Scenes in Central England [pp. 409-413]

SCENES IN CENTRAL ENGLAND.
and down there to the right, doves and
pigeons sit upon them, and plant them selves in a long, gay line..
Learning that Newstead was not open
to visitors, I dispatched a letter to Mrs.
WVebb, wife of the proprietor, who was
spending a summer in the Highlands,
and promptly received a courteous and
favorable answer, containing an order to
those in charge to show me over the ab bey and premises. After ten minutes'
ride by rail, and a walk of half a mnile
through a lane of oaks, by little lakes,
green lanes, and a high cascade that
tumbled over mossy rocks, I stood, hat
in hand, close to the north view of the
ancient abbey; ending, for a time, my
pilgrimage where the gloomy Childe's
began.
Up a newly graveled walk, through
grasses green as possible, I came to a
door massive enough for a prison, and
with my two hands lifted the enormous
knocker. A butler came and inspected
my card; then a short, fat, and conse quently very important woman, of questionable youth, came and contemplated
the order very gravely for a long time.
Then she seemed to observe that my
boots were soiled, evidently inferring
that I had not come in a carriage.
Then she contemplated my slouch hat,
and again scrutinized the order. At
last, with a grunt, she led off, and in
true "guide" style, and execrable English, pointed out the objects of interest. The abbey is not stately, but truly
vast in proportions. I was taken through
at least one hundred apartments, studies, chapels, and so on. The walls are
of great thickness, and more ancient
than those of Melrose or Kelso. They
are made of a light-gray granite, and
seem only hardened by time; unlike
those of Westminster Abbey, which are
surely falling to decay.
Up ten stone steps to the right.
"This," said the ancient maid, "is
Lord Byron's bedroom. In this glass
he used to see ghosts!" The room is
hung with yellow tapestry, is small, and
looks out on "our own dear lake;"
across which, two miles away, dwelt
Mary Chaworth.
Who shall say that this gloomy, ghost ly old pile, with its tombs and its tradi tions; the scenes that had enlivened it,
and the scenery that environed it; the
battle-fields that lay hard by; the nuns
who had been imprisoned there, and the
three hundred monks that had reigned
there, for nearly a thousand years, had
not much, indeed, to do with the making
of the Poet?
A court, about three hundred feet
square, with a grass plat and a dry
fountain, lies in the centre of the "vast
and venerable pile." The building,
three stories high, entirely incloses this
court in a solid square.
"This is the room where King Charles
I. slept, and this rich rosewood furniture
was his gift to the abbey; " and so on myr
guide ran through at least a dozen rooms
and kings. However many kings slept
here, I mentally questioned the profuse
gifts of furniture when I reflected that
Byron went in debt nearly ~8,ooo to
furnish the abbey on his taking pdssession. And these kings' rooms are certainly furnished in a kingly way, if a
Western barbarian may be permitted to
judge-furnished with a rich and reckless profusion. In fact, I learned from
good authority that Colonel Wildman,
the first owner after Byron, and his old
school-fellow of Harrow, spent ~3,000
in decorating and furnishing a single
room. You will learn, with more regret
than surprise, that the generous and gentlemanly Colonel died poor.
In one room, "Boatswain," the favorite dog, Joe Murray, his faithful old
servant, and Jackson, the "Prince of
boxers," look strangely at each other
from their dim and dusty canvas. These
were the friends of Byron. He paid all
of Jackson's bills, kept him about him,
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