An odor or a sunset was never fully described, though some can tell the story better than others. A lamp lighted from another does not reduce the original flame, and so it is with visits to any shrine. A million may go to Abbotsford, but it loses nothing by these draughts of pleasure.
Our carriage ride ended, we are at Melrose Abbey. How many times Sir Walter stood on this spot. His advice was:—
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.
This we could not do, but we saw the abbey at the close of a fine day, as the sun threw its rays aslant in long lines across the grand ruins. We are met by a young maiden whose father has charge of the premises. We pay our shilling to enter, and first of all are impressed with the great beauty of the place. It is a large church, once belonging to the abbey, the latter having long since been destroyed. The nave, aisles, and transepts are roofless. Here and there, neatly piled against the walls, are fallen stones that once were part of the edifice. The floor is covered with that velvety grass which delights to take possession of places like this; and it is not to be blamed, for the grass is emblematic of mortals who would do the same if they could. The walls are solid and lofty, and a part of the groined ceiling of the choir remains. The windows are perfect in their stone tracery of mullions and transoms. Instinctively we look for the great chancel with its east window,—and adore, and see the force of Scott's description:—
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
By foliaged tracery combined.
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy hand
'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand,
In many a freakish knot had twined;
Then framed a spell when work was done
And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
In this wall, under this window, was buried the heart of Robert Bruce.
Here are tombs of men too great to have their dust mingle with common soil. We are delighted with the ivy, climbing at random,—sometimes very thick and grand in its mantling power. We pass out of the side door, and are in the burial-ground of two or three acres. Not cared for by mortals, Nature—in great unison with her possessions and conscious of her sacred trust—prohibits the intrusion of rambling vine or unsightly weed. How varied are the views of tower and gable, of buttress unbroken or in partial ruin! Remove a stone, or repair one, and you do injury. Here repose the ashes of monk and nun, who centuries ago entered their free immortality.
The abbey was founded by David I. in 1136, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary ten years after. It was occupied first by monks of the Cistercian order, who had come from Yorkshire. In 1322, after a peaceable occupancy of 176 years, its quiet was disturbed by the invasion of an army under the authority of Edward II., and the building was greatly injured. Robert Bruce soon after commenced its rebuilding, after the present design. It was not favored, however, with long repose, for in 1385 it suffered again; but it was again repaired, and then enjoyed a rest of 160 years. In 1545 it once more suffered severely from English invaders. Again repaired, it remained quiet for a time, but during the Reformation, under Cromwell, its choicest sculptures were mutilated. To the shame of human nature be it said, in later times many of its stones have been carried away for the erection of other buildings; but yet, after full five centuries have flown, it remains one of the few grand and satisfying examples of Gothic architecture in the world.
We leave the ruins for a ramble over the town. In the business parts there is neatness and a limited commercial life. Then we go to the rear, through one of the most romantic roads imaginable, and up the hillside for the views already described. We had arranged to leave town that night, but the entire hill seemed to beseech us to "Come up hither." We halted "between two opinions." One of the hard questions was to decide whether to go or to stay. Body and spirit were in antagonism; but remembering a long line of good places ahead, we urged our unwilling feet to descend this hill of Zion, which yielded "a thousand sacred sweets." If anything makes travelling companions mute, it is such a condition. No jokes, no attempts to say smart things, no more eulogistic talk about fine scenery are in order; the effort is to try and forget we are losing it. The walk to a station is not a Galop, but is rather a Dead March in such a mood.