For, Satan, ye’ve nae notion
O’ Jockey’s drouth;—if he get loose,
By Jove! he’ll drink the ocean!”
The character of Captain Clutterbuck, taken abstractedly from all consideration of its prototype, may be said to represent a certain species of men to be found in almost every Scottish village of any extent. Sergeant M‘Alpine, in the Legend of Montrose, is another picture of them, and perhaps a more complete one than Clutterbuck. They are the scattered wrecks of war, drifted upon the beach of retirement, and left to waste away. They chiefly roost about little towns in remote parts of the country, where society is not expensive, and where half-pay procures the necessaries of life in the best possible style. Here there always exist one or two of these individuals, rendering the place respectable by their presence, and receiving a sort of spontaneous homage from the people, in virtue of their independence, their gentility, and their scars. Like the fading relics of the City Guard, they change the most warlike of their habiliments for others more consonant with the costumes of peace; but yet, though the scarlet be gone from the coat and the sword from the hand, they do not altogether shake off the airs of war. There is still something of the parade to be observed in the small-ruffled shirt, the blue-necked coat, and the shoe-buckles; while the starched and powdered rigidity in the cheek is as military as before, and the walking cane is but a slight defalcation, in either dignity or ferocity, from its predecessor, the sword. The walk, proud, portly, and erect, is another relic of military habit that can never be abandoned: and every other little punctuality of life and manners, such as soldiers are accustomed to, is equally pertinacious in clinging to the person of the disbanded officer. Such persons have long-winded stories about Ticonderago and Mount Abraham, which every one of their acquaintance has known by heart these twenty years; and yet such is the respect paid to the good old gentleman, that amazement as naturally follows the unfolding of the story, and the laugh comes as ready on the catastrophe of the joke, as ever. No one could be uncivil to the Captain. An excellent sketch of this description of persons is to be found in the xxxth number of Blackwood’s Magazine, under the title of “Lament for Captain Paton.” To this poem we refer the reader for further particulars respecting the character represented in Captain Clutterbuck.
SCENERY.
The first and most prominent object of attention, in the scenery of this Romance, is the Monastery itself, which every one knows to be the renowned Abbey of Melrose, situated upwards of thirty-five miles from Edinburgh to the south. It is the most beautiful and correct specimen of Gothic architecture in Scotland; and has been universally admired for the elegance and variety of its sculpture, the beauty of its stone, the multiplicity of its statues, and the symmetry of its parts. It was founded, as is well known, in 1136, by the pious David I., who dedicated it to the Virgin Mary. To attempt a minute description of it would be unnecessary, as we presume the great bulk of our readers have seen the venerable pile itself, and those who have not, know the many excellent sources from which this want can be supplied. Any remarks of ours would give no additional lustre to the magnificent ruins, or to the knowledge of the vicissitudes which it underwent in the course of several ages.
Less than a quarter of a mile to the west of the Abbey, there is a green bank which reaches to the height of some hundred feet above the level of the Tweed. It is termed the Weird Hill, from a dim tradition of the fairy tribe having haunted the spot, and held high conclave touching the whimsies to be practised on the wights who came under their ire. Immediately below this bank is the weird or dam-dyke where it is believed the poor Sacristan was ducked by the White Lady,—a lineal descendant of the ancient inhabitants of the hill.
Following the course of the Tweed upwards—that is, towards the west, about a mile and a half—we arrive at the ruins of the Old Bridge, which once formed the regular communication to the Monastery. It appears to have been constructed of timber, in the form of a drawbridge, with three pillars, the middle pillar containing a wooden house for the bridge-keeper. From this bridge there was a plain way to Soutra Hill, along the northern bank of the Tweed, which was named the Girth-gate,[69] from an hospital, having the privileges of Sanctuary, which was founded at Soutra by Malcolm IV., for the relief of pilgrims and of poor and infirm persons who journeyed southwards. This way was so good and easy, that, as a learned divine remarked, it might strongly remind the traveller of the paths to the cities of refuge. There were also two hostelries or inns at that place, which could well afford, from their stores, an elegant dejeune to Sir Piercie Shafton and his “fair Molindinara.”
A few yards from the bridge alluded to, the Elevand or Allan water discharges itself into the Tweed. It is this little mountain brook (rising from Allan-shaws on the boundary of Melrose parish towards the north,) that forms the beautiful valley of Glendearg, described in the romance. Advancing from the strath of the river in the northern direction from Melrose, we discern the stream meandering in crystal beauty through Langlee Wood, the property of Lord Somerville. The serpentine turns of its course oblige the traveller frequently to pass and repass it, in the line of the foot-track; but this is attended with no inconvenience, from the number of rustic bridges which are thrown over it. Emerging from the wood, the glen opens to the view. On one side of it (to the east,) rises a precipitous bank or scaur,[70] of a reddish colour, with here and there small patches of green sward. On the opposite side the eminences do not swell so high, but form a perfect contrast to the other. They have yielded their bosom to the industry of man, and repay his labour with the rich fruits of autumn. This improvement, however, is recent, as thirty years have scarcely elapsed since they displayed an aspect almost as barren as the opposite ridge. The little brook which runs below is not perceptible from either height, so deeply is its channel embosomed in the narrow dell. As we proceed onwards under a shade of alders, the glen gradually widens, and, about 400 yards from whence it opens, a singular amphitheatre meets the eye. It is somewhat in the shape of a crescent, through which the water passes, leaving a pretty large channel. The opposing precipices are thickly belted with copse-wood and several mountain shrubs, which entwine with the branches of the beech and birch trees. This place is called the Fairy or Nameless Dean, from some curiously-shaped stones, which are said to be found after great falls of rain.[71] But perhaps a better reason for the appellation arises from the situation itself, which afforded a hidden rendezvous for the elfin race, with which superstition peopled many parts of this district during the grandeur of the Abbacy. No one, however, will deny that the White Lady of Avenel might here have fixed her residence, and delivered her responses to young Glendinning, or that it might have served as a secluded corner for deadly strife. Though the holly bush cannot be discovered, yet the spring of water may easily be conjectured, by the curious observer, in the swampiness of portions of the ground now covered with sward.
The scenery of the remainder of the glen is extremely picturesque, but unmarked by any striking varieties. The brook, like