Sir Walter Scott bought the farm of Cartley Hole or Clarty Hole in 1811, and renamed it Abbotsford, an old name for the river crossing there. He renovated the farmhouse into a magnificent mansion that incorporated as many elements of Scottish history and architecture as was possible. Within a few years of his death in 1832 it had become a major tourist attraction. Edward Bradley, an artist with Punch, calculated the cost of a visit.
Abbotsford is the Mecca of the Scotch tourists, and during the summer months the stream of pilgrims is incessantly flowing towards Scott’s shrine. The cost to each one, coming by rail from Edinburgh, and returning thither within the day, can scarcely be less than thirty shillings; and a statistician may therefore calculate the wealth that is made to filter through Melrose through ‘the magic of a name.’ Carriages for Abbotsford form a summer institution in Melrose, that must be exceedingly remunerative to the landlord of The George Hotel, especially when taken in connection with luncheons, and, above all, with that terrible item in a hotel bill, ‘apartments,’ which appears to be ‘a noun of multitude, signifying many’ curious additions to the normal necessities of a traveller. A one-horse carriage to Abbotsford will cost you five shillings, with eighteen-pence for the driver, and a sixpence for a turnpike. When you are there, Black’s valuable ‘Guide,’ with some hesitation in pronouncing an opinion on so delicate a point, says that with regard to ‘the gratuity payable to domestics, the amount will necessarily vary between prince and peasant, but 1s. for a single individual, and 2s. 6d. for parties not exceeding six, may be regarded as fair medium payments.’ Regarded by whom? There’s the rub. Try the gentleman’s gentleman who trots you through the show suite of rooms with a shilling for a single individual, and half-a-crown for parties not exceeding six, and note the expression of his features (which might be overlooked), and (which is more to the purpose) his consequent conduct. Experto crede. He was barely satisfied with half-a-crown from my wife and myself; but he turned upon a French family (with whom we had formed that confluent concourse of atoms which was necessary to make up the ‘party’ to view the rooms) and rejected their offerings with contempt. A scene thereupon followed, in which pantomime had to explain dialogue, and which terminated, as a matter of course, in the victory of the gentleman’s gentleman, and the tax-paying of his opponents. Their intense delight, while going through the rooms, whenever they lighted upon any of the French presents to the illustrious novelist, must have been in strong contrast to the chagrin with which their tour of inspection was terminated by their enforced and involuntary present to that illustrious novelist’s showman.