled upon him, as if they had taken a grudge against him 
 on account of the duel of his ancestor. He even gave this as a 
 reason, though probably in jest, for not sleeping at the Hall, 
 declaring that he feared they would come down from their 
 frames at night to haunt him. 
 
 A feeling of the kind he has embodied in one of his stanzas 
 of 'Don Juan:" 
 
 " The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
 Look living in tlic iikii in : \n\<\ as you turn 
 Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
 Of your own footsteps— voices from the Urn 
 
90 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
 
 Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, 
 As if to ask you how you dare to keep 
 A vigil there, where all but death should sleep." 
 
 Nor was the youthful poet singular in these fancies ; the Hall, 
 like most old English mansions that have ancient family por- 
 traits hanging about their dusky galleries and waste apart- 
 ments, had its ghost story connected with these pale memorials 
 of the dead. Our simple-hearted conductor stopped before the 
 portrait of a lady, who had been a beauty in her time, and in- 
 habited the haU in the heyday of her charms. Something mys- 
 terious or melancholy was connected with her story ; she died 
 young, but continued for a long time to haunt the ancient 
 mansion, to the great dismay of the servants, and the occa- 
 sional disquiet of the visitors, and it was with much difficulty 
 her troubled spirit was conjured down and put to rest. 
 
 From the rear of the hall we walked out into the garden, 
 about which Byron used to stroll and loiter in company with 
 Miss Chaworth. It was laid out in the old French style. There 
 was a long terraced walk, with heavy stone balustrades and 
 sculptured urns, overrun with ivy and evergreens. A neg- 
 lected shrubbery bordered one side of the terrace, with a lofty 
 grove inhabited by a venerable community of rooks. Great 
 flights of steps led doAvn from the terrace to a flower garden 
 laid out in formal plots. The rear of the Hall, which over- 
 looked the garden, had the weather stains of centuries, and its 
 stone-shafted casements and an ancient sun-dial against its 
 walls carried back the mind to days of yore. 
 
 The retired and quiet garden, once a little sequestered world 
 of love and romance, was now all matted and wild, yet was 
 beautiful, even in its decay. Its air of neglect and desolation 
 was in unison with the fortune of the two beings who had once 
 walked here in the freshness of youth, and life, and beauty. 
 The garden, like their young hearts, had gone to waste and 
 ruin. 
 
 Returning to the Hall we now visited a chamber built over 
 the porch, or grand entrance. It was in a ruinous condition, 
 the ceiling having fallen in and the floor given way. This, 
 however, is a chamber rendered interesting by poetical asso- 
 ciations. It is supposed to be the oratory alluded to by Lord 
 Byron in his ' ' Dream," wherein he pictures his departure from 
 Annesley, after learning that Mary Chaworth was engaged to 
 be married— 
 
HALL. 91 
 
 ' Thero was an ancient mansion, and before 
 Its walls there was a steed caparisoned; 
 "Within an antique oratory stood 
 The boy of whom 1 spake;— he was alone, 
 And pale and pacing to and fro: anon 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 With a convulsion— then arose again, 
 And with lus teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, 
 The lady of his love re-entered there; 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved,— she knew, 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced, and then it faded as it came; 
 He drppp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 Return 'd, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 For they did part with mutual smiles:— he pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of, that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way, 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more." 
 
 In one of his journals, Lord Byron describes his feelings after 
 thus leaving the oratory. Arriving on the summit of a hill, 
 which commanded the last view of Annesley, he checked his 
 horse, and gazed back with mingled pain and fondness upon 
 the groves which embowered the Hall, and thought upon the 
 lovely being that dwelt there, until his feelings were quite dis- 
 solved in tenderness. The conviction at length recurred that 
 she never could be his, when, rousing himself from his reverie, 
 he struck his spurs into his steed and dashed forward, as if by 
 rapid motion to leave reflection behind him. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the verses last 
 quoted, he did pass the "hoary threshold" of Annesley again. 
 It was, however, after the lapse of several years, during which 
 he had grown up to manhood, and had passed through the 
 ordeal of pleasures and tumultuous passions, and had felt the 
 influence of other charms. Miss Cha worth, too, had become a 
 wife and a mother, and he dined at Annesley Hall at the invi- 
 tation of her husband. He thus met the object of his early 
 idolatry in the very scene of his tender devotions, which, as 
 he says, her smiles had once made a heaven to him. The 
 
92 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 scene was but little changed. He was in the very chamber 
 where he had so often listened entranced to the witchery of 
 her voice ; there were the same instruments and music ; there 
 lay her flower garden beneath the window, and the walks 
 through which he had wandered with her in the intoxication 
 of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the tender 
 recollections which every object around him. was calculated 
 to awaken, the fond passion of his boyhood should rush back 
 in full current to his heart? He was himself surprised at this 
 sudden revulsion of his feelings, but he had acquired self-pos- 
 session and could command them. His firmness, however, was 
 doomed to undergo a further trial. While seated by the ob- 
 ject of his secret devotions, with all these recollections throb- 
 bing in his bosom, her infant daughter was brought into the 
 room. At sight of the child he started ; it dispelled the last 
 lingerings of his dream, and he afterward confessed, that to 
 repress his emotion at the moment, was the severest part of 
 his task. 
 
 The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom through- 
 out this fond and tender, yet painful and embarrassing visit, 
 are touchingly depicted in lines which he wrote immediately 
 afterward, and which, though not addressed to her by name, 
 are evidently intended for the eye and the heart of the fair lady 
 of Annesley : 
 
 " Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 Tbat I should thus be happy too; 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest— and 'twill impart 
 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot: 
 But let them pass— Oh ! how my heart 
 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not I 
 
 " When late I saw thy favorite child 
 
 I thought my jealous heart would breakj 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's salae. 
 
 " I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs 
 Its father in its face to see; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 "Mary, adieu! I must away: 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine; 
 But near thee I can never stay : 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
ANNESLET HALL. 93 
 
 "I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flamei 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
 My heart in all, save love, the same. 
 
 " Yet I was calm: I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look; 
 But now to tremble were a crime — 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 " I saw thee gaze upon my face, 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there : 
 One only feeling could'st thou trace; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 " Away ! away 1 my early dream 
 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
 My foolish heart, be still, or break." 
 
 The revival of this early passion, and the melancholy asso- 
 ciations which it spread over those scenes in the neighborhood 
 of Newstead, which would necessarily be the places of his fre- 
 quent resort while in England, are alluded to by him as a prin- 
 cipal cause of his first departure for the Continent: 
 
 "When man expell'd from Eden's bowers 
 
 A moment lingered near the gate, 
 
 Each scene recalled the vanish'd hours, 
 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 " But wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief; 
 Just gave a sigh to other times, 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 "Thus, Mary, must it be with me, 
 
 And I must view thy charms no more; 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before." 
 
 It was in the subsequent June that he set off on his pilgrim- 
 age by sea and land, which was to become the theme of bis im- 
 mortal poem. That the image of Mary Chaworth, as he saw 
 and loved her in the days of his boyhood, followed him to the 
 very shore, is shown in the glowing stanzas addressed to her 
 on the eve of embarkation — 
 
 " 'Tis done— and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud sinfrs on high the freshening blast; 
 And I must from this land be gone. 
 Because I cannot lovo but one. 
 
94 NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home; 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting place; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one, 
 
 " To think of every early scene, 
 Of what we are, and what we've been, 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with woe— 
 But mine, alas! has stood the blow; 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 " And who that dear loved one may be 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was cross'd, 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most; 
 But few that dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
 " I've tried another's fetters too, 
 With charms, perchance, as fair to view; 
 And I would fain have loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade niy bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 " 'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him who wanders o'er the deep; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
 Yet still he loves, aud loves but one." 
 
 The painful interview at Annesley Hall, which revived with 
 such intenseness his early passion, remained stamped upon his 
 memory with singular force, and seems to have survived all 
 his "wandering through distant clirnts," to which he trusted 
 as an oblivious antidote. Upward of two years after that 
 event, when, having made his famous pilgrimage, he was once 
 more an inmate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity to Annesley 
 Hall brought the whole scene vividly before him, and he thus 
 recalls it in a poetic epistle to a friend — 
 
 / " I've seen my bride another's bride,— 
 
 Have seen her seated by his side, — 
 Have seen the infant which she bore, 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
 When she and I in youth have smiled 
 As fond and faultless as her child : — 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain. 
 
ANNESLEY HALL 95 
 
 " And I have acted well my part, 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Returned the Creating glance she gave, 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave; — 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ought te> have been mine, 
 And show'd, alas! in each caress, 
 Time had not made me love the less." 
 
 "It was about the time," says Moore in his life of Lord 
 Byron, "when he was thus bitterly feeling and expressing 
 the blight which his heart had suif&ed from a real object 
 of affection, that his poems on an imaginary one, 'Thyrza,' 
 were written/' He was at the same time grieving over the 
 loss of several of his earliest and dearest friends the com- 
 panions of his joyous school -boy hours. To recur to the 
 beautiful language of Moore, who writes with the kindred 
 and kindling sympathies of a true poet: "All these recol- 
 lections of the young and the dead mingled themselves 
 in his mind with the image of her, who, though living, was 
 for him, as much lost as they, and diffused that general feel- 
 ing of sadness and fondness through his sold, which found a 
 a vent in these poems. ... It was the blending of the two 
 affections in his memory and imagination, that gave birth to 
 an ideal object combining the best features of both, and drew 
 from him those saddest and tenderest of love poems, in which 
 we find all the depth and intensity of real feeling, touched over 
 with such a light as no reality ever wore." 
 
 An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion, however fruit- 
 ful of pain it may be to the man, is a lasting advantage to the 
 ] k k it. It is a well of sweet and bitter fancies ; of refined and 
 gentle sentiments ; of elevated and ennobling thoughts ; shut up 
 in the deep recesses of the heart, keeping it green amidst the 
 withering blights of the world, and, by its casual guehings and 
 overflowings, recalling at times all the freshness, and inno- 
 cence, and enthusiasm of youthful days. Lord Byron was con- 
 scious of this effect, and purposely cherished and brooded over 
 the remembrance of his early passion, and of all the scenes of 
 Annesley Hall connected with it. It was this remembrance 
 that attuned his mind to some of its most elevated and virtuous 
 strains, and shed an inexpressible grace and pathos over his 
 best productions. 
 
 Being thus put upon the traces of this little love-story, I can- 
 not refrain from threading them out, as they appear from time 
 to time in various passages of Lord Byron's works. During 
 
96 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 his subsequent rambles in tlie East, when time and distance 
 had softened away his ' ' early romance" almost into the remem- 
 brance of a pleasing and tender dream, he received accounts of 
 the object of it, which represented her, still in her paternal 
 Hall, among her native bowers of Annesley, surrounded by a 
 blooming and beautiful family, yet a prey to secret and withei- 
 ing melancholy — 
 
 " In her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues'f rom his,— her native home, 
 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 
 
 Daughters and sons of beauty, but — behold 1 ~ 
 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 
 As if its lids were charged with unshed tears." 
 
 For an instant the buried tenderness of early youth and the 
 fluttering hopes which accompanied it, seemed to have revived 
 in his bosom, and the idea to have flashed upon his mind that 
 his image might be connected with her secret woes — but he 
 rejected the thought almost as soon as formed. 
 
 " What could her grief be?— she had all she loved, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill repress'd affection, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be? — she had loved him not, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind— a spectre of the past." 
 
 The cause of her grief was a matter of rural comment in the 
 neighborhood of Newstead and Annesley. It was disconnected 
 from all idea of Lord Byron, but attributed to the harsh and 
 capricious conduct of one to whose kindness and affection she 
 had a sacred claim. The domestic sorrows which had long 
 preyed in secret on her heart, at length affected her intellect, 
 and the "bright morning star of Annesley" was eclipsed for 
 ever. 
 
 " The lady of his love, — oh! she was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
 Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm : but her thoughts. 
 Were combinations of disjointed things; 
 And forms impalpable and unpereeived 
 Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls frenzy." 
 
ANNE8LE7 HALL. 97 
 
 Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place, and a suc- 
 
 E splendid and spirit-stirring scenes in various coun- 
 
 quiet and gentle scene of his hoyish love seems to 
 
 held a magic sway over the recollections of Lord Byron, 
 
 the image of Mary Cha worth to have unexpectedly ob- 
 
 fcruded itself upon his mind like some supernatural visitation. 
 
 Such was the fact on the occasion of his marriage with Miss 
 
 Milbanke; Annesley Hall and all its fond associations floated 
 
 i vision before his thoughts, even when at the altar, and 
 
 on the point of pronouncing the nuptial vows. The circum- 
 
 ice is related by him with a force and feeling that persuade 
 
 us of its truth. 
 
 " A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The wanderer was returned.— I saw him stand 
 Before au altar— with a gentle bride; 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
 The star-light of his boyhood;— as he stood 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock 
 That in the antique oratory shook 
 His bosom in its solitude: and then — 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced,- and then it faded as it came, 
 And he stood calm and qttiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 And all things redd around him: he could see 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have been — 
 But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall', 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade; 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 And her who was his destiny, came back. 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
 What business iiad they there at such a time?" 
 
 The history of Lord Byron's union is too well known to need 
 
 ration. The errors, and humiliations, and heart-burnings 
 that followed upon it, gave additional effect to the remem- 
 
 • ice of his early passion, and tormented him with the idea, 
 that had he been successful in his suit to the lovely heiress 
 
 Ajmesley, they might both have shared a happier destiny. 
 In one of his manuscripts, written long after his marriage, 
 having accidentally mentioned Miss Chaworth as "my M. A. 
 C." "Alas!" exclaims he, with a sudden burst of feeling, 
 
 iiy do I say my f Our union would have healed feuds in 
 v. Iii.'h blood had been shed by our fathers; it would have joined 
 
 is broad and rich; it would have joined at least one heart, 
 
98. NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 and two persons not ill -matched in years — and— and — and 
 
 what has been the result?" 
 
 But enough of Annesley Hall and the poetical themes con- 
 nected with it. I felt as if I could linger for hours about its 
 ruined oratory, and silent hall, and neglected garden, and spin 
 reveries and dream dreams, until all became an ideal world 
 around me. The day, however, was fast declining, and the 
 shadows of evening throwing deeper shades of melancholy 
 about the place. Taking our leave of the worthy old house- 
 keeper, therefore, with a small compensation and many thanks 
 for her civilities, we mounted our horses and pursued our way 
 back to Newstead Abbey. 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 
 " Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 
 By a river, which its softened way did take 
 In currents through the calmer water spread 
 
 Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 
 
 The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood 
 
 With their green faces fixed upon the flood." 
 
 Such is Lord Byron's description of one of a series of beauti- 
 ful sheets of water, formed in old times by the monks by dam- 
 ming up the course of a small river. Here he used daily to 
 enjoy his favorite recreations in swimming and sailing. The 
 "wicked old Lord," iri his scheme of rural devastation, had 
 cut down all the woods that once fringed the lake ; Lord Byron, 
 on coming of age, endeavored to restore them, and a beautiful 
 young wood, planted by him, now sweeps up from the water's 
 edge, and clothes the hillside opposite to the Abbey. To this 
 woody nook Colonel Wildman has given the appropriate title 
 of "the Poet's Corner." 
 
 The lake has inherited its share of the traditions and fables 
 connected with everything in and about the Abbey. It was a 
 petty Mediterranean sea on which the ' ' wicked old Lord " used 
 to gratify his nautical tastes and humors. He had his mimic 
 castles and fortresses along its shores, and his mimic fleets 
 upon its waters, and used to get up mimic sea-fights. The 
 
TEE LAKE. 99 
 
 remains of his petty fortifications still awaken the curious 
 inquiries of visitors. In one of his vagaries, he caused a large 
 vessel to be brought on wheels from the sea-coast and launched 
 in the lake. The country people were surprised to see a ship 
 thus sailing over dry land. They called to mind a saying of 
 Mother Shipton, the famous prophet of the vulgar, that when- 
 ever a ship freighted with ling should cross Sherwood Forest, 
 Newstead would pass out of the Byron family. The country 
 people, who detested the old Lord, were anxious to verify the 
 prophecy. Ling, in the dialect of Nottingham, is the name for 
 heather; with this plant they heaped the fated bark as it 
 passed, so that it arrived full freighted at Newstead. 
 
 The most important stories about the lake, however, relate to 
 the treasures that are supposed to lie buried in its bosom. These 
 may have taken their origin in a fact which actually occurred. 
 There was one time fished up from the deep part of the lake a 
 great eagle of molten brass, with expanded wings, standing on 
 a pedestal or perch of the same metal. It had doubtless served 
 as a stand or reading-desk, in the Abbey chapel, to hold a folio 
 Bible or missal. 
 
 The sacred relic was sent to a brazier to be cleaned. As he 
 was at work upon it, he discovered that the pedestal was hollow 
 and composed of several pieces. Unscrewing these, he drew 
 forth a number of parchment deeds and grants appertaining to 
 the Abbey, and bearing the seals of Edward III. and Henry 
 VIII., which had thus been concealed, and ultimately sunk in 
 the lake by the friars, to substantiate their right and title to 
 these domains at some future day. 
 
 One of the parchment scrolls thus discovered, throws rather 
 an awkward light upon the kind of life led by the friars of 
 Newstead. It is an indulgence granted to them for a certain 
 number of months, in which plenary pardon is assured in 
 advance for all kinds of crimes, among which, several of the 
 most gross and sensual are specifically mentioned, and the 
 weakness of the flesh to which they are prone. 
 
 After inspecting these testimonials of monkish life, in the 
 r< -ions of Sherwood Forest, we cease to wonder at the virtuous 
 indignation of Robin Hood and his outlaw crew, at the sleek 
 sensualists of the cloister: 
 
 " I never hurt the husbandman, 
 That us.- to till the ground, 
 Nor spill their Wood that range the wood 
 To follow hawk and hound. 
 
100 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " My chiefest spite to clergy Is, 
 Who in these days bear sway; 
 With friars and monks with their fine spunks, 
 I make my chiefest prey."— Old Ballad op Robin Hood. 
 
 The brazen eagle has been transferred to the parochial and 
 collegiate church of Southall, about twenty miles from New- 
 stead, where it may still be seen in the centre of the chancel, 
 supporting, as of yore, a ponderous Bible. As to the docu- 
 ments it contained, they are carefully treasured up by Colonel 
 Wildman among his other deeds and papers, in an iron chest 
 secured by a patent lock of nine bolts, almost equal to a magic 
 spell. 
 
 The fishing up of this brazen relic, as I have already hinted, 
 has given rise to the tales of treasure lying at the bottom of the 
 lake, thrown in there by the monks when they abandoned the 
 Abbey. The favorite story is, that there is a great iron chest 
 there filled with gold and jewels, and chalices and crucifixes. 
 Nay, that it has been seen, when the water of the lake was 
 unusually low. There were large iron rings at each end, but 
 all attempts to move it were ineffectual ; either the gold it con- 
 tained was too ponderous, or what is more probable, it was 
 secured by one of those magic spells usually laid upon hidden 
 treasure. It remains, therefore, at the bottom of the lake to 
 this day ; and it is to be hoped, may one day or other be dis- 
 covered by the present worthy proprietor. 
 
 ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 
 
 While at Newstead Abbey I took great delight in riding and 
 rambling about the neighborhood, studying out the traces of 
 merry Sherwood Forest, and visiting the haunts of Robin 
 Hood. The relics of the old forest are few and scattered, but 
 as to the bold outlaw who once held a kind of f reebooting sway 
 over it, there is scarce a hill or dale, a cliff or cavern, a well or 
 fountain, in this part of the country, that is not connected with 
 his memory. The very names of some of the tenants on the 
 Newstead estate, such as Beardall and Hardstaff , sound as if 
 they may have been borne in old times by some of the stalwart 
 fellows of the outlaw gang. 
 
ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 101 
 
 One of the earliest books that captivated my fancy when a 
 child, was a collection of Robin Hood ballads, "adorned with 
 cuts," which I bought of an old Scotch pedler, at the cost of all 
 my holiday money. How I devoured its pages, and gazed 
 upon its uncouth woodcuts! For a time my mind was filled 
 with pictmings of " merry Sherwood," and the exploits and 
 revelling of the bold foresters; and Robin Hood, Little John, 
 Friar Tuck, and their doughty compeers, were my heroes of 
 romance. 
 
 These early feelings were in some degree revived when I 
 found myself in the very heart of the far-famed forest, and, as 
 I said before, I took a kind of schoolboy delight in hunting up 
 all traces of old Sherwood and its sylvan chivalry. One of the 
 first of ray antiquarian rambles was on horseback, in company 
 with Colonel Wildman and his lady, who undertook to guide 
 me to some of the moldering monuments of the forest. One of 
 these stands in front of the very gate of Newstead Park, and is 
 known throughout the country by the name of ' ' The Pilgrim 
 Oak." It is a venerable tree, of great size, overshadowing a 
 wide arena of the road. Under its shade the rustics of the 
 neighborhood have been accustomed to assemble on certain 
 holidays, and celebrate their rural festivals. This custom had 
 been handed down from father to son for several generations, 
 until the oak had acquired a kind of sacred character. 
 
 The " old Lord Byron," however, in whose eyes nothing was 
 sacred, when he laid his desolating hand on the groves and 
 forests of Newstead, doomed likewise this traditional tree to 
 the axe. Fortunately the good people of Nottingham heard 
 of the danger of their favorite oak, and hastened to ransom 
 it from destruction. They afterward made a present of it 
 to the poet, when he came to the estate, and the Pilgrim Oak 
 is likely to continue a rural gathering place for many coming 
 generations. 
 
 Prom this magnificent and time-honored tree we continued 
 on our sylvan research, in quest of another oak, of more an- 
 cient date and leas flourishing condition . A ride of two or three 
 miles, the latter part across open wastes, once clothed with 
 forest, now bare and cheerless, brought us to the tree in ques- 
 tion. It was the Oak of Ravenshead, one of the last survivors 
 of old Sherwood, and which had evidently once held a high 
 head in the forest; it was now a mere wreck, crazed by time, 
 and blasted by lightning, and standing alone on a naked waste, 
 like a ruined column va. a desert. 
 
102 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
 Where flourished once a forest fair, 
 When these waste glens with copse were lined,' 
 And peopled with the hart and hind. 
 Yon lonely oak, would he could tell 
 The changes of his parent dell, 
 Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 
 Waved in each breeze a sapling bough. 
 Would he could tell how deep the shade 
 A thousand mingled branches made. 
 Here in my shade, methinks he'd say, 
 The mighty stag at noontide lay, 
 While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 
 Have bounded by through gay green-wood." 
 
 At no great distance from Ravenshead Oak is a small cave 
 which goes by the name of Robin Hood's stable. It is in the 
 breast of a hill, scooped out of brown freestone, with rude at- 
 tempt at columns and arches. Within are two niches, which 
 served, it is said, as stalls for the bold outlaw's horses. To this 
 retreat he retired when hotly pursued by the law, for the place 
 was a secret even from his band. The cave is overshadowed 
 by an oak and alder, and is hardly discoverable even at the 
 present day ; but when the country was overrun with forest it 
 must have been completely concealed. 
 
 There was an agreeable wildness and loneliness in a great 
 part of our ride. Our devious road wound down, at one time 
 among rocky dells, by wandering streams, and lonely pools, 
 haunted by shy water-fowl. We passed through a skirt of 
 woodland, of more modern planting, but considered a legiti- 
 mate offspring of the ancient forest, and commonly called Jock 
 of Sherwood. In riding through these quiet, solitary scenes, 
 the partridge and pheasant would now and then burst upon the 
 wing, and the hare scud away before us. 
 
 Another of these rambling rides in quest of popular antiqui- 
 ties, was to a chain of rocky cliffs, called the Kirkby Crags, 
 which skirt the Robin Hood hills. Here, leaving my horse at 
 the foot of the crags, I scaled their rugged sides, and seated 
 myself in a niche of the rocks, called Robin Hood's chair. It 
 commands a wide prospect over the valley of Newstead, and 
 here the bold outlaw is said to have taken his seat, and kept a 
 look-out upon the roads below, watching for merchants, and 
 bishops, and other wealthy travellers, upon whom to pounce 
 down, like an eagle from his eyrie. 
 
 Descending from the cliffs and remounting my horse, a ride 
 of a mile or two further along a narrow "robber path," as it 
 was called, which wound up into the hills between perpendicu- 
 
U0JJ1N 1W0JJ AJS'D SHERWOOD FOREST. 103 
 
 lar rocks, led to an artificial cavern cut in the face of a cliff, 
 with a door and window wrought through the living stone. 
 This bears the name of Friar Tuck's cell, or hermitage, where, 
 according to tradition, that jovial anchorite used to make good 
 cheer and boisterous revel with his f reebooting comrades. 
 
 Such were some of the vestiges of old Sherwood and its re- 
 nowned ' ' yeomandrie, " which I visited in the neighborhood of 
 Newstead. The worthy clergyman who officiated as chaplain 
 at the Abbey, seeing my zeal in the cause, informed me of a 
 considerable tract of the ancient forest, still in existence about 
 ten miles distant. There were many fine old oaks in it, he said, 
 that had stood for centuries, but were now shattered and 
 "stag-headed," that is to say, their upper branches were bare, 
 and blasted, and straggling out like the antlers of a deer. 
 Their trunks, too, were hollow, and full of crows and jackdaws, 
 who made them their nestling places. He occasionally rode 
 over to the forest in the long summer evenings, and pleased 
 himself with loitering in the twilight about the green alleys and 
 under the venerable trees. 
 
 The description given by the chaplain made me anxious to 
 visit this remnant of old Sherwood, and he kindly offered to be 
 my guide and companion. We accordingly sallied forth one 
 morning on horseback on this sylvan expedition. Our ride 
 took us through a part of the country where King John had 
 once held a hunting seat ; the ruins of which are still to be seen. 
 At that time the whole neighborhood was an open royal forest, 
 or Frank chase, as it was termed ; for King John was an enemy 
 to parks and warrens, and other inclosures, by which game 
 was fenced in for the private benefit and recreation of the 
 nobles and the clergy. 
 
 Here, on the brow of a gentle hill, commanding an extensive 
 prospect of what had once been forest, stood another of those 
 momunental trees, which, to my mind, gave a peculiar interest 
 to this neighborhood. It was the Parliament Oak, so called in 
 memory of an assemblage of the kind held by King John be- 
 neath its shade. The lapse of upward of six centuries had 
 reduced this once mighty tree to a mere crumbhng fragment, 
 yet, like a gigantic torso in ancient statuary, the grandeur of 
 the mutilated trunk gave evidence of what it had been in the 
 days of its glory. In contemplating its mouldering remains, 
 the fancy busied itself in calling up the scene that must have 
 been presented beneath its shade, when this sunny hill swarmed 
 with the pageantry of a warlike and hunting court. When 
 
104 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 silken pavilions and warrior-tents decked its crest, and royal 
 standards, and baronial banners, and knightly pennons rolled 
 out to the breeze. When prelates and courtiers, and steel-clad 
 chivalry thronged round the person of the monarch, "while at a 
 distance loitered the foresters in green, and all the rural and 
 hunting train that waited upon his sylvan sports. 
 
 ' A thousand vassals mustered round 
 With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; 
 And through the brake the rfuigers stalk, 
 And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; 
 And foresters in green-wood trim 
 Lead in the leash the greyhound grim." 
 
 Such was the phantasmagoria that presented itself for a 
 moment to my imagination, peopling the silent place before me 
 with empty shadows of the past. The reverie however was 
 transient; king, courtier, and steel-clad warrior, and forester 
 in green, with horn, and hawk, and hound, all faded again 
 into oblivion, and I awoke to all that remained of this once 
 stirring scene of human pomp and power — a mouldering oak, 
 and a tradition. 
 
 " We are such stuff as dreams are made of!" 
 
 A ride of a few miles farther brought us at length among the 
 venerable and classic shades of Sherwood. Here I was de- 
 lighted to find myself in a genuine wild wood, of primitive 
 and natural growth, so rarely to be met with in this thickly 
 peopled and highly cultivated country. It reminded me of the 
 aboriginal forests of my native land. I rode through natural 
 alleys and green- wood groves, carpeted with grass and shaded 
 by lofty and beautiful birches. What most interested me, 
 however, was to behold around me the mighty trunks of vet- 
 eran oaks, old monumental trees, the patriarchs of Sherwood 
 Forest. They were shattered, hollow, and nioss-grown, it is 
 true, and then "leafy honors" were nearly departed; but like 
 mouldering towers they were noble and picturesque in their 
 decay, and gave evidence, even in their ruins, of their ancient 
 grandeur. 
 
 As I gazed about me upon these vestiges of once "Merrie 
 Sherwood," the picturings of my boyish fancy began to rise in 
 my mind, and Robin Hood and his men to stand before me. 
 
 " He clothed himself in scarlet then, 
 His men were all in green ; 
 A finer show throughout the world 
 In no place could be seen. 
 
R0B1X BOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 105 
 
 " Good lord ! it was a gallant sight 
 To see them all in a row; 
 With every man a good broad-sword 
 And eke a good yew bow." 
 
 The horn of Robin Hood again seemed to resound through 
 the forest. I saw this sylvan chivalry, half huntsmen, half 
 freebooters, trooping across the distant glades, or feasting and 
 revel ling beneath the trees ; I was.,going on to embody in this 
 way all the ballad scenes that had delighted me when a boy, 
 when the distant sound of a wood-cutter's axe roused me from 
 my day-dream. 
 
 The boding apprehensions which it awakened were too soon 
 verified. I had not ridden much farther, when I came to 
 an open space where the work of destruction was going on. 
 Around me lay the prostrate trunks of venerable oaks, once 
 the towering and magnificent lords of the forest, and a number 
 of wood-cutters were hacking and hewing at another gigantic 
 tree, just tottering to its fall. 
 
 Alas ! for old Sherwood Forest : it had fallen into the posses- 
 sion of a noble agriculturist ; a modem utilitarian, who had no 
 feeling for poetry or forest scenery. In a little while and this 
 glorious woodland will be laid low ; its green glades oe turned 
 into sheep-walks; its legendary bowers supplanted by turnip- 
 fields; and "Merrie Sherwood" will exist but in ballad and 
 tradition. 
 
 "O for the poetical superstitions," thought I, "of the olden 
 time ! that shed a sanctity over every grove ; that gave to each 
 tree its tutelar genius or nymph, and threatened disaster to all 
 \rho should molest the hamadryads in their leafy abodes. 
 Alas ! for the sordid propensities of modern days, when every- 
 thing is coined into gold, and this once holiday planet of ours 
 is turned into a mere ' working-day world. ' " 
 
 My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feelings out of tune, 
 I left the forest in a far different mood from that in winch I 
 had entered it, and rode silently along until, on reaching the 
 summit of a gentle eminence, the chime of evening bells came 
 on the breeze across the heath from a distant village. 
 
 I paused to listen. 
 
 "They are merely the evening bells of Mansfield," said my 
 companion. 
 
 "Of Mansfield!" Here was another of the legendary names 
 of this storied neighborhood, that called up early and pleasant 
 associations. The famous old ballad of the King and the 
 
106 NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Miller of Mansfield came at once to mind, and the chime of 
 the hells put me again in good humor. 
 
 A little farther on, and we were again on the traces of Robin 
 Hood. Here was Fountain Dale, where he had his encounter 
 with that stalwart shaveling Friar Tuck, who was a kind of 
 saint militant, alternately wearing the casque and the cowl: 
 
 "The curtal fryar kept Fountain dale 
 Seven long years and more, 
 There was neither lord, knight or earl 
 Could make him yield before." 
 
 The moat is still shown which is said to have surrounded the 
 stronghold of this jovial and fighting friar; and the place 
 where he and Robin Hood had their sturdy trial of strength 
 and prowess, in the memorable conflict which lasted 
 
 " From ten o'clock that very day 
 Until four in the afternoon," 
 
 and ended in the treaty of fellowship. As to the hardy feats, 
 both of sword and trencher, performed by this "curtal fryar," 
 behold are they not recorded at length in the ancient ballads, 
 and in the magic pages of Ivanhoe? 
 
 The evening was fast coming on, and the twilight thickening, 
 as we rode through these haunts famous in outlaw story. A 
 melancholy seemed to gather over the landscape as we pro- 
 ceeded, for our course lay by shadowy woods, and across 
 naked heaths, and along lonely roads, marked by some of 
 those sinister names by which the country people in England 
 are apt to make dreary places still more dreary. The horrors 
 of "Thieves' Wood," and the "Murderers' Stone," and "the 
 Hag Nook," had all to be encountered in the gathering gloom 
 of evening, and threatened to beset our path with more than 
 mortal peril. Happily, however, we passed these ominous 
 places unharmed, and arrived in safety at the portal of New 
 stead Abbey, highly satisfied with our green-wood foray. 
 
 THE ROOK CELL. 
 
 In the course of my sojourn at the Abbey, I changed my 
 quarters from the magnificent old state apartment haunted by 
 Sir John Byron the Little, to another in a remote corner of the 
 ancient edifice, immediately adjoining the ruined chapel. It 
 
THE ROOK CELL. 107 
 
 possessed still more interest in my eyes, from having been the 
 sleeping apartment of Lord Byron during his residence at the 
 Abbey. The furniture remained the same. Here was the bod 
 in which he slept, and which he had brought with him from 
 college; its gilded posts surmounted by coronets, giving evi- 
 dence of his aristocratical feelings. Here was likewise his 
 college sofa; and about the walls were the portraits of his 
 favorite butler, old Joe Murray, of his fancy acquaintance, 
 Jackson the pugilist, together with pictures of Harrow School 
 and the College at Cambridge, at which he was educated. 
 
 The bedchamber goes by the name of the Book Cell, from its 
 vicinity to the Eookery which, since time immemorial, has 
 maintained possession of a solemn grove adjacent to the cha- 
 pel. This venerable community afforded me much food for 
 speculation during my residence in this apartment. In the 
 morning I used to hear them gradually waking and seeming to 
 call each other up. After a time, the whole fraternity would 
 be in a flutter-; some balancing and swinging on the tree tops, 
 others perched on the pinnacle of the Abbey church, or wheel- 
 ing and hovering about in the air, and the ruined walls would 
 reverberate with their incessant cawings. In this way they 
 would linger about the rookery and its vicinity for the early 
 part of the morning, when, having apparently mustered ail 
 their forces, called over the roll, and determined upon their 
 line of march, they one and all would sail off in a long strag- 
 gling flight to maraud the distant fields. They would forage 
 the country for miles, and remain absent all day, excepting 
 now and then a scout would come home, as if to see that all 
 was well. Toward night the whole host might be seen, like a 
 dark cloud in the distance, winging their way homeward. 
 They came, as it were, with whoop and halloo, wheeling high 
 in the air above the Abbey, making various evolutions before 
 they alighted, and then keeping up an incessant cawing in the 
 tree tops, until they gradually fell asleep. 
 
 It is remarked at the Abbey, that the rooks, though they 
 sally forth on forays throughout the week, yet keep about the 
 venerable edifice on Sundays, as if they had inherited a rev- 
 erence for the day, from their ancient confreres, the monks. 
 Indeed, a believer in the metempsychosis might easily imagine 
 these Gothic-looking birds to be the embodied souls of the 
 ancient friars still hovering about their sanctified abode. 
 
 I dislike to disturb any point of popular and poetic faith, and 
 was loath, therefore, to question the authenticity of this mys- 
 
108 NEWSTEAI) ABBEY. 
 
 terious reverence for the Sabbath on the part of the Newstead 
 rooks ; but certainly in the course of my sojourn in the Book 
 Cell, I detected them, in a flagrant outbreak and foray on a 
 bright Sunday morning. 
 
 Beside the occasional clamor of the rookery, this remote 
 apartment was often greeted with sounds of a different kind, 
 from the neighboring ruins. The great lancet window in front 
 of the chapel, adjoins the very wall of the chamber; and the 
 mysterious sounds from it at night have been well described 
 by Lord Byron: 
 
 " Now loud, now frantic, 
 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 
 The owl his anthem, when the silent quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like Are. 
 
 " But on the noontide of the moon, and when 
 The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 Is musical — a dying accent driven 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night wind by the waterfall, 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall. 
 
 " Others, that some original shape or form, 
 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
 To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower; 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such 
 The fact: — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much." 
 
 Never was a traveller in quest of the romantic in greater 
 luck. I had in sooth, got lodged in another haunted apart- 
 ment of the Abbey ; for in this chamber Lord Byron declared 
 he had more than once been harassed at midnight by a mys- 
 terious visitor. A black shapeless form would sit cowering 
 upon his bed, and after gazing at him for a time with glaring 
 eyes, would roll off and disappear. The same uncouth appari- 
 tion is said to have disturbed the slumbers of a newly married 
 couple that once passed their honeymoon in this apartment. 
 
 I would observe, that the access to the Book Cell is by a 
 spiral stone staircase leading up into it, as into a turret, from 
 the long shadowy corridor over the cloisters, one of the mid- 
 night walks of the C4oblin Friar. Indeed, to the fancies en- 
 gendered in his brain in this remote and lonely apartment, in- 
 corporated with the floating superstitions of the Abbey, we are 
 no doubt indebted for the spectral scene in/' Don Juan." 
 
 
TEE ROOK (JELL. 109 
 
 ' Then as the night was clear, though c»ld, he threw 
 
 His chamber door wide open— and went forth 
 Into a gallery, of sombre hue, 
 
 Lous furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, 
 Of knights and domes, heroic and chaste too, 
 
 As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
 
 ■ Wo sound except the echo of his sigh 
 
 Or step ran sadly through that .antique house, 
 When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
 
 A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
 Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
 Most people, as it plays along the arras. 
 
 1 It was no mouse, but lo! a monk, arrayed 
 
 In cowl, and beads, and dusky garb, appeared, 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade; 
 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 
 His garments only a slight murmur made; 
 
 He moved as shadow} - as the sisters weird. 
 But slowly ; and as he passed Juan by 
 Glared, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 
 
 ' Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
 
 Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 
 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't 
 
 Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 
 Coin'd from surviving- superstition's mint, 
 
 Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
 And did he see this? or was it a vapor? 
 
 ' Once, twice, thrice pass'd. repass'd— the thing of air, 
 
 ( ir earth beneath, or heaven, or t'other place; 
 And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 
 
 Yet could not speak or move; but. on its base 
 As stands a statue, stood: he felt bis hair 
 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his face: 
 He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted 
 To ask the reverend person what he waiited. 
 
 ' The third time, after a still longer p i 
 
 The shadow pass'd away— but where? the hall 
 Was Long, and thus far there was no great cause 
 
 To think its vanishing unnatural: 
 Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
 
 of physics, bodies, whether short or lull. 
 Might eomeorgo; but Juan could not state 
 Through which Die spectre seem'd to evaporate. 
 
 ' He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
 An age expectant, powerless 1 , with his eyes 
 Stroin'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd: 
 
 Then bj degrees recall'd his energies, 
 And would hayepa is'd the whole off as a dream, 
 
 not wake; he was. he did surmisej 
 Waking already, and returned at length 
 Back to his chaml or. Bhorn of half his strength." 
 
HO NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 As I have already observed, it is difficult to determine -whe- 
 ther Lord Byron was really subject to the superstitious fancies 
 which have been imputed to him, or whether he merely amused 
 himself by giving currency to them among his domestics and 
 dependents. He certainly never scrupled to express a belief in 
 supernatural visitations, both verbally and in his correspond- 
 ence. If such were his foible, the Rook Cell was an admira- 
 ble place to engender these delusions. As I have lain awake at 
 night, I have heard all kinds of mysterious and sigrnng sounds 
 from the neighboring ruin. Distant footsteps, too, and the 
 closing of doors in remote parts of the Abbey, would send hol- 
 low reverberations and echoes along the corridor and up the 
 spiral staircase. Once, in fact, I was roused by a strange 
 sound at the very door of my chamber. I threw it open, and a 
 form "black and shapeless with glaring eyes" stood before me. 
 It proved, however, neither ghost nor goblin, but my friend 
 Boatswain, the great Newfoundland dog, who had conceived a 
 companionable liking for me, and occasionally sought me in 
 my apartment. To the hauntings of even such a visitant as 
 honest Boatswain may we attribute some of the marvellous 
 stories about the Goblin Friar. 
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 
 
 In the course of a morning's ride with Colonel Wildman, 
 about the Abbey lands, we found ourselves in one of the pret- 
 tiest little wild woods imaginable. The road to it had led us 
 among rocky ravines overhung with thickets, and now wound 
 through birchen dingles and among beautiful groves and 
 clumps of elms and beeches. A limpid rill of sparkling water, 
 winding and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed our path 
 repeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance of being 
 watered by numerous rivulets. The solitary and romantic look 
 of this piece of woodland, and the frequent recurrence of its 
 mazy stream, put him in mind, Colonel Wildman said, of the 
 little German fairy tale of Undine, in which is recorded the 
 adventures of a knight who had married a water-nymph. As 
 he rode with his bride through her native woods, every stream 
 claimed her as a relative ; one was a brother, another an uncle, 
 another a cousin. 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. Hi 
 
 We rode on amusing ourselves with applying this fanciful 
 talc to the charming scenery around us, until we came to a 
 lowly gray -stone farmhouse, of ancient date, situated in a soli- 
 tary glen, on the margin of the brook, and overshadowed by 
 venerable trees. It went by the name, as I was told, of the 
 Weir Mill farmhouse. With this rustic mansion was connected 
 a little tale of real life, some circumstances of which were 
 related to me on the spot, and others I collected in the course 
 of my sojourn at the Abbey. 
 
 Not long after Colonel Wildman had purchased the estate of 
 Newstead, he made it a visit for the purpose of planning repairs 
 and alterations. As he was rambling one evening, about dusk, 
 in company with his architect, through this little piece of 
 woodland, he was struck with its peculiar characteristics, and 
 then, for the first time, compared it to the haunted wood of 
 Undine. While he was making the remark, a small female 
 figure in white, flitted by without speaking a word, or indeed 
 appearing to notice them. Her step was scarcely heard as she 
 passed, and her form was indistinct in the twilight. 
 
 "What a figure for a fairy or sprite!" exclaimed Colonel 
 Wildman. "How much a poet or a romance writer would 
 make of such an apparition, at such a time and in such a 
 place !" 
 
 He began to congratulate himself upon having some elfin 
 inhabitant for his haunted wood, when, on proceeding a few 
 paces, he found a white frill lying in the path, which had evi- 
 dently fallen from the figure that had just passed. 
 
 "Well," said he, "after all, this is neither sprite nor fairy, 
 but a being of flesh, and blood, and muslin." 
 
 Continuing on, he came to where the road passed by an old 
 mill in front of the Abbey. The people of the mill were at the 
 door. He paused and inquired whether any visitor had been 
 at the Abbey, but was answered in the negative. 
 
 " Has nobody passed by here?" 
 
 " No one, sir." 
 
 " That's strange ! Surely I met a female in white, who must 
 have passed along this path." 
 
 "Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady— oh, yes. she 
 passed by here not long since." 
 
 ' ' The Little White Lady ! And pray who is the Little White 
 Lady?" 
 
 "Why, sir, that nobody knows; she lives in the Weir Mill 
 farmhouse, down in the skirts of the wood. She comes to the 
 
112 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 Abbey every morning, keeps about it all day, and goes away 
 at night. She speaks to nobody, and we are rather shy of her, 
 for we don't know what to make of her." 
 
 Colonel Wildman now concluded that it was some artist or 
 amateur employed in making sketches of the Abbey, and 
 thought no more about the matter. He went to London, and 
 was absent for some time. In the interim, his sister, who was 
 newly married, came with her husband to pass the honeymoon 
 at the Abbey. The Little White Lady still resided in the Weir 
 Mill farmhouse, on the border of the haunted wood, and con- 
 tinued her visits daily to the Abbey. He? dress was always 
 the same, a white gown with a little black spencer or bodice, 
 and a white hat with a short veil that screened the upper part 
 of her countenance. Her habits were shy, lonely, and silent; 
 she spoke to no one, and sought no companionship, excepting 
 with the Newfoundland dog that had belonged to Lord Byron. 
 His friendship she secured by caressing him and occasionally 
 bringing him food, and he became the companion of her soli- 
 tary walks. She avoided all strangers, and wandered about 
 the retired parts of the garden ; sometimes sitting for hours by 
 the tree on which Lord Byron had carved his name, or at the 
 foot of the monument which he had erected among the ruins 
 of the chapel. Sometimes she read, sometimes she wrote with 
 a pencil on a small slate which she carried with her, but much 
 of her time was passed in a kind of reverie. 
 
 The people about the place gradually became accustomed to 
 her, and suffered her to wander about unmolested ; their dis- 
 trust of her subsided on discovering that most of her peculiar 
 and lonely habits arose from the misfortune of being deaf and 
 dumb. Still she was regarded with some degree of shyness, 
 for it was the common opinion that she was not exactly in her 
 right mind. 
 
 Colonel Wildman's sister was informed of all these circum- 
 stances by the servants of the Abbey, among whom the Little 
 White Lady was a theme of frequent discussion. The Abbey 
 and its monastic environs being haunted ground, it was natural 
 that a mysterious visitant of the kind, and one supposed to be 
 under the influence of mental hallucination, should inspire awe 
 in a person unaccustomed to the place. As Colonel Wildman's 
 sister was one day walking along a broad terrace of the garden, 
 she suddenly beheld the Little White Lady coming toward her, 
 and, in the surprise and agitation of the moment, turned and 
 ran into the house. 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 113 
 
 Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more was seen of 
 this singular personage. Colonel Wildman at length arrived 
 at the Abbey, and his sister mentioned to him her rencounter 
 and fright in the garden. It brought to mind his own adven- 
 ture with the Little White Lady in the wood of Undine, and 
 he was surprised to find that she still continued her mysterious 
 wanderings about the Abbey. The mystery was soon explained. 
 Immediately after his arxival he received a letter written in the 
 most minute and delicate female hand, and in elegant and even 
 eloquent language. It was from the Little White Lady. She 
 had noticed and been shocked by the abrupt retreat of Colonel 
 Wildinan's sister on seeing her in the garden walk, and ex- 
 pressed her unhappiness at being an object of alarm to any of 
 his family. She explained the motives of her frequent and 
 long visits to the Abbey, which proved to be a singularly enthu- 
 siastic idolatry of the genius of Lord Byron, and a solitary and 
 passionate delight in haunting the scenes he had once inhabited. 
 She hinted at the infirmities which cut her off from all social 
 communion with her fellow beings, and at her situation in life 
 as desolate and bereaved; and concluded by hoping that he 
 would not deprive her of her only comfort, the permission of 
 visiting the Abbey occasionally, and lingering about the walks 
 and gardens. 
 
 Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries concerning 
 her, and found that she was a great favorite with the people of 
 the farmhouse where she boarded, from the gentleness, quie- 
 tude, and innocence of her maimers. When at home, she 
 passed the greater part of her time in a small sitting-room, 
 reading and writing. 
 
 Colonel Wildman immediately called on her at the farm- 
 house. She received him with some agitation and embarrass- 
 ment, but his frankness and urbanity soon put her at her ease. 
 She was past the bloom of youth, a pale, nervous little being, 
 mid apparently deficient in most of her physical organs, for in 
 :<>n to being deaf and dumb, she saw but imperfectly. 
 They carried on a communication by means of a small slate, 
 w hich she drew out of her reticule, and on which they wrote 
 their questions and replies. In writing or reading she always 
 approached her eyes close to the written characters. 
 
 This defective organization was accompanied by a morbid 
 sensibility almost amounting to disease. She had not been 
 born deaf and dumb ; but had lost her hearing in a fit of sick- 
 ness, and with it the power of distinct articulation. Her life 
 
114 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 had evidently been checkered and unhappy; she was appar- 
 ently without family or friend, a lonely, desolate being, cut off 
 from society by her infirmities. 
 
 "I am always among strangers," she said, "as much so in 
 my native country as I could be in the remotest parts of the 
 world. By all I am considered as a stranger and an alien ; no 
 one will acknowledge any connection with me. I seem not to 
 belong to the human species." 
 
 Such were the circumstances that Colonel Wildman was able 
 to draw forth in the course of his conversation, and they strongly 
 interested him in favor of this poor enthusiast. He was too 
 devout an admirer of Lord Byron himself, not to sympathize 
 in this extraordinary zeal of one of his votaries, and he en- 
 treated her to renew her visits at the Abbey, assuring her that 
 the edifice and its grounds should always be open to her. 
 
 The Little White Lady now resumed her daily walks in the 
 Monk's Garden, and her occasional seat at the foot of the 
 monument ; she was shy and diffident, however, and evidently 
 fearful of intruding. If any persons were walking in the gar- 
 den she would avoid them, and seek the most remote parts ; 
 and was seen like a sprite, only by gleams and glimpses, as she 
 glided among the groves and thickets. Many of her feelings 
 and fancies, during these lonely rambles, were embodied in 
 verse, noted down on her tablet, and transferred to paper in 
 the evening on her return to the farmhouse. Some of these 
 verses now he before me, written with considerable harmony 
 of versification, but chiefly curious as being illustrative of that 
 singular and enthusiastic idolatry with which she almost wor- 
 shipped the genius of Byron, or rather, the romantic image of 
 him formed by her imagination. 
 
 Two or three extracts may not be unacceptable. The follow- 
 ing are from a long rhapsody addressed to Lord Byron : 
 
 " By what dread charm thou rulest the mind 
 It is not given for us to know; 
 We glow with feelings undefined, 
 Nor can explain from whence they flow. 
 
 " Not that fond love which passion breathes 
 And youthful hearts inflame ; 
 The soul a nobler homage gives, 
 And bows to thy great name. 
 
 " Oft have we own'd the muses' skill, 
 , And proved the power of song, 
 
 But sweeter notes ne'er woke the thrll 
 That solely to thy verse belong. 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 115 
 
 " This— but far more, for thee we prove, 
 Something that bears a holier name, 
 Thau the pure dream of early love, 
 Or friendship's nobler flame. 
 
 " Something divine— Oh ! what it is 
 Thy muse alone can tell, 
 So sweet, but so profound the bliss 
 We dread to break the spell." 
 
 This singular and romantic infatuation, for such it might 
 truly be called, was entirely spiritual and ideal, for, as she 
 herself declares in another of her rhapsodies, she had never 
 beheld Lord Byron; he was, to her, a mere phantom of the 
 brain. 
 
 " I ne'er have drunk thy glance— thy form 
 My earthly eye has never seen, 
 Though oft when fancy's visions warm, 
 It greets me in some blissful dream. 
 
 " Greets me, as greets the sainted seer 
 Some radiant visitant from high, 
 When heaven's own strains break on his ear, 
 And wrap his soul in ecstasy." 
 
 Her poetical wanderings and musings were not confined to 
 the Abbey grounds, but extended to all parts of the neighbor- 
 hood connected with the memory of Lord Byron, and among 
 the rest to the groves and gardens of Annesley Hall, the seat 
 of his early passion for Miss Chaworth. One of her poetical 
 effusions mentions her having seen from Howet's Hill in Annes- 
 ley Park, a "sylph-like form," in a car drawn by milk-white 
 horses, passing by the foot of the hill, who proved to be the 
 "favorite child," seen by Lord Byron, in his memorable inter- 
 view with Miss Chaworth after her marriage. That favorite 
 child was now a blooming girl approaching to womanhood, and 
 seems to have understood something of the character and story 
 of this singular visitant, and to have treated her with gentle 
 sympathy. The Little White Lady expresses, in touching 
 terms, in a note to her verses, her sense of this gentle courtesy. 
 "The benevolent condescension," says she, "of that amiable 
 and interesting young lady, to the unfortunate writer of these 
 simple lines will remain engraved upon a grateful memory, till 
 the vital spark that now animates a heart that too sensibly 
 feels, and too seldom experiences such kindness, is forever 
 extinct." 
 
 In the mean time, Colonel Wildman, in occasional interviews, 
 
116 NEW8TEAB ABBEY. 
 
 had obtained further particulars of the story of the stranger, 
 aiad found that poverty was added to the other evils of her for- 
 lorn and isolated state. Her name was Sophia Hyatt. She 
 was the daughter of a country bookseller, but both her parents 
 had died several years before. At their death, her sole depend- 
 ence was upon her brother, who allowed her a small annuity on 
 her share of the property left by their father, and which re- 
 mained in his hands. Her brother, who was a captain of a 
 merchant vessel, removed with his family to America, leaving 
 her almost alone in the world, for she had no other relative in 
 England but a cousin, of whom she knew almost nothing. She 
 received her annuity regularly for a time, but unfortunately 
 her brother died in the West Indies, leaving his affairs in con- 
 fusion, and his estate overhung by several commercial claims, 
 which threatened to swallow up the whole. Under these dis- 
 astrous circumstances, her annuity suddenly ceased ; she had 
 in vain tried to obtain a renewal of it from the widow, or even 
 an account of the state of her brother's affairs. Her letters for 
 three years past had remained unanswered, and she would 
 have been exposed to the horrors of the most abject want, but 
 for a pittance quarterly doled out to her by her cousin in 
 England. 
 
 Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benevolence 
 into the story of her troubles. He saw that she was a helpless, 
 unprotected being, unable, from her infirmities and her igno- 
 rance of the world, to prosecute her just claims. He obtained 
 from her the address of her relations in America, and of the 
 commercial connection of her brother ; promised, through the 
 medium of his own agents in Liverpool, to institute an inquiry 
 into the situation of her brother's affairs, and to forward any 
 letters she might write, so as to insure their reaching their 
 place of destination. 
 
 Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little White Lady con- 
 tinued her wanderings about the Abbey and its neighborhood. 
 The delicacy and timidity of her deportment increased the 
 interest already felt for her by Mrs. Wildman. That lady, 
 with her wonted kindness, sought to make acquaintance with 
 her, and inspire her with confidence. She invited her into the 
 Abbey; treated her with the most delicate attention, and, see- 
 ing that she had a great turn for reading, offered her the loan 
 of any books in her possession. She borrowed a few, particu- 
 larly the works of Sir Walter Scott, but soon returned them; 
 the writings of Lord Byron seemed to form the only study in 
 
TITE LITTLE WITTTE LADY. 117 
 
 which she delighted, and when not occupied in reading those, 
 her time was passed in passionate meditations on his genius. 
 Her enthusiasm spread an ideal world around her in which she 
 moved and existed as in a dream, forgetful at times of the real 
 miseries which beset her in her mortal state. 
 
 One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very melancholy 
 cast; anticipating her own death, which her fragile frame and 
 growing infirmities rendered but too probable. It is headed by 
 the following paragraph. 
 
 " Written beneath the tree on Crowholt Hill, where it is my 
 wish to be interred (if I should die in Newstead)." 
 
 I subjoin a few of the stanzas : they are addressed to Lord 
 Byron : 
 
 " Thou, while thou stand'st beneath this tree, 
 While by thy foot this earth is press'd, 
 Think, here the wanderer's ashes be — 
 And wilt thou say, sweet be thy restl 
 
 " 'Twotild add even to a seraph's bliss, 
 
 d charge <!•.<•!'. then may be, 
 To guide— to guard— yes, Byron! yes, 
 That glory is reserved for me." 
 
 " If woes below may plead above 
 
 A frail heart's errors, mine forgiven, 
 
 To that ' higli world ' I soar, where ' love 
 
 Surviving' forms the bliss of Heaven. 
 
 " O wheresoe'er, in realms above, 
 Assign \1 my spirit's new abode, 
 'Twill watch thee with a seraph's love, 
 Till thou too soar'st to meet thy God. 
 
 " And here, beneath this lonely tree— 
 
 Beneath the earth thy f< i ( have press'd, 
 My dust shall sleep— once dear to thee 
 These scenes— here may the wanderer rest!" 
 
 In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies, tidings reached 
 Newstead of the untimely death of Lord Byron. How they 
 Were received by this humble but passionate devotee I could 
 not ascertain; her life was too obscure and lonely to furnish 
 much personal anecdote, but among her poetical effusions 
 are several smtl m m a broken and irregular manner, and 
 evidently under great agitation. 
 
 The following sonnet is the most coherent and most de- 
 scriptive of her peculiar state of mind: 
 
118 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 "Well, thou art gone— but what wert thou to me? 
 
 I never saw thee— never heard thy voice, 
 Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee. 
 
 The Roman bard has sung of fields Elysiau, 
 Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth ; 
 
 Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron I 
 Thine image haunted me like a past vision; 
 
 It hath enshrined itself in my heart's core; 
 'Tis my soul's soul— it fills the whole creation. 
 
 For I do live but in that world ideal 
 Which the muse peopled with her bright fancies, 
 
 And of that world thou art a monarch real, 
 Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom, 
 
 With sway so potent as thy lyre, the mind's dominion." 
 
 Taking all the circumstances here adduced into considera- 
 tion, it is evident that this strong excitement and exclusive 
 occupation of the mind upon one subject, operating upon a 
 system in a high state of morbid irritability, was in danger of 
 producing that species of mental derangement called mono- 
 mania. The poor little being was aware, herself, of the dangers 
 of her case, and alluded to it in the following passage of a 
 letter to Colonel Wildman, which presents one of the most 
 lamentable pictures of anticipated evil ever conjured up by the 
 human mind. 
 
 "I have long," writes she, "too sensibly felt the decay of 
 my mental faculties, which I consider as the certain indication 
 of that dreaded calamity which I anticipate with such terror. 
 A strange idea has long haunted my mind, that Swift's dread- 
 ful fate will be mine. It is not ordinary insanity I so much 
 apprehend, but something worse — absolute idiotism ! 
 
 " O sir ! think what I must suffer from such an idea, without 
 an earthly friend to look up to for protection in such a wretched 
 state — exposed to the indecent insults which such spectacles 
 always excite. But I dare not dwell upon the thought; it 
 would facilitate the event I so much dread, and contemplate 
 with horror. Yet I cannot help thinking from people's be- 
 havior to me at times, and from after reflections upon my con- 
 duct, that symptoms of the disease are already apparent." 
 
 Five months passed away, but the letters written by her, 
 and forwarded by Colonel Wildman to America relative to 
 her brother's affairs, remained unanswered; the inquiries in- 
 stituted by the Colonel had as yet proved equally fruitless. A 
 deeper gloom and despondency now seemed to gather upon her 
 mind. She began to talk of leaving Newstead, and repairing 
 to London, in the vague hope of obtaining relief or redress by 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 119 
 
 instituting some legal process to ascertain and enforce the will 
 of her deceased brother. Weeks elapsed, however, before she 
 could summon up sufficient resolution to tear herself away 
 from the scene of poetical fascination. The following simple 
 stanzas, selected from a number written about the time, e«- 
 press, in humble rhymes; the melancholy that preyed up** her 
 spirits: 
 
 " Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy time-riven towers, 
 Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more; 
 No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers, 
 Nor muse in thy cloisters at eve's pensive hour. 
 
 " Oh, how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales, 
 When lost in sad musing, though sad not unblest, 
 A lone pilgrim I stray— Ah! in these lonely vales, 
 I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest. 
 
 " Yet rest is far distant— in the dark vale of death, 
 Alone I shall find it, an outcast forlorn — 
 But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft 
 Of all that could solace in life's early morn. 
 
 Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam 
 O'er the world's dreary wilds, whence by fortune's rude gust, 
 
 In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom, 
 It is torn and its foliage laid low in the dust." 
 
 At length she fixed upon a day for her departure. On the 
 day previous, she paid a farewell visit to the Abbey ; wander- 
 ing over every part of the grounds and garden ; pausing and 
 lingering at every place particularly associated with the recol- 
 lection of Lord Byron ; and passing a long time seated at the 
 foot of the monument, which she used to call "her altar." 
 Seeking Mrs. Wildman, she placed in her hands a sealed packet, 
 with an earnest request that she would not open it until after 
 her departure from the neighborhood. Tins done, she took an 
 affectionate leave of her, and with many bitter tears bade fare- 
 well to the Abbey. 
 
 On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman could 
 not refrain from inspecting the legacy of this singular being. 
 On opening the packet, she found a number of fugitive poems, 
 written in a most delicate and minute hand, and evidently the 
 fruits of her reveries and meditations during her lonely ram- 
 bles ; from these the foregoing extracts have been made. These 
 ware accompanied by a voluminous letter, written with the 
 pathos and eloquence of genuine feeling, and depicting her 
 
120 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 peculiar situation and singular state of mind in dark but pain- 
 ful colors. 
 
 "The last time,*' says she, " that I had the pleasure of seeing 
 you, in the garden, you asked me why I leave Newstead ; when 
 I told you my circumstances obliged me, the expression of con- 
 cerr which I fancied I observed in your look and manner would 
 have encouraged me to have been explicit at the time, but from 
 my inability of expressing myself verbally. " 
 
 She then goes on to detail precisely her pecuniary circum- 
 stances, \r which it appears that her whole dependence for 
 subsistence was on an allowance of thirteen pounds a year 
 from he- cousin, who bestowed it through a feeling of pride, 
 lest his relative should come upon the parish. During two 
 year? this pittance had been augmented from other sources, 
 to twenty -three pounds, but the last year it had shrunk within 
 ito original bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly, that she 
 could not feel sure of its continuance from one quarter to an- 
 other. More than once it had been withheld on slight pre- 
 tences, and she was in constant dread lest it should be en- 
 tirely withdrawn. 
 
 " It is with extreme reluctance," observed she, "that I have 
 so far exposed my unfortunate situation ; but I thought you 
 expected to know something more of it, and I feared that 
 Colonel Wildman, deceived by appearances, might think that I 
 am in no immediate want, and that the delay of a few weeks, 
 or months, respecting the inquiry, can be of no material con- 
 sequence. It is absolutely necessa v ry to the success of the busi- 
 ness that Colonel Wildman should know the exact state of my 
 circumstances without reserve, that he may be enabled to make 
 a correct representation of them to any gentleman whom he 
 intends to interest, who, I presume, if they are not of America 
 themselves, have some connections there, throxigh whom my 
 friends may be convinced of the reality of my distress, if they 
 pretend to doubt it, as I suppose they do. But to be more ex- 
 plicit is impossible ; it would be too humiliating to particularize 
 the circumstances of the embarrassment in which I am un- 
 happily involved — my utter destitution. To disclose all might, 
 too, be liable to an inference which I hope I am not so void of 
 delicacy, of natural pride, as to endure the thought of. Pardon 
 me, madam, for thus giving trouble, where I have no right to 
 do — compelled to throw myself upon Colonel Wildman's hu- 
 manity, to entreat his earnest exertions in my behalf, for it is 
 now my only resource. Yet do not too much despise me for 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 121 
 
 thus submitting to imperious necessity — it is not love of life, 
 believe me it is not, nor anxiety for its preservation. I cannot 
 say, ' There are things that make the world dear to me,' — for in 
 the world there is not an object to make me wish to linger 
 here another hour, could I find that rest and peace in the grave 
 which I have never found on earth, and I fear will be denied 
 me there." 
 
 Another part of her letter develops more completely the dark 
 despondency hinted at in the conclusion of the foregoing ex- 
 tract—and presents a lamentable instance of a mind diseased, 
 which sought in vain, amidst sorrow and calamity, the sweet 
 consolations of religious faith. 
 
 "That my existence has hitherto been prolonged," says she, 
 "often beyond what I have thought to have been its destined 
 period, is astonishing to myself. Often when my situation haf 
 been as desperate, as hopeless, or more so, if possible, than it is 
 at present, some unexpected interposition of Providence has 
 rescued me from a fate that has appeared inevitable. I do not 
 particularly allude to recent circumstances or latter years, for 
 from my earlier years I have been the child of Providence — 
 then why should I distrust its care now? I do not distrust it 
 — neither do I trust it. I feel perfectly unanxious, uncon- 
 cerned, and indifferent as to the future ; but this is not trust in 
 Providence — not that trust which alone claims it protections. I 
 know this is a blamable indifference — it is more — for it reaches 
 to the interminable future. It turns almost with disgust from 
 the bright prospects which religion offers for the consolation 
 and support of the wretched, and to which I was early taught, 
 by an almost adored mother, to look forward with hope and 
 joy; but to me they can afford no consolation. Not that I 
 doubt the sacred truths that religion inculcates. I cannot doubt 
 —though I confess I have sometimes tried to do so, because I 
 no longer wish for that immortality of which it assures us. 
 My only wish now is for rest and peace— endless rest. 'For 
 rest — but not to feel 'tis rest,' but I cannot delude myself with 
 the hope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an internal evi- 
 dence, stronger than any arguments that reason or religion can 
 enforce, that I have that within me which is imperishable ; that 
 drew not its origin from the 'clod of the valley.' With this 
 conviction, but without a hope to brighten the prospect of that 
 dread future: 
 
 " ' I dare not look beyond the tomb, 
 Yetcanuot hope for peace before.' 
 
122 tfEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, madam, must 
 excite your commiseration. It is perhaps owing, in part at 
 least, to the solitude in which I have lived, I may say, even in 
 the midst of society ; when I have mixed in it ; as my infirmi- 
 ties entirely exclude me from that sweet intercourse of kindred 
 spirits— that sweet solace of refined conversation; the little 
 intercourse I have at any time with those around me cannot be 
 termed conversation — they are not kindred spirits — and even 
 where circumstances have associated me (but rarely indeed) 
 with superior and cultivated minds, who have not disdained to 
 admit me to their society, they could not by all their generous 
 efforts, even in early youth, lure from my dark soul the 
 thoughts that loved to lie buried there, nor inspire me with the 
 courage to attempt their disclosure ; and yet of all the pleasures 
 of polished life which fancy has often pictured to me in such 
 vivid colors, there is not one that I have so ardently coveted 
 as that sweep reciprocation of ideas, the supreme bliss of en- 
 lightened minds in the hour ol social converse. But this I 
 knew was not decreed for me — 
 
 " ' Yet this was in my nature — ' 
 
 but since the loss of my hearing I have always been incapable 
 of verbal conversation. I need not, however, inform you, 
 madam, of this. At the first interview with which you favored 
 me, you quickly discovered my peculiar uhhappincss in this 
 respect ; you perceived from my manner that any attempt to 
 draw me into conversation would be in vain — had it been 
 otherwise, perhaps you would not have disdained now and 
 then to have soothed the lonely wanderer with yours. I have 
 sometimes fancied when I have seen you in the walk, that you 
 seemed to wish to encourage me to throw myself in your way. 
 Pardon me if my imagination, too apt to beguile me with such 
 dear illusions, has deceived me mto too presumptuous an idea 
 here. You must have observed that I generally endeavored 
 to avoid both you and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare your 
 generous hearts the pain of witnessing distress you could not 
 alleviate. Thus cut off, as it were, from all human society, I 
 have been compelled to live in a world of my own, and certainly 
 with the beings with which my world is peopled, I am at no 
 loss to converse. But, though I love solitude and am never in 
 want of subjects to amuse my fancy, yet solitude too much in- 
 dulged in must necessarily have an unhappy effect upon the 
 mind, which, when' left to seek for resources wholly within it- 
 
THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 123 
 
 self will, unavoidably, in hours of gloom and despondency, 
 brood over corroding thoughts that prey upon the spirits, and 
 sometimes terminate in confirmed misanthropy— especially 
 with those who, from constitution, or early misfortunes, are 
 inclined to melancholy, and to view human nature in its dark 
 shades. And have I not cause for gloomy reflections? The 
 utter loneliness of my lot would alone have rendered existence 
 a curse to one whom nature has formed glowing with all the 
 warmth of social affection, yet without an object on which to 
 place it — without one natural connection, one earthly friend to 
 appeal to, to shield me from the contempt, indignities, and in- 
 sults, to which my deserted situation continually exposed me." 
 
 I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I cannot refrain 
 from subjoining another letter, which depicts her feelings with 
 respect to Newstead. 
 
 "Permit me, madame, again to request your and Colonel 
 Wildman's acceptance of these acknowledgments which I can- 
 not too often repeat, for your unexampled goodness to a rude 
 stranger. I know I ought not to have taken advantage of your 
 extreme good nature so frequently as I have. I should have 
 absented myself from your garden during the stay of the 
 company at the Abbey, but, as I knew I must be gone long 
 before they would leave it, I coidd not deny myself the indul- 
 gence, as you so freely gave me your permission to continue 
 my walks, but now they are at an end. I have taken my last 
 farewell of every dear and interesting spot, which I now never 
 hope to see again, unless my disembodied spirit may be per- 
 mitted to revisit them.— Yet O ! if Providence should enable me 
 again to support myself with any degree of respectability, and 
 you should grant me some little humble shed, with what joy 
 shall I return and renew my delightful rambles. But dear as 
 Newstead is to me, I will never again come under the same un- 
 happy circumstances as I have this last time— never without 
 the means of at least securing myself from contempt. How 
 dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, how unconquerable 
 the infatuation that possesses me, I am now going to giye a too 
 convincing proof. In offering to your acceptance the worthless 
 trifles that will accompany this, I hope you will believe that 
 I have no view to your amusement. I dare not hope that 
 the consideration of their being the products of your own gar- 
 den, and most of them written there, in my little tablet, while 
 sitting at the foot of my Altar— 1 could not, I cannot resist the 
 earnest desire of leaving this memorial of the many happy 
 
124 NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 hours I have there enjoyed. Oh ! do not reject them, madam ; 
 suffer them to remain with you, and if you should deign to 
 honor them with a perusal, when you read them repress, if you 
 can, the smile that I know will too naturally arise, when you 
 recollect the appearance of the wretched being who has dared 
 to devote her whole soul to the contemplation of such more 
 than human excellence. Yet, ridiculous as such devotion may 
 appear to some, I must take leave to say, that if the sentiments 
 which I have entertained for that exalted being could be duly 
 appreciated, I trust they would be found to be of such a nature 
 as is no dishonor even for him to have inspired.'' .... 
 
 "I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes too 
 deeply impressed upon my memory ever to be effaced even by 
 madness itself. O madam! may you never know, nor be able 
 to conceive the agony I endure in tearing myself from all that 
 the world contains of dear and sacred to me : the only spot on 
 earth where I can ever hope for peace or comfort. May every 
 blessing the world has to bestow attend you, or rather, may 
 you long, long live in the enjoyment of the delights of your 
 own paradise, in secret seclusion from a world that has no real 
 blessings to bestow. Now I go— but O might I dare to hope 
 that when you are enjoying these blissful scenes, a thought of 
 the unhappy wanderer might sometimes cross your mind, 
 how soothing would such an idea be, if I dared to indulge it — 
 could you see my heart at this moment, how needless would it 
 be to assure you of the respectful gratitude, the affectionate 
 esteem, this heart must ever bear you both." 
 
 The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of Mrs. 
 Wildman may be more readily conceived than expressed. 
 Her first impulse was to give a home to this poor homeless 
 being, and to fix her in the midst of those scenes which formed 
 her earthly paradise. She communicated her wishes to Colo- 
 nel Wildman, and they met with an immediate response in his 
 generous bosom. It was settled on the spot, that an apartment 
 should be fitted up for the Little White Lady in one of the new 
 farmhouses, and every arrangement made for her comfortable 
 and permanent maintenance on the estate. With a woman's 
 prompt benevolence, Mrs. Wildman, before she laid her head 
 upon her pillow, wrote the following letter to the destitute 
 stranger: 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, 
 " Tuesday night, September 20, 1825. 
 
 " On retiring to my bedchamber this evening I have opened 
 
TEE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 125 
 
 yoiir letter, and cannot lose a moment in expressing to you the 
 strong interest which it has excited both in Colonel Wildman 
 and myself, from the details of your peculiar situation, and the 
 delicate, and, let me add, elegant language in which they are 
 conveyed. I am anxious that my note should reach you pre- 
 vious to your departure from this neighborhood, and should be 
 truly happy if, by any arrangement for your accommodation, 
 1 could prevent the necessity of your undertaking the journey. 
 Colonei Wildman begs me to assure you that he will use his 
 best exertions in the investigation of those matters which you 
 have confided to him, and should you remain here at present, 
 or return again after a short absence, I trust we shall find 
 means to become better acquainted, and to convince you of 
 the interest I feel, and the real satisfaction it would afford me 
 to contribute in any way to your comfort and happiness. I 
 will only now add my thanks for the little packet which I 
 received with your letter, and I must confess that the letter has 
 so entirely engaged my attention, that I have not as yet had 
 time for the attentive perusal of its companion. 
 
 "Believe me, dear madam, with sincere good wishes, 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 " Louisa Wildman." 
 
 Early the next morning a servant was dispatched with the 
 letter to the Weir Mill farm, but returned with the information 
 that the Little White Lady had set off, before his arrival, in 
 company with the farmer's wife, in a cart for Nottingham, to 
 take her place in the coach for London. Mrs. Wildman ordered 
 him to mount horse instantly, follow with all speed, and delivec 
 the letter into her hand before the departure of the coach. 
 
 The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip nor spur, and 
 arrived at Nottingham on a gallop. On entering the town, a 
 crowd obstructed him in the principal street. He checked his 
 horse to make his way through it quietly. As the crowd 
 opened to the right and left, he beheld a human body lying on 
 the pavement. — It was the corpse of the Little White Lady! 
 
 It seems that on arriving in town and dismounting from the 
 cart, the farmer's wife had parted with her to go on an errand, 
 and the White Lady continued on toward the coach-office. In 
 ing a street a cart came along, driven at a rapid rate. 
 The driver called out to her, but she was too deaf to hear his 
 voice or the rattling of his cart. In an instant she was 
 knocked down by the horse, and the wheels passed over her 
 body, and she died without a groan. 
 
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Woman's Place To-day. 
 
 Four lectures in reply to the Lenten lectures on "Woman." by the Rev. 
 Morgan Dix. D.D., of Trinity Church, New York. 
 
 By Li Hie Devereux Blake. 
 
 No. 101, LOVEXIi'S LIBRARY, Paper Covers, 2® Cents, 
 Cloth Limp, 50 Cents. 
 
 Mrs. Lillie Devereux Blake last evening entertained an audience that filled 
 Frobisher's Hall, in East Fourteenth .Street, by a witty and sarcastic handling 
 of the recent Lenten talk of the Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix on the follies of women 
 of society.— New York Times. 
 
 Mrs. Lillie l)evereux Blake is a very eloquent lady, and a thorn in the side 
 of the Rev. Dr. Dix, and gentlemen who, like him, presume to say that woman 
 is not man's equal, if not liis superior. Mrs. Blake in her reply to Dr. Dix'a 
 recent lecture upon "Divorce, ' m::de some interesting remarks upon the sex 
 to which she has the honor to belong. — Nero York Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 There is no denying that Mrs. B!ake has, spartan-like, stood as a break-water 
 to the surging flood RectorDix has cast upon the so-called weaker sex with 
 the hope of engulfing it. it is sad to see a gentleman in the position Dr. Dix 
 occupies setting himself deliberately at work to not only bring reproach upon 
 the female sex, but to make us all look with comtempt upon our mothers and 
 sisters. And the worst of his case is that ho has shown that spirit in the male 
 pirt of mankind, which is not at nil creditable to it, of depreciating the in- 
 tellect, the judgment, the ability snd the capability of the female sex in order 
 to elevate to a higher plane the male sex. According to Dr. Dix the world 
 would be better were there no more female children born. And he makes 
 this argument in the face of the fact that there would be "hell upon earth" 
 were It not for the influence of women, and such women as Mrs. Lillie Devereux 
 Blake, especially.— Albany Sunday Press. 
 
 Mrs. Blake's was the most interesting and spicy speech of the evening. She 
 was in a sparkling mood and hit at everything and everybody that came to 
 her mind.— The Evening Telegram. N. Y. 
 
 A stately lily of a woman, with delicate features, ap.iirof great grayeyes that 
 dilate as she speaks till they light her whole face like two great soft stars. — The 
 Independent, N. Y. 
 
 * » * She advanced to the front of the platform, gesticulated gracefully 
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 * * * a most eloquent and polished oration. The peroration was a grand 
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