Besides having been mentioned by Satchells, there was a remaining tradition in the country, that there was a font stone of blue marble, in which the ancient heirs of Buccleuch were baptized, covered up among the ruins of the old church.  Mr. Scott was curious to see if we could discover it; but on going among the ruins we found the rubbish at the spot, where the altar was known to have been, digged out to the foundation,—­we knew not by whom, but no font had been found.  As there appeared to have been a kind of recess in the eastern gable, we fell a turning over some loose stones, to see if the font was not concealed there, when we came upon one half of a small pot, encrusted thick with rust.  Mr. Scott’s eyes brightened, and he swore it was an ancient consecrated helmet.  Laidlaw, however, scratching it minutely out, found it covered with a layer of pitch inside, and then said, “Ay, the truth is, sir, it is neither mair nor less than a piece of a tar pat that some o’ the farmers hae been buisting their sheep out o’, i’ the auld kirk langsyne.”  Sir Walter’s shaggy eyebrows dipped deep over his eyes, and suppressing a smile, he turned and strode away as fast as he could, saying, that “We had just rode all the way to see that there was nothing to be seen.”

I remember his riding upon a terribly high spirited horse, who had the perilous fancy of leaping every drain, rivulet, and ditch that came in our way; the consequence was, that he was everlastingly bogging himself, while sometimes his rider kept his seat despite of his plunging, and at other times he was obliged to extricate himself the best way he could.  In coming through a place called the Milsey Bog, I said to him, “Mr. Scott, that’s the maddest deil of a beast I ever saw.  Can ye no gar him tak a wee mair time?  He’s just out o’ ae lair intil another wi’ ye.”

“Ay,” said he, “we have been very oft, these two days past, like the Pechs; we could stand straight up and tie our shoes.”  I did not understand the joke, nor do I yet, but I think these were his words.

We visited the old castles of Thirlestane and Tushilaw, and dined and spent the afternoon, and the night, with Mr. Brydon, of Crosslee.  Sir Walter was all the while in the highest good-humour, and seemed to enjoy the range of mountain solitude, which we traversed, exceedingly.  Indeed I never saw him otherwise.  In the fields—­on the rugged mountains—­or even toiling in Tweed to the waist, I have seen his glee not only surpass himself, but that of all other men.  I remember of leaving Altrive Lake once with him, accompanied by the same Mr. Laidlaw, and Sir Adam Fergusson, to visit the tremendous solitudes of The Grey Mare’s Tail, and Loch Skene.  I conducted them through that wild region by a path, which, if not rode by Clavers, was, I daresay, never rode by another gentleman.  Sir Adam rode inadvertently into a gulf, and got a sad fright, but Sir Walter, in the very worst paths, never dismounted, save at Loch Skene to take some dinner.  We went to Moffat that night, where we met with some of his family, and such a day and night of glee I never witnessed.  Our very perils were matter to him of infinite merriment; and then there was a short-tempered boot-boy at the inn, who wanted to pick a quarrel with him, at which he laughed till the water ran over his cheeks.