As a pupil, I was never well up in arithmetic, mathematics, algebra, and such like; but I made amends by being generally first in all the branches of English, and promising well in French, Latin and Greek. Literature, not mathematics, was my favourite study, and it was encouraged by my father desiring me to call once a week at the bookseller's shop and get the latest number of Chambers's Journal. After our household had read that delightful weekly, it was sent on to another reader, and by him to yet another, until it reached the last on the list of subscribers. Observing my literary tastes, the schoolmaster on one occasion said to me: "The annual ex The day of examination came, all went well. The junior classes were taken first, the others came in seniority, and then as if by way of variation after languages and mathematics, there came the recitations. I was called up first, and I remember well one of the ministers saying to me after 1 had spoken: "Capital! That's most interesting. I'm glad you have gone to Sir Walter. Let's have the Mertoun lines over again." In response to the general invitation of all the ministers I repeated the lines referred to-the lines which came into my memory as I lay on the grass last summer in sight of Mertoun Bridge. amination is, as you know, next week. You are good at recitation, and the piece I want you to take at the examination is something different from 'The Inchcape Bell,' 'Lochnagar,' or 'Mary the Maid of the Inn."" "After all, what is it you would like me to take?" I asked of the master, for I was getting alarmed when he went past the old subjects that had done duty for years past. "Well, it's from Sir Walter's Marmion-part of the introduction to the Sixth Canto, and mind when you come to Mertoun, speak well out, make as great a flourish as you can, and that will be something new and taking." "In these dear halls, where welcome kind London. ALEXANDER SELKIRK, J Village Tales. BY REV. ANDREW AITKEN, SHAPANSEY. N an age when moderatism held the land in its chill grasp, and the dry dead bones of Ezekiel's vision littered almost every pulpit and pew, the Spirit of the Lord blew upon the Border land, and a springtime of fresh faith and a new evangel came among men. For the eighteenth century saw the rise of the Marrow men, who, by the banks of Tweed and Teviot, struck a new note in the ears of men weary of the tuneless sound of the Church. And thus the Secession Fathers, when they took their decisive step in 1733, found a soil prepared for them by the many Praying Societies that were the result of the Marrow movement. Sunnyside was in the very heart of the Secession. It was only two miles from Dryburgh where the Erskines were born. For many years the nearest place of worship for the village seceders was at Selkirk. But in 1772 the first Secession Church was built. In a corner of the valley made below the village by the rushing burn, and at the edge of the orchard, the fathers of the movement raised their meeting house. Limited means as well as limited ideas made the building severely plain. So low was the ceiling that the worshippers in the back of the loft could not stand straight, while for the same reason, when the minister stood in the pulpit, which was of the coffin type, high, narrow, and so cramped that movement was impossible, his head almost touched the roof. A clock was fixed over the doorway on the outside. And as Wully Bo used to say: "That's yae difference atween us an' the auld kirk ower by; they hev the clock in the inside to let fouks ken when they're t' get oot; we hev oors on the ootside t' ken when we're t' gang in. It's no' muckle maybe, but there's a lot in't if ye think a wee." Wully walked up to the village with Nelly Hope after the service on the fast day. "Whae wis that we had the day?" she asked. "Master Meldrum frae aboot Edinburgh some gate-a fine man." Wully was staunch to the pulpit, and always had a word of commendation even for the poorest preacher. As for Nelly, she was the type of those in whose eyes the one unpardonable sin was that of "reading." "Humph," she said, "he may be guid, but he's nae speaker." "He's a graun' veesitor, they tell me," continued Wully, "as busy as a bee frae Monday to Saturday." "He's a drone in the pu'pit ony wye. What a wauf-like discoorse, an' man, he read every word. Sixteen times he turned the page-I coonted them, an' sic like readin'-no' that it maittered very much, for it wasna worth readin'. I understood every word o't. Gie me a man that joombles the judgment, an' there's none better at that nor oor ain man. Gin I hev' but the sough o' the Word, I carena a bodle for the sense o't." "Wheesht, woman, wheesht," returned Wully, "that's no frame o' mind t' be in, an' the the occasion on Sabbath. Think less o' the man, an' mair o' the message." It was the week of the summer sacrament. To the seceders this was the day of days. As the Sabbath was the centre of their weekly faith, to which every day pointed and prepared, so the summer sacrament was the heart of their religious year, whose strong pulse-beats sent the blood of their faith in streams of strength and joy throughout the months. For weeks and months beforehand they prepared for the great day. By strenuous searching of hearts, by fasting and prayer, they made ready for the day of the King. After the Saturday service preparations were made in every home for the morrow. The father shaved himself-it would have been sinful to do that on the Sabbath; the mother prepared the dinner to be eaten cold next day; the children were brought indoors, and compelled to give their minds to the memorizing of Psalms and Catechism. When the Sabbath dawned, utter silence reigned in the village. The whirr of the loom was stirred; the long straggling street was deserted. In the early morning, from almost every home, there rose the long drawn out melody of Coleshill or Bangor, while out of doors-save for the occasional whistle of a shepherd to his dog, the wail of the plover, the distant bleating of sheep, the low soft cooing of the cushats in the woods-Nature herself seemed to be worshipping in quiet restfulness. As ten o'clock drew near, the members of each family set out for the meeting-house. The patriarchs, bowed with the weight of years, slowly led the way; their sons, rejoicing in the strength of manhood, followed leisurely, all were dressed alike-foot-gear of double soled brogues, headgear of red or blue Kilmarnock bonnets, and sombre blade of varying shades between. Snow-white mutches and simple winceys formed the raiment of the aged women. In one hand they carried their Bible, hid in the folds of their handkerchiefs; in the other, a bunch of peppermint or southernwood, to drive away sleep and revive flagging faculties. As the villagers reached the Church, they found a mighty gathering of people already assembled, and arranging themselves in rows at the foot of the green braes. For the Church, though seated for 450, could not contain all who came to this sacramental service. From Bowden and beyond to the west, to Sandyknowe on the east, from Lessudden and beyond on the south, to Melrose on the north, they came in their hundreds to this valley of the Lord, whence the praise of the great congregation rose in solemn beauty to the summer skies, and echoed down the glen. As was usual, Mr. Elder himself-the second minister of the congregation-preached the action sermon. At mid-day there was an interval of an hour. But none went home. In little groups they sat on the green slopes or walked among the trees discussing with equal relish and earnestness the "pieces" they had brought with them, and the sermon they had heard. The communion service was held in the Church. And many a heart beat faster as the minister fenced the tables, and exposed the sins and faults that debarred any one from coming forward. The two ministers alternately served the tables, and, as the members came forward, a few at a time, distributed the elements and addressed suitable counsels to the communicants. As one party retired and another came forward, the precentor read and sang four lines of a Psalm. The evening service was generally in the Church. And the fact that the preacher, Mr. Meldrum, was a stranger, was enough to ensure a full house. And even Nelly Hope was carried away as, in sounding periods and eloquent. words, he pictured the joys of the good time coming on earth and in Heaven, thrilling them with pictures of the millennium, and causing a sigh of desire to rise from every hearer, while he revealed the New Jerusalem, as a place where through unending ages, saints clad in white robes, and with harps in their hands, sang one unceasing Gloria. Mechanical it may have been, but the people left in highest rapture. Jean Brown met Nelly Hope at the door, and asked her what she thought. Eh, Jean, werena' ye uplifted?" "But I thocht ye didna' like 'im becauz he read!" said Jean. 32 'Ay, but there's a difference-that was fell readin' the nicht." "Still he read every word," pursued Jean, "an' that's no' the thing." "Read?" said Nelly, who was now feeling a little nettled, "I wadna care though he'd whustled it. He's juist a wonderfu' man; he juist gaed on, an' gaed on, an' chappit on the Book, an' raised his twae haunds abune his heid, an' then gaed on again, an' then he swat, an' spat, an' rubbit his broo, an' when he stoppit, mair he lookit as if he cud hev said far then when he begood-oh, he's a wonderfu' What a blessed day we've had." Wully Bo laughed. He had caught up on them. man. "I thocht ye'd chainge yer mind, but yer perfitly richt. He's been a Napthali to us this day. If a' the sons of the prophets gether sic herbs to feed the fouks, there'll be nae death i' the pot. He's lappit the word like Gideon's men, an' we've been refreshed." A Harrow Adventure. OOKING over some photographs of Border scenery one evening lately, I came across two which brought back to The photome some memories of long ago. graphs here referred to are reproduced in these pages-Kirkhope Tower and the Ettrick at Cacra Hill. Though I have little or nothing to say of these places, they yet serve the purpose of bringing back the memories of an adventure in the Border country many years ago. At the time of which I write I was enjoying a holiday on Tweedside with my brother-in-law and his family. At breakfast one morning, in fine and settled weather, it was arranged that we two should pay a visit to an old friend, who for many years had been settled on a farm in Ettrick. Taking the train to Selkirk, we after wards found our way along the banks of this famous stream. A long walk brought us to our friend's farm, but it was with great regret that we found only his housekeeper at home-the family having gone to the seaside for a few weeks. Instead of returning home we resolved, in the circumstances, to go up the Ettrick as far as Tushielaw Inn, and stay there all night. A delightful day we had-in the weather no sign of any coming change. Our first halt was ta the Kirkhope Tower which we surveyed leisurely, and resolved to buy a photograph of it on the first opportunity. An easy "daunder" brought us up to Tushielaw where we had dinner, a Seeing an angler in smoke, and a good rest. the stream just below Cacra Hill, as in the had experienced farther down the water. A walk of about a mile brought us to the farm referred to, and on sending in our cards to the tenant, we were received with the utmost cordiality. He was a bachelor, and just about to sit down to supper alone. "Gentlemen," said he, "I declare ye couldna hae come at a better time. Here am I, a lone auld man, just about to sit down to taties an' herrin'. I'm real glad o' your company." Ringing the bell, he desired the housekeeper to bring in an additional supply of supper. The heartiness of the entertainment, the pleasure which our company seemed to give to our host, the unexpected arrival, are all matters which the present writer can never forget. Over the tumblers of toddy which followed the "taties an' herrin'," our host told us many stories of the neighbourhood. never mind the weather while the wind blows fair." "But it's not blowing fair," I replied, "there's rain between these furious gusts of wind." "Never mind the weather to-night, or this morning rather. Let's to bed and take what comes." At breakfast in the morning, the weather had broken. The rain, however, was undecided, and did not seem to know whether to remain where it was, or to come down handsomely. As we were utterly unprovided for broken weather, our landlord advised us to cross the hill, find our way over to the Yarrow, where probably we would get the chance of some conveyance down to Selkirk. This sensible advice we deemed it advisable to take, and at length we started. Keeping up the Tushielaw Burn we |