ABBOTSFORD AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING

CONTENTS

 ABBOTSFORD NEWSTEAD ABBEY ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY ABBEY GARDEN PLOUGH MONDAY OLD SERVANTS SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY ANNESLEY HALL THE LAKE ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST ROOK CELL LITTLE WHITE LADY

ABBOTSFORD. 

By WASHINGTON IRVING. 

I sit down to perform my promise of giving you an account of a visitmade many years since to Abbotsford. I hope, however, that you do notexpect much from me, for the travelling notes taken at the time are soscanty and vague, and my memory so extremely fallacious, that I fear Ishall disappoint you with the meagreness and crudeness of my details. 

Late in the evening of August 29, 1817, I arrived at the ancient littleborder town of Selkirk, where I put up for the night. I had come downfrom Edinburgh, partly to visit Melrose Abbey and its vicinity, butchiefly to get sight of the "mighty minstrel of the north. " I had aletter of introduction to him from Thomas Campbell, the poet, and hadreason to think, from the interest he had taken in some of my earlierscribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an intrusion. 

On the following morning, after an early breakfast, I set off in apostchaise for the Abbey. On the way thither I stopped at the gate ofAbbotsford, and sent the postilion to the house with the letter ofintroduction and my card, on which I had written that I was on my wayto the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know whether it would beagreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not yet been made a Baronet) to receivea visit from me in the course of the morning. 

While the postilion was on his errand, I had time to survey themansion. It stood some short distance below the road, on the side of ahill sweeping down to the Tweed; and was as yet but a snug gentleman'scottage, with something rural and picturesque in its appearance. Thewhole front was overrun with evergreens, and immediately above theportal was a great pair of elk horns, branching out from beneath thefoliage, and giving the cottage the look of a hunting lodge. The hugebaronial pile, to which this modest mansion in a manner gave birth wasjust emerging into existence; part of the walls, surrounded byscaffolding, already had risen to the height of the cottage, and thecourtyard in front was encumbered by masses of hewn stone. 

The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the establishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a black greyhound, and, leapingon one of the blocks of stone, began a furious barking. His alarumbrought 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 quotation;--not acur was to be seen on the premises: Scott was too true a sportsman, andhad 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 him at once by the descriptions I had read and heard, and thelikenesses that had been published of him. He was tall, and of a largeand powerful frame. His dress was simple, and almost rustic. An oldgreen shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linenpantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat thathad evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aidinghimself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor. Byhis side jogged along a large iron-gray stag-hound of most gravedemeanor, who took no part in the clamor of the canine rabble, butseemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to giveme a courteous reception. 

Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a hearty tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking news of Campbell. Arrived at thedoor of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand: "Come, drivedown, drive down to the house, " said he, "ye're just in time forbreakfast, and afterward ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey. "

I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made mybreakfast. "Hout, man, " cried he, "a ride in the morning in the keenair of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast. "

I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a fewmoments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There was no onepresent but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott, her eldestdaughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, twoor three years younger, Walter, a well-grown stripling, and Charles, alively boy, eleven or twelve years of age. I soon felt myself quite athome, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. Ihad thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be letoff so lightly. "You must not think our neighborhood is to be read in amorning, like a newspaper, " said Scott. "It takes several days of studyfor an observant traveller that has a relish for auld world trumpery. After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall notbe able to accompany you, as I have some household affairs to attendto, but I will put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learnedin all things touching the old ruin and the neighborhood it stands in, and he and my friend Johnny Bower will tell you the whole truth aboutit, with a good deal more that you are not called upon to believe--unless you be a true and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you comeback, I'll take you out on a ramble about the neighborhood. To-morrowwe will take a look at the Yarrow, and the next day we will drive overto Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine old ruin well worth your seeing"--ina word, before Scott had got through his plan, I found myself committedfor a visit of several days, and it seemed as if a little realm ofromance was suddenly opened before me. 

 * * * * *

After breakfast I accordingly set oft for the Abbey with my littlefriend Charles, whom I found a most sprightly and entertainingcompanion. He had an ample stock of anecdote about the neighborhood, which he had learned from his father, and many quaint remarks and slyjokes, evidently derived from the same source, all which were utteredwith a Scottish accent and a mixture of Scottish phraseology, that gavethem additional flavor. 

On our way to the Abbey he gave me some anecdotes of Johnny Bower towhom his father had alluded; he was sexton of the parish and custodianof the ruin, employed to keep it in order and show it to strangers;--aworthy little man, not without ambition in his humble sphere. The deathof his predecessor had been mentioned in the newspapers, so that hisname had appeared in print throughout the land. When Johnny succeededto the guardianship of the ruin, he stipulated that, on his death, hisname should receive like honorable blazon; with this addition, that itshould be from, the pen of Scott. The latter gravely pledged himself topay this tribute to his memory, and Johnny now lived in the proudanticipation of a poetic immortality. 

I found Johnny Bower a decent-looking little old man, in blue coat andred waistcoat. He received us with much greeting, and seemed delightedto see my young companion, who was full of merriment and waggery, drawing out his peculiarities for my amusement. The old man was one ofthe most authentic and particular of cicerones; he pointed outeverything in the Abbey that had been described by Scott in his "Lay ofthe Last Minstrel:" and would repeat, with broad Scottish accent, thepassage which celebrated it. 

Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made me remark the beautifulcarvings of leaves and flowers wrought in stone with the most exquisitedelicacy, and, notwithstanding the lapse of centuries, retaining theirsharpness as if fresh from the chisel; rivalling, as Scott has said, the real objects of which they were imitations:

 "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 muchbeauty, which he said Scott always stopped to admire--"for the shirrahad a wonderful eye for all sic matters. "

I would observe that Scott seemed to derive more consequence in theneighborhood from being sheriff of the county than from being poet. 

In the interior of the Abbey Johnny Bower conducted me to the identicalstone on which Stout "William of Deloraine" and the monk took their seaton that memorable night when the wizard's book was to be rescued fromthe grave. Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond Scott in the minuteness ofhis antiquarian research, for he had discovered the very tomb of thewizard, the position of which had been left in doubt by the poet. Thishe boasted to have ascertained by the position of the oriel window, andthe direction in which the moonbeams fell at night, through the stainedglass, casting the shadow to the red cross on the spot; as had all beenspecified in the poem. "I pointed out the whole to the shirra, " saidhe, "and he could na' gainsay but it was varra clear. " I foundafterward that Scott used to amuse himself with the simplicity of theold man, and his zeal in verifying every passage of the poem, as thoughit had authentic history, and that he always acquiesced in hisdeductions. I subjoin the description of the wizard's grave, whichcalled forth the antiquarian research of Johnny Bower. 

 "Lo warrior! now the cross of red, Points to the grave of the mighty dead; Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone, Which the bloody cross was traced upon: He pointed to a 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! 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 baldrie 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. Fromconstantly living among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and pointing outthe scenes of the poem, the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" had, in amanner, become interwoven with his whole existence, and I doubt whetherhe did not now and then mix up his own identity with the personages ofsome of its cantos. 

He could not bear that any other production of the poet should bepreferred 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 hewere stannin' there I'd tell him so--an' then he'd lauff. "

He was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. "He'll come heresometimes, " said he, "with great folks in his company, an' the first Iknow of it is his voice, calling out 'Johnny!--Johnny Bower!'--andwhen I go out, I am sure to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant word. Hell stand and crack and lauff wi' me, just like an auld wife--and tothink that of a man who has such an awfu' knowledge o' history!"

One of the ingenious devices on which the worthy little man pridedhimself, was to place a visitor opposite to the Abbey, with his back toit, and bid him bend down and look at it between his legs. This, hesaid, gave an entire different aspect to the ruin. Folks admired theplan amazingly, but as to the "leddies, " they were dainty on thematter, and contented themselves with looking from under their arms. AsJohnny Bower piqued himself upon showing everything laid down in thepoem, there was one passage that perplexed him sadly. It was theopening 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 tothe ruin could not be contented with a daylight inspection, andinsisted 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, whatis still more unfortunate, is very apt in Scotland to be obscured byclouds and mists. Johnny was sorely puzzled, therefore, how toaccommodate his poetry-struck visitors with this indispensablemoonshine. At length, in a lucky moment, he devised a substitute. Thiswas a great double tallow candle stuck upon the end of a pole, withwhich he could conduct his visitors about the ruins on dark nights, somuch to their satisfaction that, at length, he began to think it evenpreferable to the moon itself. "It does na light up a' the Abbey atsince, to be sure, " he would say, "but then you can shift it about andshow the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon only shines on oneside. "

Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have elapsed since the time I treatof, that it is more than probable his simple head lies beneath thewalls of his favorite Abbey. It is to be hoped his humble ambition hasbeen gratified, and his name recorded by the pen of the man he so lovedand honored. 

 * * * * *

After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott proposed a ramble to show mesomething of the surrounding country. As we sallied forth, every dog inthe establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-houndMaida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal, and a greatfavorite of Scott's, and Hamlet, the black greyhound, a wild, thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived to the years of discretion; andFinette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendent ears, and a mild eye, the parlor favorite. When in front of the house, wewere joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came from the kitchenwagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend andcomrade. 

In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in conversation to noticehis dogs and speak to them, as if rational companions; and indeed thereappears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendantson man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deportedhimself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed toconsider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity anddecorum in our society. As he jogged along a little distance ahead ofus, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry athis ears, and endeavor to tease him into a frolic. The old dog wouldkeep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and thenseeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length hewould make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in thedust; then giving a glance at us, as much as to say, "You see, gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense, " would resume hisgravity and jog on as before. 

Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. "I make no doubt, " saidhe, "when Maida is alone with these young dogs, he throw's gravityaside, and plays the boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed todo 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 ifI give way to such foolery?'"

Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on board an armed yacht inwhich he made an excursion with his friend Adam Ferguson. They hadtaken much notice of the boatswain, who was a fine sturdy seaman, andevidently felt flattered by their attention. On one occasion the crewwere "piped to fun, " and the sailors were dancing and cutting all kindsof capers to the music of the ship's band. The boatswain looked on witha wistful eye, as if he would like to join in; but a glance at Scottand Ferguson showed that there was a struggle with his dignity, fearingto lessen himself in their eyes. At length one at his messmates cameup, and seizing him by the arm, challenged him to a jig. The boatswain, continued Scott, after a little hesitation complied, made an awkwardgambol or two, like our friend Maida, but soon gave it up. "It's of nouse, " 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, alittle shamefaced terrier, with large glassy eyes, one of the mostsensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. If everhe whipped him, he said, the little fellow would sneak off and hidehimself from the light of day, in a lumber garret, whence there was nodrawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as ifchopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth with humble anddowncast look, but would skulk away again if any one regarded him. 

While we were discussing the humors and peculiarities of our caninecompanions, some object provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp andpetulant barking from the smaller fry, but it was some time beforeMaida was sufficiently aroused to ramp forward two or three bounds andjoin in the chorus, with a deep-mouthed bow-wow!

It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned instantly, wagging histail, and looking up dubiously in his master's face; uncertain whetherhe would censure or applaud. 

"Aye, aye, old boy!" cried Scott, "you have done wonders. You haveshaken the Eildon hills with your roaring; you may now lay by yourartillery for the rest of the day. Maida is like the great gun atConstantinople, " continued he; "it takes so long to get it ready, thatthe small guns can fire off a dozen times first, but when it does gooff it plays the very d----l. "

These simple anecdotes may serve to show the delightful play of Scott'shumors and feelings in private life. His domestic animals were hisfriends; everything about him seemed to rejoice in the light of hiscountenance; the face of the humblest dependent brightened at hisapproach, as if he anticipated a cordial and cheering word. I hadoccasion to observe this particularly in a visit which we paid to aquarry, whence several men were cutting stone for the new edifice; whoall 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 jokeabout-the old song:

 "Up with the Souters o' Selkirk, And down with the Earl of Horne. "

Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, besides leading the psalmody onSunday, taught the lads and lasses of the neighborhood dancing on weekdays, in the winter time, when out-of-door labor was scarce. 

Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow, with a healthfulcomplexion and silver hair, and a small round-crowned white hat. He hadbeen about to shoulder a nod, but paused, and stood looking at Scott, with a slight sparkling of his blue eye, as if waiting his turn; forthe 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, "notthat old mull: where's the bonnie French one that I brought you fromParis?" "Troth, your honor, " replied the old fellow, "sic a mull asthat is nae for week-days. "

On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me that when absent at Paris, hehad purchased several trifling articles as presents for his dependents, and among others the gay snuff-box in question, which was so carefullyreserved for Sundays, by the veteran. "It was not so much the value ofthe gifts, " said he, "that pleased them, as the idea that the lairdshould think of them when so far away. "

The old man in question, I found, was a great favorite with Scott. If Irecollect right, he had been a soldier in early life, and his straight, erect person, his ruddy yet rugged countenance, his gray hair, and anarch gleam in his blue eye, reminded me of the description of EdieOchiltree. I find that the old fellow has since been introduced byWilkie, in his picture of the Scott family. 

 * * * * *

We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar in Scottish song, and rendered classic by pastoral muse, long before Scott had thrown therich mantle of his poetry over them. What a thrill of pleasure did Ifeel when first I saw the broom-covered tops of the Cowden Knowes, peeping above the gray hills of the Tweed: and what touchingassociations were called up by the sight of Ettrick Vale, Galla Water, and the Braes of Yarrow! Every turn brought to mind some household air--some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by which I had been lulledto sleep in my childhood; and with them the looks and voices of thosewho had sung them, and who were now no more. It is these melodies, chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected with thememory of those we have loved, and who have passed away, that clotheScottish landscape with such tender associations. The Scottish songs, in general, have something intrinsically melancholy in them; owing, inall probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those who composedthem: who were often mere shepherds, tending their flocks in thesolitary glens, or folding them among the naked hills. Many of theserustic 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 simpleeffusions of pastoral poets are linked with some favorite haunt of thepoet; and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, greenshaw or running stream, in Scotland, but has some popular air connectedwith it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train ofdelicious fancies and feelings. 

Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensible I was to thepower of these simple airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, thebirthplace of Robert Burns. I passed a whole morning about "the banksand braes of bonnie Doon, " with his tender little love verses runningin my head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at work among the ruins ofKirk Alloway, which was to be converted into a school-house. Findingthe purpose of my visit, he left his work, sat down with me on a grassygrave, close by where Burns' father was buried, and talked of the poet, whom he had known personally. He said his songs were familiar to thepoorest and most illiterate of the country folk, "_and it seemed tohim as if the country had grown more beautiful, since Burns had writtenhis bonnie little songs about it. _"

I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the subject of the popularsongs of his country, and he seemed gratified to find me so alive tothem. Their effect in calling up in my mind the recollections of earlytimes and scenes in which I had first heard them, reminded him, hesaid, of the lines of his poor Mend, 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. 

 "Sweet 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 went on to expatiate on the popular songs of Scotland. "They area part of our national inheritance, " said he, "and something that wemay truly call our own. They have no foreign taint; they have the purebreath of the heather and the mountain breeze. All genuine legitimateraces 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, or a piece of mosaic. Even in Scotland, we have comparatively fewnational songs in the eastern part, where we have had most influx ofstrangers. A real old Scottish song is a cairngorm--a gem of our ownmountains; or rather, it is a precious relic of old times, that bearsthe national character stamped upon it--like a cameo, that shows whatthe 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 ablackcock burst upon the wing. 

"Aha!" cried Scott, "there will be a good shot for Master Walter; wemust send him this way with his gun, when we go home. Walter's thefamily sportsman now, and keeps us in game. I have pretty nigh resignedmy gun to him; for I find I cannot trudge about as briskly asformerly. "

Our ramble took us on the hills commanding an extensive prospect. "Now, " said Scott, "I have brought you, like the pilgrim in thePilgrim's Progress, to the top of the Delectable Mountains, that I mayshow you all the goodly regions hereabouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, andSmalholme; and there you have Gallashiels, and Torwoodlie, andGallawater; and in that direction you see Teviotdale, and the Braes ofYarrow; and Ettrick stream, winding along, like a silver thread, tothrow itself into the Tweed. "

He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scottish song, andmost of which had recently received a romantic interest from his ownpen. In fact, I saw a great part of the border country spread outbefore me, and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances whichhad, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed about me for a time withmute surprise, I may almost say with disappointment. I beheld a meresuccession of gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eyecould reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of trees, that one could almost see a stout fly walking along their profile; andthe far-famed Tweed appeared a naked stream, flowing between barehills, without a tree or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had beenthe magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, that it hada greater charm for me than the richest scenery I beheld in England. 

I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. Scott hummed for amoment to himself, and looked grave; he had no idea of having his musecomplimented at the expense of his native hills. "It may bepartiality, " said he, at length; "but to my eye, these gray bills andall this wild border country have beauties peculiar to themselves. Ilike the very nakedness of the land; it has something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. When I have been for some time in the richscenery about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden land, I beginto wish myself back again among my own honest gray hills; and if I didnot see the heather at least once a year, _I think I should die!_"

The last words were said with an honest warmth, accompanied with athump on the ground with his staff, by way of emphasis, that showed hisheart was in his speech. He vindicated the Tweed, too, as a beautifulstream in itself, and observed that he did not dislike it for beingbare of trees, probably from having been much of an angler in his time, and an angler does not like to have a stream overhung by trees, whichembarrass him in the exercise of his rod and line. 

I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the associations of earlylife, for my disappointment in respect to the surrounding scenery. Ihad been so accustomed to hills crowned with forests, and streamsbreaking their way through a wilderness of trees, that all my ideas ofromantic landscape were apt to be well wooded. 

"Aye, and that's the great charm of your country, " cried Scott. "Youlove the forest as I do the heather--but I would not have you think Ido not feel the glory of a great woodland prospect. There is nothing Ishould like more than to be in the midst of one of your grand, wild, original forests with the idea of hundreds of miles of untrodden forestaround me. I once saw, at Leith, an immense stick of timber, justlanded from America. It must have been an enormous tree when it stoodon its native soil, at its full height, and with all its branches. Igazed at it with admiration; it seemed like one of the giganticobelisks which are now and then brought from Egypt, to shame the pigmymonuments of Europe; and, in fact, these vast aboriginal trees, thathave sheltered the Indians before the intrusion of the white men, arethe monuments and antiquities of your country. "

The conversation here turned upon Campbell's poem of "Gertrude ofWyoming, " as illustrative of the poetic materials furnished by Americanscenery. Scott spoke of it in that liberal style in which I alwaysfound him to speak of the writings of his contemporaries. He citedseveral passages of it with great delight. "What a pity it is, " saidhe, "that Campbell does not write more and oftener, and give full sweepto his genius. He has wings that would bear him to the skies; and hedoes now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again andresumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch away. He don't know orwon't trust his own strength. Even when he has done a thing well, hehas often misgivings about it. He left out several fine passages of hisLochiel, but I got him to restore some of them. " Here Scott repeatedseveral passages in a magnificent style. "What a grand idea is that, "said he, "about prophetic boding, or, in common parlance, second sight--

 'Coming events cast their shadows before. '

"It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed, And there's that gloriouslittle poem, too, of 'Hohenlinden;' after he had written it, he did notseem to think much of it, but considered some of it'd--d drum andtrumpet lines. ' I got him to recite it to me, and I believe that thedelight 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 tohimself. The brightness of his early success is a detriment to all hisfurther efforts. _He is afraid of the shadow that his own fame castsbefore him_. "

While we were thus chatting, we heard the report of a gun among thehills. "That's Walter, I think, " said Scott; "he has finished hismorning's studies, and is out with his gun. I should not be surprisedif he had met with the blackcock; if so, we shall have an addition toour larder, for Walter is a pretty sure shot. " I inquired into thenature of Walter's studies. "Faith, " said Scott, "I can't say much onthat head. I am not over bent upon making prodigies of any of mychildren. As to Walter, I taught him, while a boy, to ride, and shoot, and speak the truth; as to the other parts of his education, I leavethem to a very worthy young man, the son of one of our clergymen, whoinstructs all my children. "

I afterward became acquainted with the young man in question, GeorgeThomson, son of the minister of Melrose, and found him possessed ofmuch learning, intelligence, and modest worth. He used to come everyday from his father's residence at Melrose to superintend the studiesof the young folks, and occasionally took his meals at Abbotsford, where he was highly esteemed. Nature had cut him out, Scott used tosay, for a stalwart soldier, for he was tall, vigorous, active, andfond of athletic exercises, but accident had marred her work, the lossof a limb in boyhood having reduced him to a wooden leg. He was broughtup, therefore, for the Church, whence he was occasionally called theDominie, and is supposed, by his mixture of learning, simplicity, andamiable eccentricity, to have furnished many traits for the characterof Dominie Sampson. I believe he often acted as Scott's amanuensis, when composing his novels. With him the young people were occupied ingeneral during the early part of the day, after which they took allkinds of healthful recreations in the open air; for Scott was assolicitous to strengthen their bodies as their minds. 

We had not walked much further before we saw the two Miss Scottsadvancing along the hillside to meet us. The morning studies beingover, they had set off to take a ramble on the hills, and gatherheather blossoms, with which to decorate their hair for dinner. As theycame bounding lightly like young fawns, and their dresses fluttering inthe pure summer breeze, I was reminded of Scott's own description ofhis children in his introduction to one of the cantos of Marmion--

 "My imps, though hardy, bold, 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; The lambs upon the lea shall bound. The wild birds 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 gambolled aroundthem. They played with them for a time, and then joined us withcountenances full of health and glee. Sophia, the eldest, was the mostlively and joyous, having much of her father's varied spirit inconversation, and seeming to catch excitement from his words and looks. Ann was of quieter mood, rather silent, owing, in some measure, nodoubt, to her being some years younger. 

 * * * * *

At dinner Scott had laid by his half-rustic dress, and appeared clad inblack. The girls, too, in completing their toilet, had twisted in theirhair the sprigs of purple heather which they had gathered on thehillside, and looked all fresh and blooming from their breezy walk. 

There was no guest at dinner but myself. Around the table were two orthree dogs in attendance. Maida, the old stag-hound, took his seat atScott's elbow, looking up wistfully in his master's eye, while Finette, the pet spaniel, placed herself near Mrs. Scott, by whom, I soonperceived, she was completely spoiled. 

The conversation happening to turn on the merits of his dogs, Scottspoke with great feeling and affection of his favorite, Camp, who isdepicted by his side in the earlier engravings of him. He talked of himas of a real friend whom he had lost, and Sophia Scott, looking uparchly in his face, observed that Papa shed a few tears when poor Campdied. I may here mention another testimonial of Scott's fondness forhis dogs, and his humorous mode of showing it, which I subsequently metwith. Rambling with him one morning about the grounds adjacent to thehouse, I observed a small antique monument, on which was inscribed, inGothic characters--

 "Cy git le preux Percy. " (Here lies the brave Percy. )

I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some stark warrior of theolden time, but Scott drew me on. "Pooh!" cried he, "it's nothing butone of the monuments of my nonsense, of which you'll find enoughhereabouts. " I learnt afterward that it was the grave of a favoritegreyhound. Among the other important and privileged members of thehousehold who figured in attendance at the dinner, was a large graycat, who, I observed, was regaled from time to time with tit-bits fromthe table. This sage grimalkin was a favorite of both master andmistress, and slept at night in their room; and Scott laughinglyobserved, 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. Thecat assumed a kind of ascendancy among the quadrupeds--sitting in statein Scott's arm-chair, and occasionally stationing himself on a chairbeside the door, as if to review his subjects as they passed, givingeach dog a cuff beside the ears as he went by. This clapper-clawing wasalways taken in good part; it appeared to be, in fact, a mere act ofsovereignty on the part of grimalkin, to remind the others of theirvassalage; which they acknowledged by the most perfect acquiescence. Ageneral harmony prevailed between sovereign and subjects, and theywould all sleep together in the sunshine. 

Scott was full of anecdote and conversation during dinner. He made someadmirable remarks upon the Scottish character, and spoke strongly inpraise of the quiet, orderly, honest conduct of his neighbors, whichone would hardly expect, said he, from the descendants of mosstroopers, and borderers, in a neighborhood famed in old times for brawland feud, and violence of all kinds. He said he had, in his officialcapacity of sheriff, administered the laws for a number of years, during which there had been very few trials. The old feuds and localinterests, and rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, however, stillslept, he said, in their ashes, and might easily be roused. Theirhereditary feeling for names was still great. It was not always safe tohave even the game of foot-ball between villages, the old clannishspirit was too apt to break out. The Scotch, he said, were morerevengeful than the English; they carried their resentments longer, andwould sometimes lay them by for years, but would be sure to gratifythem in the end. 

The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders and the Lowlanders stillcontinued to a certain degree, the former looking upon the latter as aninferior race, less brave and hardy, but at the same time, suspectingthem of a disposition to take airs upon themselves under the idea ofsuperior refinement. This made them techy and ticklish company for astranger on his first coming among them; ruffling up and puttingthemselves upon their mettle on the slightest occasion, so that he hadin a manner to quarrel and fight his way into their good graces. 

He instanced a case in point in a brother of Mungo Park, who went totake up his residence in a wild neighborhood of the Highlands. He soonfound himself considered as an intruder, and that there was adisposition 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, untilone, presuming on his forbearance, drew forth a dirk, and holding itbefore him, asked him if he had ever seen a weapon like that in hispart of the country. Park, who was a Hercules in frame, seized thedirk, and, with one blow, drove it through an oaken table:--"Yes, "replied he, "and tell your friends that a man from the Lowlands droveit where the devil himself cannot draw it out again. " All persons weredelighted with the feat, and the words that accompanied it. They drankwith Park to a better acquaintance, and were staunch friends everafterwards. 

After dinner we adjourned to the drawing-room, which served also forstudy 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 whichScott kept his most valuable papers. Above the cabinet, in a kind ofniche, was a complete corslet of glittering steel, with a closedhelmet, and flanked by gauntlets and battle-axes. Around were hungtrophies and relics of various kinds: a cimeter of Tippoo Saib; aHighland broadsword from Flodden Field; a pair of Rippon spurs fromBannockburn; and above all, a gun which had belonged to Rob Roy, andbore his initials, R. M. G. , an object of peculiar interest to me at thetime, as it was understood Scott was actually engaged in printing anovel founded on the story of that famous outlaw. 

On each side of the cabinet were book-cases, well stored with works ofromantic fiction in various languages, many of them rare andantiquated. This, however, was merely his cottage library, theprincipal part of his books being at Edinburgh. 

From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott drew forth a manuscriptpicked up on the field of Waterloo, containing copies of several songspopular at the time in France. The paper was dabbled with blood--"thevery life-blood, very possibly, " said Scott, "of some gay youngofficer, who had cherished these songs as a keepsake 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 byGeneral Wolfe, and sung by him at the mess table, on the eve of thestorming 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 all 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 promisinghimself, should he outlive the campaign, to return to her all gloriousfrom the wars. "

I find since that Scott published translations of these songs amongsome 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 oldromance of "Arthur, " with a fine, deep sonorous voice, and a gravity oftone that seemed to suit the antiquated, black-letter volume. It was arich treat to hear such a work, read by such a person, and in such aplace; and his appearance as he sat reading, in a large armed chair, with his favorite hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books andrelics, and border trophies, would have formed an admirable and mostcharacteristic picture. 

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin, already mentioned, hadtaken his seat in a chair beside the fire, and remained with fixed eyeand grave demeanor, as if listening to the reader. I observed to Scottthat his cat seemed to have a black-letter taste in literature. 

"Ah, " said he, "these cats are a very mysterious kind of folk. There isalways more passing in their minds than we are aware of. It comes nodoubt from their being so familiar with witches and warlocks. " He wenton to tell a little story about a gude man who was returning to hiscottage one night, when, in a lonely out-of-the-way place, he met witha funeral procession of cats all in mourning, bearing one of their raceto the grave in a coffin covered with a black velvet pall. The worthyman, astonished and half-frightened at so strange a pageant, hastenedhome and told what he had seen to his wife and children. Scarce had hefinished, when a great black cat that sat beside the fire raisedhimself up, exclaimed "Then I am king of the cats!" and vanished up thechimney. 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 himwith respect from the idea that he may be a great prince incog. , andmay some time or other come to the throne. "

In this way Scott would make the habits and peculiarities of even thedumb animals about him subjects for humorous remark 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, butcomplied frankly and cheerfully. Her songs were all Scotch, sungwithout any accompaniment, in a simple manner, but with great spiritand expression, and in their native dialects, which gave them anadditional charm. It was delightful to hear her carol off in sprightlystyle, and with an animated air, some of those generous-spirited oldJacobite songs, once current among the adherents of the Pretender inScotland, in which he is designated by the appellation of "The YoungChevalier. "

These songs were much relished by Scott, notwithstanding his loyalty;for the unfortunate "Chevalier" has always been a hero of romance withhim, as he has with many other staunch adherents to the House ofHanover, now that the Stuart line has lost all its terrors. In speakingon the subject, Scott mentioned as a curious fact, that, among thepapers of the "Chevalier, " which had been submitted by government tohis inspection, he had found a memorial to Charles from some adherentsin America, dated 1778, proposing to set up his standard in the backsettlements. I regret that, at the time, I did not make more particularinquiries of Scott on the subject; the document in question, however, in all probability, still exists among the Pretender's papers, whichare in the possession of the British Government. In the course of theevening, Scott related the story of a whimsical picture hanging in theroom, which had been drawn for him by a lady of his acquaintance. Itrepresented the doleful perplexity of a wealthy and handsome youngEnglish 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 andhigh-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 grimbaron was seated in state, with his warriors armed to the teeth aroundhim, and was given his choice, either to swing on the gibbet or tomarry the baron's daughter. The last may be thought an easyalternative, but unfortunately, the baron's young lady was hideouslyugly, with a mouth from ear to ear, so that not a suitor was to be hadfor her, either for love or money, and she was known throughout theborder country by the name of Muckle-mouthed Mag!

The picture in question represented the unhappy dilemma of the handsomeyouth. Before him sat the grim baron, with a face worthy of the fatherof such a daughter, and looking daggers and ratsbane. On one side ofhim was Muckle-mouthed Mag, with an amorous smile across the wholebreadth 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 theyouth's elbow, and pointing to the gallows, seen in perspective throughthe open portal. 

The story goes, that after long laboring in mind, between the altar andthe halter, the love of life prevailed, and the youth resigned himselfto the charms of Muckle-mouthed Mag. Contrary to all the probabilitiesof romance, the match proved a happy one. The baron's daughter, if notbeautiful, was a most exemplary wife; her husband was never troubledwith any of those doubts and jealousies which sometimes mar thehappiness of connubial life, and was made the father of a fair andundoubtedly legitimate hue, which still flourishes on the border. 

I give but a faint outline of the story from vague recollection; itmay, perchance, be more richly related elsewhere, by some one who mayretain 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 borders ofthe Tweed, in the very centre of that region which had for some timepast been the favorite scene of romantic fiction; and above all, therecollections of the ramble I had taken, the company in which I hadtaken it, and the conversation which had passed, all fermented in mymind, and nearly drove sleep from my pillow. 

 * * * * *

On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from over the hillsthrough the low lattice window. I rose at an early hour, and looked outbetween the branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To mysurprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and chatting with the workmen employed on the new building. I hadsupposed, after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would beclosely 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 proposedplans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he havecontented himself with his delightful little vine-covered cottage, andthe simple, yet hearty and hospitable style, in which he lived at thetime of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expenseit entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronialstyle, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and aweight upon his mind, that finally crushed him. 

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleasedhimself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of thefanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his aircastles, " he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar. "About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of MelroseAbbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had alreadyconstructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over aspring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross. 

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was amost quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or paintedred, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shallnever forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose towhich it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile thatcalled up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which hewas enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful ofhis early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection. "There is no telling, " said he, "what treasures are hid in thatglorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; thereare such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and oldtime story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stiltoncheese, and in the same taste--the mouldier the better. "

He went on to mention circumstances of "mighty import" connected withthe Abbey, which had never been touched, and which had even escaped theresearches of Johnny Bower. The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero ofScotland, had been buried in it. He dwelt on the beautiful story ofBruce's pious and chivalrous request in his dying hour, that his heartmight be carried to the Holy Land and placed in the Holy Sepulchre, infulfilment of a vow of pilgrimage; and of the loyal expedition of SirJames Douglas to convey the glorious relic. Much might be made, hesaid, out of the adventures of Sir James in that adventurous age; ofhis fortunes in Spain, and his death in a crusade against the Moors;with the subsequent fortunes of the heart of Robert Bruce, until it wasbrought back to its native land, and enshrined within the holy walls ofold Melrose. 

As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way, and knocking with hisstaff against the little red lion which lay prostrate before him, hisgray eyes twinkled beneath his shagged eyebrows; scenes, images, incidents, kept breaking upon his mind as he proceeded, mingled withtouches of the mysterious and supernatural as connected with the heartof Bruce. It seemed as if a poem or romance were breaking vaguely onhis imagination. That he subsequently contemplated something of thekind, as connected with this subject, and with his favorite ruin ofMelrose, is evident from his introduction to "The Monastery;" and it isa pity that he never succeeded in following out these shadowy, butenthusiastic conceptions. 

A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation, when I begged torecommend to Scott's attention my friend the little red lion, who hadled to such an interesting topic, and hoped he might receive some nicheor station in the future castle, worthy of his evident antiquity andapparent dignity. Scott assured me, with comic gravity, that thevaliant little lion should be most honorably entertained; I hope, therefore, that he still flourishes at Abbotsford. 

Before dismissing the theme of the relics from the Abbey, I willmention another, illustrative of Scott's varied humors. This was ahuman skull, which had probably belonged of yore to one of those jovialfriars, 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 to be cleaned and varnished, and placed it ona chest of drawers in his chamber, immediately opposite his bed; whereI have seen it, grinning most dismally. It was an object of great aweand horror to the superstitious housemaids; and Scott used to amusehimself with their apprehensions. Sometimes, in changing his dress, hewould leave his neck-cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none ofthe "lasses" dared to remove it. It was a matter of great wonder andspeculation among them that the laird should have such an "awsome fancyfor an auld girning skull. "

At breakfast that morning Scott gave an amusing account of a littleHighlander called Campbell of the North, who had a lawsuit of manyyears' standing with a nobleman in his neighborhood about theboundaries of their estates. It was the leading object of the littleman's life; the running theme of all his conversations; he used todetail all the circumstances at full length to everybody he met, and, to aid him in his description of the premises, and make his story "mairpreceese, " he had a great map made of his estate, a huge roll severalfeet long, which he used to carry about on his shoulder. Campbell was along-bodied, but short and bandy-legged little man, always clad in theHighland garb; and as he went about with this great roll on hisshoulder, and his little legs curving like a pair of parentheses belowhis kilt, he was an odd figure to behold. He was like little Davidshouldering the spear of Goliath, which was "like unto a weaver'sbeam. "

Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell used to set out forEdinburgh to attend to his lawsuit. At the inns he paid double for allhis meals and his night's lodgings, telling the landlords to keep it inmind until his return, so that he might come back that way at freecost; for he knew, he said, that he would spend all his money among thelawyers at Edinburgh, so he thought it best to secure a retreat homeagain. 

On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer, but was told he was notat home, but his lady was. "It's just the same thing, " said littleCampbell. On being shown into the parlor, he unrolled his map, statedhis case at full length, and, having gone through with his story, gaveher the customary fee. She would have declined it, but he insisted onher taking it. "I ha' had just as much pleasure, " said he, "in tellingthe whole tale to you, as I should have had in telling it to yourhusband, and I believe full as much profit. "

The last time he saw Scott, he told him he believed he and the lairdwere near a settlement, as they agreed to within a few miles of theboundary. If I recollect right, Scott added that he advised the littleman to consign his cause and his map to the care of "Slow WillieMowbray, " of tedious memory, an Edinburgh worthy, much employed by thecountry people, for he tired out everybody in office by repeated visitsand drawling, endless prolixity, and gained every suit by dint ofboring. 

These little stories and anecdotes, which abounded in Scott'sconversation, rose naturally out of the subject, arid were perfectlyunforced; though, in thus relating them in a detached way, without theobservations or circumstances which led to them, and which have passedfrom my recollection, they want their setting to give them properrelief. They will serve, however, to show the natural play of his mind, in its familiar moods, and its fecundity in graphic and characteristicdetail. 

His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were those of his family whoseemed most to feel and understand his humors, and to take delight inhis conversation. Mrs. Scott did not always pay the same attention, andwould now and then make a casual remark which would operate a littlelike a damper. Thus, one morning at breakfast, when Dominie Thomson, the tutor, was present, Scott was going on with great glee to relate ananecdote of the laird of Macnab, "who, poor fellow, " premised he, "isdead and gone--" "Why, Mr. Scott, " exclaimed the good lady, "Macnab'snot dead, is he?" "Faith, my dear, " replied Scott, with humorousgravity, "if he's not dead they've done him great injustice--forthey've buried him. "

The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by Mrs. Scott, but hit the poorDominie just as he had raised a cup of tea to his lips, causing a burstof laughter which sent half of the contents about the table. Afterbreakfast, Scott was occupied for some time correcting proof-sheetswhich he had received by the mail. The novel of Rob Roy, as I havealready observed, was at that time in the press, and I supposed them tobe the proof-sheets of that work. The authorship of the Waverley novelswas still a matter of conjecture and uncertainty; though few doubtedtheir being principally written by Scott. One proof to me of his beingthe author, was that he never adverted to them. A man so fond ofanything Scottish, and anything relating to national history or locallegend, could not have been mute respecting such productions, had theybeen written by another. He was fond of quoting the works of hiscontemporaries; he was continually reciting scraps of border songs, orrelating anecdotes of border story. With respect to his own poems, andtheir merits, however, he was mute, and while with him I observed ascrupulous silence on the subject. 

I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not aware at thetime, that Scott was very reserved with his children respecting his ownwritings, and was even disinclined to their reading his romantic poems. I learnt this, some time after, from a passage in one of his letters tome, adverting to a set of the American miniature edition of his poems, which, on my 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. Iam not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquaintedwith 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 thingsduring their earlier years. "

To return to the thread of my narrative. When Scott had got through hisbrief literary occupation, we set out on a ramble. The young ladiesstarted to accompany us, but they had not gone far, when they met apoor old laborer and his distressed family, and turned back to takethem 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 farmhouse, standing in nakeddesolation. This, however, Scott told me, was an ancient hereditaryproperty called Lauckend, about as valuable as the patrimonial estateof Don Quixote, and which, in like manner, conferred an hereditarydignity upon its proprietor, who was a laird, and, though poor as arat, prided himself upon his ancient blood, and the standing of hishouse. He was accordingly called Lauckend, according to the Scottishcustom of naming a man after his family estate, but he was moregenerally known through the country round by the name of Lauckie LongLegs, from the length of his limbs. While Scott was giving this accountof him, we saw him at a distance striding along one of his fields, withhis plaid fluttering about him, and he seemed well to deserve hisappellation, for he looked all legs and tartan. 

Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his neighborhood. Scott toldme that on returning to Abbotsford from his visit to France, immediately after the war, he was called on by his neighbors generallyto inquire after foreign parts. Among the number came Lauckie Long Legsand an old brother as ignorant as himself. They had many inquiries tomake about the French, whom they seemed to consider some remote andsemi-barbarous horde--"And what like are thae barbarians in their owncountry?" said Lauckie, "can they write?--can they cipher?" He wasquite astonished to learn that they were nearly as much advanced incivilization as the gude folks of Abbotsford. 

After living for a long time in single blessedness, Lauckie all atonce, and not long before my visit to the neighborhood, took it intohis head to get married. The neighbors were all surprised; but thefamily connection, who were as proud as they were poor, were grievouslyscandalized, for they thought the young woman on whom he had set hismind quite beneath him. It was in vain, however, that they remonstratedon the misalliance he was about to make; he was not to be swayed fromhis determination. Arraying himself in his best, and saddling a gauntsteed that might have rivalled Rosinante, and placing a pillion behindhis saddle, he departed to wed and bring home the humble lassie who wasto be made mistress of the venerable hovel of Lauckend, and who livedin a village on the opposite side of the Tweed. 

A small event of the kind makes a great stir in a little quiet countryneighborhood. The word soon circulated through the village of Melrose, and the cottages in its vicinity, that Lauckie Long Legs had gone overthe Tweed to fetch home his bride. All the good folks assembled at thebridge to await his return. Lauckie, however, disappointed them; for hecrossed the river at a distant ford, and conveyed his bride safe to hismansion without being perceived. Let me step forward in the course ofevents, and relate the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was communicated tome a year or two afterward in letter by Scott. From the time of hismarriage he had no longer any peace, owing to the constantintermeddling of his relations, who would not permit him to be happy inhis own way, but endeavored to set him at variance with his wife. Lauckie refused to credit any of their stories to her disadvantage; butthe incessant warfare he had to wage in defence of her good name, woreout both flesh and spirit. His last conflict was with his own brothers, in front of his paternal mansion. A furious scolding match took placebetween them; Lauckie made a vehement profession of faith in favor ofher immaculate honesty, and then fell dead at the threshold of his owndoor. His person, his character, his name, his story, and his fate, entitled him to be immortalized in one of Scott's novels, and I lookedto recognize him in some of the succeeding works from his pen; but Ilooked in vain. 

 * * * * *

After passing by the domains of honest Lauckie, Scott pointed out, at adistance, the Eildon stone. There in ancient days stood the Eildontree, beneath which Thomas the Rhymer, according to popular tradition, dealt forth his prophecies, some of which still exist in antiquatedballads. 

Here we turned up a little glen with a small burn or brook whimperingand dashing along it, making an occasional waterfall, and overhung insome places with mountain ash and weeping birch. We are now, saidScott, treading classic, or rather fairy ground. This is the hauntedglen 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 herdapple-gray palfrey, with silver bells ringing at the bridle. 

"Here, " said he, pausing, "is Huntley Bank, on which Thomas the Rhymerlay musing and sleeping when he saw, or dreamt he saw, the queen ofElfland:

 "'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, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett of her horse's mane Hung fifty siller bells and nine. '"

Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and recounted thecircumstance of Thomas the Rhymer's interview with the fairy, and hisbeing 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 acapital tale. "

Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and limping up the wizardglen, talking as he went, but, as his back was toward me, I could onlyhear the deep growling tones of his voice, like the low breathing of anorgan, without distinguishing the words, until pausing, and turning hisface toward me, I found he was reciting some scrap of border minstrelsyabout Thomas the Rhymer. This was continually the case in my ramblingswith him about this storied neighborhood. His mind was fraught with thetraditionary fictions connected with every object around him, and hewould breathe it forth as he went, apparently as much for his owngratification 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 accent, andwith somewhat of the Northumbrian "burr, " which, to my mind, gave aDoric strength and simplicity to his elocution. His recitation ofpoetry was, at times, magnificent. 

I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend Hamlet, theblack greyhound, got into a bad scrape. The dogs were beating about theglens 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 wesaw some sheep scampering on the hills, with the dogs after them. Scottapplied to his lips the ivory whistle, always hanging at his button-hole, and soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hastening up abank which commanded a view along a fold or hollow of the hills, webeheld the sable prince of Denmark standing by the bleeding body of asheep. The carcass was still warm, the throat bore marks of the fatalgrip, and Hamlet's muzzle was stained with blood. Never was culpritmore completely caught in _flagrante delicto_. I supposed the doomof poor Hamlet to be sealed; for no higher offence can be committed bya dog in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, however, had agreater value for his dogs than for his sheep. They were his companionsand friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, impertinent kind ofyoungster, was evidently a favorite. He would not for some time believeit could be he who had killed the sheep. It must have been some cur ofthe neighborhood, that had made off on our approach and left poorHamlet in the lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet wasgenerally condemned. "Well, well, " said Scott, "it's partly my ownfault. I have given up coursing for some time past, and the poor doghas had no chance after game to take the fire edge off of him If he wasput after a hare occasionally he never would meddle with sheep. "

I understood, afterward, that Scott actually got a pony, and went outnow and then coursing with Hamlet, who, in consequence, showed nofurther inclination for mutton. 

 * * * * *

A further stroll among the hills brought us to what Scott pronouncedthe remains of a Roman camp, and as we sat upon a hillock which hadonce formed a part of the ramparts, he pointed out the traces of thelines and bulwarks, and the pratorium, and showed a knowledge ofcastramatation that would not have disgraced the antiquarian Oldbuckhimself. Indeed, various circumstances that I observed about Scottduring my visit, concurred to persuade me that many of the antiquarianhumors of Monkbarns were taken from his own richly compoundedcharacter, and that some of the scenes and personages of that admirablenovel were furnished by his immediate neighborhood. 

He gave me several anecdotes of a noted pauper named Andrew Gemmells, or Gammel, as it was pronounced, who had once flourished on the banksof Galla Water, immediately opposite Abbotsford, and whom he had seenand talked and joked with when a boy; and I instantly recognized thelikeness of that mirror of philosophic vagabonds and Nestor of beggars, Edie Ochiltree. I was on the point of pronouncing the name andrecognizing the portrait, when I recollected the incognito observed byScott with respect to his novels, and checked myself; but it was oneamong many things that tended to convince me of his authorship. 

His picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly accorded with that of Edie as tohis height, carriage, and soldier-like air, as well as his arch andsarcastic humor. His home, if home he had, was at Galashiels; but hewent "daundering" about the country, along the green shaws and besidethe burns, and was a kind of walking chronicle throughout the valleysof the Tweed, the Ettrick, and the Yarrow; carrying the gossip fromhouse to house, commenting on the inhabitants and their concerns, andnever hesitating to give them a dry rub as to any of their faults orfollies. 

A shrewd beggar like Andrew Gemmells, Scott added, who could sing theold Scotch airs, tell stories and traditions, and gossip away the longwinter evenings, was by no means an unwelcome visitor at a lonely manseor cottage. The children would run to welcome him, and place his stoolin a warm corner of the ingle nook, and the old folks would receive himas a privileged guest. 

As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a parson does upon hisparishioners, and considered the alms he received as much his due asthe other does his tithes. "I rather think, " added Scott, "Andrewconsidered himself more of a gentleman than those who toiled for aliving, and that he secretly looked down upon the painstaking peasantsthat fed and sheltered him. "

He had derived his aristocratical notions in some degree from beingadmitted occasionally to a precarious sociability with some of thesmall country gentry, who were sometimes in want of company to helpwhile away the time. With these Andrew would now and then play at cardsand dice, and he never lacked "siller in pouch" to stake on a game, which he did with a perfect air of a man to whom money was a matter oflittle moment, and no one could lose his money with more gentlemanlikecoolness. 

Among those who occasionally admitted him to this familiarity, was oldJohn Scott of Galla, a man of family, who inhabited his paternalmansion of Torwoodlee. Some distinction of rank, however, was stillkept up. The laird sat on the inside of the window and the beggar onthe 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 landsto build himself a larger house with the proceeds. The speech of honestAndrew smacks of the shrewdness of Edie Ochiltree. 

"It's a' varra weel--it's a' varra weel, Torwoodlee, " said he; "but whowould ha' thought that your father's son would ha' sold two gudeestates 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 youngclergyman whom he appeared to have under his patronage, and to havebrought with him as a travelling companion. 

The patron was one of those well-bred, commonplace gentlemen with whichEngland is overrun. He had great deference for Scott, and endeavored toacquit himself learnedly in his company, aiming continually at abstractdisquisitions, for which Scott had little relish. The conversation ofthe latter, as usual, was studded with anecdotes and stories, some ofthem of great pith and humor; the well-bred gentleman was either toodull to feel their point, or too decorous to indulge in heartymerriment; the honest parson, on the contrary, who was not too refinedto be happy, laughed loud and long at every joke, and enjoyed them withthe zest of a man who has more merriment in his heart than coin in hispocket. 

After they were gone, some comments were made upon their differentdeportments. Scott spoke very respectfully of the good breeding andmeasured manners of the man of wealth, but with a kindlier feeling ofthe honest parson, and the homely but hearty enjoyment with which herelished every pleasantry. "I doubt, " said he, "whether the parson'slot in life is not the best; if he cannot command as many of the goodthings of this world by his own purse as his patron can, he beats himall hollow in his enjoyment of them when set before him by others. Uponthe whole, " added he, "I rather think I prefer the honest parson's goodhumor to his patron's good breeding; I have a great regard for a heartylaugher. "

He went on to speak of the great influx of English travellers which oflate years had inundated Scotland; and doubted whether they had notinjured the old-fashioned Scottish character. "Formerly they came hereoccasionally as sportsmen, " said he, "to shoot moor game, without anyidea of looking at scenery; and they moved about the country in hardysimple style, coping with the country people in their own way; but nowthey come rolling about in their equipages, to see ruins, and spendmoney, and their lavish extravagance has played the vengeance with thecommon people. It has made them rapacious in their dealings withstrangers, greedy after money, and extortionate in their demands forthe most trivial services. Formerly, " continued he, "the poorer classesof our people were, comparatively, disinterested; they offered theirservices gratuitously, in promoting the amusement, or aiding thecuriosity of strangers, and were gratified by the smallestcompensation; but now they make a trade of showing rocks and ruins, andare as greedy as Italian cicerones. They look upon the English as somany walking money-bags; the more they are shaken and poked, the morethey will leave behind them. "

I told him that he had a great deal to answer for on that head, sinceit was the romantic associations he had thrown by his writings over somany out-of-the-way places in Scotland, that had brought in the influxof curious travellers. 

Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be in some measure in theright, as he recollected a circumstance in point. Being one time atGlenross, an old woman who kept a small inn, which had but littlecustom, was uncommonly officious in her attendance upon him, andabsolutely incommoded him with her civilities. The secret at lengthcame out. As he was about to depart, she addressed him with manycurtsies, and said she understood he was the gentleman that had writtena bonnie book about Loch Katrine. She begged him to write a littleabout their lake also, for she understood his book had done the inn atLoch Katrine a muckle deal of good. 

On the following day I made an excursion with Scott and the youngladies to Dryburgh Abbey. We went in an open carriage, drawn by twosleek old black horses, for which Scott seemed to have an affection, ashe had for every dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road lay througha variety of scenes, rich in poetical and historical associations, about most of which Scott had something to relate. In one part of thedrive, he pointed to an old border keep, or fortress, on the summit ofa naked hill, several miles off, which he called Smallholm Tower, and arocky 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 hislameness, that he might have the benefit of the pure air of the hills, and be under the care of his grandmother and aunts. In the introductionof one of the cantos of Marmion, he has depicted his grandfather, andthe fireside of the farm-house; and has given an amusing picture ofhimself in his boyish years:

 "Still 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 sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye in age, quick, clear and keen. Showed what in youth its glance had been; Whose doom discording neighbors sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable priest, Our frequent 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 endured, beloved, carest. "

It was, he said, during his residence at Smallholm crags that he firstimbibed his passion for legendary tales, border traditions, and oldnational songs and ballads. His grandmother and aunts were well versedin that kind of lore, so current in Scottish country life. They used torecount them in long, gloomy winter days, and about the ingle nook atnight, in conclave with their gossip visitors; and little Walter wouldsit and listen with greedy ear; thus taking into his infant mind theseeds of many a splendid fiction. 

There was an old shepherd, he said, in the service of the family, whoused to sit under the sunny wall, and tell marvellous stories, andrecite old time ballads, as he knitted stockings. Scott used to bewheeled out in his chair, in fine weather, and would sit beside the oldman, and listen to him for hours. 

The situation of Sandy Knowe was favorable both for storyteller andlistener. It commanded a wide view over all the border country, withits feudal towers, its haunted glens, and wizard streams. As the oldshepherd told his tales, he could point out the very scene of action. Thus, before Scott could walk, he was made familiar with the scenes ofhis future stories; they were all seen as through a magic medium, andtook that tinge of romance, which they ever after retained in hisimagination. From the height of Sandy Knowe, he may be said to have hadthe first look-out upon the promised land of his future glory. 

On referring to Scott's works, I find many of the circumstances relatedin this conversation, about the old tower, and the boyish scenesconnected with it, recorded in the introduction to Marmion, alreadycited. This was frequently the case with Scott; incidents and feelingsthat had appeared in his writings, were apt to be mingled up in hisconversation, for they had been taken from what he had witnessed andfelt in real life, and were connected with those scenes among which helived, and moved, and had his being. I make no scruple at quoting thepassage relative to the tower, though it repeats much of the foregoneimagery, 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; And 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 marvell'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-- Methought that still, with tramp and clang The gate-way's broken arches rang; 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; Of later 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 I 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 earnest gaze as werode along, and said he had often thought of buying the place, repairing the old tower, and making it his residence. He has in somemeasure, however, paid off his early debt of gratitude, in clothing itwith poetic and romantic associations, by his tale of "The Eve of St. John. " It is to be hoped that those who actually possess so interestinga monument of Scott's early days, will preserve it from furtherdilapidation. 

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 enchantedcastle to him in his boyhood. It was the tower of Bemerside, thebaronial residence of the Haigs, or De Hagas, one of the oldestfamilies of the border. "There had seemed to him, " he said, "almost awizard spell hanging over it, in consequence of a prophecy of Thomasthe 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 particulars which showed that, in the presentinstance, the venerable Thomas had not proved a false prophet, for itwas a noted fact that, amid all the changes and chances of the border;through all the feuds, and forays, and sackings, and burnings, whichhad reduced most of the castles to ruins, and the proud families thatonce possessed them to poverty, the tower of Bemerside still remainedunscathed, and was still the stronghold of the ancient family of Haig. 

Prophecies, however, often insure their own fulfilment. It is veryprobable that the prediction of Thomas the Rhymer has linked the Haigsto their tower, as their rock of safety, and has induced them to clingto it almost superstitiously, through hardships and inconveniences thatwould, otherwise, have caused its abandonment. 

I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the burying place of thispredestinated and tenacious family, the inscription of which showed thevalue they set upon their antiquity:

 Locus Sepultura, Antiquessima Familia De Haga De Bemerside. 

In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott observed that thelameness which had disabled him in infancy gradually decreased; he soonacquired strength in his limbs, and though he always limped, he became, even in boyhood, a great walker. He used frequently to stroll from homeand wander about the country for days together, picking up all kinds oflocal gossip, and observing popular scenes and characters. His fatherused to be vexed with him for this wandering propensity, and, shakinghis head, would say he fancied the boy would make nothing but apeddler. As he grew older he became a keen sportsman, and passed muchof his time hunting and shooting. His field sports led him into themost wild and unfrequented parts of the country, and in this way hepicked up much of that local knowledge which he has since evinced inhis writings. 

His first visit to Loch Katrine, he says, was in his boyish days, on ashooting excursion. The island, which he has made the romanticresidence of the "Lady of the Lake, " was then garrisoned by an old manand his wife. Their house was vacant; they had put the key under thedoor, and were absent fishing. It was at that time a peacefulresidence, but became afterward a resort of smugglers, until they wereferreted out. 

In after years, when Scott began to turn this local knowledge toliterary account, he revisited many of those scenes of his earlyramblings, and endeavored to secure the fugitive remains of thetraditions and songs that had charmed his boyhood. When collectingmaterials for his "Border Minstrelsy, " he used, he said, to go fromcottage to cottage, and make the old wives repeat all they knew, if buttwo lines; and by putting these scraps together, he retrieved many afine characteristic old ballad or tradition from oblivion. 

I regret to say that I can scarce recollect anything of our visit toDryburgh Abbey. It is on the estate of the Earl of Buchan. Thereligious edifice is a mere ruin, rich in Gothic antiquities, butespecially interesting to Scott, from containing the family vault, andthe tombs and monuments of his ancestors. He appeared to feel muchchagrin at their being in the possession, and subject to theintermeddlings of the Earl, who was represented as a nobleman of aneccentric character. The latter, however, set great value on thesesepulchral relics, and had expressed a lively anticipation of one dayor other having the honor of burying Scott, and adding his monument tothe collection, which he intended should be worthy of the "mightyminstrel of the north"--a prospective compliment which was by no meansrelished by the object of it. One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman forwhom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born to acompetency, had been well educated, his mind was richly stored withvaried information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. Havingbeen reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him to take charge of hisestate. He lived at a small farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, andwas treated by Scott as a cherished and confidential friend, ratherthan 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 especialmention. Sophia Scott used to call him her father's grand vizier, andshe gave a playful account one evening, as she was hanging on herfather's arm, of the consultations which he and Tommie used to haveabout matters relative to farming. Purdie was tenacious of hisopinions, and he and Scott would have long disputes in front of thehouse, as to something that was to be done on the estate, until thelatter, 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 theparlor, and observe, "I ha' been thinking over the matter, and upon thewhole, I think I'll take your honor's advice. "

Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was told of him. "It was withhim 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. " "Thiswon't do!" cried the old laird, in a passion, "we can't live togetherany longer--we must part. " "An' where the deil does your honor mean togo?" replied the other. 

I would, moreover, observe of Tom Purdie, that he was a firm believerin ghosts, and warlocks, and all kinds of old wives' fable. He was areligious man, too, mingling a little degree of Scottish pride in hisdevotion; for though his salary was but twenty pounds a year, he hadmanaged to afford seven pounds for a family Bible. It is true, he hadone hundred pounds clear of the world, and was looked up to by hiscomrades as a man of property. 

In the course of our morning's walk, we stopped at a small housebelonging to one of the laborers on the estate. The object of Scott'svisit was to inspect a relic which had been digged up in a Roman camp, and which, if I recollect right, he pronounced to have been a tongs. Itwas produced by the cottager's wife, a ruddy, healthy-looking dame, whom Scott addressed by the name of Ailie. As he stood regarding therelic, turning it round and round, and making comments upon it, halfgrave, half comic, with the cottage group around him, all joiningoccasionally in the colloquy, the inimitable character of Monkbarns wasagain brought to mind, and I seemed to see before me that prince ofantiquarians and humorists holding forth to his unlearned andunbelieving neighbors. 

Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon local antiquities, and in allhis familiar conversations about local traditions and superstitions, there was always a sly and quiet humor running at the bottom of hisdiscourse, and playing about his countenance, as if he sported with thesubject. It seemed to me as if he distrusted his own enthusiasm, andwas disposed to droll upon his own humors and peculiarities, yet, atthe same time, a poetic gleam in his eye would show that he really tooka strong relish and interest in them. "It was a pity, " he said, "thatantiquarians were generally so dry, for the subjects they handled wererich in historical and poetical recollections, in picturesque details, in quaint and heroic characteristics, and in all kinds of curious andobsolete ceremonials. They are always groping among the rarestmaterials for poetry, but they have no idea of turning them to poeticuse. Now every fragment from old times has, in some degree, its storywith it, or gives an inkling of something characteristic of thecircumstances and manners of its day, and so sets the imagination atwork. "

For my own part I never met with antiquarian so delightful, either inhis writings or his conversation; and the quiet sub-acid humor that wasprone to mingle in his disquisitions, gave them, to me, a peculiar andan exquisite flavor. But he seemed, in fact, to undervalue everythingthat concerned himself. The play of his genius was so easy that he wasunconscious of its mighty power, and made light of those sports ofintellect that shamed the efforts and labors of other minds. 

Our ramble this morning took us again up the Rhymer's Glen, and byHuntley Bank, and Huntley Wood, and the silver waterfall overhung withweeping birches and mountain ashes, those delicate and beautiful treeswhich grace the green shaws and burnsides of Scotland. The heather, too, that closely woven robe of Scottish landscape which covers thenakedness of its hills and mountains, tinted the neighborhood with softand rich colors. As we ascended the glen, the prospects opened upon us;Melrose, with its towers and pinnacles, lay below; beyond were theEildon hills, the Cowden Knowes, the Tweed, the Galla Water, and allthe storied vicinity; the whole landscape varied by gleams of sunshineand driving showers. 

Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping along with great activity, andin joyous mood, giving scraps of border rhymes and border stories; twoor three times in the course of our walk there were drizzling showers, which I supposed would put an end to our ramble, but my companionstrudged on as unconcernedly as if it had been fine weather. 

At length, I asked whether we had not better seek some shelter. "True, "said Scott, "I did not recollect that you were not accustomed to ourScottish mists. This is a lachrymose climate, evermore showering. We, however, are children of the mist, and must not mind a littlewhimpering of the clouds any more than a man must mind the weeping ofan hysterical wife. As you are not accustomed to be wet through, as amatter of course, in a morning's walk, we will bide a bit under the leeof this bank until the shower is over. " Taking his seat under shelterof a thicket, he called to his man George for his tartan, then turningto me, "Come, " said he, "come under my plaidy, as the old song goes;"so, making me nestle down beside him, he wrapped a part of the plaidround me, and took me, as he said, under his wing. While we were thusnestled together, he pointed to a hole in the opposite bank of theglen. That, he said, was the hole of an old gray badger, who wasdoubtless snugly housed in this bad weather. Sometimes he saw him atthe 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 thevenerable anchorite, and would not suffer him to be disturbed. He was akind of successor to Thomas the Rhymer, and perhaps might be Thomashimself returned from fairy land, but still under fairy spell. 

Some accident turned the conversation upon Hogg, the poet, in whichLaidlaw, who was seated beside us, took a part. Hogg had once been ashepherd in the service of his father, and Laidlaw gave manyinteresting anecdotes of him, of which I now retain no recollection. They used to tend the sheep together when Laidlaw was a boy, and Hoggwould recite the first struggling conceptions of his muse. At nightwhen Laidlaw was quartered comfortably in bed, in the farmhouse, poorHogg would take to the shepherd's hut in the field on the hillside, andthere lie awake for hours together, and look at the stars and makepoetry, which he would repeat the next day to his companion. 

Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and repeated passages from hisbeautiful poem of "Kelmeny, " to which he gave great and well-meritedpraise. He gave, also, some amusing anecdotes of Hogg and hispublisher, Blackwood, who was at that time just rising into thebibliographical importance which he has since enjoyed. 

Hogg, in one of his poems, I believe the "Pilgrims of the Sun, " haddabbled a little in metaphysics, and like his heroes, had got into theclouds. Blackwood, who began to affect criticism, argued stoutly withhim as to the necessity of omitting or elucidating some obscurepassage. 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 Imean mysel. " There is many a metaphysical poet in the same predicamentwith honest Hogg. 

Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Abbotsford during my visit, and I anticipated much gratification in meeting with him, from theaccount I had received of his character and manners, and the greatpleasure I had derived from his works. Circumstances, however, prevented Scott from performing his promise; and to my great regret Ileft Scotland without seeing one of its most original and nationalcharacters. 

When the weather held up, we continued our walk until we came to abeautiful sheet of water, in the bosom of the mountain, called, if Irecollect right, the lake of Cauldshiel. Scott prided himself much uponthis little Mediterranean sea in his dominions, and hoped I was not toomuch spoiled by our great lakes in America to relish it. He proposed totake me out to the centre of it, to a fine point of view, for whichpurpose we embarked in a small boat, which had been put on the lake byhis neighbor, Lord Somerville. As I was about to step on board, Iobserved in large letters on one of the benches, "Search No. 2. " Ipaused for a moment and repeated the inscription aloud, trying torecollect 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 laughtook my seat, but adverted no more to the circumstance. 

We had a pleasant row about the lake, which commanded some prettyscenery. The most interesting circumstance connected with it, however, according to Scott, was, that it was haunted by a bogle in the shape ofa water bull, which lived in the deep parts, and now and then cameforth upon dry land and made a tremendous roaring, that shook the veryhills. This story had been current in the vicinity from timeimmemorial;--there was a man living who declared he had seen the bull, --and he was believed by many of his simple neighbors. "I don't chooseto contradict the tale, " said Scott, "for I am willing to have my lakestocked with any fish, flesh, or fowl that my neighbors think proper toput into it; and these old wives' fables are a kind of property inScotland that belongs to the estates and goes with the soil. Ourstreams and lochs are like the rivers and pools in Germany, that haveall their Wasser Nixe, or water witches, and I have a fancy for thesekind of amphibious bogles and hobgoblins. "

 * * * * *

Scott went on after we had landed to make many remarks, mingled withpicturesque anecdotes, concerning the fabulous beings with which theScotch were apt to people the wild streams and lochs that occur in thesolemn and lonely scenes of their mountains; and to compare them withsimilar superstitions among the northern nations of Europe; butScotland, he said, was above all other countries for this wild andvivid progeny of the fancy, from the nature of the scenery, the mistymagnificence and vagueness of the climate, the wild and gloomy eventsof its history; the clannish divisions of its people; their localfeelings, notions, and prejudices; the individuality of their dialect, in which all kinds of odd and peculiar notions were incorporated; bythe secluded life of their mountaineers; the lonely habits of theirpastoral people, much of whose time was passed on the solitaryhillsides; their traditional songs, which clothed every rock and streamwith old world stories, handed down from age to age, and generation togeneration. The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of poetry andstrong common sense; and the very strength of the latter gaveperpetuity and luxuriance to the former. It was a strong tenacioussoil, into which, when once a seed of poetry fell, it struck deep rootand brought forth abundantly. "You will never weed these popularstories and songs and superstitions out of Scotland, " said he. "It isnot so much that the people believe in them, as that they delight inthem. They belong to the native hills and streams of which they arefond, and to the history of their forefathers, of which they areproud. "

"It would do your heart good, " continued he, "to see a number of ourpoor country people seated round the ingle nook, which is generallycapacious enough, and passing the long dark dreary winter nightslistening to some old wife, or strolling gaberlunzie, dealing out auldworld stories about bogles and warlocks, or about raids and forays, andborder skirmishes; or reciting some ballad stuck full of those fightingnames that stir up a true Scotchman's blood like the sound of atrumpet. These traditional tales and ballads have lived for ages inmere oral circulation, being passed from father to son, or rather fromgrandam to grandchild, and are a kind of hereditary property of thepoor peasantry, of which it would be hard to deprive them, as they havenot circulating libraries to supply them with works of fiction in theirplace. "

I do not pretend to give the precise words, but, as nearly as I canfrom scanty memorandums and vague recollections, the leading ideas ofScott. I am constantly sensible, however, how far I fall short of hiscopiousness and richness. 

He went on to speak of the elves and sprites, so frequent in Scottishlegend. "Our fairies, however, " said he, "though they dress in green, and gambol by moonlight about the banks, and shaws, and burnsides, arenot such pleasant little folks as the English fairies, but are apt tobear more of the warlock in their natures, and to play spiteful tricks. When I was a boy, I used to look wistfully at the green hillocks thatwere said to be haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes as if I shouldlike 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 thento be played off upon visitors. "

Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and with much humor, a littlestory which used to be current in the neighborhood, of an honestburgess of Selkirk, who, being at work upon the hill of Peatlaw, fellasleep upon one of these "fairy knowes, " or hillocks. When he awoke, herubbed his eyes and gazed about him with astonishment, for he was inthe market-place of a great city, with a crowd of people bustling abouthim, not one of whom he knew. At length he accosted a bystander, andasked him the name of the place. "Hout man, " replied the other, "are yein the heart o' Glasgow, and speer the name of it?" The poor man wasastonished, and would not believe either ears or eyes; he insisted thathe had lain down to sleep but half an hour before on the Peatlaw, nearSelkirk. He came well-nigh being taken up for a madman, when, fortunately, a Selkirk man came by, who knew him, and took charge ofhim, and conducted him back to his native place. Here, however, he waslikely to fare no better, when he spoke of having been whisked in hissleep from the Peatlaw to Glasgow. The truth of the matter at lengthcame out; his coat, which he had taken off when at work on the Peatlaw, was found lying near a "fairy knowe, " and his bonnet, which wasmissing, was discovered on the weathercock of Lanark steeple. So it wasas clear as day that he had been carried through the air by the fairieswhile he was sleeping, and his bonnet had been blown off by the way. 

I give this little story but meagrely from a scanty memorandum; Scotthas related it in somewhat different style in a note to one of hispoems; but in narration these anecdotes derived their chief zest, fromthe quiet but delightful humor, the bonhomie with which he seasonedthem, and the sly glance of the eye from under his bushy eyebrows, withwhich they were accompanied. That day at dinner, we had Mr. Laidlaw andhis wife, and a female friend who accompanied them. The latter was avery intelligent, respectable person, about the middle age, and wastreated with particular attention and courtesy by Scott. Our dinner wasa most agreeable one; for the guests were evidently cherished visitorsto the house, and felt that they were appreciated. 

When they were gone, Scott spoke of them in the most cordial manner. "Iwished to show you, " said he, "some of our really excellent, plainScotch people; not fine gentlemen and ladies, for such you can meeteverywhere, and they are everywhere the same. The character of a nationis not to be learnt from its fine folks. "

He then went on with a particular eulogium on the lady who hadaccompanied the Laidlaws. She was the daughter, he said, of a poorcountry clergyman, who had died in debt, and left her an orphan anddestitute. Having had a good plain education, she immediately set up achild's school, and had soon a numerous flock under her care, by whichshe earned a decent maintenance. That, however, was not her mainobject. Her first care was to pay off her father's debts, that no illword or ill will might rest upon his memory. 

This, by dint of Scottish economy, backed by filial reverence andpride, she accomplished, though in the effort, she subjected herself toevery privation. Not content with this, she in certain instancesrefused to take pay for the tuition of the children of some of herneighbors, who had befriended her father in his need, and had sincefallen into poverty. "In a word, " added Scott, "she is a fine oldScotch girl; and I delight in her, more than in many a fine lady I haveknown, 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 attempted todescribe, in almost constant, familiar, and joyous conversation withScott; it was as if I were admitted to a social communion withShakespeare, for it was with one of a kindred, if not equal genius. Every night I retired with my mind filled with delightful recollectionsof the day, and every morning I rose with the certainty of newenjoyment. The days thus spent, I shall ever look back to, as among thevery happiest of my life; for I was conscious at the time of beinghappy. The only sad moment that I experienced at Abbotsford was that ofmy departure; but it was cheered with the prospect of soon returning;for I had promised, after making a tour in the Highlands, to come andpass a few more days on the banks of the Tweed, when Scott intended toinvite 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 fromdwelling particularly on their several characters, and giving anecdotesof them individually, it is because I consider them shielded by thesanctity of domestic life; Scott, on the contrary, belongs to history. As he accompanied me on foot, however, to a small gate on the confinesof his premises, I could not refrain from expressing the enjoyment Ihad experienced in his domestic circle, and passing some warm eulogiumson the young folks from whom I had just parted. I shall never forgethis reply. "They have kind hearts, " said he, "and that is the mainpoint as to human happiness. They love one another, poor things, whichis every thing in domestic life. The best wish I can make you, myfriend, " added he, laying his hand upon my shoulder, "is, that when youreturn to your own country, you may get married, and have a family ofyoung bairns about you. If you are happy, there they are to share yourhappiness--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 theHighlands, come here and give me a few more days--but come when youplease, you will always find Abbotsford open to you, and a heartywelcome. "

 * * * * *

I have thus given, in a rude style, my main recollections of whatoccurred during my sojourn at Abbotsford, and I feel mortified that Ican give but such meagre, scattered, and colorless details of what wasso copious, rich, and varied. During several days that I passed thereScott was in admirable vein. From early morn until dinner time he wasrambling about, showing me the neighborhood, and during dinner anduntil late at night, engaged in social conversation. No time wasreserved for himself; he seemed as if his only occupation was toentertain me; and yet I was almost an entire stranger to him, one ofwhom he knew nothing, but an idle book I had written, and which, someyears before, had amused him. But such was Scott--he appeared to havenothing to do but lavish his time, attention, and conversation on thosearound. It was difficult to imagine what time he found to write thosevolumes that were incessantly issuing from the press; all of which, too, were of a nature to require reading and research. I could not findthat his life was ever otherwise than a life of leisure and haphazardrecreation, such as it was during my visit. He scarce ever balked aparty of pleasure, or a sporting excursion, and rarely pleaded his ownconcerns as an excuse for rejecting those of others. During my visit Iheard of other visitors who had preceded me, and who must have kept himoccupied for many days, and I have had an opportunity of knowing thecourse of his daily life for some time subsequently. Not long after mydeparture from Abbotsford, my friend Wilkie arrived there, to paint apicture of the Scott family. He found the house full of guests. Scott'swhole time was taken up in riding and driving about the country, or insocial conversation at home. "All this time, " said Wilkie to me, "I didnot presume to ask Mr. Scott to sit for his portrait, for I saw he hadnot a moment to spare; I waited for the guests to go away, but as fastas one went another arrived, and so it continued for several days, andwith each set he was completely occupied. At length all went off, andwe were quiet. I thought, however, Mr. Scott will now shut himself upamong his books and papers, for he has to make up for lost time; itwon't do for me to ask him now to sit for his picture. Laidlaw, whomanaged his estate, came in, and Scott turned to him, as I supposed, toconsult about business. 'Laidlaw, ' said he, 'to-morrow morning we'll goacross the water and take the dogs with us--there's a place where Ithink we shall be able to find a hare. '

"In short, " added Wilkie, "I found that instead of business, he wasthinking only of amusement, as if he had nothing in the world to occupyhim; 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 thegrave, in his anecdotes and stories, and such, I was told, was hisgeneral inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of humor in socialintercourse, and laughed with right good will. He talked not for effectnor display, but from the flow of his spirits, the stores of hismemory, and the vigor of his imagination. He had a natural turn fornarration, and his narratives and descriptions were without effort, yetwonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you like a picture; hegave the dialogue with the appropriate dialect or peculiarities, anddescribed the appearance and characters of his personages with thatspirit and felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, his conversationreminded me continually of his novels; and it seemed to me, that duringthe whole time I was with him. , he talked enough to fill volumes, andthat they could not have been filled more delightfully. 

He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating everything thatothers said, however humble might be their rank or pretensions, and wasquick to testify his perception of any point in their discourse. Hearrogated nothing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming andunpretending, entering with heart and soul into the business, orpleasure, or, I had almost said, folly, of the hour and the company. Noone's concerns, no one's thoughts, no one's opinions, no one's tastesand pleasures seemed beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly thecompanion of those with whom he happened to be, that they forgot for atime his vast superiority, and only recollected and wondered, when allwas over, that it was Scott with whom they had been on such familiarterms, and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at their ease. 

It was delightful to observe the generous spirit in which he spoke ofall his literary contemporaries, quoting the beauties of their works, and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might have beensupposed to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, it wasthought, had ruffled his plumes in one of his reviews, yet Scott spokeof him in terms of high and warm eulogy, both as an author and as aman. 

His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial and free fromall causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles, but helooked upon poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what wasgood and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what wasevil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such an air of bonhomieto Scott's humor throughout all his works. He played with the foiblesand errors of his fellow beings, and presented them in a thousandwhimsical and characteristic lights, but the kindness and generosity ofhis nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do not recollect asneer throughout his conversation any more than there is throughout hisworks. 

Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him in private life, notmerely at the time of the visit here narrated, but in the casualintercourse of subsequent years. Of his public character and merits, all the world can judge. His works have incorporated themselves withthe thoughts and concerns of the whole civilized world, for a quarterof a century, and have had a controlling influence over the age inwhich he lived. But when did a human being ever exercise an influencemore salutary and benignant? Who is there that, on looking back over agreat portion of his life, does not find the genius of Scottadministering to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and soothing hislonely sorrows? Who does not still regard his works as a treasury ofpure enjoyment, an armory to which to resort in time of need, to findweapons with which to fight off the evils and the griefs of life? Formy own part, in periods of dejection, I have hailed the announcement ofa new work from his pen as an earnest of certain pleasure in store forme, and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a waste looks to agreen spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace andrefreshment. When I consider how much he has thus contributed to thebetter hours of my past existence, and how independent his works stillmake me, at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, I bless my starsthat cast my lot in his days, to be thus cheered and gladdened by theoutpourings of his genius. I consider it one of the greatest advantagesthat I have derived from my literary career, that it has elevated meinto genial communion with such a spirit; and as a tribute of gratitudefor his friendship, and veneration for his memory, I cast this humblestone upon his cairn, which will soon, I trust, be piled aloft with thecontributions of abler hands. 

NEWSTEAD ABBEY

HISTORICAL NOTICE. 

Being about to give a few sketches taken during a three weeks' sojournin the ancestral mansion of the late Lord Byron, I think it proper topremise some brief particulars concerning its history. 

Newstead Abbey is one of the finest specimens in existence of thosequaint and romantic piles, half castle, half convent, which remain asmonuments of the olden times of England. It stands, too, in the midstof a legendary neighborhood; being in the heart of Sherwood Forest, andsurrounded by the haunts of Robin Hood and his band of outlaws, sofamous in ancient ballad and nursery tale. It is true, the forestscarcely exists but in name, and the tract of country over which itonce extended its broad solitudes and shades, is now an open andsmiling region, cultivated with parks and farms, and enlivened withvillages. 

Newstead, which probably once exerted a monastic sway over this region, and controlled the consciences of the rude foresters, was originally apriory, founded in the latter part of the twelfth century, by HenryII. , at the time when he sought, by building of shrines and convents, and by other acts of external piety, to expiate the murder of Thomas aBecket. The priory was dedicated to God and the Virgin, and wasinhabited by a fraternity of canons regular of St. Augustine. Thisorder was originally simple and abstemious in its mode of living, andexemplary in its conduct; but it would seem that it gradually lapsedinto those abuses which disgraced too many of the wealthy monasticestablishments; for there are documents among its archives whichintimate the prevalence of gross misrule and dissolute sensuality amongits members. At the time of the dissolution of the convents during thereign of Henry VIII. , Newstead underwent a sudden reverse, being given, with the neighboring manor and rectory of Papelwick, 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, andin the ghost stories with which it abounds, under the quaint andgraphic appellation of "Sir John Byron the Little, with the greatBeard. " He converted the saintly edifice into a castellated dwelling, making it his favorite residence and the seat of his forestjurisdiction. 

The Byron family being subsequently ennobled by a baronial title, andenriched by various possessions, maintained great style and retinue atNewstead. The proud edifice partook, however, of the vicissitudes ofthe times, and Lord Byron, in one of his poems, represents it asalternately the scene of lordly wassailing and of civil war:

 "Hark, how the hall resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din! 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 thepossession of another noted character, who makes no less figure in itsshadowy traditions than Sir John the Little with the great Beard. Thiswas the grand-uncle of the poet, familiarly known among the gossipingchroniclers of the Abbey as "the Wicked Lord Byron. " He is representedas a man of irritable passions and vindictive temper, in the indulgenceof which an incident occurred which gave a turn to his whole characterand life, and in some measure affected the fortunes of the Abbey. Inhis neighborhood lived his kinsman and friend, Mr. Chaworth, proprietorof Annesley Hall. Being together in London in 1765, in a chamber of theStar and Garter tavern in Pall Mall, a quarrel rose between them. Byroninsisted upon settling it upon the spot by single combat. They foughtwithout seconds, by the dim light of a candle, and Mr. Chaworth, although the most expert swordsman, received a mortal wound. With hisdying breath he related such particulars the contest as induced thecoroner's jury to return a verdict of wilful murder. Lord Byron wassent to the Tower, and subsequently tried before the House of Peers, where an ultimate verdict was given of manslaughter. 

He retired after this to the Abbey, where he shut himself up to broodover his disgraces; grew gloomy, morose, and fantastical, and indulgedin fits of passion and caprice, that made him the theme of rural wonderand scandal. No tale was too wild or too monstrous for vulgar belief. Like his successor the poet, he was accused of all kinds of vagariesand wickedness. It was said that he always went armed, as if preparedto commit murder on the least provocation. At one time, when agentleman of his neighborhood was to dine _tete a tete_ with him, it is said a brace of pistols were gravely laid with the knives andforks upon the table, as part of the regular table furniture, andimplements that might be needed in the course of the repast. Anotherrumor states that being exasperated at his coachman for disobedience toorders, he shot him on the spot, threw his body into the coach whereLady Byron was seated, and, mounting the box, officiated in his stead. At another time, according to the same vulgar rumors, he threw herladyship into the lake in front of the Abbey, where she would have beendrowned, but for the timely aid of the gardener. These stories aredoubtless exaggerations of trivial incidents which may have occurred;but it is certain that the wayward passions of this unhappy man causeda separation from his wife, and finally spread a solitude around him. Being displeased at the marriage of his son and heir, he displayed aninveterate malignity toward him. Not being able to cut off hissuccession to the Abbey estate, which descended to him by entail, heendeavored to injure it as much as possible, so that it might come amere wreck into his hands. For this purpose he suffered the Abbey tofall out of repair, and everything to go to waste about it, and cutdown all the timber on the estate, laying low many a tract of oldSherwood Forest, so that the Abbey lands lay stripped and bare of alltheir ancient honors. He was baffled in his unnatural revenge by thepremature death of his son, and passed the remainder of his days in hisdeserted and dilapidated halls, a gloomy misanthrope, brooding amidstthe scenes he had laid desolate. 

His wayward humors drove from him all neighborly society, and for apart of the time he was almost without domestics. In his misanthropicmood, when at variance with all human kind, he took to feedingcrickets, so that in process of time the Abbey was overrun with them, and its lonely halls made more lonely at night by their monotonousmusic. Tradition adds that, at his death, the crickets seemed awarethat they had lost their patron and protector, for they one and allpacked up bag and baggage, and left the Abbey, trooping across itscourts and corridors in all directions. 

The death of the "Old Lord, " or "The Wicked Lord Byron, " for he isknown by both appellations, occurred in 1798; and the Abbey then passedinto the possession of the poet. The latter was but eleven years ofage, and living in humble style with his mother in Scotland. They camesoon after to England, to take possession. Moore gives a simple butstriking anecdote of the first arrival of the poet at the domains ofhis ancestors. 

They had arrived at the Newstead toll-bar, and saw the woods of theAbbey stretching out to receive them, when Mrs. Byron, affecting to beignorant of the place, asked the woman of the toll-house to whom thatseat belonged? She was told that the owner of it, Lord Byron, had beensome months dead. "And who is the next heir?" asked the proud and happymother. "They say, " answered the old woman, "it is a little boy wholives at Aberdeen. " "And this is he, bless him!" exclaimed the nurse, no longer able to contain herself, and turning to kiss with delight theyoung lord who was seated on her lap. [Footnote: Moore's Life of LordByron. ]

During Lord Byron's minority, the Abbey was let to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but the poet visited it occasionally during the Harrow vacations, whenhe resided with his mother at lodgings in Nottingham. It was treatedlittle better by its present tenant, than by the old lord who precededhim; so that when, in the autumn of 1808, Lord Byron took up his abodethere, it was in a ruinous condition. The following lines from his ownpen 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. "

[Footnote: Lines on leaving Newstead Abbey. ]

In another poem he expresses the melancholy feeling with which he tookpossession of his ancestral mansion:

 "Newstead! 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 feudal 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. "

[Footnote: Elegy on Newstead Abbey. ]

Lord Byron had not fortune sufficient to put the pile in extensiverepair, nor to maintain anything like the state of his ancestors. Herestored some of the apartments, so as to furnish his mother with acomfortable habitation, and fitted up a quaint study for himself, inwhich, among books and busts, and other library furniture, were twoskulls of the ancient friars, grinning on each side of an antiquecross. One of his gay companions gives a picture of Newstead when thusrepaired, and the picture is sufficiently desolate. 

"There are two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells and roomsabout them, which, though not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might easily be made so; and many of the original rooms, among which isa fine stone hall, are still in use. Of the Abbey church, one end onlyremains; and the old kitchen, with a long range of apartments, isreduced to a heap of rubbish. Leading from the Abbey to the modern partof the habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in length, and twenty-three in breadth; but every part of the house displays neglect anddecay, save those which the present lord has lately fitted up. "[Footnote: Letter of the late Charles Skinner Mathews, Esq. ]

Even the repairs thus made were but of transient benefit, for the roofbeing left in its dilapidated state, the rain soon penetrated into theapartments which Lord Byron had restored and decorated, and in a fewyears rendered them almost as desolate as the rest of the Abbey. 

Still he felt a pride in the ruinous old edifice; its very dreary anddismantled state, addressed itself to his poetical imagination, and tothat love of the melancholy and the grand which is evinced in all hiswritings. "Come what may, " said he in one of his letters, "Newstead andI stand or fall together. I have now lived on the spot. I have fixed myheart upon it, and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me tobarter the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within mewhich will enable me to support difficulties: could I obtain inexchange for Newstead Abbey, the first fortune in the country, I wouldreject the proposition. "

His residence at the Abbey, however, was fitful and uncertain. Hepassed occasional portions of time there, sometimes studiously andalone, oftener idly and recklessly, and occasionally with young and gaycompanions, in riot and revelry, and the indulgence of all kinds of madcaprice. The Abbey was by no means benefited by these roysteringinmates, who sometimes played off monkish mummeries about thecloisters, at other times turned the state chambers into schools forboxing and single-stick, and shot pistols in the great hall. Thecountry people of the neighborhood were as much puzzled by these madcapvagaries of the new incumbent, as by the gloomier habits of the "oldlord, " 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 ledhis Lordship to sell his ancestral estate, notwithstanding the partialpredilections and hereditary feeling which he had so eloquentlyexpressed. Fortunately, it fell into the hands of a man who possessedsomething of a poetical temperament, and who cherished an enthusiasticadmiration for Lord Byron. Colonel (at that time Major) Wildman hadbeen a schoolmate of the poet, and sat with him on the same form atHarrow. He had subsequently distinguished himself in the war of thePeninsula, and at the battle of Waterloo, and it was a greatconsolation to Lord Byron, in parting with his family estate, to knowthat it would be held by one capable of restoring its faded glories, and who would respect and preserve all the monuments and memorials ofhis line. [Footnote: The following letter, written in the course of thetransfer 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 toreturn a few inadequate thanks for your very kind letter. I shouldregret to trouble you with any requests of mine, in regard to thepreservation of any signs of my family, which may still exist atNewstead, and leave everything of that kind to your own feelings, present or future, upon the subject. The portrait which you flatter meby desiring, would not be worth to you your trouble and expense of suchan expedition, but you may rely upon having the very first that may bepainted, and which may seem worth your acceptance. 

I trust that Newstead will, being yours, remain so, and that it may seeyou as happy, as I am very sure that you will make your dependents. With regard to myself, you may be sure that whether in the fourth, orfifth, or sixth form at Harrow, or in the fluctuations of after life, Ishall always remember with regard my old schoolfellow--fellow monitor, and friend, and recognize with respect the gallant soldier, who, withall the advantages of fortune and allurements of youth to a life ofpleasure, devoted himself to duties of a nobler order, and will receivehis reward in the esteem and admiration of his country. 

Ever yours most truly and affectionately, BYRON. ]

The confidence of Lord Byron in the good feeling and good taste ofColonel Wildman has been justified by the event. Under his judiciouseye and munificent hand the venerable and romantic pile has risen fromits ruins in all its old monastic and baronial splendor, and additionshave been made to it in perfect conformity of style. The groves andforests have been replanted; the lakes and fish-ponds cleaned out, andthe gardens rescued from the "hemlock and thistle, " and restored totheir pristine and dignified formality. 

The farms on the estate have been put in complete order, new farm-houses built of stone, in the picturesque and comfortable style of theold English granges; the hereditary tenants secured in their paternalhomes, and treated with the most considerate indulgence; everything, ina word, gives happy indications of a liberal and beneficent landlord. 

What most, however, will interest the visitors to the Abbey in favor ofits present occupant, is the reverential care with which he haspreserved and renovated every monument and relic of the Byron family, and every object in anywise connected with the memory of the poet. Eighty thousand pounds have already been expended upon the venerablepile, yet the work is still going on, and Newstead promises to realizethe hope faintly breathed by the poet when bidding it a melancholyfarewell--

 "Haply thy sun emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, And bless thy future, as thy former day. "

ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY. 

I had been passing a merry Christmas in the good old style at Barlhoro'Hall, a venerable family mansion in Derbyshire, and set off to finishthe holidays with the hospitable proprietor of Newstead Abbey. A driveof seventeen miles through a pleasant country, part of it the storiedregion of Sherwood Forest, brought me to the gate of Newstead Park. Theaspect of the park was by no means imposing, the fine old trees thatonce adorned it having been laid low by Lord Byron's waywardpredecessor. 

Entering the gate, the postchaise rolled heavily along a sandy road, between naked declivities, gradually descending into one of thosegentle and sheltered valleys, in which the sleek monks of old loved tonestle themselves. Here a sweep of the road round an angle of a gardenwall brought us full in front of the venerable edifice, embosomed inthe valley, with a beautiful sheet of water spreading out before it. 

The irregular gray pile, of motley architecture, answered to thedescription 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 baronialand warlike days of the edifice; the other end maintained its primitivemonastic character. A ruined chapel, flanked by a solemn grove, stillreared its front entire. It is true, the threshold of the oncefrequented portal was grass-grown, and the great lancet window, onceglorious with painted glass, was now entwined and overhung with ivy;but the old convent cross still braved both time and tempest on thepinnacle of the chapel, and below, the blessed effigies of the Virginand child, sculptured in gray stone, remained uninjured in their niche, giving a sanctified aspect to the pile. [Footnote:

 "--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 was spoil'd: She made the earth below seem holy ground. "--DON JUAN, Canto III. ]

A flight of rooks, tenants of the adjacent grove, were hovering aboutthe ruin, and balancing themselves upon ever airy projection, andlooked down with curious eye and cawed as the postchaise rattled alongbelow. 

The chamberlain of the Abbey, a most decorous personage, dressed inblack, received us at the portal. Here, too, we encountered a mementoof Lord Byron, a great black and white Newfoundland dog, that hadaccompanied his remains from Greece. He was descended from the famousBoatswain, and inherited his generous qualities. He was a cherishedinmate of the Abbey, and honored and caressed by every visitor. Conducted by the chamberlain, and followed by the dog, who assisted indoing the honors of the house, we passed through a long low vaultedhall, supported by massive Gothic arches, and not a little resemblingthe crypt of a cathedral, being the basement story of the Abbey. 

From this we ascended a stone staircase, at the head of which a pair offolding doors admitted us into a broad corridor that ran round theinterior of the Abbey. The windows of the corridor looked into aquadrangular grass-grown court, forming the hollow centre of the pile. In the midst of it rose a lofty and fantastic fountain, wrought of thesame gray stone as the main edifice, and which has been well describedby Lord Byron. 

 "Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, 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. "

[Footnote: DON JUAN, Canto III]

Around this quadrangle were low vaulted cloisters, with Gothic arches, once the secluded walks of the monks: the corridor along which we werepassing was built above these cloisters, and their hollow arches seemedto reverberate every footfall. Everything thus far had a solemnmonastic air; but, on arriving at an angle of the corridor, the eye, glancing along a shadowy gallery, caught a sight of two dark figures inplate armor, with closed visors, bucklers braced, and swords drawn, standing motionless against the wall. They seemed two phantoms of thechivalrous era of the Abbey. 

Here the chamberlain, throwing open a folding door, ushered us at onceinto a spacious and lofty saloon, which offered a brilliant contrast tothe quaint and sombre apartments we had traversed. It was elegantlyfurnished, and the walls hung with paintings, yet something of itsoriginal architecture had been preserved and blended with modernembellishments. There were the stone-shafted casements and the deepbow-window of former times. The carved and panelled wood-work of thelofty ceiling had likewise been carefully restored, and its Gothic andgrotesque devices painted and gilded in their ancient style. 

Here, too, were emblems of the former and latter days of the Abbey, inthe effigies of the first and last of the Byron line that held swayover its destinies. At the upper end of the saloon, above the door, thedark Gothic portrait of "Sir John Byron the Little with the greatBeard, " looked grimly down from his canvas, while, at the opposite end, a white marble bust of the _genius loci_, the noble poet, shoneconspicuously from its pedestal. 

The whole air and style of the apartment partook more of the palacethan the monastery, and its windows looked forth on a suitableprospect, composed of beautiful groves, smooth verdant lawns, andsilver sheets of water. Below the windows was a small flower-garden, inclosed by stone balustrades, on which were stately peacocks, sunningthemselves and displaying their plumage. About the grass-plots infront, were gay cock pheasants, and plump partridges, and nimble-footedwater hens, feeding almost in perfect security. 

Such was the medley of objects presented to the eye on first visitingthe Abbey, and I found the interior fully to answer the description ofthe 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 theAbbey, nor to describe the festivities of which I was a partaker duringmy sojourn within its hospitable walls. I wish merely to present apicture of the edifice itself, and of those personages andcircumstances about it, connected with the memory of Byron. 

I forbear, therefore, to dwell on my reception by my excellent andamiable host and hostess, or to make my reader acquainted with theelegant inmates of the mansion that I met in the saloon; and I shallpass on at once with him to the chamber allotted me, and to which I wasmost respectfully conducted by the chamberlain. 

It was one of a magnificent suite of rooms, extending between the courtof the cloisters and the Abbey garden, the windows looking into thelatter. The whole suite formed the ancient state apartment, and hadfallen into decay during the neglected days of the Abbey, so as to bein a ruinous condition in the time of Lord Byron. It had since beenrestored to its ancient splendor, of which my chamber may be cited as aspecimen. It was lofty and well proportioned; the lower part of thewalls was panelled with ancient oak, the upper part hung with gobelintapestry, representing oriental hunting scenes, wherein the figureswere of the size of life, and of great vivacity of attitude and color. 

The furniture was antique, dignified, and cumbrous. High-backed chairscuriously carved, and wrought in needlework; a massive clothes-press ofdark oak, well polished, and inlaid with landscapes of various tintedwoods; a bed of state, ample and lofty, so as only to be ascended by amovable flight of steps, the huge posts supporting a high tester with atuft of crimson plumes at each corner, and rich curtains of crimsondamask hanging in broad and heavy folds. 

A venerable mirror of plate glass stood on the toilet, in which bellesof former centuries may have contemplated and decorated their charms. The floor of the chamber was of tesselated oak, shining with wax, andpartly covered by a Turkey carpet. In the centre stood a massy oakentable, waxed and polished as smooth as glass, and furnished with awriting-desk of perfumed rosewood. 

A sober light was admitted into the room through Gothic stone-shaftedcasements, partly shaded by crimson curtains, and partly overshadowedby the trees of the garden. This solemnly tempered light added to theeffect of the stately and antiquated interior. 

Two portraits, suspended over the doors, were in keeping with thescene. They were in ancient Vandyke dresses; one was a cavalier, whomay have occupied this apartment in days of yore, the other was a ladywith a black velvet mask in her hand, who may once have arrayed herselffor conquest at the very mirror I have described. 

The most curious relic of old times, however, in this quaint but richlydight apartment, was a great chimney-piece of panel-work, carved inhigh relief, with niches or compartments, each containing a human bust, that protruded almost entirely from the wall. Some of the figures werein ancient Gothic garb; the most striking among them was a female, whowas earnestly regarded by a fierce Saracen from an adjoining niche. 

This panel-work is among the mysteries of the Abbey, and causes as muchwide speculation as the Egyptian hieroglyphics. Some suppose it toillustrate an adventure in the Holy Land, and that the lady in effigyhad been rescued by some Crusader of the family from the turbaned Turkwho watches her so earnestly. What tends to give weight to thesesuppositions is, that similar pieces of panel-work exist in other partsof the Abbey, in all of which are to be seen the Christian lady and herSaracen guardian or lover. At the bottom of these sculptures areemblazoned the armorial bearings of the Byrons. 

I shall not detain the reader, however, with any further description ofmy apartment, or of the mysteries connected with it. As he is to passsome days with me at the Abbey, we shall have time to examine the oldedifice at our leisure, and to make ourselves acquainted, not merelywith its interior, but likewise with its environs. 

THE ABBEY GARDEN. 

The morning after my arrival, I rose at an early hour. The daylight waspeering brightly between the window curtains, and drawing them apart, Igazed through the Gothic casement upon a scene that accorded incharacter with the interior of the ancient mansion. It was the oldAbbey garden, but altered to suit the tastes of different times andoccupants. In one direction were shady walls and alleys, broad terracesand lofty groves; in another, beneath a gray monastic-looking angle ofthe edifice, overrun with ivy and surmounted by a cross, lay a smallFrench garden, with formal flower-pots, gravel walks, and stately stonebalustrades. 

The beauty of the morning, and the quiet of the hour, tempted me to anearly 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 myself, therefore, with all speed, Idescended a small flight of steps from the state apartment into thelong corridor over the cloisters, along which I passed to a door at thefarther end. Here I emerged into the open air, and, descending anotherflight of stone steps, found myself in the centre of what had once beenthe Abbey chapel. 

Nothing of the sacred edifice remained, however, but the Gothic front, with its deep portal and grand lancet window, already described. Thenave, the side walls, the choir, the sacristy, all had disappeared. Theopen sky was over my head, a smooth shaven grass-plot beneath my feet. Gravel walks and shrubberies had succeeded to the shadowy isles, andstately trees to the clustering columns. 

 "Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, The humid pall of life-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 their mingling vespers blend, Or matin orisons to Mary paid. "

Instead of the matin orisons of the monks, however, the ruined walls ofthe chapel now resounded to the cawing of innumerable rooks that werefluttering and hovering about the dark grove which they inhabited, andpreparing for their morning flight. 

My ramble led me along quiet alleys, bordered by shrubbery, where thesolitary water-hen would now and then scud across my path, and takerefuge among the bushes. From hence I entered upon a broad terracedwalk, once a favorite resort of the friars, which extended the wholelength of the old Abbey garden, passing along the ancient stone wallwhich bounded it. In the centre of the garden lay one of the monkishfish-pools, an oblong sheet of water, deep set like a mirror, in greensloping banks of turf. In its glassy bosom was reflected the dark massof a neighboring grove, one of the most important features of thegarden. This grove goes by the sinister name of "the Devil's Wood, " andenjoys but an equivocal character in the neighborhood. It was plantedby "The Wicked Lord Byron, " during the early part of his residence atthe Abbey, before his fatal duel with Mr. Chaworth. Having something ofa foreign and classical taste, he set up leaden statues of satyrs orfauns at each end of the grove. The statues, like everything else aboutthe old Lord, fell under the suspicion and obloquy that overshadowedhim in the latter part of his life. The country people, who knewnothing of heathen mythology and its sylvan deities, looked with horrorat idols invested with the diabolical attributes of horns and clovenfeet. They probably supposed them some object of secret worship of thegloomy and secluded misanthrope and reputed murderer, and gave them thename of "The old Lord's Devils. "

I penetrated the recesses of the mystic grove. There stood the ancientand much slandered statues, overshadowed by tall larches, and stainedby dank green mold. It is not a matter of surprise that strangefigures, thus behoofed and be-horned, and set up in a gloomy grove, should perplex the minds of the simple and superstitious yeomanry. There are many of the tastes and caprices of the rich, that in the eyesof the uneducated must savor of insanity. 

I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials of a more touchingcharacter. It had been one of the favorite haunts of the late LordByron. In his farewell visit to the Abbey, after he had parted with thepossession of it, he passed some time in this grove, in company withhis sister; and as a last memento, engraved their names on the bark ofa tree. 

The feelings that agitated his bosom during this farewell visit, whenhe beheld round him objects dear to his pride, and dear to his juvenilerecollections, but of which the narrowness of his fortune would notpermit him to retain possession, may be gathered from a passage in apoetical 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. I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, 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 whichLord Byron had left his frail memorial. It was an elm of peculiar form, having two trunks, which sprang from the same root, and, after growingside by side, mingled their branches together. He had selected it, doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and himself. The names ofBYRON and AUGUSTA were still visible. They had been deeply cut in thebark, but the natural growth of the tree was gradually rendering themillegible, and a few years hence, strangers will seek in vain for thisrecord 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. Belowme lay the monks' stew, or fish pond, a dark pool, overhung by gloomycypresses, with a solitary water-hen swimming about in it. 

A little farther on, and the terrace looked down upon the stately sceneon the south side of the Abbey; the flower garden, with its stonebalustrades and stately peacocks, the lawn, with its pheasants andpartridges, and the soft valley of Newstead beyond. 

At a distance, on the border of the lawn, stood another memento of LordByron; an oak planted by him in his boyhood, on his first visit to theAbbey. With a superstitious feeling inherent in him, he linked his owndestiny with that of the tree. "As it fares, " said he, "so will fare myfortunes. " Several years elapsed, many of them passed in idleness anddissipation. He returned to the Abbey a youth scarce grown to manhood, but, as he thought, with vices and follies beyond his years. He foundhis emblem oak almost choked by weeds and brambles, and took the lessonto 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 laud 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. "

I leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, and gazed upon thevalley of Newstead, with its silver sheets of water gleaming in themorning sun. It was a sabbath morning, which always seems to have ahallowed influence over the landscape, probably from the quiet of theday, and the cessation of all kinds of week-day labor. As I mused uponthe mild and beautiful scene, and the wayward destinies of the man, whose stormy temperament forced him from this tranquil paradise tobattle with the passions and perils of the world, the sweet chime ofbells from a village a few miles distant came stealing up the valley. Every sight and sound this morning seemed calculated to summon uptouching recollections of poor Byron. The chime was from the villagespire of Hucknall Torkard, beneath which his remains lie buried!

----I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray country church, venerable with the lapse of centuries. He lies buried beneath thepavement, at one end of the principal aisle. A light falls on the spotthrough the stained glass of a Gothic window, and a tablet on theadjacent wall announces the family vault of the Byrons. It had been thewayward intention of the poet to be entombed, with his faithful dog, inthe monument erected by him in the garden of Newstead Abbey. Hisexecutors showed better judgment and feeling, in consigning his ashesto the family sepulchre, to mingle with those of his mother and hiskindred. Here, "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well. Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further!"

How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish made by him, but a fewyears previously, in one of his fitful moods of melancholy andmisanthropy:

 "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 coining blow: No maiden with dishevelled hair, To feel, or fein decorous woe. 

 "But silent let me sink to earth. With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a tear. "

He died among strangers, in a foreign land, without a kindred hand toclose his eyes; yet he did not die unwept. With all his faults anderrors, and passions and caprices, he had the gift of attaching hishumble dependents warmly to him. One of them, a poor Greek, accompaniedhis remains to England, and followed them to the grave. I am told that, during the ceremony, he stood holding on by a pew in an agony of grief, and when all was over, seemed as if he would have gone down into thetomb with the body of his master. --A nature that could inspire suchattachments, must have been generous and beneficent. 

PLOUGH MONDAY. 

Sherwood Forest is a region that still retains much of the quaintcustoms and holiday games of the olden time. A day or two after myarrival at the Abbey, as I was walking in the cloisters, I heard thesound of rustic music, and now and then a burst of merriment, proceeding from the interior of the mansion. Presently the chamberlaincame and informed me that a party of country lads were in the servants'hall, performing Plough Monday antics, and invited me to witness theirmummery. I gladly assented, for I am somewhat curious about theserelics of popular usages. The servants' hall was a fit place for theexhibition 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 ofmassive columns extended lengthwise through the centre, whence sprungGothic arches, supporting the low vaulted ceiling. Here was a set ofrustics dressed up in something of the style represented in the booksconcerning popular antiquities. One was in a rough garb of frieze, withhis head muffled in bear-skin, and a bell dangling behind him, thatjingled at every movement. He was the clown, or fool of the party, probably a traditional representative of the ancient satyr. The restwere decorated with ribbons and armed with wooden swords. The leader ofthe troop recited the old ballad of St. George and the Dragon, whichhad been current among the country people for ages; his companionsaccompanied the recitation with some rude attempt at acting, while theclown cut all kinds of antics. 

To these succeeded a set of morris-dancers, gayly dressed up withribbons and hawks'-bells. In this troop we had Robin Hood and MaidMarian, the latter represented by a smooth-faced boy; also Beelzebub, equipped with a broom, and accompanied by his wife Bessy, a termagantold beldame. These rude pageants are the lingering remains of the oldcustoms of Plough Monday, when bands of rustics, fantastically dressed, and furnished with pipe and tabor, dragged what was called the "foolplough" from house to house, singing ballads and performing antics, forwhich they were rewarded with money and good cheer. 

But it is not in "merry Sherwood Forest" alone that these remnants ofold times prevail. They are to be met with in most of the countiesnorth of the Trent, which classic stream seems to be the boundary lineof primitive customs. During my recent Christmas sojourn at Barlboro'Hall, on the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, I had witnessed manyof the rustic festivities peculiar to that joyous season, which haverashly been pronounced obsolete, by those who draw their experiencemerely from city life. I had seen the great Yule log put on the fire onChristmas Eve, and the wassail bowl sent round, brimming with its spicybeverage. I had heard carols beneath my window by the choristers of theneighboring village, who went their rounds about the ancient Hall atmidnight, according to immemorial custom. We had mummers and mimerstoo, with the story of St. George and the Dragon, and other ballads andtraditional dialogues, together with the famous old interlude of theHobby Horse, all represented in the antechamber and servants' hall byrustics, who inherited the custom and the poetry from precedinggenerations. The boar's head, crowned with rosemary, had taken itshonored station among the Christmas cheer; the festal board had beenattended by glee singers and minstrels from the village to entertainthe company with hereditary songs and catches during their repast; andthe old Pyrrhic game of the sword dance, handed down since the time ofthe Romans, was admirably performed in the court-yard of the mansion bya band of young men, lithe and supple in their forms and graceful intheir movements, who, I was told, went the rounds of the villages andcountry-seats during the Christmas holidays. 

I specify these rural pageants and ceremonials, which I saw during mysojourn in this neighborhood, because it has been deemed that some ofthe anecdotes of holiday customs given in my preceding writings, related to usages which have entirely passed away. Critics who residein cities have little idea of the primitive manners and observances, which still prevail in remote and rural neighborhoods. 

In fact, in crossing the Trent one seems to step back into old times;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 Gothiccrosses at each end of the villages, and the tall Maypole in thecentre, transport us in imagination to foregone centuries; everythinghas 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 hundredyears; and, notwithstanding that their mansions fell to decay, andevery thing about them partook of the general waste and misrule of theByron dynasty, yet nothing could uproot them from their native soil. Iam happy to say, that Colonel Wildman has taken these stanch loyalfamilies under his peculiar care. He has favored them in their rents, repaired, or rather rebuilt their farm-houses, and has enabled familiesthat had almost sunk into the class of mere rustic laborers, once moreto hold up their heads among the yeomanry of the land. 

I visited one of these renovated establishments that had but latelybeen a mere ruin, and now was a substantial grange. It was inhabited bya young couple. The good woman showed every part of the establishmentwith decent pride, exulting in its comfort and respectability. Herhusband, I understood, had risen in consequence with the improvement ofhis mansion, and now began to be known among his rustic neighbors bythe appellation of "the young Squire. "

OLD SERVANTS. 

In an old, time-worn, and mysterious looking mansion like NewsteadAbbey, and one so haunted by monkish, and feudal, and poeticalassociations, it is a prize to meet with some ancient crone, who haspassed a long life about the place, so as to have become a livingchronicle of its fortunes and vicissitudes. Such a one is Nanny Smith, a worthy dame, near seventy years of age, who for a long time served ashousekeeper to the Byrons, The Abbey and its domains comprise herworld, beyond which she knows nothing, but within which she has everconducted herself with native shrewdness and old-fashioned honesty. When Lord Byron sold the Abbey her vocation was at an end, still shelingered about the place, having for it the local attachment of a cat. Abandoning her comfortable housekeeper's apartment, she took shelter inone of the "rockhouses, " which are nothing more than a littleneighborhood of cabins, excavated in the perpendicular walls of a stonequarry, at no great distance from the Abbey. Three cells cut in theliving rock, formed her dwelling; these she fitted up humbly butcomfortably; her son William labored in the neighborhood, and aided tosupport her, and Nanny Smith maintained a cheerful aspect and anindependent spirit. One of her gossips suggested to her that Williamshould marry, and bring home a young wife to help her and take care ofher. "Nay, nay, " replied Nanny, tartly, "I want no young mistress in_my house_. " So much for the love of rule--poor Nanny's house wasa hole in a rock!

Colonel Wildman, on taking possession of the Abbey, found Nanny Smiththus humbly nestled. With that active benevolence which characterizeshim, he immediately set William up in a small farm on the estate, whereNanny Smith has a comfortable mansion in her old days. Her pride isroused by her son's advancement. She remarks with exultation thatpeople treat William with much more respect now that he is a farmer, than they did when he was a laborer. A farmer of the neighborhood haseven endeavored to make a match between him and his sister, but NannySmith has grown fastidious, and interfered. The girl, she said, was tooold for her son, besides, she did not see that he was in any need of awife. 

"No, " said William, "I ha' no great mind to marry the wench: but if theColonel and his lady wish it, I am willing. They have been so kind tome that I should think it my duty to please them. " The Colonel and hislady, however, have not thought proper to put honest William'sgratitude 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, " aboutthe middle of the last century, and had continued with him until hisdeath. Having been a cabin boy when very young, Joe always fanciedhimself a bit of a sailor; and had charge of all the pleasure-boats onthe lake though he afterward rose to the dignity of butler. In thelatter days of the old Lord Byron, when he shut himself up from all theworld, Joe Murray was the only servant retained by him, excepting hishousekeeper, Betty Hardstaff, who was reputed to have an undue swayover him, and was derisively called Lady Betty among the country folk. 

When the Abbey came into the possession of the late Lord Byron, JoeMurray accompanied it as a fixture. He was reinstated as butler in theAbbey, and high admiral on the lake, and his sturdy honest mastiffqualities won so upon Lord Byron as even to rival his Newfoundland dogin his affections. Often when dining, he would pour out a bumper ofchoice Madeira, and hand it to Joe as he stood behind his chair. Infact, when he built the monumental tomb which stands in the Abbeygarden, he intended it for himself, Joe Murray, and the dog. The twolatter were to lie on each side of him. Boatswain died not longafterward, and was regularly interred, and the well-known epitaphinscribed on one side of the monument. Lord Byron departed for Greece;during his absence, a gentleman to whom Joe Murray was showing thetomb, observed, "Well, old boy, you will take your place here sometwenty years hence. "

"I don't know that, sir, " growled Joe, in reply, "if I was sure hisLordship would come here, I should like it well enough, but I shouldnot like to lie alone with the dog. "

Joe Murray was always extremely neat in his dress, and attentive to hisperson, and made a most respectable appearance. A portrait of him stillhangs in the Abbey, representing him a hale fresh-looking fellow, in aflaxen wig, a blue coat and buff waistcoat, with a pipe in his hand. Hedischarged all the duties of his station with great fidelity, unquestionable honesty, and much outward decorum, but, if we maybelieve his contemporary, Nanny Smith, who, as housekeeper, shared thesway 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 inthe servants' hall, or sat taking his ale and smoking his pipe by theevening fire. Joe had evidently derived his convivial notions from therace of English country squires who flourished in the days of hisjuvenility. Nanny Smith was scandalized at his ribald songs, but beingabove harm herself, endured them in silence. At length, on his singingthem before a young girl of sixteen, she could contain herself nolonger, but read him a lecture that made his ears ring, and thenflounced off to bed. The lecture seems, by her account, to havestaggered Joe, for he told her the next morning that he had had aterrible dream in the night. An Evangelist stood at the foot of his bedwith a great Dutch Bible, which he held with the printed part towardhim, and after a while pushed it in his face. Nanny Smith undertook tointerpret the vision, and read from it such a homily, and deduced suchawful warnings, that Joe became quite serious, left off singing, andtook to reading good books for a month; but after that, continuedNanny, he relapsed and became as bad as ever, and continued to singloose and profane songs to his dying day. 

When Colonel Wildman became proprietor of the Abbey he found Joe Murrayflourishing in a green old age, though upward of fourscore, andcontinued him in his station as butler. The old man was rejoiced at theextensive repairs that were immediately commenced, and anticipated withpride the day when the Abbey should rise out of its ruins withrenovated 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 planof the Colonel's to have the ancient refectory of the convent, a greatvaulted room, supported by Gothic columns, converted into a servants'hall. Here Joe looked forward to rule the roast at the head of theservants' table, and to make the Gothic arches ring with those huntingand hard-drinking ditties which were the horror of the discreet NannySmith. Time, however, was fast wearing away with him, and his greatfear was that the hall would not be completed in his day. In hiseagerness to hasten the repairs, he used to get up early in themorning, and ring up the workmen. Notwithstanding his great age, also, he would turn out half-dressed in cold weather to cut sticks for thefire. Colonel Wildman kindly remonstrated with him for thus risking hishealth, as others would do the work for him. 

"Lord, sir, " exclaimed the hale old fellow, "it's my air-bath, I'm allthe better for it. "

Unluckily, as he was thus employed one morning a splinter flew up andwounded one of his eyes. An inflammation took place; he lost the sightof that eye, and subsequently of the other. Poor Joe gradually pinedaway, and grew melancholy. Colonel Wildman kindly tried to cheer himup--"Come, come, old boy, " cried he, "be of good heart, you will yettake your place in the servants' hall. "

"Nay, nay, sir, " replied he, "I did hope once that I should live to seeit--I looked forward to it with pride, I confess, but it is all overwith me now--I shall soon go home!" He died shortly afterward, at theadvanced age of eighty-six, seventy of which had been passed as anhonest and faithful servant at the Abbey. Colonel Wildman had himdecently interred in the church of Hucknall Torkard, near the vault ofLord Byron. 

SUPERSTITIONS 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 withColonel Wildman, therefore, to the cottage of her son William, whereshe resides, and found her seated by her fireside, with a favorite catperched upon her shoulder and purring in her ear. Nanny Smith is alarge, good-looking woman, a specimen of the old-fashioned countryhousewife, combining antiquated notions and prejudices, and verylimited information, with natural good sense. She loves to gossip aboutthe Abbey and Lord Byron, and was soon drawn into a course ofanecdotes, though mostly of an humble kind, such as suited the meridianof the housekeeper's room and servants' hall. She seemed to entertain akind recollection of Lord Byron, though she had evidently been muchperplexed by some of his vagaries; and especially by the means headopted to counteract his tendency to corpulency. He used various modesto sweat himself down; sometimes he would lie for a long time in a warmbath, sometimes he would walk up the hills in the park, wrapped up andloaded with great coats; "a sad toil for the poor youth, " added Nanny, "he being so lame. "

His meals were scanty and irregular, consisting of dishes which Nannyseemed to hold in great contempt, such as pillau, macaroni, and lightpuddings. 

She contradicted the report of the licentious life which he wasreported to lead at the Abbey, and of the paramours said to have beenbrought with him from London. "A great part of his time used to bepassed lying on a sofa reading. Sometimes he had young gentlemen of hisacquaintance with him, and they played some mad pranks; but nothing butwhat young gentlemen may do, and no harm done. "

"Once, it is true, " she added, "he had with him a beautiful boy as apage, which the housemaids said was a girl. For my part, I know nothingabout it. Poor soul, he was so lame he could not go out much with themen; all the comfort he had was to be a little with the lasses. Thehousemaids, however, were very jealous; one of them, in particular, took the matter in great dudgeon. Her name was Lucy; she was a greatfavorite with Lord Byron, and had been much noticed by him, and beganto 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 andlook high, for she would come to great things. Upon this, " added Nanny, "the poor thing dreamt of nothing less than becoming a lady, andmistress of the Abbey; and promised me, if such luck should happen toher, she would be a good friend to me. Ah well-a-day! Lucy never hadthe 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 wenton with her gossiping. "One time, " said she, "Lord Byron took a notionthat there was a deal of money buried about the Abbey by the monks inold times, and nothing would serve him but he must have the flaggingtaken up in the cloisters; and they digged and digged, but foundnothing but stone coffins full of bones. Then he must needs have one ofthe coffins put in one end of the great hall, so that the servants wereafraid to go there of nights. Several of the skulls were cleaned andput in frames in his room. I used to have to go into the room at nightto shut the windows, and if I glanced an eye at them, they all seemedto grin; which I believe skulls always do. I can't say but I was gladto get out of the room. 

"There was at one time (and for that matter there is still) a good dealsaid about ghosts haunting about the Abbey. The keeper's wife said shesaw two standing in a dark part of the cloisters just opposite thechapel, and one in the garden by the lord's well. Then there was ayoung lady, a cousin of Lord Byron, who was staying in the Abbey andslept in the room next the clock; and she told me that one night whenshe was lying in bed, she saw a lady in white come out of the wall onone side of the room, and go into the wall on the opposite side. 

"Lord Byron one day said to me, 'Nanny, what nonsense they tell aboutghosts, as if there ever were any such things. I have never seen anything of the kind about the Abbey, and I warrant you have not. ' Thiswas all done, do you see, to draw me out; but I said nothing, but shookmy head. However, they say his lordship did once see something. It wasin the great hall--something all black and hairy, he said it was thedevil. 

"For my part, " continued Nanny Smith, "I never saw anything of thekind--but I heard something once. I was one evening scrubbing the floorof the little dining-room at the end of the long gallery; it was afterdark; I expected every moment to be called to tea, but wished to finishwhat I was about. All at once I heard heavy footsteps in the greathall. They sounded like the tramp of a horse. I took the light and wentto see what it was. I heard the steps come from the lower end of thehall to the fireplace in the centre, where they stopped; but I couldsee nothing. I returned to my work, and in a little time heard the samenoise again. I went again with the light; the footsteps stopped by thefireplace as before; still I could see nothing. I returned to my work, when I heard the steps for a third time. I then went into the hallwithout a light, but they stopped just the same, by the fireplace, halfway 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, asthat was my way to the kitchen. I heard no more footsteps, and thoughtno more of the matter, when, on coming to the lower end of the hall, Ifound the door locked, and then, on one side of the door, I saw thestone coffin with the skull and bones that had been digged up in thecloisters. "

Here Nanny paused. I asked her if she believed that the mysteriousfootsteps had any connection with the skeleton in the coffin; but sheshook her head, and would not commit herself. We took our leave of thegood old dame shortly after, and the story she had related gave subjectfor conversation on our ride homeward. It was evident she had spokenthe truth as to what she had heard, but had been deceived by somepeculiar effect of sound. Noises are propagated about a huge irregularedifice of the kind in a very deceptive manner; footsteps are prolongedand reverberated by the vaulted cloisters and echoing halls; thecreaking and slamming of distant gates, the rushing of the blastthrough the groves and among the ruined arches of the chapel, have alla strangely delusive effect at night. Colonel Wildman gave an instanceof the kind from his own experience. Not long after he had taken up hisresidence at the Abbey, he heard one moonlight night a noise as if acarriage was passing at a distance. He opened the window and leanedout. It then seemed as if the great iron roller was dragged along thegravel walks and terrace, but there was nothing to be seen. When he sawthe gardener on the following morning, he questioned him about workingso 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 backwith a countenance full of surprise. The roller had been moved in thenight, but he declared no mortal hand could have moved it. "Well, "replied the Colonel, good-humoredly, "I am glad to find I have abrownie to work for me. "

Lord Byron did much to foster and give currency to the superstitioustales connected with the Abbey, by believing, or pretending to believein them. Many have supposed that his mind was really tinged withsuperstition, and that this innate infirmity was increased by passingmuch of his time in a lonely way, about the empty halls and cloistersof the Abbey, then in a ruinous melancholy state, and brooding over theskulls and effigies of its former inmates. I should rather think thathe found poetical enjoyment in these supernatural themes, and that hisimagination delighted to people this gloomy and romantic pile with allkinds of shadowy inhabitants. Certain it is, the aspect of the mansionunder the varying influence of twilight and moonlight, and cloud andsunshine operating upon its halls, and galleries, and monkishcloisters, is enough to breed all kinds of fancies in the minds of itsinmates, especially if poetically or superstitiously inclined. 

I have already mentioned some of the fabled visitants of the Abbey. Thegoblin friar, however, is the one to whom Lord Byron has given thegreatest importance. It walked the cloisters by night, and sometimesglimpses of it were seen in other parts of the Abbey. Its appearancewas said to portend some impending evil to the master of the mansion. Lord Byron pretended to have seen it about a month before he contractedhis ill-starred marriage with Miss Milbanke. 

He has embodied this tradition in the following ballad, in which herepresents the friar as one of the ancient inmates of the Abbey, maintaining by night a kind of spectral possession of it, in right ofthe fraternity. Other traditions, however, represent him as one of thefriars doomed to wander about the place in atonement for his crimes. But to the ballad--

 "Beware! beware! of the Black Friar, Who sitteth 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, unchased, 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 heard 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. Amundeville 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 nought to him as he walks the hall, And he'll say nought to you; He sweeps along in his dusky pall, As o'er the grass the dew. Then gramercy! for the Black Friar; Heaven sain him! fair or foul, And whatsoe'er may be his prayer Let ours be for his soul. "

Such is the story of the goblin friar, which, partly through oldtradition, and partly through the influence of Lord Byron's rhymes, hasbecome completely established in the Abbey, and threatens to holdpossession so long as the old edifice shall endure. Various visitorshave either fancied, or pretended to have seen him, and a cousin ofLord Byron, Miss Sally Parkins, is even said to have made a sketch ofhim from memory. As to the servants at the Abbey, they have becomepossessed with all kinds of superstitious fancies. The long corridorsand Gothic halls, with their ancient portraits and dark figures inarmor, are all haunted regions to them; they even fear to sleep alone, and will scarce venture at night on any distant errand about the Abbeyunless they go in couples. 

Even the magnificent chamber in which I was lodged was subject to thesupernatural influences which reigned over the Abbey, and was said tobe haunted by "Sir John Byron the Little with the great Beard. " Theancient black-looking portrait of this family worthy, which hangs overthe door of the great saloon, was said to descend occasionally atmidnight 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 inbroad day by the door of the identical chamber I have described, whichstood partly open, she saw Sir John Byron the Little seated by thefireplace, reading out of a great black-letter book. From thiscircumstance some have been led to suppose that the story of Sir JohnByron may be in some measure connected with the mysterious sculpturesof the chimney-piece already mentioned; but this has no countenancefrom the most authentic antiquarians of the Abbey. 

For my own part, the moment I learned the wonderful stories and strangesuppositions connected with my apartment, it became an imaginary realmto me. As I lay in bed at night and gazed at the mysterious panel-work, where Gothic knight, and Christian dame, and Paynim lover gazed upon mein effigy, I used to weave a thousand fancies concerning them. Thegreat figures in the tapestry, also, were almost animated by theworkings of my imagination, and the Vandyke portraits of the cavalierand lady that looked down with pale aspects from the wall, had almost aspectral effect, from their immovable gaze and silent companionship--

 "For by dim lights the portraits of the dead Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. ----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 in their shadowy beams. "

In this way I used to conjure up fictions of the brain, and clothe theobjects around me with ideal interest and import, until, as the Abbeyclock tolled midnight, I almost looked to see Sir John Byron the Littlewith 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 toits lands, is situated Annesley Hall, the old family mansion of theChaworths. The families, like the estates, of the Byrons and Chaworths, were connected in former times, until the fatal duel between their tworepresentatives. 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, abeautiful girl, and the sole heiress of Annesley. With thatsusceptibility to female charms, which he evinced almost fromchildhood, he became almost immediately enamored of her. According toone of his biographers, it would appear that at first their attachmentwas mutual, yet clandestine. The father of Miss Chaworth was thenliving, and may have retained somewhat of the family hostility, for weare told that the interviews of Lord Byron and the young lady wereprivate, at a gate which opened from her father's grounds to those ofNewstead. However, they were so young at the time that these meetingscould not have been regarded as of any importance: they were littlemore than children in years; but, as Lord Byron says of himself, hisfeelings were beyond his age. 

The passion thus early conceived was blown into a flame, during a sixweeks' vacation which he passed with his mother at Nottingham. Thefather of Miss Chaworth was dead, and she resided with her mother atthe old Hall of Annesley. During Byron's minority, the estate ofNewstead was let to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but its youthful Lord wasalways a welcome guest at the Abbey. He would pass days at a timethere, and make frequent visits thence to Annesley Hall. His visitswere encouraged by Miss Chaworth's mother; she partook of none of thefamily feud, and probably looked with complacency upon an attachmentthat might heal old differences and unite two neighboring estates. 

The six weeks' vacation passed as a dream amongst the beautiful flowersof Annesley. Byron was scarce fifteen years of age, Mary Chaworth wastwo years older; but his heart, as I have said, was beyond his age, andhis tenderness for her was deep and passionate. These early loves, likethe first run of the uncrushed grape, are the sweetest and strongestgushings of the heart, and however they may be superseded by otherattachments 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 expression, was"the romance of the most romantic period of his life, " and I think wecan trace the effect of it throughout the whole course of his writings, coming up every now and then, like some lurking theme which runsthrough a complicated piece of music, and links it all in a pervadingchain of melody. 

How tenderly and mournfully does he recall, in after years, thefeelings awakened in his youthful and inexperienced bosom by thisimpassioned, yet innocent attachment; feelings, he says, lost orhardened in the intercourse of life:

 "The love of better things and better days; 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, atother times lie acknowledges that she never gave 'him reason to believeshe loved him. It is probable, however, that at first she experiencedsome flutterings of the heart. She was of a susceptible age; had as yetformed no other attachments; her lover, though boyish in years, was aman in intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a countenance ofremarkable beauty. 

With the six weeks' vacation ended this brief romance. Byron returnedto school deeply enamored, but if he had really made any impression onMiss 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 awoman, and leaves her boyish lovers far behind her. While Byron waspursuing his school-boy studies, she was mingling with society, and metwith a gentleman of the name of Musters, remarkable, it is said, formanly beauty. A story is told of her having first seen him from the topof 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 wasstruck by the spirit of his appearance, and his admirable horsemanship. Under such favorable auspices, he wooed and won her, and when LordByron next met her, he learned to his dismay that she was the affiancedbride of another. 

With that pride of spirit--which always distinguished him, hecontrolled his feelings and maintained a serene countenance. He evenaffected to speak calmly on the subject of her approaching nuptials. "The next time I see you, " said he, "I suppose you will be Mrs. Chaworth" (for she was to retain her family name). Her reply was, "Ihope so. "

I have given these brief details preparatory to a sketch of a visitwhich I made to the scene of this youthful romance. Annesley Hall Iunderstood was shut up, neglected, and almost in a state of desolation;for Mr. Musters rarely visited it, residing with his family in theneighborhood of Nottingham. I set out for the Hall on horseback, incompany with Colonel Wildman, and followed by the great Newfoundlanddog Boatswain. In the course of our ride we visited a spot memorable inthe love story I have cited. It was the scene of this parting interviewbetween Byron and Miss Chaworth, prior to her marriage. A long ridge ofupland advances into the valley of Newstead, like a promontory into alake, and was formerly crowned by a beautiful grove, a landmark to theneighboring country. The grove and promontory are graphically describedby Lord Byron in his "Dream, " and an exquisite picture given ofhimself, and the lovely object of his boyish idolatry--

 "I saw two beings to the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green, and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the ware Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men. Scattered at intervals and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs;--the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 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 young--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 interview. Below meextended the "living landscape, " once contemplated 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 andpinnacles of the venerable Abbey. The diadem of trees, however, wasgone. The attention drawn to it by the poet, and the romantic manner inwhich he had associated it with his early passion for Mary Chaworth, had nettled the irritable feelings of her husband, who but ill brookedthe poetic celebrity conferred on his wife by the enamored verses ofanother. The celebrated grove stood on his estate, and in a fit ofspleen he ordered it to be levelled with the dust. At the time of myvisit the mere roots of the trees were visible; but the hand that laidthem low is execrated by every poetical pilgrim. 

Descending the bill, we soon entered a part of what once was AnnesleyPark, and rode among time-worn and tempest-riven oaks and elms, withivy clambering about their trunks, and rooks' nests among theirbranches. The park had been cut up by a post-road, crossing which, wecame to the gate-house of Annesley Hall. It was an old brick buildingthat might have served as an outpost or barbacan to the Hall during thecivil wars, when every gentleman's house was liable to become afortress. Loopholes were still visible in its walls, but the peacefulivy had mantled the sides, overrun the roof, and almost buried theancient clock in front, that still marked the waning hours of itsdecay. 

An arched way led through the centre of the gate-house, secured bygrated doors of open iron work, wrought into flowers and flourishes. These being thrown open, we entered a paved court-yard, decorated withshrubs and antique flowerpots, with a ruined stone fountain in thecentre. 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; for there were stallsboxed up, into which the hunters might be turned loose when they camehome 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 andpieced at various times, and in various tastes, with gable ends, stonebalustrades, and enormous chimneys, that strutted out like buttressesfrom the walls. The whole front of the edifice was overrun withevergreens. 

We applied for admission at the front door, which was under a heavyporch. The portal was strongly barricaded, and our knocking was echoedby waste and empty halls. Every thing bore an appearance ofabandonment. After a time, however, our knocking summoned a solitarytenant from some remote corner of the pile. It was a decent-lookinglittle dame, who emerged from a side door at a distance, and seemed aworthy inmate of the antiquated mansion. She had, in fact, grown oldwith it. Her name, she said, was Nanny Marsden; if she lived until nextAugust, she would be seventy-one; a great part of her life had beenpassed in the Hall, and when the family had removed to Nottingham, shehad been left in charge of it. The front of the house had been thuswarily barricaded in consequence of the late riots at Nottingham, inthe course of which the dwelling of her master had been sacked by themob. To guard against any attempt of the kind upon the Hall, she hadput it in this state of defence; though I rather think she and asuperannuated gardener comprised the whole garrison. "You must beattached to the old building, " said I, "after having lived so long init. " "Ah, sir!" replied she, "I am _getting in years_, and have afurnished cottage of my own in Annesley Wood, and begin to feel as if Ishould like to go and live in my own home. "

Guided by the worthy little custodian of the fortress, we enteredthrough the sally port by which she had issued forth, and soon foundourselves in a spacious, but somewhat gloomy hall, where the light waspartially admitted through square stone-shafted windows, overhung withivy. Everything around us had the air of an old-fashioned countrysquire's establishment. In the centre of the hall was a billiard-table, find about the walls were hung portraits of race-horses, hunters, andfavorite dogs, mingled indiscriminately with family pictures. 

Staircases led up from the hall to various apartments. In one of therooms we were shown a couple of buff jerkins, and a pair of ancientjackboots, of the time of the cavaliers; relics which are often to bemet with in the old English family mansions. These, however, hadpeculiar value, for the good little dame assured us that they hadbelonged to Robin Hood. As we were in the midst of the region overwhich that famous outlaw once bore ruffian sway, it was not for us togainsay his claim to any of these venerable relics, though we mighthave demurred that the articles of dress here shown were of a date muchlater than his time. Every antiquity, however, about Sherwood Forest isapt to be linked with the memory of Robin Hood and his gang. 

As we were strolling about the mansion, our four-footed attendant, Boatswain, followed leisurely, as if taking a survey of the premises. Iturned to rebuke him for his intrusion, but the moment the oldhousekeeper understood he had belonged to Lord Byron, her heart seemedto yearn toward him. "Nay, nay, " exclaimed she, "let him alone, let himgo where he pleases. He's welcome. Ah, dear me! If he lived here Ishould take great care of him--he should want for nothing. --Well!"continued she, fondling him, "who would have thought that I should seea dog of Lord Byron in Annesley Hall!"

"I suppose, then, " said I, "you recollect something of Lord Byron, whenhe used to visit here?" "Ah, bless him!" cried she, "that I do! He usedto ride over here and stay three days at a time, and sleep in the blueroom. 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 seemedto love the very ground she trod on. He used to call her _his brightmorning 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 should not I! He was always main good to me when he camehere. Well, well, they say it is a pity he and my young lady did notmake a match. Her mother would have liked it. He was always a welcomeguest, 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 sawher, and so things took their course. "

The simple soul now showed us into the favorite sitting-room of MissChaworth, with a small flower-garden under the windows, in which shehad delighted. In this room Byron used to sit and listen to her as sheplayed and sang, gazing upon her with the passionate, and almostpainful devotion of a love-sick stripling. He himself gives us aglowing picture of his mute idolatry:

 "He bad no breath, no being, but in hers; She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words; she was his sight. For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which colored all his 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 herown name, he associated with herself, and often persuaded her to singit over and over for him. 

The chamber, like all the other parts of the house, had a look ofsadness and neglect; the flower-pots beneath the window, which oncebloomed beneath the hand of Mary Chaworth, were overrun with weeds; andthe piano, which had once vibrated to her touch, and thrilled the heartof her stripling lover, was now unstrung and out of tune. 

We continued our stroll about the waste apartments, of all shapes andsizes, and without much elegance of decoration. Some of them were hungwith 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 theimagination of the stripling poet, on his first visit to the hall. Asthey gazed down from the wall, he thought they scowled upon him, as ifthey had taken a grudge against him on account of the duel of hisancestor. He even gave this as a reason, though probably in jest, fornot sleeping at the Hall, declaring that he feared they would come downfrom their frames at night to haunt him. 

A feeling of the kind he has embodied in one of his stanzas of "DonJuan:"

 "The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints Look living in the moon; and as you turn Backward and forward to the echoes faint Of your own footsteps--voices from the urn 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, likemost old English mansions that have ancient family portraits hangingabout their dusky galleries and waste apartments, had its ghost storyconnected with these pale memorials of the dead. Our simple-heartedconductor stopped before the portrait of a lady, who had been a beautyin her time, and inhabited the hall in the heyday of her charms. Something mysterious or melancholy was connected with her story; shedied young, but continued for a long time to haunt the ancient mansion, to the great dismay of the servants, and the occasional disquiet of thevisitors, and it was with much difficulty her troubled spirit wasconjured down and put to rest. 

From the rear of the hall we walked out into the garden, about whichByron used to stroll and loiter in company with Miss Chaworth. It waslaid out in the old French style. There was a long terraced walk, withheavy stone balustrades and sculptured urns, overrun with ivy andevergreens. A neglected shrubbery bordered one side of the terrace, with a lofty grove inhabited by a venerable community of rooks. Greatflights of steps led down from the terrace to a flower garden laid outin formal plots. The rear of the Hall, which overlooked the garden, hadthe weather stains of centuries, and its stone-shafted casements and anancient sun-dial against its walls carried back the mind to days ofyore. 

The retired and quiet garden, once a little sequestered world of loveand romance, was now all matted and wild, yet was beautiful, even inits decay. Its air of neglect and desolation was in unison with thefortune of the two beings who had once walked here in the freshness ofyouth, and life, and beauty. The garden, like their young hearts, hadgone to waste and ruin. 

Returning to the Hall we now visited a chamber built over the porch, orgrand entrance. It was in a ruinous condition, the ceiling havingfallen in and the floor given way. This, however, is a chamber renderedinteresting by poetical associations. It is supposed to be the oratoryalluded to by Lord Byron in his "Dream, " wherein he pictures hisdeparture from Annesley, after learning that Mary Chaworth was engagedto be married--

 'There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparisoned; Within an antique oratory stood The boy of whom I 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 his 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 dropp'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 thusleaving the oratory. Arriving on the summit of a hill, which commandedthe last view of Annesley, he checked his horse, and gazed back withmingled pain and fondness upon the groves which embowered the Hall, andthought upon the lovely being that dwelt there, until his feelings werequite dissolved in tenderness. The conviction at length recurred thatshe never could be his, when, rousing himself from his reverie, hestruck his spurs into his steed and dashed forward, as if by rapidmotion to leave reflection behind him. 

Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the verses last quoted, he didpass the "hoary threshold" of Annesley again. It was, however, afterthe 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 Chaworth, too, hadbecome a wife and a mother, and he dined at Annesley Hall at theinvitation of her husband. He thus met the object of his early idolatryin the very scene of his tender devotions, which, as he says, hersmiles had once made a heaven to him. The scene was but little changed. He was in the very chamber where he had so often listened entranced tothe witchery of her voice; there were the same instruments and music;there lay her flower garden beneath the window, and the walks throughwhich he had wandered with her in the intoxication of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the tender recollections which every objectaround him was calculated to awaken, the fond passion of his boyhoodshould rush back in full current to his heart? He was himself surprisedat this sudden revulsion of his feelings, but he had acquired self-possession and could command them. His firmness, however, was doomed toundergo a further trial. While seated by the object of his secretdevotions, with all these recollections throbbing in his bosom, herinfant daughter was brought into the room. At sight of the child hestarted; it dispelled the last lingerings of his dream, and heafterward confessed, that to repress his emotion at the moment, was theseverest part of his task. 

The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom, throughout thisfond and tender, yet painful and embarrassing visit, are touchinglydepicted in lines which he wrote immediately afterward, and which, though not addressed to her by name, are evidently intended for the eyeand the heart of the fair lady of Annesley:

 "Well! thou art happy, and I feel That 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!

 "When late I saw thy favorite child I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

 "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. 

 "I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride Had quench'd at length my boyish flame 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! 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 associationswhich it spread over those scenes in the neighborhood of Newstead, which would necessarily be the places of his frequent resort while inEngland, are alluded to by him as a principal cause of his firstdeparture 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 pilgrimage by seaand land, which was to become the theme of his immortal poem. That theimage of Mary Chaworth, as he saw and loved her in the days of hisboyhood, followed him to the very shore, is shown in the glowingstanzas 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 sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone. Because I cannot love but one. 

 "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 my 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, and loves but one. "

The painful interview at Annesley Hall, which revived with suchintenseness his early passion, remained stamped upon his memory withsingular force, and seems to have survived all his "wandering throughdistant climes, " to which he trusted as an oblivious antidote. Upwardof two years after that event, when, having made his famous pilgrimage, he was once more an inmate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity to AnnesleyHall brought the whole scene vividly before him, and he thus recalls itin 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. 

 "And I have acted well my part, And made my cheek belie my heart, Returned the freezing glance she gave, Yet felt the while _that_ woman's slave;-- Have kiss'd, as if without design, The babe which ought to 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 hewas thus bitterly feeling and expressing the blight which his heart hadsuffered from a _real_ object of affection, that his poems on animaginary one, 'Thyrza, ' were written. " He was at the same timegrieving over the loss of several of his earliest and dearest friendsthe companions of his joyous school-boy hours. To recur to thebeautiful language of Moore, who writes with the kindred and kindlingsympathies of a true poet: "All these recollections of the young andthe dead mingled themselves in his mind with the image of her, who, though living, was for him, as much lost as they, and diffused thatgeneral feeling of sadness and fondness through his soul, which found avent in these poems. . . . It was the blending of the two affections inhis memory and imagination, that gave birth to an ideal objectcombining the best features of both, and drew from him those saddestand tenderest of love poems, in which we find all the depth andintensity of real feeling, touched over with such a light as no realityever wore. "

An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion, however fruitful of painit may be to the man, is a lasting advantage to the poet. It is a wellof sweet and bitter fancies; of refined and gentle sentiments; ofelevated and ennobling thoughts; shut up in the deep recesses of theheart, keeping it green amidst the withering blights of the world, and, by its casual gushings and overflowings, recalling at times all thefreshness, and innocence, and enthusiasm of youthful days. Lord Byronwas conscious of this effect, and purposely cherished and brooded overthe remembrance of his early passion, and of all the scenes of AnnesleyHall connected with it. It was this remembrance that attuned his mindto some of its most elevated and virtuous strains, and shed aninexpressible grace and pathos over his best productions. 

Being thus put upon the traces of this little love-story, I cannotrefrain from threading them out, as they appear from time to time invarious passages of Lord Byron's works. During his subsequent ramblesin the East, when time and distance had softened away his "earlyromance" almost into the remembrance of a pleasing and tender dream, hereceived accounts of the object of it, which represented her, still inher paternal Hall, among her native bowers of Annesley, surrounded by ablooming and beautiful family, yet a prey to secret and witheringmelancholy--

 ----"In her home, A thousand leagues from his, --her native home, She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, Daughters and sons of beauty, but--behold! 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 flutteringhopes which accompanied it, seemed to have revived in his bosom, andthe idea to have flashed upon his mind that his image might beconnected with her secret woes--but he rejected the thought almost assoon 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 theneighborhood of Newstead and Annesley. It was disconnected from allidea of Lord Byron, but attributed to the harsh and capricious conductof one to whose kindness and affection she had a sacred claim. Thedomestic sorrows which had long preyed in secret on her heart, atlength affected her intellect, and the "bright morning star ofAnnesley" 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 unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy. "

Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place, and a succession ofsplendid and spirit-stirring scenes in various countries, the quiet andgentle scene of his boyish love seems to have held a magic sway overthe recollections of Lord Byron, and the image of Mary Chaworth to haveunexpectedly obtruded itself upon his mind like some supernaturalvisitation. Such was the fact on the occasion of his marriage with MissMilbanke; Annesley Hall and all its fond associations floated like avision before his thoughts, even when at the altar, and on the point ofpronouncing the nuptial vows. The circumstance is related by him with aforce 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 an 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 quiet, and he spoke The fitting vows, but beard not his own words, And all things reel'd 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 had they there at such a time?"

The history of Lord Byron's union is too well known to need narration. The errors, and humiliations, and heart-burnings that followed upon it, gave additional effect to the remembrance of his early passion, andtormented him with the idea, that had he been successful in his suit tothe lovely heiress of Annesley, they might both have shared a happierdestiny. 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, "why do I say _my_?Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by ourfathers; it would have joined lands broad and rich; it would havejoined at least _one_ heart, and two persons not ill-matched inyears-and--and--and--what has been the result?"

But enough of Annesley Hall and the poetical themes connected with it. I felt as if I could linger for hours about its ruined oratory, andsilent hall, and neglected garden, and spin reveries and dream dreams, until all became an ideal world around me. The day, however, was fastdeclining, and the shadows of evening throwing deeper shades ofmelancholy about the place. Taking our leave of the worthy oldhousekeeper, therefore, with a small compensation and many thanks forher civilities, we mounted our horses and pursued our way back toNewstead 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 beautiful sheetsof water, formed in old times by the monks by damming up the course ofa small river. Here he used daily to enjoy his favorite recreations inswimming and sailing. The "wicked old Lord, " in his scheme of ruraldevastation, had cut down all the woods that once fringed the lake;Lord Byron, on coming of age, endeavored to restore them, and abeautiful young wood, planted by him, now sweeps up from the water'sedge, and clothes the hillside opposite to the Abbey. To this woodynook Colonel Wildman has given the appropriate title of "the Poet'sCorner. "

The lake has inherited its share of the traditions and fables connectedwith everything in and about the Abbey. It was a petty Mediterraneansea on which the "wicked old Lord" used to gratify his nautical tastesand 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 remains of his petty fortifications still awaken thecurious inquiries of visitors. In one of his vagaries, he caused alarge vessel to be brought on wheels from the sea-coast and launched inthe lake. The country people were surprised to see a ship thus sailingover dry land. They called to mind a saying of Mother Shipton, thefamous prophet of the vulgar, that whenever a ship freighted with lingshould cross Sherwood Forest, Newstead would pass out of the Byronfamily. The country people, who detested the old Lord, were anxious toverify the prophecy. Ling, in the dialect of Nottingham, is the namefor 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 thetreasures that are supposed to lie buried in its bosom. These may havetaken their origin in a fact which actually occurred. There was onetime fished up from the deep part of the lake a great eagle of moltenbrass, with expanded wings, standing on a pedestal or perch of the samemetal. It had doubtless served as a stand or reading-desk, in the Abbeychapel, to hold a folio Bible or missal. 

The sacred relic was sent to a brazier to be cleaned. As he was at workupon it, he discovered that the pedestal was hollow and composed ofseveral pieces. Unscrewing these, he drew forth a number of parchmentdeeds and grants appertaining to the Abbey, and bearing the seals ofEdward III. And Henry VIII. , which had thus been concealed, andultimately sunk in the lake by the friars, to substantiate their rightand title to these domains at some future day. 

One of the parchment scrolls thus discovered, throws rather an awkwardlight upon the kind of life led by the friars of Newstead. It is anindulgence granted to them for a certain number of months, in whichplenary pardon is assured in advance for all kinds of crimes, amongwhich, several of the most gross and sensual are specificallymentioned, and the weakness of the flesh to which they are prone. 

After inspecting these testimonials of monkish life, in the regions ofSherwood Forest, we cease to wonder at the virtuous indignation ofRobin Hood and his outlaw crew, at the sleek sensualists of thecloister:

 "I never hurt the husbandman, That use to till the ground, Nor spill their blood that range the wood To follow hawk and hound, "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 OF ROBIN HOOD. 

The brazen eagle has been transferred to the parochial and collegiatechurch of Southall, about twenty miles from Newstead, where it maystill be seen in the centre of the chancel, supporting, as of yore, aponderous Bible. As to the documents it contained, they are carefullytreasured up by Colonel Wildman among his other deeds and papers, in aniron chest secured by a patent lock of nine bolts, almost equal to amagic spell. 

The fishing up of this brazen relic, as I have already hinted, hasgiven rise to the tales of treasure lying at the bottom of the lake, thrown in there by the monks when they abandoned the Abbey. Thefavorite story is, that there is a great iron chest there filled withgold and jewels, and chalices and crucifixes. Nay, that it has beenseen, when the water of the lake was unusually low. There were largeiron rings at each end, but all attempts to move it were ineffectual;either the gold it contained was too ponderous, or what is moreprobable, it was secured by one of those magic spells usually laid uponhidden treasure. It remains, therefore, at the bottom of the lake tothis day; and it is to be hoped, may one day or other be discovered bythe present worthy proprietor. 

ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 

While at Newstead Abbey I took great delight in riding and ramblingabout the neighborhood, studying out the traces of merry SherwoodForest, and visiting the haunts of Robin Hood. The relics of the oldforest are few and scattered, but as to the bold outlaw who once held akind of freebooting sway over it, there is scarce a hill or dale, acliff or cavern, a well or fountain, in this part of the country, thatis not connected with his memory. The very names of some of the tenantson the Newstead estate, such as Beardall and Hardstaff, sound as ifthey may have been borne in old times by some of the stalwart fellowsof the outlaw gang. One of the earliest books that captivated my fancywhen a child, was a collection of Robin Hood ballads, "adorned withcuts, " which I bought of an old Scotch pedler, at the cost of all myholiday money. How I devoured its pages, and gazed upon its uncouthwoodcuts! For a time my mind was filled with picturings of "merrySherwood, " and the exploits and revelling of the hold foresters; andRobin Hood, Little John, Friar Tuck, and their doughty compeers, weremy heroes of romance. 

These early feelings were in some degree revived when I found myself inthe very heart of the far-famed forest, and, as I said before, I took akind of schoolboy delight in hunting up all traces of old Sherwood andits sylvan chivalry. One of the first of my antiquarian rambles was onhorseback, in company with Colonel Wildman and his lady, who undertookto guide me to Borne of the moldering monuments of the forest. One ofthese stands in front of the very gate of Newstead Park, and is knownthroughout the country by the name of "The Pilgrim Oak. " It is avenerable tree, of great size, overshadowing a wide arena of the road. Under its shade the rustics of the neighborhood have been accustomed toassemble on certain holidays, and celebrate their rural festivals. Thiscustom 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, whenhe laid his desolating hand on the groves and forests of Newstead, doomed likewise this traditional tree to the axe. Fortunately the goodpeople of Nottingham heard of the danger of their favorite oak, andhastened to ransom it from destruction. They afterward made a presentof it to the poet, when he came to the estate, and the Pilgrim Oak islikely to continue a rural gathering place for many coming generations. 

From this magnificent and time-honored tree we continued on our sylvanresearch, in quest of another oak, of more ancient date and lessflourishing condition. A ride of two or three miles, the latter partacross open wastes, once clothed with forest, now bare and cheerless, brought us to the tree in question. It was the Oak of Ravenshead, oneof the last survivors of old Sherwood, and which had evidently onceheld a high head in the forest; it was now a mere wreck, crazed bytime, and blasted by lightning, and standing alone on a naked waste, like a ruined column in a desert. 

 "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, Hare bounded by through gay green-wood. "

At no great distance from Ravenshead Oak is a small cave which goes bythe name of Robin Hood's stable. It is in the breast of a hill, scoopedout of brown freestone, with rude attempt at columns and arches. Withinare two niches, which served, it is said, as stalls for the boldoutlaw's horses. To this retreat he retired when hotly pursued by thelaw, for the place was a secret even from his band. The cave isovershadowed by an oak and alder, and is hardly discoverable even atthe present day; but when the country was overrun with forest it musthave been completely concealed. 

There was an agreeable wildness and loneliness in a great part of ourride. Our devious road wound down, at one time among rocky dells, bywandering streams, and lonely pools, haunted by shy water-fowl. Wepassed through a skirt of woodland, of more modern planting, butconsidered a legitimate offspring of the ancient forest, and commonlycalled Jock of Sherwood. In riding through these quiet, solitaryscenes, the partridge and pheasant would now and then burst upon thewing, and the hare scud away before us. 

Another of these rambling rides in quest of popular antiquities, was toa chain of rocky cliffs, called the Kirkby Crags, which skirt the RobinHood hills. Here, leaving my horse at the foot of the crags, I scaledtheir rugged sides, and seated myself in a niche of the rocks, calledRobin Hood's chair. It commands a wide prospect over the valley ofNewstead, and here the bold outlaw is said to have taken his seat, andkept a look-out upon the roads below, watching for merchants, andbishops, and other wealthy travellers, upon whom to pounce down, likean eagle from his eyrie. 

Descending from the cliffs and remounting my horse, a ride of a mile ortwo further along a narrow "robber path, " as it was called, which woundup into the hills between perpendicular rocks, led to an artificialcavern cut in the face of a cliff, with a door and window wroughtthrough the living stone. This bears the name of Friar Tuck's cell, orhermitage, where, according to tradition, that jovial anchorite used tomake good cheer and boisterous revel with his freebooting comrades. 

Such were some of the vestiges of old Sherwood and its renowned"yeomandrie, " which I visited in the neighborhood of Newstead. Theworthy clergyman who officiated as chaplain at the Abbey, seeing myzeal in the cause, informed me of a considerable tract of the ancientforest, still in existence about ten miles distant. There were manyfine old oaks in it, he said, that had stood for centuries, but werenow shattered and "stag-headed, " that is to say, their upper brancheswere bare, and blasted, and straggling out like the antlers of, a deer. Their trunks, too, were hollow, and full of crows and jackdaws, whomade them their nestling places. He occasionally rode over to theforest in the long summer evenings, and pleased himself with loiteringin the twilight about the green alleys and under the venerable trees. 

The description given by the chaplain made me anxious to visit thisremnant of old Sherwood, and he kindly offered to be my guide andcompanion. We accordingly sallied forth one morning on horseback onthis sylvan expedition. Our ride took us through a part of the countrywhere King John had once held a hunting seat; the ruins of which arestill to be seen. At that time the whole neighbor hood was an openroyal forest, or Frank chase, as it was termed; for King John was anenemy to parks and warrens, and other inclosures, by which game wasfenced in for the private benefit and recreation of the nobles and theclergy. 

Here, on the brow of a gentle hill, commanding an extensive prospect ofwhat had once been forest, stood another of those monumental trees, which, to my mind, gave a peculiar interest to this neighborhood. Itwas the Parliament Oak, so called in memory of an assemblage of thekind held by King John beneath its shade. The lapse of upward of sixcenturies had reduced this once mighty tree to a mere crumblingfragment, yet, like a gigantic torso in ancient statuary, the grandeurof the mutilated trunk gave evidence of what it had been in the days ofits glory. In contemplating its mouldering remains, the fancy busieditself in calling up the scene that must have been presented beneathits shade, when this sunny hill swarmed with the pageantry of a warlikeand hunting court. When silken pavilions and warrior-tents decked itscrest, and royal standards, and baronial banners, and knightly pennonsrolled out to the breeze. When prelates and courtiers, and steel-cladchivalry thronged round the person of the monarch, while at a distanceloitered the foresters in green, and all the rural and hunting trainthat waited upon his sylvan sports. 

 'A thousand vassals mustered round With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; And through the brake the rangers 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 myimagination, peopling the silent place before me with empty shadows ofthe 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 thisonce stirring scene of human pomp and power--a mouldering oak, and atradition. 

 "We are such stuff as dreams are made of!"

A ride of a few miles farther brought us at length among the venerableand classic shades of Sherwood, Here I was delighted to find myself ina genuine wild wood, of primitive and natural growth, so rarely to bemet with in this thickly peopled and highly cultivated country. Itreminded me of the aboriginal forests of my native land. I rode throughnatural alleys and green-wood groves, carpeted with grass and shaded bylofty and beautiful birches. What most interested me, however, was tobehold around me the mighty trunks of veteran oaks, old monumentaltrees, the patriarchs of Sherwood Forest. They were shattered, hollow, and moss-grown, it is true, and their "leafy honors" were nearlydeparted; but like mouldering towers they were noble and picturesque intheir decay, and gave evidence, even in their ruins, of their ancientgrandeur. 

As I gazed about me upon these vestiges of once "Merrie Sherwood, " thepicturings of my boyish fancy began to rise in my mind, and Robin Hoodand 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. 

 "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. Isaw this sylvan chivalry, half huntsmen, half freebooters, troopingacross the distant glades, or feasting and revelling beneath the trees;I was going on to embody in this way all the ballad scenes that haddelighted me when a boy, when the distant sound of a wood-cutter's axeroused me from my day-dream. 

The boding apprehensions which it awakened were too soon verified. Ihad not ridden much farther, when I came to an open space where thework of destruction was going on. Around me lay the prostrate trunks ofvenerable oaks, once the towering and magnificent lords of the forest, and a number of wood-cutters were hacking and hewing at anothergigantic tree, just tottering to its fall. 

Alas! for old Sherwood Forest: it had fallen into the possession of anoble agriculturist; a modern utilitarian, who had no feeling forpoetry or forest scenery. In a little while and this glorious woodlandwill be laid low; its green glades be turned into sheep-walks; itslegendary 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! thatshed a sanctity over every grove; that gave to each tree its tutelargenius or nymph, and threatened disaster to all who should molest thehamadryads in their leafy abodes. Alas! for the sordid propensities ofmodern days, when everything is coined into gold, and this once holidayplanet of ours is turned into a mere 'working-day world. '"

My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feelings out of tune, I leftthe forest in a far different mood from that in which I had entered it, and rode silently along until, on reaching the summit of a gentleeminence, the chime of evening bells came on the breeze across theheath 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 storiedneighborhood, that called up early and pleasant associations. Thefamous old ballad of the King and the Miller of Mansfield came at onceto mind, and the chime of the bells 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 stalwartshaveling Friar Tuck, who was a kind of saint militant, alternatelywearing 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 strongholdof this jovial and fighting friar; and the place where he and RobinHood had their sturdy trial of strength and prowess, in the memorableconflict 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 ofsword and trencher, performed by this "curtal fryar, " behold are theynot recorded at length in the ancient ballads, and in the magic pagesof Ivanhoe?

The evening was fast coming on, and the twilight thickening, as we rodethrough these haunts famous in outlaw story. A melancholy seemed togather over the landscape as we proceeded, for our course lay byshadowy woods, and across naked heaths, and along lonely roads, markedby some of those sinister names by which the country people in Englandare apt to make dreary places still more dreary. The horrors of"Thieves' Wood, " and the "Murderers' Stone, " and "the Hag Nook, " hadall to be encountered in the gathering gloom of evening, and threatenedto beset our path with more than mortal peril. Happily, however, wepassed these ominous places unharmed, and arrived in safety at theportal of Newstead Abbey, highly satisfied with our green-wood foray. 

THE ROOK CELL. 

In the course of my sojourn at the Abbey, I changed my quarters fromthe magnificent old state apartment haunted by Sir John Byron theLittle, to another in a remote corner of the ancient edifice, immediately adjoining the ruined chapel. It possessed still moreinterest in my eyes, from having been the sleeping apartment of LordByron during his residence at the Abbey. The furniture remained thesame. Here was the bed in which he slept, and which he had brought withhim from college; its gilded posts surmounted by coronets, givingevidence of his aristocratical feelings. Here was likewise his collegesofa; 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 BookCell, from its vicinity to the Rookery which, since time immemorial, has maintained possession of a solemn grove adjacent to the chapel. This venerable community afforded me much food for speculation duringmy residence in this apartment. In the morning I used to hear themgradually waking and seeming to call each other up. After a time, thewhole fraternity would be in a flutter; some balancing and swinging onthe tree tops, others perched on the pinnacle of the Abbey church, orwheeling and hovering about in the air, and the ruined walls wouldreverberate with their incessant cawings. In this way they would lingerabout the rookery and its vicinity for the early part of the morning, when, having apparently mustered all their forces, called over theroll, and determined upon their line of march, they one and all wouldsail off in a long straggling flight to maraud the distant fields. Theywould forage the country for miles, and remain absent all day, excepting now and then a scout would come home, as if to see that allwas well. Toward night the whole host might be seen, like a dark cloudin the distance, winging their way homeward. They came, as it were, with whoop and halloo, wheeling high in the air above the Abbey, makingvarious evolutions before they alighted, and then keeping up anincessant cawing in the tree tops, until they gradually fell asleep. 

It is remarked at the Abbey, that the rooks, though they sally forth onforays throughout the week, yet keep about the venerable edifice onSundays, as if they had inherited a reverence for the day, from theirancient confreres, the monks. Indeed, a believer in the metempsychosismight easily imagine these Gothic-looking birds to be the embodiedsouls of the ancient friars still hovering about their sanctifiedabode. 

I dislike to disturb any point of popular and poetic faith, and wasloath, therefore, to question the authenticity of this mysteriousreverence for the Sabbath on the part of the Newstead rooks; butcertainly in the course of my sojourn in the Rook Cell, I detected themin a flagrant outbreak and foray on a bright Sunday morning. 

Beside the occasional clamor of the rookery, this remote apartment wasoften greeted with sounds of a different kind, from the neighboringruins. The great lancet window in front of the chapel, adjoins the verywall of the chamber; and the mysterious sounds from it at night havebeen 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 fire. 

 "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 hadin sooth, got lodged in another haunted apartment of the Abbey; for inthis chamber Lord Byron declared he had more than once been harassed atmidnight by a mysterious visitor. A black shapeless form would sitcowering upon his bed, and after gazing at him for a time with glaringeyes, would roll off and disappear. The same uncouth apparition is saidto have disturbed the slumbers of a newly married couple that oncepassed their honeymoon in this apartment. 

I would observe, that the access to the Rook Cell is by a spiral stonestaircase leading up into it, as into a turret, from, the long shadowycorridor over the cloisters, one of the midnight walks of the GoblinFriar. Indeed, to the fancies engendered in his brain in this remoteand lonely apartment, incorporated with the floating superstitions ofthe Abbey, we are no doubt indebted for the spectral scene in "DonJuan. "

 "Then as the night was clear, though cold, he threw His chamber door wide open--and went forth Into a gallery, of sombre hue, Long furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames, heroic and chaste too, As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

 "No 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. 

 "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 shadowy 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, Or 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 stauds a statue, stood: he felt his 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 wanted. 

 "The third time, after a still longer pause, 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 tall, Might come or go; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

 "He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd An age--expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd: Then by degrees recall'd his energies, And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream. But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, Waking already, and return'd at length Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. "

As I have already observed, it is difficult to determine whether LordByron was really subject to the superstitious fancies which have beenimputed to him, or whether he merely amused himself by giving currencyto them among his domestics and dependents. He certainly never scrupledto express a belief in supernatural visitations, both verbally and inhis correspondence. If such were his foible, the Rook Cell was anadmirable place to engender these delusions. As I have lain awake atnight, I have heard all kinds of mysterious and sighing sounds from theneighboring ruin. Distant footsteps, too, and the closing of doors inremote parts of the Abbey, would send hollow reverberations and echoesalong the corridor and up the spiral staircase. Once, in fact, I wasroused by a strange sound at the very door of my chamber. I threw itopen, and a form "black and shapeless with glaring eyes" stood beforeme. It proved, however, neither ghost nor goblin, but my friendBoatswain, the great Newfoundland dog, who had conceived acompanionable liking for me, and occasionally sought me in myapartment. To the hauntings of even such a visitant as honest Boatswainmay 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 Abbeylands, we found ourselves in one of the prettiest little wild woodsimaginable. The road to it had led us among rocky ravines overhung withthickets, and now wound through birchen dingles and among beautifulgroves and clumps of elms and beeches. A limpid rill of sparklingwater, winding and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed our pathrepeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance of being watered bynumerous rivulets. The solitary and romantic look of this piece ofwoodland, and the frequent recurrence of its mazy stream, put him inmind, Colonel Wildman said, of the little German fairy tale of Undine, in which is recorded the adventures of a knight who had married awater-nymph. As he rode with his bride through her native woods, everystream claimed her as a relative; one was a brother, another an uncle, another a cousin. We rode on amusing ourselves with applying thisfanciful tale to the charming scenery around us, until we came to alowly gray-stone farmhouse, of ancient date, situated in a solitaryglen, 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. Withthis rustic mansion was connected a little tale of real life, somecircumstances of which were related to me on the spot, and others Icollected in the course of my sojourn at the Abbey. 

Not long after Colonel Wildman had purchased the estate of Newstead, hemade it a visit for the purpose of planning repairs and alterations. Ashe was rambling one evening, about dusk, in company with his architect, through this little piece of woodland, he was struck with its peculiarcharacteristics, and then, for the first time, compared it to thehaunted wood of Undine. While he was making the remark, a small femalefigure in white, flitted by without speaking a word, or indeedappearing 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. "Howmuch a poet or a romance writer would make of such an apparition, atsuch a time and in such a place!"

He began to congratulate himself upon having some elfin inhabitant forhis haunted wood, when, on proceeding a few paces, he found a whitefrill lying in the path, which had evidently fallen from the figurethat had just passed. 

"Well, " said he, "after all, this is neither sprite nor fairy, but abeing of flesh, and blood, and muslin. "

Continuing on, he came to where the road passed by an old mill in frontof the Abbey. The people of the mill were at the door. He paused andinquired whether any visitor had been at the Abbey, but was answered inthe negative. 

"Has nobody passed by here?"

"No one, sir. "

"That's strange! Surely I met a female in white, who must have passedalong this path. "

"Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady--oh, yes, she passed by herenot 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 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 amateuremployed in making sketches of the Abbey, and thought no more about thematter. He went to London, and was absent for some time. In theinterim, his sister, who was newly married, came with her husband topass the honeymoon at the Abbey. The Little White Lady still resided inthe Weir Mill farmhouse, on the border of the haunted wood, andcontinued her visits daily to the Abbey. Her dress was always the same, a white gown with a little black spencer or bodice, and a white hatwith a short veil that screened the upper part of her countenance. Herhabits were shy, lonely, and silent; she spoke to no one, and sought nocompanionship, excepting with the Newfoundland dog that had belonged toLord Byron. His friendship she secured by caressing him andoccasionally bringing him food, and he became the companion of hersolitary walks. She avoided all strangers, and wandered about theretired parts of the garden; sometimes sitting for hours by the tree onwhich Lord Byron had carved his name, or at the foot of the monumentwhich he had erected among the ruins of the chapel. Sometimes she read, sometimes she wrote with a pencil on a small slate which she carriedwith her, but much of her time was passed in a kind of reverie. 

The people about the place gradually became accustomed to her, andsuffered her to wander about unmolested; their distrust of her subsidedon discovering that most of her peculiar and lonely habits arose fromthe misfortune of being deaf and dumb. Still she was regarded with somedegree of shyness, for it was the common opinion that she was notexactly in her right mind. 

Colonel Wildman's sister was informed of all these circumstances by theservants of the Abbey, among whom the Little White Lady was a theme offrequent discussion. The Abbey and its monastic environs being hauntedground, it was natural that a mysterious visitant of the kind, and onesupposed to be under the influence of mental hallucination, shouldinspire awe in a person unaccustomed to the place. As Colonel Wildman'ssister was one day walking along abroad terrace of the garden, shesuddenly beheld the Little White Lady coming toward her, and, in thesurprise and agitation of the moment, turned and ran into the house. Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more was seen of this singularpersonage. Colonel Wildman at length arrived at the Abbey, and hissister mentioned to him her encounter and fright in the garden. Itbrought to mind his own adventure with the Little White Lady in thewood of Undine, and he was surprised to find that she still continuedher mysterious wanderings about the Abbey. The mystery was soonexplained. Immediately after his arrival he received a letter writtenin the most minute and delicate female hand, and in elegant and eveneloquent language. It was from the Little White Lady. She had noticedand been shocked by the abrupt retreat of Colonel Wildman's sister onseeing her in the garden walk, and expressed her unhappiness at beingan object of alarm to any of his family. She explained the motives ofher frequent and long visits to the Abbey, which proved to be asingularly enthusiastic idolatry of the genius of Lord Byron, and asolitary and passionate delight in haunting the scenes he had onceinhabited. She hinted at the infirmities which cut her off from allsocial communion with her fellow beings, and at her situation in lifeas desolate and bereaved; and concluded by hoping that he would notdeprive her of her only comfort, the permission of visiting the Abbeyoccasionally, and lingering about the walks and gardens. 

Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries concerning her, and foundthat she was a great favorite with the people of the farmhouse whereshe boarded, from the gentleness, quietude, and innocence of hermanners. When at home, she passed the greater part of her time in asmall sitting-room, reading and writing. Colonel Wildman immediatelycalled on her at the farmhouse. She received him with some agitationand embarrassment, but his frankness and urbanity soon put her at herease. She was past the bloom of youth, a pale, nervous little being, and apparently deficient in most of her physical organs, for inaddition to being deaf and dumb, she saw but imperfectly. They carriedon a communication by means of a small slate, which she drew out of herreticule, and on which they wrote their questions and replies. Inwriting or reading she always approached her eyes close to the writtencharacters. 

This defective organization was accompanied by a morbid sensibilityalmost amounting to disease. She had not been born deaf and dumb; buthad lost her hearing in a fit of sickness, and with it the power ofdistinct articulation. Her life had evidently been checkered andunhappy; she was apparently 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 nativecountry as I could be in the remotest parts of the world. By all I amconsidered as a stranger and an alien; no one will acknowledge anyconnection with me. I seem not to belong to the human species. "

Such were the circumstances that Colonel Wildman was able to draw forthin the course of his conversation, and they strongly interested him infavor of this poor enthusiast. He was too devout an admirer of LordByron himself, not to sympathize in this extraordinary zeal of one ofhis votaries, and he entreated her to renew her visits at the Abbey, assuring her that the edifice and its grounds should always be open toher. 

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 anddiffident, however, and evidently fearful of intruding. If any personswere walking in the garden she would avoid them, and seek the mostremote parts; and was seen like a sprite, only by gleams and glimpses, as she glided among the groves and thickets. Many of her feelings andfancies, during these lonely rambles, were embodied in verse, noteddown on her tablet, and transferred to paper in the evening on herreturn to the farmhouse. Some of these verses now lie before me, written with considerable harmony of versification, but chiefly curiousas being illustrative of that singular and enthusiastic idolatry withwhich she almost worshipped the genius of Byron, or rather, theromantic image of him formed by her imagination. 

Two or three extracts may not be unacceptable. The following are from along 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 thrill That solely to thy verse belong. 

 "This--but far more, for thee we prove, Something that bears a holier name, Than 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 becalled, was entirely spiritual and ideal, for, as she herself declaresin 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 Abbeygrounds, but extended to all parts of the neighborhood connected withthe memory of Lord Byron, and among the rest to the groves and gardensof Annesley Hall, the seat of his early passion for Miss Chaworth. Oneof her poetical effusions mentions her having seen from Howet's Hill inAnnesley Park, a "sylph-like form, " in a car drawn by milk-whitehorses, passing by the foot of the hill, who proved to be the "favoritechild, " seen by Lord Byron, in his memorable interview with MissChaworth after her marriage. That favorite child was now a bloominggirl approaching to womanhood, and seems to have understood somethingof the character and story of this singular visitant, and to havetreated her with gentle sympathy. The Little White Lady expresses, intouching terms, in a note to her verses, her sense of this gentlecourtesy. "The benevolent condescension, " says she, "of that amiableand interesting young lady, to the unfortunate writer of these simplelines will remain engraved upon a grateful memory, till the vital sparkthat now animates a heart that too sensibly feels, and too seldomexperiences such kindness, is forever extinct. "

In the mean time, Colonel Wildman, in occasional interviews, hadobtained further particulars of the story of the stranger, and foundthat poverty was added to the other evils of her forlorn and isolatedstate. Her name was Sophia Hyatt. She was the daughter of a countrybookseller, but both her parents had died several years before. Attheir death, her sole dependence was upon her brother, who allowed hera small annuity on her share of the property left by their father, andwhich remained in his hands. Her brother, who was a captain of amerchant vessel, removed with his family to America, leaving her almostalone in the world, for she had no other relative in England but acousin, of whom she knew almost nothing. She received her annuityregularly for a time, but unfortunately her brother died in the WestIndies, leaving his affairs in confusion, and his estate overhung byseveral commercial claims, which threatened to swallow up the whole. Under these disastrous circumstances, her annuity suddenly ceased; shehad in vain tried to obtain a renewal of it from the widow, or even anaccount of the state of her brother's affairs. Her letters for threeyears past had remained unanswered, and she would have been exposed tothe horrors of the most abject want, but for a pittance quarterly doledout to her by her cousin in England. 

Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benevolence into the storyof her troubles. He saw that she was a helpless, unprotected being, unable, from her infirmities and her ignorance of the world, toprosecute her just claims. He obtained from her the address of herrelations in America, and of the commercial connection of her brother;promised, through the medium of his own agents in Liverpool, toinstitute an inquiry into the situation of her brother's affairs, andto forward any letters she might write, so as to insure their reachingtheir place of destination. 

Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little White Lady continued herwanderings about the Abbey and its neighborhood. The delicacy andtimidity of her deportment increased the interest already felt for herby Mrs. Wildman. That lady, with her wonted kindness, sought to makeacquaintance with her, and inspire her with confidence. She invited herinto the Abbey; treated her with the most delicate attention, and, seeing that she had a great turn for reading, offered her the loan ofany books in her possession. She borrowed a few, particularly the worksof Sir Walter Scott, but soon returned them; the writings of Lord Byronseemed to form the only study in which she delighted, and when notoccupied in reading those, her time was passed in passionatemeditations on his genius. Her enthusiasm spread an ideal world aroundher in which she moved and existed as in a dream, forgetful at times ofthe 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 growinginfirmities rendered but too probable. It is headed by the followingparagraph. 

"Written beneath the tree on Crowholt Hill, where it is my wish to beinterred (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 rest!

 "'Twould add even to a seraph's bliss, Whose sacred charge thou 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 'high world' I soar, where 'love Surviving' forms the bliss of Heaven. 

 "O wheresoe'er, in realms above, Assign'd 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 feet 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 Newsteadof the untimely death of Lord Byron. How they were received by thishumble but passionate devotee I could not ascertain; her life was tooobscure and lonely to furnish much personal anecdote, but among herpoetical effusions are several written in a broken and irregularmanner, and evidently under great agitation. 

The following sonnet is the most coherent and most descriptive of herpeculiar state of mind:

 "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 Elysian, Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth; Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron! 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 consideration, it isevident that this strong excitement and exclusive occupation of themind upon one subject, operating upon a system in a high state ofmorbid irritability, was in danger of producing that species of mentalderangement called monomania. The poor little being was aware, herself, of the dangers of her case, and alluded to it in the following passageof a letter to Colonel Wildman, which presents one of the mostlamentable pictures of anticipated evil ever conjured up by the humanmind. 

"I have long, " writes she, "too sensibly felt the decay of my mentalfaculties, which I consider as the certain indication of that dreadedcalamity which I anticipate with such terror. A strange idea has longhaunted my mind, that Swift's dreadful fate will be mine. It is notordinary insanity I so much apprehend, but something worse--absoluteidiotism!

"O sir! think what I must suffer from such an idea, without an earthlyfriend to look up to for protection in such a wretched state--exposedto the indecent insults which such spectacles always excite. But I darenot dwell upon the thought: it would facilitate the event I so muchdread, and contemplate with horror. Yet I cannot help thinking frompeople's behavior to me at times, and from after reflections upon myconduct, that symptoms of the disease are already apparent. "

Five months passed away, but the letters written by her, and forwardedby Colonel Wildman to America relative to her brother's affairs, remained unanswered; the inquiries instituted by the Colonel had as yetproved equally fruitless. A deeper gloom and despondency now seemed togather upon her mind. She began to talk of leaving Newstead, andrepairing to London, in the vague hope of obtaining relief or redressby instituting some legal process to ascertain and enforce the will ofher deceased brother. Weeks elapsed, however, before she could summonup sufficient resolution to tear herself away from the scene ofpoetical fascination. The following simple stanzas, selected from anumber written about the time, express, in humble rhymes, themelancholy that preyed upon 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; wandering over every part ofthe grounds and garden; pausing and lingering at every placeparticularly associated with the recollection of Lord Byron; andpassing a long time seated at the foot of the monument, which she usedto call "her altar. " Seeking Mrs. Wildman, she placed in her hands asealed packet, with an earnest request that she would not open it untilafter her departure from the neighborhood. This done she took anaffectionate leave of her, and with many bitter tears bade farewell tothe Abbey. 

On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman could not refrainfrom inspecting the legacy of this singular being. On opening thepacket, she found a number of fugitive poems, written in a mostdelicate and minute hand, and evidently the fruits of her reveries andmeditations during her lonely rambles; from these the foregoingextracts have been made. These were accompanied by a voluminous letter, written with the pathos and eloquence of genuine feeling, and depictingher peculiar situation and singular state of mind in dark but painfulcolors. 

"The last time, " says she, "that I had the pleasure of seeing you, inthe garden, you asked me why I leave Newstead; when I told you mycircumstances obliged me, the expression of concern which I fancied Iobserved in your look and manner would have encouraged me to have beenexplicit at the time, but from my inability of expressing myselfverbally. "

She then goes on to detail precisely her pecuniary circumstances, bywhich it appears that her whole dependence for subsistence was on anallowance of thirteen pounds a year from her cousin, who bestowed itthrough a feeling of pride, lest his relative should come upon theparish. During two years this pittance had been augmented from othersources, to twenty-three pounds, but the last year it had shrunk withinits original bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly, that she could notfeel sure of its continuance from one quarter to another. More thanonce it had been withheld on slight pretences, and she was in constantdread lest it should be entirely withdrawn. 

"It is with extreme reluctance, " observed she, "that I have so farexposed my unfortunate situation; but I thought you expected to knowsomething more of it, and I feared that Colonel Wildman, deceived byappearances, might think that I am in no immediate want, and that thedelay of a few weeks, or months, respecting the inquiry, can be of nomaterial consequence. It is absolutely necessary to the success of thebusiness that Colonel Wildman should know the exact state of mycircumstances without reserve, that he may be enabled to make a correctrepresentation of them to any gentleman whom he intends to interest, who, I presume, if they are not of America themselves, have someconnections there, through whom my friends may be convinced of thereality of my distress, if they pretend to doubt it, as I suppose theydo. But to be more explicit is impossible; it would be too humiliatingto particularize the circumstances of the embarrassment in which I amunhappily involved--my utter destitution. To disclose all might, too, be liable to an inference which I hope I am not so void of delicacy, ofnatural pride, as to endure the thought of. Pardon me, madam, for thusgiving trouble, where I have no right to do--compelled to throw myselfupon Colonel Wildman's humanity, to entreat his earnest exertions in mybehalf, for it is now my only resource. Yet do not too much despise mefor 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 worldthere 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 foundon earth, and I fear will be denied me there. "

Another part of her letter develops more completely the darkdespondency hinted at in the conclusion of the foregoing extract--andpresents a lamentable instance of a mind diseased, which sought invain, amidst sorrow and calamity, the sweet consolations of religiousfaith. 

"That my existence has hitherto been prolonged, " says she, "oftenbeyond what I have thought to have been its destined period, isastonishing to myself. Often when my situation has been as desperate, as hopeless, or more so, if possible, than it is at present, someunexpected interposition of Providence has rescued me from a fate thathas appeared inevitable. I do not particularly allude to recentcircumstances or latter years, for from my earlier years I have beenthe child of Providence--then why should I distrust its care now? I donot _dis_trust it--neither do I trust it. I feel perfectlyunanxious, unconcerned, and indifferent as to the future; but this isnot trust in Providence--not that trust which alone claims itprotections. I know this is a blamable indifference--it is more--for itreaches to the interminable future. It turns almost with disgust fromthe bright prospects which religion offers for the consolation andsupport of the wretched, and to which I was early taught, by an almostadored mother, to look forward with hope and joy; but to me they canafford no consolation. Not that I doubt the sacred truths that religioninculcates. I cannot doubt--though I confess I have sometimes tried todo so, because I no longer wish for that immortality of which itassures us. My only wish now is for rest and peace--endless rest. 'Forrest--but not to feel 'tis rest, ' but I cannot delude myself with thehope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an internal evidence, stronger than any arguments that reason or religion can enforce, that Ihave that within me which is imperishable; that drew not its originfrom the 'clod of the valley. ' With this conviction, but without a hopeto brighten the prospect of that dread future:

"'I dare not look beyond the tomb, Yet cannot hope for peace before. 'Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, madam, must excite yourcommiseration. It is perhaps owing, in part at least, to the solitudein which I have lived, I may say, even in the midst of society; when Ihave mixed in it; as my infirmities entirely exclude me from that sweetintercourse of kindred spirits--that sweet solace of refinedconversation; the little intercourse I have at any time with thosearound 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 meto their society, they could not by all their generous efforts, even inearly youth, lure from my dark soul the thoughts that loved to lieburied there, nor inspire me with the courage to attempt theirdisclosure; and yet of all the pleasures of polished life which fancyhas often pictured to me in such vivid colors, there is not one that Ihave so ardently coveted as that sweep reciprocation of ideas, thesupreme bliss of enlightened minds in the hour of social converse. Butthis 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 verbalconversation. I need not, however, inform you, madam, of this. At thefirst interview with which you favored me, you quickly discovered mypeculiar unhappiness in this respect; you perceived from my manner thatany attempt to draw me into conversation would be in vain--had it beenotherwise, perhaps you would not have disdained now and then to havesoothed the lonely wanderer with yours. I have sometimes fancied when Ihave seen you in the walk, that you seemed to wish to encourage me tothrow myself in your way. Pardon me if my imagination, too apt tobeguile me with such dear illusions, has deceived me into toopresumptuous an idea here. You must have observed that I generallyendeavored to avoid both you and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare yourgenerous hearts the pain of witnessing distress you could notalleviate. Thus cut off, as it were, from all human society, I havebeen compelled to live in a world of my own, and certainly with thebeings 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 amusemy fancy, yet solitude too much indulged in must necessarily have anunhappy effect upon the mind, which, when left to seek for resourceswholly within itself will, unavoidably, in hours of gloom anddespondency, brood over corroding thoughts that prey upon the spirits, and sometimes terminate in confirmed misanthropy--especially with thosewho, from constitution, or early misfortunes, are inclined tomelancholy, and to view human nature in its dark shades. And have I notcause for gloomy reflections? The utter loneliness of my lot wouldalone have rendered existence a curse to one whom nature has formedglowing with all the warmth of social affection, yet without an objecton which to place it--without one natural connection, one earthlyfriend to appeal to, to shield me from the contempt, indignities, andinsults, to which my deserted situation continually exposed me. "

I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I cannot refrain fromsubjoining another letter, which depicts her feelings with respect toNewstead. 

"Permit me, madame, again to request your and Colonel Wildman'sacceptance of these acknowledgments which I cannot too often repeat, for your unexampled goodness to a rude stranger. I know I ought not tohave taken advantage of your extreme good nature so frequently as Ihave. I should have absented myself from your garden during the stay ofthe company at the Abbey, but, as I knew I must be gone long beforethey would leave it, I could not deny myself the indulgence, as you sofreely gave me your permission to continue my walks, but now they areat an end. I have taken my last farewell of every dear and interestingspot, which I now never hope to see again, unless my disembodied spiritmay be permitted to revisit them. --Yet O! if Providence should enableme again to support myself with any degree of respectability, and youshould grant me some little humble shed, with what joy shall I returnand renew my delightful rambles. But dear as Newstead is to me, I willnever again come under the same unhappy circumstances as I have thislast time--never without the means of at least securing myself fromcontempt. How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, how unconquerablethe infatuation that possesses me, I am now going to give a tooconvincing proof. In offering to your acceptance the worthless triflesthat will accompany this, I hope you will believe that I have no viewto your amusement. I dare not hope that the consideration of theirbeing the products of your own garden, and most of them written there, in my little tablet, while sitting at the foot of _my Altar_--Icould not, I cannot resist the earnest desire of leaving this memorialof the many happy hours I have there enjoyed. Oh! do not reject them, madam; suffer them to remain with you, and if you should deign to honorthem with a perusal, when you read them repress, if you can, the smilethat I know will too naturally arise, when you recollect the appearanceof the wretched being who has dared to devote her whole soul to thecontemplation of such more than human excellence. Yet, ridiculous assuch devotion may appear to some, I must take leave to say, that if thesentiments which I have entertained for that exalted being could beduly appreciated, I trust they would be found to be of such a nature asis no dishonor even for him to have inspired. ". . . 

"I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes too deeplyimpressed upon my memory ever to be effaced even by madness itself. Omadam! may you never know, nor be able to conceive the agony I endurein tearing myself from all that the world contains of dear and sacredto me: the only spot on earth where I can ever hope for peace orcomfort. May every blessing the world has to bestow attend you, orrather, may you long, long live in the enjoyment of the delights ofyour own paradise, in secret seclusion from a world that has no realblessings to bestow. Now I go--but O might I dare to hope that when youare enjoying these blissful scenes, a thought of the unhappy wanderermight sometimes cross your mind, how soothing would such an idea be, ifI dared to indulge it--could you see my heart at this moment, howneedless would it be to assure you of the respectful gratitude, theaffectionate esteem, this heart must ever bear you both. "

The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of Mrs. Wildman maybe more readily conceived than expressed. Her first impulse was to givea home to this poor homeless being, and to fix her in the midst ofthose scenes which formed her earthly paradise. She communicated herwishes to Colonel Wildman, and they met with an immediate response inhis generous bosom. It was settled on the spot, that an apartmentshould be fitted up for the Little White Lady in one of the newfarmhouses, and every arrangement made for her comfortable andpermanent maintenance on the estate. With a woman's prompt benevolence, Mrs. Wildman, before she laid her head upon her pillow, wrote thefollowing letter to the destitute stranger:

"NEWSTEAD ABBEY, "Tuesday night, September 20, 1825. 

"On retiring to my bedchamber this evening I have opened your letter, and cannot lose a moment in expressing to you the strong interest whichit has excited both in Colonel Wildman and myself, from the details ofyour peculiar situation, and the delicate, and, let me add, elegantlanguage in which they are conveyed. I am anxious that my note shouldreach you previous to your departure from this neighborhood, and shouldbe truly happy if, by any arrangement for your accommodation, I couldprevent the necessity of your undertaking the journey. Colonel Wildmanbegs me to assure you that he will use his best exertions in theinvestigation of those matters which you have confided to him, andshould you remain here at present, or return again after a shortabsence, I trust we shall find means to become better acquainted, andto convince you of the interest I feel, and the real satisfaction itwould 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 receivedwith your letter, and I must confess that the letter has so entirelyengaged my attention, that I have not as yet had time for the attentiveperusal 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 theWeir Mill farm, but returned with the information that the Little WhiteLady had set off, before his arrival, in company with the farmer'swife, in a cart for Nottingham, to take her place in the coach forLondon. Mrs. Wildman ordered him to mount horse instantly, follow withall speed, and deliver the letter into her hand before the departure ofthe coach. 

The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip nor spur, and arrived atNottingham on a gallop. On entering the town, a crowd obstructed him inthe principal street. He checked his horse to make his way through itquietly. As the crowd opened to the right and left, he beheld a humanbody lying on the pavement. --It was the corpse of the Little WhiteLady!

It seems that on arriving in town and dismounting from the cart, thefarmer's wife had parted with her to go on an errand, and the WhiteLady continued on toward the coach-office. In crossing a street a cartcame along, driven at a rapid rate. The driver called out to her, butshe was too deaf to hear his voice or the rattling of his cart. In aninstant she was knocked down by the horse, and the wheels passed overher body, and she died without a groan.