Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey | Page 2

almost rustic. An old
green shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the buttonhole, brown linen
pantaloons, stout shoes that tied at the ankles, and a white hat that had
evidently seen service. He came limping up the gravel walk, aiding
himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly and with vigor. By
his side jogged along a large iron-gray stag-hound of most grave
demeanor, who took no part in the clamor of the canine rabble, but
seemed to consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to give
me a courteous 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
the door of the chaise, he grasped me warmly by the hand: "Come,
drive down, drive down to the house," said he, "ye're just in time for
breakfast, and afterward ye shall see all the wonders of the Abbey."
I would have excused myself, on the plea of having already made my
breakfast. "Hout, man," cried he, "a ride in the morning in the keen air
of the Scotch hills is warrant enough for a second breakfast."
I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, and in a few
moments found myself seated at the breakfast-table. There was no one
present but the family, which consisted of Mrs. Scott, her eldest
daughter Sophia, then a fine girl about seventeen, Miss Ann Scott, two
or three years younger, Walter, a well-grown stripling, and Charles, a
lively boy, eleven or twelve years of age. I soon felt myself quite at
home, and my heart in a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I
had thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was not to be let
off so lightly. "You must not think our neighborhood is to be read in a

morning, like a newspaper," said Scott. "It takes several days of study
for an observant traveller that has a relish for auld world trumpery.
After breakfast you shall make your visit to Melrose Abbey; I shall not
be able to accompany you, as I have some household affairs to attend to,
but I will put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learned in
all things touching the old ruin and the neighborhood it stands in, and
he and my friend Johnny Bower will tell you the whole truth about it,
with a good deal more that you are not called upon to believe-- unless
you be a true and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you come back,
I'll take you out on a ramble about the neighborhood. To-morrow we
will take a look at the Yarrow, and the next day we will drive over to
Dryburgh Abbey, which is a fine old ruin well worth your seeing"--in a
word, before Scott had got through his plan, I found myself committed
for a visit of several days, and it seemed as if a little realm of romance
was suddenly opened before me.
* * * * *
After breakfast I accordingly set oft for the Abbey with my little friend
Charles, whom I found a most sprightly and entertaining companion.
He had an ample stock of anecdote about the neighborhood, which he
had learned from his father, and many quaint remarks and sly jokes,
evidently derived from the same source, all which were uttered with a
Scottish accent and a mixture of Scottish phraseology, that gave them
additional flavor.
On our way to the Abbey he gave me some anecdotes of Johnny Bower
to whom his father had alluded; he was sexton of the parish and
custodian of the ruin, employed to keep it in order and show it to
strangers;--a worthy little man, not without ambition in his humble
sphere. The death of his predecessor had been mentioned in the
newspapers, so that his name had appeared in print throughout the land.
When Johnny succeeded to the guardianship of the ruin, he stipulated
that, on his death, his name should receive like honorable blazon; with
this addition, that it should be from, the pen of Scott. The latter gravely
pledged himself to pay this tribute to his memory, and Johnny now
lived in the proud anticipation of a poetic immortality.

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