CHAPTER X.

=The Monastery.=

A VILLAGE ANTIQUARY.

(_Captain Clutterbuck._)

Captain Clutterbuck, the amusing personage who introduces “The Monastery” and “Nigel,” and who employed himself so agreeably during the half-pay part of his life in showing off the ruins of St. Mary’s, finds a happy counterpart in Mr., _vulgo_ Captain O——n, a gentleman well known in Melrose as an amateur cicerone of “_the Abbey_.” His peculiarities and pursuits very nearly resemble those of the fictitious Clutterbuck. He differs from him in this,—that he never was engaged in foreign service, having merely held some rank in a provincial corps of volunteers; but in every other respect he bears a striking resemblance. He is a staid, elderly person, about fifty, dresses like a gentleman,—that is, a Melrose gentleman,—and parades about his native village with a swagger of military gentility in his air, such as the possession of a walking-cane and the title of _Captain_ seems alone capable of inspiring in the legs of mankind.

He possesses as much property in the neighbourhood of Melrose as would entitle him to the honourable appellation, _Laird_; but in his case that enviable title is merged in the more romantic and splendid one of _Captain_, of which he is, perhaps, ambitious. He has his property in his own hands, and by its means contrives to keep himself independent. He thus wavers between the species of the half-pay officer and the cock-laird, and has no particular claims upon a distinct classification with either. He is chiefly genteel and idle, and associates a good deal with that regular hanger-on in all country villages, the exciseman. Having by some chance got the title of Captain affixed to his name, (in truth, he was only sergeant of a local militia corps,) he persists in retaining, by abstinence from personal labour, what otherwise he would have forfeited. The dignity which he contrives to maintain in his native town is scarcely wonderful, when we consider how few are ever independent in such a community, and to what a degree the respect of the illiterate is calculated to be excited by the possession of a very little knowledge,—such as Captain O. would easily acquire in the course of his unoccupied life, and which the opportunities of ease did not fail to confer upon even David Ritchie. Besides, to speak in the deferential words of Captain Clutterbuck’s Kennaquhair Club, “The Captain has something in him after a’—few folk ken sae mickle about the Abbey.” O.’s knowledge upon this point is indeed well calculated to excite the astonishment and veneration of the natives. He has not only driven the grave-digger fairly off the field, who, in the reality of Melrose, as well as in the ideality of Kennaquhair, was the former cicerone of the ruins,—but he is even a formidable rival to the ingenious John Bower himself. Old David Kyle, who kept the head inn at Melrose, and who is the _David_ of the Introduction here illustrated, was in the frequent practice of calling upon Captain O. for the purpose there so humorously described, namely, to press his knowledge into the service of his guests. Upon such occasions of importance, the Captain would, and still does, march away, with great pomposity, at the head of his company, like a peripatetic philosopher declaiming to a troop of disciples, and by the way _lays off_, as he terms it, all he has ever been able to discover respecting the valuable remains of St. Mary’s,—and sometimes more than all! How, then, will his eloquence expand over crypts and chancels, naves and arches! With what an important sound will the point of his walking cane ring against the tomb of Michael Scott! And, above all, how will the surrounding cockneys stare in admiration, when, in the course of his lecture, he chances to emit some such grandly unintelligible word as _architrave_ or _transept_.

Captain O.’s intelligence chiefly lies among the vulgar traditionary opinions which are entertained regarding the ruins by the country people; and he knows comparatively little of the lore with which written records and authentic treatises instruct the general antiquary. Mr. Bower is a person of better authority than the Captain, and has even published descriptions of the Abbey; but, notwithstanding, the Captain is not without his party in the town, and it is generally remarked that his anecdotes, if not so true, are at least as entertaining. A sort of jealousy sometimes is observable between these rival Ciceroni, a remarkable anecdote of which is recorded. Upon the opening of some ancient grave within the ruins, a noseless bust of St. Peter happened to be found, which it pleased Captain O. to take under his immediate protection. Bower had found some other remarkable idol in another part of the Abbey, to which he endeavoured to collect as many votaries of curiosity as possible; but the rival statue, which the Captain had already christened by the _taking_ name of Michael Scott, drew off a sweeping sect from the more legitimate shrine. Bower then endeavoured to prove that this was no statue of the wizard at all, but merely one of the common herd of saints, who had formerly figured in the niches of the building. Of this he at last succeeded in convincing all concerned, to the discomfiture of his rival. But, nevertheless, the Captain would not give up his point. He continued pertinacious in maintaining the authenticity of his noseless _protégé_, in spite of all detractions, in spite of all heresies; till at last finding the whole world against him, he gave up his argument, and turned off the whole as a joke, with the facetious observation, that “It was just as good a Michael Scott as could have been found among the whole ruins, if they would only have held with it!”

Sometimes, in the course of exhibition, there occur distresses nearly resembling that which happened to Captain Clutterbuck, in the company of the Benedictine,—that is to say, he “finds himself a scholar when he came to teach,” by the strangers actually knowing more of his favourite study than himself. This happens most frequently in the case of “gentlemen from Edinburgh,”—elderly persons with black coats and low-crowned hats, which may be called the costume of terror to our antiquary. To these habiliments, if we add the circumstance of hair-powder, O——n would as soon face a hyena as any person so clothed. He is said to fly from a wig as from a pestilence.

Yet, even in these predicaments, the Captain is never entirely at a loss. Repulsed from one stone, he can retreat to another; refuted in any part of his intelligence, he can make an honourable stand at another, of which his visitors had not been aware; and, even when found to be wholly fabulous and absurd in his anecdotes, he can, as a _dernier resort_, turn them off with some pleasantry or other, which is, of course, irrefragable. Besides, even when he catches a complete, resolute, ANTIQUARIAN Tartar, he generally contrives to profit by the encounter, by picking up some new intelligence, which he adds to his own former stock.

In describing this part of the character of a local antiquary, with all his ignorance and all his fables, it is forced upon our observation, how little certain information is commonly to be found, concerning the relics of antiquity, among those who dwell in their immediate neighbourhood. They know that there is an “_auld abbey_” or a “_queer sort o’ stane_,” near them; but for any more particular notice of their history, you might as well inquire in a different quarter of the globe. We have known instances of people, whose playground in infancy, and whose daily walks in manhood, had been among the ruins of an ancient Collegiate Church, (not the least interesting in the kingdom,) being yet quite ignorant of every circumstance connected with it, except that it was “_just the auld Kirk_.”

“It not unfrequently happened,” says Captain Clutterbuck, in his amusing account of himself, “that an acquaintance which commenced in the Abbey concluded in the Inn, which served to relieve the solitude as well as the monotony of my landlady’s shoulder of mutton, whether hot, cold, or hashed.” This happened not more frequently in the case of Captain Clutterbuck than it does in that of Captain O——n. The latter personage, indeed, makes a constant practice of living entirely with his _eleves_ during their stay in Melrose; and, as they have been guests at the hospitable board of his learning and entertainment, so he in turn becomes a guest at the parade of their “bottle of sherry, minced collops, and fowl,” or whatever else the order upon David Kyle may be. He is thus always ready at the elbows of their ignorance, to explain and to exhibit the various petty curiosities of the place, of which it is probable they might otherwise be obliged to remain perfectly unknowing, but for the condescending attention of Captain O. He is not destitute of other means of entertainment, besides showing the Abbey. He can tell a good story, after a few glasses, and is an excellent hand at a song. “The Broom of the Cowdenknows” is his favourite and his best; but we are also tenderly attached to “The Flowers of the Forest,” which he gives in the milkmaid style, with much pathos. When his company is agreeable, he can (about the tenth tumbler,) treat them with “Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut,” or “Auld Lang Syne,” or “For a’ that and a’ that.” These infatuating lyrics he gives in such a style of appropriate enthusiasm, that if his companions have at all a spark of Burns’s fire in their composition, they will rise up and join hands round the table, and, at the conclusion of every stanza, drink down immense cups of kindness, till, in the springtide of their glory, they imagine themselves the most jolly, patriotic, and independent Scotsmen upon the face of the earth. Such is the deceiving effect of a national song upon the spirits of men of sober reason when prepared for the excitement by previous intoxication. This trait is also not without its parallel in Clutterbuck. The reader will remember how, in the Introduction to Nigel, he pathetically laments that since Catalani visited the ruins, his “Poortith Cauld” has been received both poorly and coldly, and his “Banks of Doon” been fairly coughed down, at the Club. May the vocal exertions of Captain O——n, however, never meet with such a scurvy reception among the cognoscenti of Melrose!

Such are the characteristics of the prototype of Captain Clutterbuck, as we have gathered them from persons who have been acquainted with him, natives of the same town. We learn that there is another person of the same description in Melrose, named Captain T——t, who was really a Captain, but of a man-of-war, instead of a regiment. May he not have been the _Captain Doolittle_ of “The Monastery”? The grave-digger of Kennaquhair, who has the honour of speaking a few words in that work, must have been John Martin, who was professor of the same trade in Melrose. He is now dead. Mr. David Kyle, a very respectable and worthy man, who kept the Cross Keys Inn at Melrose, is also dead. He was in the custom of keeping an album in his house, for the amusement of his guests; though we cannot say as to the truth of his having had a copy of the “great Dr. Samuel Johnson’s _Tower_ to the Hebrides, in his parlour window, wi’ the twa boards torn aff.” In the album, to which we had access, is the following very curious document, among much nonsense:—

EPITAPH ON MR. LITTLE,

A JOLLY FELLOW.

“Alas! how chop-fallen now!”—_Blair._

“Little’s the man lies buried here, For little was his soul; His belly was the warehouse vat Of many a flowing bowl.

O Satan, if to thy domains His little soul has hoppit, Be sure ye guard your whiskey casks, Or faith, they will be toppit!

Chain, chain him fast, the drucken loon, 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

“Streamlet of the mountain north, Now in a torrent racing forth,”

often dashes and foams over small interjecting rocks, and forms some beautiful cascades. At other times,

“Winding slow its silver train, And almost slumbering o’er the plain,”

it sends a puny rill into some of the deep recesses or ravines which have found their way between the hills. As the top of the glen is neared, the hills show a greater slope, till we arrive at the green mount, on which stands

HILLSLOP TOWER,

On the property of Borthwick of Crookston, from which there is no doubt Glendearg has been depicted. The outward walls are still entire, and, from their thickness and oblong form, with the port-holes with which they abound, show it to have been formerly a place of some strength. This seems also probable from the bleakness and wildness of the surrounding scenery. High mountainous ridges, the castles of nature, tower on every side, whose bosoms sometimes display the naked grey rock encircled with fern and heath, and, at other times, excellent verdure. But no cultivated field greets the eye, and the solemn stillness which reigns around is only broken by the gentle murmuring of the rivulet. The situation of the old tower is well chosen, as, from the direction in which the hills run, a sort of circle is formed, which not only screens it from the north and east winds, but could easily debar all intercourse with the neighbouring country.

The date of the old tower, if a sculpture on the lintel of the entrance can be credited, is 1585; and its inhabitants seem to have been of some consequence from its interior appearance. At the foot of the stair, which projects almost to the door, there is a long, narrow apartment, with an arched roof lighted by a loophole-window, which, in the olden times, formed the pen for the proprietor’s cattle when danger was apprehended. It would suit well for the place of concealment suggested by the miller’s daughter for Sir Piercie, before the unbarring of the door. The decayed stone staircase leads to a common-sized hall, with a large chimney-piece; but from the height of the walls, and other circumstances, there must have been another room of equal dimensions above it. There are also the remains of some small rooms, which complete the accommodations of the mansion.

At a little distance from the foot of the tower, the straggling ruins of small outhouses are discerned, which have been once connected with the principal building. A short way farther, to the north, stand the ruins of Colmsley and Langshaw, the former of which places is alluded to by its name in the Romance.

Leaving Glendearg, it is necessary to follow the progress of the romance towards the Castle of Avenel, _alias_ Smailholm Tower. The distance between the two places is nearly seven miles. There is no regular road, but a track can be discovered, which runs eastward from Hillslop, through the base of the Gattonside, a small chain which runs from E. to W., in the direction of Melrose. The path is a most unenviable one; for, besides the obstacles of ditch and furze, it is intersected by deep morasses, which often render it quite impassable. In threading it, we pass Threepwood and Blainslie Mosses, the favourite resort of the Moss-troopers, who kept the peaceful inhabitants in continual alarm. Their ravages were particularly extensive during the usurpation of Cromwell, who allowed these depredators to scourge Scotland unpunished.

SMAILHOLM TOWER.

We hope to be able to show, from the description of this ancient fortress, that it agrees in the leading features with Avenel Castle; and if the reader will carry back his imagination for two centuries, he will be better able to minute the resemblance. Smailholm tower, distant about seven miles from Melrose to the east, and eight from Kelso to the west, is the most perfect relic of the feudal keep in the south of Scotland. It stands upon a rock of considerable height, in the centre of an amphitheatre of craggy hills, which rise many hundred feet above the level of the fertile plains of the Merse. Between the hills there appear ravines of some depth, which, being covered with straggling clumps of mountain shrubs, afford an agreeable relief to the rocks which are continually starting upon the eye. Nature indeed seems to have destined this isolated spot for a bulwark against the border marauders; but its strength and security was not confined to the encircling eminences. It chiefly lay in a deep and dangerous loch, which completely environed the castle, and extended on every side to the hills. Of this loch only a small portion remains, it having been drained, many years ago, for the convenience of the farmer on whose estate it was thought a nuisance. But the fact is evident, not only from the swampiness of the ground, which only a few years since created a dangerous morass, but from the appearance of the remaining pool, which has hitherto defied the efforts of the numerous drain-beds which surround it in every direction. Some people in the neighbourhood recollect and can mark out the extent of the large sheet of water which gave so romantic an air to this shred of antiquity.

We cannot omit giving the following animated picture of the local beauties, from the pencil of Sir Walter Scott.

“—Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour.

* * * * *

It was a barren scene and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled: But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And well the lonely infant knew Recesses where the wall-flower grew, And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruined wall: I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade The sun in all his round surveyed; And still I thought that shattered tower[72] The mightiest work of human power; And marvelled, as the aged hind With some strange tale bewitched my mind, Of forayers who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurred their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home-returning, filled the hall With revel, wassail-rout, and ball.”

There is much feeling in this description; and so might there be, for the early years of the bard were passed in the farmhouse of Sandy-knowe (about a bow-shot from the tower,) with a maternal aunt, whose mind was stored with border legends, which she related to her youthful charge. With this instructress, and by poring incessantly for many years on the relics of antiquity which are to be found in the neighbourhood, it is probable that he first received the impressions that afterwards came forward to such an illustrious maturity, and stored his imagination with those splendid images of chivalry that have since been embodied in imperishable song.

The external appearance of the tower may be briefly described. The walls are of a quadrangular shape, and about nine feet in thickness. They have none of the decorations of buttress or turret; and if there were any ornamental carving, time has swept it away. A ruined bartizan, which runs across three angles of the building, near the top, is the only outward addition to the naked square _donjon_. The tower has been entered on the _west_ side, as all the other quarters rise perpendicularly from the lake. Accordingly, there we discern the fragments of a causeway, and the ruins of a broad portal, whence a drawbridge seems to have communicated with an eminence about a hundred yards distant. On this quarter also there may be traced the site of several small booths which contained the retainers or men-at-arms of the feudal lord.

On the west side,[73] at a little distance from the Castle, is the Watch Crag, a massive rock, on the top of which a fire was lit to announce the approach of the English forayers to the neighbourhood. It is thus described in the ballad of the Eve of St. John:

“The bittern clamoured from the moss, The wind blew loud and shrill; Yet the craggy pathway she did cross To the airy beacon hill.

* * * * *

I watched her steps, and silent came, Where she sat her all alone; No watchman stood by the dreary flame, It burnèd all alone.”

The interior of the castle bespeaks the mansion of the lesser Scottish Baron. The sunk-floor, or keep, seems, from its structure, to have contained the cattle of the Baron during seasons of alarm and invasion. It is vaulted in the roof, and the light is admitted by a small outshot. Some have conjectured that this apartment was occupied as a dungeon, or _Massy More_, where the captives taken in war were confined; but this idea is improbable, not only from the comfortable appearance it exhibits, but from the circumstance of every border fortress having a place of the description formerly alluded to. Ascending a narrow winding staircase, we arrive at a spacious hall, with the customary distinction of a huge chimney-piece. The roof is gone, but the stone props of it, which were of course the support of another floor, remain. This latter would seem to have been the grand banqueting-room, where the prodigal hospitality of our ancestors was displayed in its usual style of extravagance. There also remain the marks of a higher floor, thus making three storeys in all. The highest opens by a few steps to the bartizan we have already mentioned, whence we ascend to a grass-grown battlement, which commands a magnificent prospect. To the east the spires of Berwick are descried, terminating an extensive plain, beautified by the windings of the Tweed; to the south, the conical summits of the Eildon Hills; to the north, the Lammermoors rear their barren heads above the verdant hills of the Merse; and on the south, the blue Cheviots are seen stretching through a lengthened vista of smaller hills. Besides this grand outline, the eye can take in a smaller range, beyond the rocky barrier of the Castle,—a most cultivated dale, varied with peaceful hamlets, crystal streams, and towering forests.

The history of the ancient possessors of the tower is involved in obscurity. We only know that there were Barons of Smailholm, but no memorable qualities are recorded of them. They were, as we already observed, in the rank of the _lesser_ Barons—that is, those who had not the patent of peerage, but who were dignified only by the extent of their possessions. But we know that the present proprietor, Mr. Scott, of Harden, is not a descendant of that ancient family, as we believe he acquired the estate by purchase. This gentleman cares so little for the antique pile within his domains, that it is not long since he intimated his intention to raze it to the ground, and from its materials to erect a steading to the farm of Sandy-knowe. This would have certainly taken place, had not his poetic kinsman, Sir Walter Scott, interfered, and averted the sacrilegious intent; and to prevent the recurrence of the resolution, he composed the admired ballad of the Eve of St. John, which ranks among the best in the Border Minstrelsy.

Tradition bears that it was inhabited by an aged lady at the beginning of the last century, and several old people still alive remember of the joists and window-frames being entire. A more interesting legend exists, of which the purport is, that there was once a human skull within this tower, possessed of the miraculous faculty of self-motion to such a degree, that, if taken away to any distance, it was always sure to have found its way back to its post by the next morning.[74] This may perhaps remind the reader of the strange journeys performed by the “black volume” in the Monastery, whose rambling disposition was such a source of terror and amazement to the monks of St. Mary’s.

FOOTNOTES:

[69] _Girth_ signifies a Sanctuary or place of refuge.

[70] Broken mountain ground, without vegetation.

[71] These are found in several fantastic shapes, such as guns, cradles, boots, etc., and are justly supposed to be the petrifactions of some mineral spring hard by.

[72] Smailholm Tower.

[73] The entrance of Avenel was also from the west.

[74] This story is told in the _Border Antiquities_. Since we copied it, information has been communicated, deriving the report from a ridiculous and most unromantic incident. The skull was moved from its place in the castle by a rat, which had found a lodgment in its cavity, and contrived to take it back to a particular apartment on finding it removed to any other.