How pleasing it would be to pass into a reverie in this great presence! We pass into the splendid and unusual library. The ceiling has oak mouldings and deep panels, said to be copies from an ancient castle. The sides are covered with books from floor nearly to ceiling. The furniture is rich and various, much of it presented by distinguished men. In a square showcase on a table are exposed for exhibition small articles that were given to Sir Walter by kings, queens, and other persons of noble blood. Among them are snuff-boxes,—gold, silver, ivory, pearl, shell, and papier-maché. The floor is of polished oak, and without carpets. The library is not far from twenty-five feet wide, forty-five long, and fifteen feet high.
We next pass into the dining-room, which is about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, and is the one in which the great owner breathed his last. It also has an oak floor, and is without furniture, save a few chairs for the use of visitors. At one end is a large bay-window, looking out on the great lawn, extending from the house to the Tweed. It adds a peculiar interest to know that Sir Walter so loved nature that, when he saw the great consummation approaching, he desired to be removed from his chamber to this room, where he might once more gaze upon this scene and his favorite river, which was flowing away like his own life. A couch was brought, and placed against the side wall, with its foot towards the window, and there the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher shattered at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern, and the poet was no more a mortal.
The temptation is resistless to say a few words about Scott's previous life. He had become worn down with his attempts to earn enough to meet the claims made against him, $400,000, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, Ballantine. At first he left Abbotsford and went to London to do this work. Becoming a mere wreck of his former self, he went to the shores of the Mediterranean; but at last, when hope deferred had made the heart sick, he returned to London, went to a small hotel, the St. James, at 76 Jermyn Street, and there passed three melancholy weeks before going to his home on the Tweed. Mr. Lockhart, who was with him, gives the following graphic account:
When we reached the hotel, he recognized us with many marks of tenderness, but signified that he was totally exhausted; so no attempt was made to remove him farther, and he was put to bed immediately. To his children, all assembled once more about him, he repeatedly gave his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting immediate death; but he was never in a condition for conversation, and sank either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest effort.
Mr. Ferguson, who was seldom absent from his pillow, says:—
When I first saw Sir Walter, he was lying on the second-floor-back room of the St. James Hotel in Jermyn Street, in a state of stupor, from which, however, he would be roused for a moment by being addressed; and then he recognized those about him, but immediately relapsed. I think I never saw anything more magnificent than the symmetry of his colossal bust, as he lay on the pillow with his chest and neck exposed. During the time he was in Jermyn Street he was calm but never collected, and in general was either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. He never seemed to know where he was, but imagined himself to be still in the steamboat. The rattling of carriages and the noises of the street sometimes disturbed this illusion, and then he fancied himself at the polling of Jedburgh, where he had been insulted and stoned.... At length his constant yearnings to return to Abbotsford induced his physicians to consent to his removal,—a consent which, the moment it was notified to him, seemed to infuse new vigor into his frame. It was on a calm, clear afternoon of the 7th of July [1832] that every preparation was made for his embarkation on board the steamboat. He was placed on a chair by his faithful servant, Nicholson, half-dressed, and loosely wrapped in a quilted dressing-gown. He requested Lockhart and myself to wheel him towards the light of the open window, and we both remarked the vigorous lustre of his eye. He sat there silently gazing on space for more than half an hour, apparently wholly occupied with his own thoughts, and having no distinct perception of where he was, or how he came there. He suffered himself to be lifted into his carriage, which was surrounded by a crowd, among whom were many gentlemen on horseback, who loitered about to gaze on the scene. His children were deeply affected, and Mrs. Lockhart trembled from head to foot and wept bitterly. Thus surrounded by those nearest to him, he alone was unconscious of the cause or the depth of their grief, and while yet alive seemed to be carried to his grave.
He embarked on the steamer, and after a four days' sail, on the 11th of July his eye once more brightened as he caught sight of the familiar waters of the Tweed, and when at length he recognized the towers of his own Abbotsford, he sprang up in the carriage with delight. He was carried to his chamber, where he remained till his death on the 21st of September.
We have no apology to make for this digression, for Scott has given to Scotland and English literature a new glory.
We now resume our walk over the house, and pass through the museum, which is some twelve feet wide and forty feet long. Various kinds of armor prevail, and many interesting things that were presented to the "Lord of the domain." Fifty-one years are gone since the great poet was here, but all else remains as it was. We sit down in his study, as if waiting for him to come; and so real is everything that, should the sound of his heavy feet be heard in the hall, should he enter in person, the gulf of years would as by magic be bridged over and forgotten. He arranged this house only for his home; but he unwittingly made it a Jerusalem for countless pilgrims.
We passed meditatingly up the lane, mounted the team, and in spite of the clack of the driver, of hills and dales,—in spite of anything material,—those unmaterial memories held sway. We had been to Abbotsford, and its inspiration would evermore be ours.