these silly freaks, that John Sillars declared he could not, and he would not, stand any more of them.

A great political meeting had been arranged to take place at Jedburgh, and a grand dinner to be held in the evening. Oddly enough, the Laird of Chesters accepted the invitation to be present, although he had never done anything of the kind before. On the forenoon of the day in question, John Sillars was told that he must allow two hours for the drive over to Jedburgh. "Be round at one minute to two, John, I'll

was scarcely done when it was almost time to put them in again. John's "pecker" was rising, and the wrath of a long-suffering, goodnatured, man is not a thing to be trifled with. Just as he was preparing to go round to the terrace once more, the Laird himself appeared upon the scene.

"John," he said, with the most tantalising coolness, and in a tone that slightly savoured of banter. "I think we'll not start till three o'clock. I want to drive over to the dinner like the very devil. If the horses can't do between

be ready, and we'll start at two o'clock sharp." "Yes, sir."

Punctually at the stated time the carriage with its pair of beautiful dark brown horses was on the terrace. Instead of the Laird, however, the butler came down the steps to say that the Laird could not be ready for half-an-hour later, and that the carriage was to be taken round, the horses unyoked, and on no account to be kept hanging about the stable-yard or coach-house.

"At his tricks again," thought John Sillars, as he somewhat sulkily took the carriage round to the stables and took out the horses.

This

Edinburgh.

Chesters and Jedburgh in an hour they're not worth keeping, and I shall sell them."

Too much for human nature to stand! In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the fire blazed up in the bosom of John Sillars, and the consequences were such as no mortal man, or woman either, could have foreseen.

With one spring and a bound, the infuriated coachman, exasperated beyond endurance, fell upon his master with the strength and desperation of a maniac, punched his head without mercy, flung him into the carriage, shut the door, jumped up to the box seat with the agility

begotten of the superhuman, took the reins and whip, lashed the sympathetic horses into panic, and careered out of the stable yard, down the hill to Leaderfoot, up the Earlston Road, and away on the wings of the wind to possible destruction.

Amazed beyond measure, speechless from absolute terror, it was some time before the Laird could get the use of his tongue. When he did get it, he called out, "Stop, for heaven's sake, John !"

For heaven's sake-NEVER!" " cried the coachman, but altering the direction of his flight and fury. "For heaven's sake-NEVER.

For the devil's if you like, but never for heaven's!"

With plenty of roadway to spare, John lashed his horses into still further speed until he turned the flank of Bemerside Hill.

The foam was flying from the mouths and flanks of the terrified animals. Onward they

A

flew on the wings of the wind. Onward and upward along the face of Bemerside Hill. slight descent sent them downward with terrific speed, and added such impetus to another ascent as brought them in one minute to the summit of the hill.

"Have mercy," cried the Laird, in piteous and imploring tones, while looking out of the carriage window at the yawning precipice on his right. "Fifty pounds, if you'll spare my life."

"Fifty pounds!" called out the greatly excited coachman, apparently feeling the desperate situation in which he had got into. "Make it a hundred and a free pardon !"

"NEVER," cried the voice of a man who had run up at the moment, and had heard the offer of the Laird and the terms stated by the coachman. "John Sillars, are ye mad? A hundred pounds! Say a thousand, and I'll go halfer with ye."

It was John M'Ian. There he stood glowering in at the carriage window, with the Laird of Chesters at last in his power!

"This is the proud day for me, Laird—the day I have lived for, and sleepit for, and dreamed for-the day of my revenge and your humiliation. -A thousand pounds, or your carriage and horses go over the scaur, into the troubled Tweed, that'll be owre glad to get ye. Man, man, but she'll hiss like the very devil when she closes owre ye."

The coachman's blood was up again, now that he had got some one to share the desperate state of matters with him. Getting down from his seat on the box, he pulled the horses still nearer the edge of the precipice, so as not only to terrify the Laird into obedience, but to keep

the narrow road clear in case of any other conveyance coming along.

"John M'Ian is richt, Laird. Say a thousand pounds, and I'll take ye hame scaithless."

"And if no," joined in the drover, "one kick of my foot will send the whole affair owre the scaur, and ye'll be wi' your maister long before ye reach the bottom."

Certain destruction was staring the Laird of Chesters in the face in case of non-compliance with the terms stated! A carriage thundering over the precipice would be counted as an accident, and not premeditated murder. He was completely in the power of the two men. "A thousand pounds!" he pleaded, holding up his hands. "Oh, that's dreadful-say a hundred to each of ye."

"Laird of Chesters," said John M'Ian, "this is no a place or time for argue-bargue. I'll count ten, and if the thousand's no promised when the time comes, owre the scaur you go. In fact, I should have said two thousand; but I'll stick to what I mentioned, and count ten. Here goes

"Wait till to-morrow," pleaded the unhappy Laird.

"Now or never," said both coachman and drover.

"Here goes the counting, Laird. One,

"But I have no cheque book with me." "A bit of paper will do-the back o' your caird. Five, six, seven."

"You,

"Stop one moment," called the Laird imploringly, looking towards the coachman. John Sillars, drive me over to Melrose, and you, John M'Ian, go back to Chesters, and wait there till we come. I'll see what can be done at Melrose with Mr. Poynter."

"No, no, Laird. This is only trifling," said the drover, getting angry. "I'll tell ye what it is, if ye keep us staying haggling here any longer, I'll make it five thousand."

That was the crusher! Taking a scrap of paper out of his pocket, the unhappy Laird asked what he was to write.

"I'll tell ye," said John M'Ian. "Now write down this:-To Mr. Poynter, banker, Melrose. Please pay the bearer, John Sillars, my trusty coachman, the sum of one thousand pounds sterling, and charge the same to my account. Now sign it, and date it, and hand it to me."

All this having been written in pencil, the

note was handed to John M'Ian, who turned to the coachman and said, "Now, John Sillars, you do your part. Take out one of the horses -take them both out-but take one, ride across to Melrose, get the note-of-hand cashed, and you'll find us waiting here."

The coachman, as instructed, was soon trotting one of the horses on his way to Melrose. Meantime, John M'Ian stood sentry by the door of the carriage enjoying the hour of the revenge that was so sweet to his soul.

The Laird lay back, sulky and terrified by turns-not disposed to listen to the drover's precepts about the vanity of riches, and the uncertainty always attending the possession of every earthly thing.

"Yes," said John, putting his head further and further into the carriage. "It's but a sicht, is money. For it's here this blessed day, and it's away the morn, and man knows not where it goes, or who is to get the benefit next week. I aye thought, Laird, ye had owre muckle siller an' didna take the use o't; and I aye thought I had owre little siller, an' fine I ken the use o't. This thousand, now, will relieve ye a little, an' ye'll sleep the sounder this night. For, och, och, a thousand pound's a heavy handfu', and it's a mercy that ye met wi' me this day. But for me, Laird, it's likely that ye wad ha'e been in the Tweed lang syne, for John Sillars' birse was up, and he was neither to haud nor bind when I met the twae o' ye coming helter-skelter up the hill as if ye were racin' for a wager. In fact, sae gratefu' should ye be to me, that ye might draw another bit cheque on Newcastle, as I've to be there next week. No? Ah weel, I'll no' touch ony man on the siller question till John Sillars comes back. A better man ye couldna hae sent for siller than John o' that name. I mind the day weel, Laird, when ye did a bit job for me below the purple beeches, and for that ye've this day to thank me for preventin' John Sillars couping ye owre the scaur into the Tweed. One guid turn deserves another, and when John comes wi' the thousand pounds, you and me will be quit, Laird. Ye wondered often, nae doubt, where I gaed when ye lost me in the garden. Weel, I saw an auld friend o' mine coming along wi' his drove, an' I fore-gathered wi' him and e'en took to the drovin', where I hae been ever syne, and hidin' mysel' for no man."

In this way John M'Ian kept the Laird of Chesters listening to him all the time until the coachman returned. Only one person had passed along the hill-road. This was a farmer in his gig, who asked if there had been any accident, and if he could render any service.

"No, no. There's nothing wrong," said John M'Ian, "we're waiting on the coachman coming up the hill wi' a message that the Laird has sent for."

"All right," said the farmer passing on, little dreaming of the passion-play that had been enacted, and thinking only of the scene on the roadside as the outcome of some new freak on the part of the Laird of Chesters.

At last the coachman arrived with the money. Mr. Poynter had also put the affair down to another freak of the Laird, and gave the money to the coachman, who declared, in all sincerity, that he durst not go back without it. Though Mr. Poynter represented that it was after bank hours when the application was made, the coachman replied that the money was urgently wanted, and there was the Laird's own request for payment written out by his own hand.

The horses were again yoked, and John Sillars, after handing the drover his share of the spoil, was about to mount to his seat and drive the Laird home to Chesters.

Are ye mad, John Sillars, to gang back to Chesters after what has taken place? No that we've done onything wrang, but ye dinna ken what the Laird may do when he gets back, and then what use will your money be to ye?

no.

No.

We'll say good-bye to the Laird here. This is the day o' my vengeance and his humiliation. He was a house-painter when he put the mortal affront on me. He'll be none

the waur o' turnin' coachman for half-an-hour. Good-bye, Laird. You and me are quit now. A safe journey to Chesters."

It was indeed the day of bitter humiliation, for the Laird had to mount the box seat, take the reins, and drive himself home to Chesters.

Meantime the coachman and the drover cut across the country, caught the stage coach at Earlston, and reached Edinburgh late in the evening of that memorable day.

In 1793 he held the rank of captain in the regiment raised by the Earl of Hopetoun, and named the "Hopetoun Fencibles." He contested the seat in Parliament for his native county, Berwickshire, against Sir William Don, in 1796, when there voted for Mr. Baillie fortyseven, and for his opponent seventeen. This was the only contested election that Mr. Baillie had, and as already stated he retained the seat twenty-two years.

Mr. Baillie married Mary, youngest daughter of Sir James Pringle, Stitchel, July 13th, 1801, and in the course of time had a family of five sonsand five daughters. The eldest son succeeded his cousin, the Earl of Haddington, 1st Dec., 1858, and thus became the tenth Earl of that name. The second son took to the law and rose to a seat on the judicial bench as Lord Jerviswood. The third joined the Army and held the rank of Major. The fourth son, Robert, joined the church, whilst the fifth entered the navy when sixteen years of age; he shared in the fight at the battle of Navarino, and during the Crimean war he, as Admiral Baillie, had command of the British feet in the White Sea.

Of the five daughters, four of them married inta titled families, viz.:-Breadalbane, Aberdeen, Ashburnham, and Polwarth. The unmarried daughter, the Hon. Grizel Baillie, devoted her life to deeds of benevolence. The second daughter of the family became the Countess of Aberdeen, her son the present Earl of Aberdeen, Late Governor-General of Canada, having just arrived back to his paternal home in Aberdeenshire, fall of honours in the service of his Queen and country.

Let us now revert to Mr. Baillie, the main subject of our present paper, who, besides the several positions in which we have noted him,

was

also Vice-Lord-Lieutenant of Berwickshire, and as such was "up" on the night of the false alarm, January 31st, 1804, when Border beacons blated forth, by mistake, the alarm of a French invasion. He mounted his fleetest steed

with his slippers on and rode to Greenlaw, calling at every house and hamlet on the way for volunteers, infantry and cavalry to rally. When he arrived at the county town the mistake had been discovered, but not until the beacons were ablaze, even as far as at Jedburgh and Hawick. Mr. Baillie returned to Mellerstain, but instead of rallying out his retainers as warriors, he got his hounds and huntsman out in hunting array, and set off for Jedburgh, where he assured the volunteers of the mistake which the sentinel at the Hume Castle beacon had made, and invited them up to a hunt in Jed Water.

He was always ready to give sport with his hounds. On one occasion, when there was a troop of yeomanry at the Inn of Whitburn, he proceeded thither with his hounds and gave the yeomen a good day's hunting. So dexterous was Mr. Baillie himself as a huntsman, that he was known far and near as the "Nimrod of the North," whilst the Mellerstain hounds were familiar on both sides of the Border as household words, and so gladdened by their music old Dandie Dinmont as he lay on his death bed, that he had to arise to see them at full cry.

Wonderful stories are recorded of Mr. Bail ie and his hounds; poets have also sung in praise of hunt and huntsman. After Mr. Baillie had attained three score and four years of age, he retired from active duty on the hunting field. The Mellerstain pack, of which he had been proprietor for forty years, he handed over to Robert Baird another sportsman, but who, in the course of a twelvemonth, transferred them to the Duke of Buccleuch, who had been appearing as an amateur huntsman on the Braes of Yarrow.

As a token of the esteem in which Mr. Baillie had been held as master of the hounds by his fellow sportsmen, they, on his retiral, presented him with a massive silver cup beautifully carved. One side bore an appropriate inscription, whilst the other side had a representation of a pack of hounds at full cry.

But though Mr. Baillie had resigned his position as leader of the chase, he rode as a follower as long as health and strength permitted. Even when his ability as rider in the fray had gone, the ruling passion was yet so strong within him that he had to ride out accompanied by a faithful manservant to within sight and sound of the hounds. These he knew all as well by sound as by sight, so that when a dog challenged a fox, he could name it by bark and bay. As the others followed in the cry, he one day in the ecstasy of joy turned round to his henchman and ejaculated, “Did ye ever hear such music?” "Music," replied the prostic attender, "I can

hear nothing for the yelp, yelping, o' thae dogs." It may be remarked that Mr. Baillie was also a prominent figure in race-courses on both sides of the Border, frequently officiating as a Judge, and frequently as competitor. One year his horse carried away the silver plate, £50, at each of the two days at Kelso Races.

As a private gentleman Mr. Baillie lived amongst his people and was beloved by them all. At the

I

New-Year fifty families could count on sharing in his benevolence, whilst all the year round they were gladdened by his words of cheer. His death, which happened on the 9th December, 1841, was sincerely lamented by all classes of the community, and when his remains were. consigned to their resting place in the family burial vault at Mellerstain, there was not a dry eye in all the vast concourse of spectators.

ح

Galashiels.*

HREE years ago we had the pleasure of reading Mr. Hall's "Origin and History of Ladhope Free Church," which a friend in Galashiels kindly sent us. We remember very well of thinking that if so much real enjoyment could be got from reading an account of one of its churches, what might not a history of the town itself produce? Hitherto Galashiels has done little in the way of publications. Here, however, in the remarkably interesting volume before us, she has made up for

*The History of Galashiels. By Robert Hall. Galashiels Alexander Walker & Son.

Fdinburgh.

lost time, and produced a local history that is second to none in the Border Country. The work before us is a big "gaucy" volume of six hundred pages, beautifully printed, illustrated with maps, portraits, views, and flags -a work which reflects the greatest honour upon its publishers, Messrs. Alexander Walker & Son, Galashiels.

We are greatly interested in Mr. Hall's method of arrangement in this volume. He goes back to the earliest record connected with Galashiels, and works his way, quietly and systematically, down to two years ago-1896. In a work of this kind, we think that this is an admirable arrangement. The volume is divided into six