Three Years in Europe by William Wells Brown

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I left William and Ellen Craft (the latter of whom has just come to
Edinburgh), and took the Glasgow train, and after a ride of two hours
through a beautiful country, with its winding hills on either side--its
fertile fields, luxuriant woods, and stately mansions lying around us,
arrived in the muddy, dirty, smoky, foggy city of Glasgow. As I had had
a standing invitation from a distinguished gentleman with whom I became
acquainted in London, to partake of his hospitality, should I ever visit
Glasgow, and again received a note while in Edinburgh renewing the
invitation, I proceeded to his residence at Partick, three miles from
Glasgow. This is one of the loveliest spots which I have yet seen. Our
mansion is on the side of Laurel Bank, a range of the Kilpatrick hills.
We have a view of the surrounding country.

On Monday evening, Jan. 6, a public meeting was held in the City Hall,
to extend a welcome to the American fugitive slaves. The hall, one of
the largest in the kingdom, was filled at an early hour. At the
appointed time, Alex. Hastie, Esq., M.P., entered the great room,
followed by the fugitives and most of the leading abolitionists, amid
rapturous applause. With a Member of Parliament in the chair, and
almost any number of clergymen on the platform, the meeting had an
influential appearance. From report, I had imbibed the opinion that the
Scotch were not easily moved, but if I may judge from the enthusiasm
which characterised the City Hall demonstration, I should place them but
little behind the English. After an excellent speech from the Chairman,
and spirited addresses from several clergymen, William Craft was
introduced to the meeting, and gave an account of the escape of himself
and wife from slavery, and their subsequent flight from Boston. Any
description of mine would give but a poor idea of the intense feeling
that pervaded the meeting. I think all who were there, left the hall
after hearing that noble fugitive, with a greater abhorrence of American
slavery than they previously entertained.

LETTER XIV.

_Stirling--Dundee--Dr. Dick--Geo. Gilfillan--Dr. Dick at home._

PERTH, SCOTLAND, _Jan. 31, 1851_.

I am glad once more to breathe an atmosphere uncontaminated by the fumes
and smoke of a city with its population of three hundred thousand
inhabitants. In company with our friends Wm. and Ellen Craft, I left
Glasgow on the afternoon of the 23d inst., for Dundee, a beautiful town
situated on the banks of the river Tay. One like myself, who has spent
the best part of an eventful life in cities, and who prefers, as I do, a
country to a town life, feels a greater degree of freedom when
surrounded by forest trees, or country dwellings, and looking upon a
clear sky, than when walking through the thronged thoroughfares of a
city, with its dense population, meeting every moment a new or strange
face which one has never seen before, and never expects to see again.
Although I had met with one of the warmest public receptions with which
I have been greeted since my arrival in the country, and had had an
opportunity of shaking hands with many noble friends of the slave, whose
names I had often seen in print, yet I felt glad to see the tall
chimneys and smoke of Glasgow receding in the distance, as our 'iron
horse' was taking us with almost lightning speed from the commercial
capital of Scotland.

The distance from Glasgow to Dundee is some seventy or eighty miles, and
we passed through the finest country which I have seen in this portion
of the Queen's dominions. We passed through the old town of Stirling,
which lies about thirty miles distant from Glasgow, and is a place much
frequented by those who travel for pleasure. It is built on the brow of
a hill, and the Castle from which it most probably derived its name, may
be seen from a distance. Had it not been for a "professional" engagement
the same evening at Dundee, I would most assuredly have halted to take a
look at the old building.

The Castle is situated or built on an isolated rock, which seems as if
Nature had thrown it there for that purpose. It was once the retreat of
the Scottish Kings, and famous for its historical associations. Here the
"Lady of the Lake," with the magic ring, sought the monarch to intercede
for her father; here James II. murdered the Earl of Douglas; here the
beautiful but unfortunate Mary was made Queen; and here John Knox, the
Reformer, preached the coronation sermon of James VI. The Castle Hill
rises from the valley of the Forth, and makes an imposing and
picturesque appearance. The windings of the noble river till lost in the
distance, present pleasing contrasts, scarcely to be surpassed.

The speed of our train, after passing Stirling, brought before us, in
quick succession, a number of fine valleys and farm houses. Every spot
seemed to have been arrayed by Nature for the reception of the cottage
of some happy family. During this ride, we passed many sites where the
lawns were made, the terraces defined and levelled, the groves
tastefully clumped, the ancient trees, though small when compared to our
great forest oaks, were beautifully sprinkled here and there, and in
everything the labour of art seemed to have been anticipated by Nature.
Cincinnatus could not have selected a prettier situation for a farm,
than some which presented themselves, during this delightful journey. At
last we arrived at the place of our destination, where our friends were
in waiting for us.

As I have already forwarded to you a paper containing an account of the
Dundee meeting, I shall leave you to judge from these reports the
character of the demonstration. Yet I must mention a fact or two
connected with our first evening's visit to this town. A few hours after
our arrival in the place, we were called upon by a gentleman whose name
is known wherever the English language is spoken--one whose name is on
the tongue of every student and school-boy in this country and America,
and what lives upon their lips will live and be loved for ever.

We were seated over a cup of strong tea, to revive our spirits for the
evening, when our friend entered the room, accompanied by a gentleman,
small in stature, and apparently seventy-five years of age, yet he
appeared as active as one half that age. Feeling half drowsy from riding
in the cold, and then the sudden change to a warm fire, I was rather
inclined not to move on the entrance of the stranger. But the name of
Thomas Dick, LL.D., roused me in a moment, from my lethargy; I could
scarcely believe that I was in the presence of the "Christian
Philosopher." Dr. Dick is one of the men to whom the age is indebted. I
never find myself in the presence of one to whom the world owes so much
as Dr. Dick, without feeling a thrilling emotion, as if I were in the
land of spirits. Dr. Dick had come to our lodgings to see and
congratulate Wm. and Ellen Craft upon their escape from the republican
Christians of the United States; and as he pressed the hand of the
"white slave," and bid her "welcome to British soil," I saw the silent
tear stealing down the cheek of this man of genius. How I wished that
the many slaveholders and pro-slavery professed Christians of America,
who have read and pondered the philosophy of this man, could have been
present. Thomas Dick is an abolitionist--one who is willing that the
world should know that he hates the "peculiar institution." At the
meeting that evening, Dr. Dick was among the most prominent. But this
was not the only distinguished man who took part on that occasion.

Another great mind was on the platform, and entered his solemn protest
in a manner long to be remembered by those present. This was the Rev.
George Gilfillan, well known as the author of the "Portraits of Literary
Men." Mr. Gilfillan is an energetic speaker, and would have been the
lion of the evening, even if many others who are more distinguished as
platform orators had been present. I think it was Napoleon who said that
the enthusiasm of others abated his own. At any rate, the spirit with
which each speaker entered upon his duty for the evening, abated my own
enthusiasm for the time being. The last day of our stay in Dundee, I
paid a visit, by invitation, to Dr. Dick, at his residence in the little
village of Broughty Ferry. We found the great astronomer in his parlour
waiting for us. From the parlour we went to the new study, and here I
felt more at ease, for I went to see the Philosopher in his study, and
not in his drawing-room. But even this room had too much the look of
nicety to be an author's _sanctum_; and I inquired and was soon informed
by Mrs. Dick, that I should have a look at the "_old study_."

During a sojourn of eighteen months in Great Britain, I have had the
good fortune to meet with several distinguished literary characters, and
have always managed, while at their places of abode, to see the table
and favourite chair. Wm. and Ellen Craft were seeing what they could see
through a microscope, when Mrs. Dick returned to the room, and intimated
that we could now see the old literary workshop. I followed, and was
soon in a room about fifteen feet square, with but one window, which
occupied one side of the room. The walls of the other three sides were
lined with books. And many of these looked the very personification of
age. I took my seat in the "_old arm chair_;" and here, thought I, is
the place and the seat in which this distinguished man sat, while
weaving the radiant wreath of renown which now in his old age surrounds
him, and whose labours will be more appreciated by future ages than the
present.

I took a farewell of the author of the "Solar System," but not until I
had taken a look through the great telescope in the observatory. This
instrument, through which I tried to see the heavens, was not the one
invented by Galileo, but an improvement upon the original. On leaving
this learned man, he shook hands with us, and bade us "God speed" in our
mission; and I left the philosopher, feeling I had not passed an hour
more agreeably, with a literary character, since the hour which I spent
with Poet Montgomery a few months since. And, by-the-bye, there is a
resemblance between the poet and the philosopher. In becoming acquainted
with great men, I have become a convert to the opinion, that a big nose
is an almost necessary appendage to the form of a man with a giant
intellect. If those whom I have seen be a criterion, such is certainly
the case. But I have spun out this too long, and must close.

LETTER XV.

_Melrose Abbey--Abbotsford--Dryburgh Abbey--The Grave of Sir Walter
Scott--Hawick--Gretna Green--Visit to the Lakes._

YORK, _March 26, 1851_.

I closed my last letter in the ancient town of Melrose, on the banks of
the Tweed, and within a stone's throw of the celebrated ruins from which
the town derives its name. The valley in which Melrose is situated, and
the surrounding hills, together with the Monastery, have so often been
made a theme for the Scottish bards, that this has become the most
interesting part of Scotland. Of the many gifted writers who have taken
up the pen, none have done more to bring the Eildon Hills and Melrose
Abbey into note, than the author of "Waverley." But who can read his
writings without a regret, that he should have so woven fact and fiction
together, that it is almost impossible to discriminate between the one
and the other.

We arrived at Melrose in the evening, and proceeded to the chapel where
our meeting was to be held, and where our friends, the Crafts, were
warmly greeted. On returning from the meeting, we passed close by the
ruins of Melrose, and, very fortunately, it was a moonlight night. There
is considerable difference of opinion among the inhabitants of the place
as regards the best time to view the Abbey. The author of the "Lay of
the Last Minstrel," says:--

"If thou wouldst 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."

In consequence of this admonition, I was informed that many persons
remain in town to see the ruins by moonlight. Aware that the moon did
not send its rays upon the old building every night in the year, I asked
the keeper what he did on dark nights. He replied that he had a large
lantern, which he put upon the end of a long pole, and with this he
succeeded in lighting up the ruins. This good man laboured hard to
convince me that his invention was nearly, if not quite as good, as
Nature's own moon. But having no need of an application of his invention
to the Abbey, I had no opportunity of judging of its effect. I thought,
however, that he had made a moon to some purpose, when he informed me
that some nights, with his pole and lantern, he earned his four or five
shillings. Not being content with a view by "moonlight alone," I was up
the next morning before the sun, and paid my respects to the Abbey. I
was too early for the keeper, and he handed me the key through the
window, and I entered the rooms alone. It is one labyrinth of gigantic
arches and dilapidated halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it
can fasten its roots, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as
imagination could create. This was the favourite resort of Sir Walter
Scott, and furnished him much matter for the "Lay of the Last Minstrel."
He could not have selected a more fitting place for solitary thought
than this ancient abode of monks and priests. In passing through the
cloisters, I could not but remark the carvings of leaves and flowers,
wrought in stone in the most exquisite manner, looking as fresh as if
they were just from the hands of the artist. The lapse of centuries
seems not to have made any impression upon them, or changed their
appearance in the least. I sat down among the ruins of the Abbey. The
ground about was piled up with magnificent fragments of stone,
representing various texts of Scripture, and the quaint ideas of the
priests and monks of that age. Scene after scene swept through my fancy
as I looked upon the surrounding objects. I could almost imagine I saw
the bearded monks going from hall to hall, and from cell to cell. In
visiting these dark cells, the mind becomes oppressed by a sense of the
utter helplessness of the victims who once passed over the thresholds
and entered these religious prisons. There was no help or hope but in
the will that ordered their fate. How painful it is to gaze upon these
walls, and to think how many tears have been shed by their inmates, when
this old Monastery was in its glory. I ascended to the top of the ruin
by a circuitous stairway, whose stone steps were worn deep from use by
many who, like myself, had visited them to gratify a curiosity. From the
top of the Abbey, I had a splendid view of the surrounding hills and
the beautiful valley through which flows the Gala Water and Tweed. This
is unquestionably the most splendid specimen of Gothic architectural
ruin in Scotland. But any description of mine conveys but a poor idea to
the fancy. To be realized, it must be seen.

During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of
the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the
banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water. It is a
dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river
has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a single day's ride
through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than
Abbotsford House. I was much disappointed in finding the premises
undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the
house and the river had been cut down. This is to be regretted the more,
because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand
that waved its wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain had been
removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the
centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the
favourite dog "Percy," had been taken up and thrown among some loose
stones. One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once
presided over it. Everything connected with the great Poet is of
interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to
diminish that interest. We entered the house, and were conducted through
the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all
descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times. The floor is of
white and black marble. In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow
arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at
each end. This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of
armour, which is arranged with great taste. We were next shown into the
Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room is
a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after
the execution. Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this
room. But by far the finest apartment in the building is the
Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony
furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand
volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same
chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which
was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of
this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us.
There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid
trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all
in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of
the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In
passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was
from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and
dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and
return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse
plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase
Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure
its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place
will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late
Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I
left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble
in visiting Abbotsford.

In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a
drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as
being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's
Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to
where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own
grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed
the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his
grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would
shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his
wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more,
and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here.

The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in
this place, and the people registering their names against American
Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle,
passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leaving the latter
place, we had to travel by coach. But no matter how one travels here, he
travels at a more rapid rate than in America. The distance from Langholm
to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the
journey. It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the
inside had been taken up. We changed horses, and took in and put out
passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible. The road was
as smooth as a mirror.

We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna
Green. This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is
noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by
the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married
all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to
suit all. It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for
no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages
have taken place than in any other part in the world. A ride of eight or
nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly
through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with
sheep and cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns
of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle. I was really
glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion
than I of the top of that coach.

We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking of the hospitality of the
prince of bakers, and left the next day for the Lakes, where we had a
standing invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished literary lady. A
cold ride of about fifty miles brought us to the foot of Lake
Windermere, a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains that
seemed to vie with each other which should approach nearest the sky. The
margin of the lake is carved out and built up into terrace above
terrace, until the slopes and windings are lost in the snow-capped peaks
of the mountains. It is not surprising that such men as Southey,
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, resorted to this region for
inspiration. After a coach ride of five miles (passing on our journey
the "Dove's Nest," home of the late Mrs. Hemans), we were put down at
the door of the Salutation Hotel, Ambleside, and a few minutes after
found ourselves under the roof of the authoress of "Society in America."
I know not how it is with others, but for my own part, I always form an
opinion of the appearance of an author whose writings I am at all
familiar with, or a statesman whose speeches I have read. I had pictured
in my own mind a tall, stately-looking lady of about sixty years, as the
authoress of "Travels in the East," and for once I was right, with the
single exception that I had added on too many years by twelve. The
evening was spent in talking about the United States; and William Craft
had to go through the narrative of his escape from slavery. When I
retired for the night, I found it almost impossible to sleep. The idea
that I was under the roof of the authoress of "The Hour and the Man,"
and that I was on the banks of the sweetest lake in Great Britain,
within half a mile of the residence of the late poet Wordsworth, drove
sleep from my pillow. But I must leave an account of my visit to the
Lakes for a future letter.

When I look around and see the happiness here, even among the poorer
classes, and that too in a country where the soil is not at all to be
compared with our own, I mourn for our down-trodden countrymen, who are
plundered, oppressed, and made chattels of, to enable an ostentatious
aristocracy to vie with each other in splendid extravagance.

LETTER XVI.

_Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's Nest"--Grave of
William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant._

_May 30, 1851_.

A series of public meetings, one pressing close upon the heel of
another, must be an apology for my six or eight weeks' silence. But I
hope that no temporary suspense on my part will be construed into a want
of interest in our cause, or a wish to desist from giving occasionally a
scrap (such as it is) to the _North Star_.

My last letter left me under the hospitable roof of Harriet Martineau. I
had long had an invitation to visit this distinguished friend of our
race, and as the invitation was renewed during my tour through the
North, I did not feel disposed to decline it, and thereby lose so
favourable an opportunity of meeting with one who had written so much in
behalf of the oppressed of our land. About a mile from the head of Lake
Windermere, and immediately under Wonsfell, and encircled by mountains
on all sides, except the south-west, lies the picturesque little town of
Ambleside, and the brightest spot in the place is "The Knoll," the
residence of Miss Martineau.

We reached "The Knoll" a little after nightfall, and a cordial shake of
the hand by Miss M., who was waiting for us, soon assured us that we had
met with a warm friend.

It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domestic life at "The
Knoll," nor to describe the social parties of which my friends and I
were partakers during our sojourn within the hospitable walls of this
distinguished writer; but the name of Miss M. is so intimately connected
with the Anti-slavery movement, by her early writings, and those have
been so much admired by the friends of the slave in the United States,
that I deem it not at all out of place for me to give the readers of the
_North Star_ some idea of the authoress of "Political Economy," "Travels
in the East," "The Hour and the Man," &c.

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