FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH
PAINTED BY
JAMES ORROCK, R.I.
(See pp. [35] , [39] , [91] , [92] , [103] )
Traquair House—possibly Scott's Tully-Veolan, "pallid, forlorn, stricken all o'er with eld," claims to be the oldest inhabited house in Scotland. It certainly looks it. The great gate, flanked with the huge Bradwardine Bears, has not been opened since the '45. There seems no reason to question the legend. It is not so "foolish" as Mr. Lang supposes. Innerleithen, Scott's "St. Ronan's," is near at hand, and the peel of Elibank—a mere shell. Harden's marriage to Muckle-mou'ed Meg Murray was not quite accounted for in the traditional way, however,—a choice between the laird's dule-tree and the laird's unlovely daughter. The legend is not uncommon to German folk-lore. At Ashestiel, thrice renowned, Scott spent the happiest years of his life (1804-1812), writing "Marmion," the "Lady of the Lake," and the first draft of "Waverley." In many respects the place is more important to students of Scott than Abbotsford itself. Yet for a thousand who rush to Abbotsford only a very few find their way up here. Yair, a Pringle house, and Fairnalee, comfortable little demesnes, lie further down the Tweed. At the latter, Alison Rutherford wrote her version of the "Flowers of the Forest"—"I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling." Abbotsford was Cartley Hole first—not Clarty—which is a mere vulgar play on the original. From a small villa about 1811 it has grown to the present noble pile. After Scott's day, Mr. Hope Scott did much for the place. But it is of Sir Walter that one thinks. What a strenuous life was his here! What love he lavished on the very ground that was dear to him—in a double sense! And what longing for home during that vain sojourn under Italian skies! "To Abbotsford; let us to Abbotsford!"—a desire now echoed on ten thousand tongues year by year from all ends of the earth. Behind Abbotsford are the Eildons, the "Delectable Mountains" of Washington Irving's visit, "three crests against a saffron sky" always in vision the wide Border over. Scott said he could stand on the Eildons and point out forty-three places famous in war and verse. "Yonder," he said, "is Lammermoor and Smailholm; and there you have Galashiels, and Torwoodlee, and Gala Water; and in that direction you see Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow, and Ettrick stream winding along like a silver thread to throw itself into the Tweed. It may be pertinacity, but to my eye these grey hills, and all this wild Border Country have beauties peculiar to themselves. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest grey hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die." Melrose is the "Kennaquhair" of the "Monastery" and the "Abbot." Its glory, of course, is its Abbey, unsurpassed in the beauty of death, but all grace fled from its environment. Were it possible to transplant the Abbey together with its rich associations to the site of the original foundation by the beautiful bend at Bemersyde, Melrose would sit enthroned peerless among the shrines of our northern land. Within Melrose Abbey, near to the High Altar, the Bruce's heart rests well—its fitful flutterings o'er. Here, too, lie the brave Earl Douglas, hero of Chevy Chase; Liddesdale's dark Knight—another Douglas; Evers and Latoun, the English commanders at Ancrum Moor, that ran so deadly red with the blood of their countrymen; and, according to Sir Walter, Michael Scot—
"Buried on St. Michael's night,
When the bell toll'd one, and the moon shone bright,
Whose chamber was dug among the dead,
When the floor of the chancel was stained red."
One is not surprised at Scott's love for Melrose. As the grandest ecclesiastical ruin in the country, it must be seen to be understood. Mere description counts for little in dealing with such a subject. Every window, arch, cloister, corbel, keystone, door-head and buttress of this excellent example of mediæval Gothic is a study in itself—all elaborately carved, yet no two alike. The sculpture is unequalled both in symmetry and in variety, embracing some of the loveliest specimens of floral tracery and the most quaint and grotesque representations imaginable. The great east oriel is its most imposing feature. But the south doorway and the chaste wheeled window above it are equally superb. For what is regarded as the finest view of the building, let us stand for a little at the north-east corner, not far from the grave of Scott's faithful factotum, Tom Purdie. Here the coup d'œil is very striking; and the contour of the ruins is realised to its full. Or if it be preferred, let us look at the pile beneath the lee light o' the moon—the conditions recommended in the "Lay."
"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 grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white,
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go—but go alone the while—
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear
Was never scene so sad and fair!"