Volume I Part 18 (1/2)
The quatre-feuille here spoken of is an ornament formed by the junction of four leaves. The frequent recurrence of the fleur-de-lis in the carvings here shows traces of French hands employed in the architecture.
In one place in the abbey there is a rude inscription, in which a French architect commemorates the part he has borne in constructing the building.
These corbels are the projections from which, the arches spring, usually carved in some fantastic mask or face; and on these the Shakspearian imagination of the Gothic artists seems to have let itself loose to run riot: there is every variety of expression, from, the most beautiful to the most goblin and grotesque. One has the leer of fiendish triumph, with budding horns, showing too plainly his paternity; again you have the drooping eyelids and saintly features of some fair virgin; and then the gasping face of some old monk, apparently in the agonies of death, with his toothless gums, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. Other faces have an earthly and sensual leer; some are wrought into expressions of scorn and mockery, some of supplicating agony, and some of grim, despair.
One wonders what gloomy, sarcastic, poetic, pa.s.sionate mind has thus amused itself, recording in stone all the range of pa.s.sions--saintly, earthly, and diabolic--on the varying human face. One fancies each corbel to have had its history, its archetype in nature; a thousand possible stories spring into one's mind. They are wrought with such a startling and individual definiteness, that one feels as about Shakspeare's characters, as if they must have had a counterpart in real existence. The pure, saintly nun may have been some sister, or some daughter, or some early love, of the artist, who in an evil hour saw the convent barriers rise between her and all that was loving. The fat, sensual face may have been a sly sarcasm on some worthy abbot, more eminent in flesh than spirit. The fiendish faces may have been wrought out of the author's own perturbed dreams.
An architectural work says that one of these corbels, with an anxious and sinister Oriental countenance, has been made, by the guides, to perform duty as an authentic likeness of the wizard Michael Scott. Now, I must earnestly protest against stating things in that way. Why does a writer want to break up so laudable a poetic design in the guides? He would have been much better occupied in interpreting some of the half-defaced old inscriptions into a corroborative account. No doubt it _was_ Michael Scott, and looked just like him.
It were a fine field for a story writer to a.n.a.lyze the conception and growth of an abbey or cathedral as it formed itself, day after day, and year after year, in the soul of some dreamy, impa.s.sioned workman, who made it the note book where he wrought out imperishably in stone all his observations on nature and man. I think it is this strong individualism of the architect in the buildings that give the never-dying charm, and variety to the Gothic: each Gothic building is a record of the growth, character, and individualities of its builder's soul; and hence no two can be alike.
I was really disappointed to miss in the abbey the stained gla.s.s which gives such a l.u.s.tre and glow to the poetic description. I might have known better; but somehow I came there fully expecting to see the window, where--
”Full in the midst his cross of red Triumphant Michael brandished; The moonbeam kissed the holy pane, And threw on the pavement the b.l.o.o.d.y stain.”
Alas! the painted gla.s.s was all of the poet's own setting; years ago it was shattered by the hands of violence, and the grace of the fas.h.i.+on of it hath perished.
The guide pointed to a broken fragment which commanded a view of the whole interior. ”Sir Walter used to sit here,” he said. I fancied I could see him sitting on the fragment, gazing around the ruin, and mentally restoring it to its original splendor; he brings back the colored light into the windows, and throws its many-hued reflections over the graves; he ranges the banners along around the walls, and rebuilds every shattered arch and aisle, till we have the picture as it rises on us in his book.
I confess to a strong feeling of reality, when my guide took me to a grave where a flat, green, mossy stone, broken across the middle, is reputed to be the grave of Michael Scott. I felt, for the moment, verily persuaded that if the guide would pry up one of the stones we should see him there, as described:--
”His h.o.a.ry beard in silver rolled, He seemed some seventy winters old; A palmer's amice wrapped, him round, With a wrought Spanish baldric 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: High and majestic was his look, At which, the fellest fiends had shook, And all unruffled, was his face: They trusted his soul had gotten grace.”
I never knew before how fervent a believer I had been in the realities of these things.
There are two graves that I saw, which correspond to those mentioned in these lines:--
”And there the dying lamps did burn Before thy lone and lowly urn, O gallafit chief of Otterburne, And thine, dark knight of Liddesdale.”
The Knight of Otterburne was one of the Earls Douglas, killed in a battle with Henry Percy, called Hotspur, in 1388. The Knight of Liddesdale was another Douglas, who lived in the reign of David II., and was called the ”Flower of Chivalry.” One performance of this ”Flower” is rather characteristic of the times. It seems the king made one Ramsey high sheriff of Teviotdale. The Earl of Douglas chose to consider this as a personal affront, as he wanted the office himself. So, by way of exhibiting his own qualifications for administering justice, he one day came down on Ramsey, _vi et armis_, took him off his judgment seat, carried him to one of his castles, and without more words tumbled him and his horse into a deep dungeon, where they both starved to death.
There's a ”Flower” for you, peculiar to the good old times. n.o.body could have doubted after this his qualifications to be high sheriff.
Having looked all over the abbey from, below, I noticed a ruinous winding staircase; so up I went, rustling along through the ivy, which matted and wove itself around the stones. Soon I found myself looking down on the abbey from a new point of view--from a little narrow stone gallery, which threads the whole inside of the building. There I paced up and down, looking occasionally through the ivy-wreathed arches on the green, turfy floor below.
It seems as if silence and stillness had become a real presence in these old places. The voice of the guide and the company beneath had a hushed and m.u.f.fled sound; and when I rustled the ivy leaves, or, in trying to break off a branch, loosened some fragment of stone, the sound affected me with a startling distinctness. I could not but inly muse and wonder on the life these old monks and abbots led, shrined up here as they were in this lovely retirement.
In ruder ages these places were the only retreat for men of a spirit too gentle to take force and bloodshed for their life's work; men who believed that pen and parchment were better than sword and steel. Here I suppose mult.i.tudes of them lived harmless, dreamy lives--reading old ma.n.u.scripts, copying and illuminating new ones.
It is said that this Melrose is of very ancient origin, extending back to the time of the Culdees, the earliest missionaries who established religion in Scotland, and who had a settlement in this vicinity.
However, a royal saint, after a while, took it in hand to patronize, and of course the credit went to him, and from, him Scott calls it ”St.
David's lonely pile.” In time a body of Cistercian monks were settled there.
According to all accounts the abbey has raised some famous saints. We read of trances, illuminations, and miraculous beatifications; and of one abbot in particular, who exhibited the odor of sanct.i.ty so strongly that it is said the mere opening of his grave, at intervals, was sufficient to perfume the whole establishment with odors of paradise.
Such stories apart, however, we must consider that for all the literature, art, and love of the beautiful, all the humanizing influences which hold society together, the world was for many ages indebted to these monastic inst.i.tutions.
In the reformation, this abbey was destroyed amid the general storm, which attacked the ecclesiastical architecture of Scotland. ”Pull down the nest, and the rooks will fly away,” was the common saying of the mob; and in those days a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes upon the carved work.
Melrose was considered for many years merely a stone quarry, from which materials were taken for all sorts of buildings, such as constructing tolbooths, repairing mills and sluices; and it has been only till a comparatively recent period that its priceless value as an architectural remain has led to proper efforts for its preservation. It is now most carefully kept.