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But the laureate of this literary guild is undoubtedly the gifted and cultured writer who does not veil his identity under the pen-name of "J. B. Selkirk." Born and bred on the banks of the Ettrick Mr. Brown has received from it and its sister streams, the Yarrow and the Tweed, some of the inspiration which these ballad-haunted waters gave to the minstrels of old. Especially has he entered to the full into the spirit of the Yarrow. It is not the present writer's purpose to discuss at length the causes of the spell which that famous stream has exercised over so many minds. Much has been written regarding the "secret" of the Yarrow, but nothing has approached, in happy brevity, the lines in which Wordsworth's fine sympathy enabled him at once to sum up the characteristics of the valley.

"Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy,

The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy."

It was perhaps this "meek loveliness" and "pastoral melancholy" which helped to soothe the physical distraction of the writers of our old ballads in former centuries, and which, in the mental unrest of these latter days, still strike a deep and sympathetic note of poesy. To him who can exclaim with Horace, although not in any misanthropic spirit,

"Odi profanum vulgus et arceo,"

a sojourn in Yarrow is as "poppy and mandragora," for not yet does the shriek of the railway whistle disturb the solitude of St. Mary's, nor the cry of "Change here for Tibby Shiels" re-echo from the wooded slopes of Blackandra!

In addition to many contributions to "Blackwood" and "The Scotsman" Mr. Brown has published two volumes of verse and two prose works-" Ethics and Aesthetics of Modern Poetry," and " Bible Truths and Shakesperean Parallels.” We speak here however only of the poems, and of these only in so far as they relate to the Border country. Had space permitted, something might have been said of the lines "Written at Darwin's grave," or that fine poem "The Soul's Atlantis." One would like to quote the excellent description of "A man without an enemy," the lines "On a popular character," or the wholly delightful "Epistle to Clara" from an estimable young lady who "did not answer 'no'" when the question of questions was put to her.

It is however in his own countryside that our author is most at home, and it is in dealing with Border subjects that his poetic spirit is most deeply stirred. We do not think that it is rating them too high to say that Mr. Brown's Yarrow poems are not unworthy successors of the old ballads. One can fancy the warm enthusiasm with which honest Sir Walter would have received them, noting their delicacy of touch, their close observation of Nature, and the vivid realisation of scene and incident which destine the author to occupy a high place among the poetic dii minores of our country. Take for example the "Song of Yarrow" with its fine description (particularly in the fourth and fifth verses) of what anyone acquainted with the valley has so often seen, but would find so difficult to describe, even in prose.

"September, and the sun was low,

The tender greens were flecked with yellow, And Autumn's ardent after-glow

Made Yarrow's uplands rich and mellow.

Between me and the sunken sun,
Where gloaming gathered in the meadows,
Contented cattle, red and dun,

Were slowly browsing in the shadows.

And out beyond them Newark reared
Its quiet tower against the sky,
As if its walls had never heard
Of wassail-rout or battle cry.

O'er moss-grown roofs that once had rung,
To reiver's riot, Border brawl,
The slumberous shadows mutely hung,
And silence deepened over all.

Above the high horizon bar

A cloud of golden mist was lying, And over it a single star

Soared heavenward as the day was dying.

No sound, no word, from field or ford, Nor breath of wind to float a feather, While Yarrow's murmuring waters poured A lonely music through the heather.

In silent fascination bound,

As if some mighty spell obeying, The hills stood listening to the sound,

And wondering what the stream was saying."

In quite a different style is the "The Reiver's Ride." It is the tale of an old world elopement, and is redolent of the heather. Indeed it might have been written by either Mr. Blackmore or Mr. Crockett, if both of these novelists had not shown that poetry is not their strong point.

"Oh day of days, when we were young!

With hearts that laughed at wind and weather,
That day, the gathered guests among,
When you and I, while songs were sung,
Each to a ready saddle sprung,

And rode into the rain together.

An endless, fruitless feud, I wot,

With vengeance vowed in every weather,
Between the Cessfords and the Scott,
A foolish quarrel, long begot,
Had barred our love; we argued not,
But rode into the rain together.

What though the skies were frowning black,
And dark and sunless was the weather,
And heaven was filled with driving rack,
We thought not once of turning back,
That day we left the beaten track,

And rode into the rain together." And a rough ride they had; but "love was strong, and life was sweet," so on they went over "Minchmuir's misty height," through "Yarrow's reddening waters" and "Ettrick's deeper flood," until they "reached the chapel in the wood, And there beneath the holy rood, Our sacred promises made good, That night we rode in rain together.

But days have come and days have gone,
With summer suns and winter weather,
When now I ride, I ride alone-
The grass upon your grave has grown,
And many a weary year has flown,

Since we two rode in rain together.

Young Norman has the eyes and brow-
His mother's son in any weather,
And Lilian has your lips I trow;
And oh how oft their faces now
Bring back the day we made our vow,

And rode into the rain together."

"An appeal from Yarrow" written while one of the Edinburgh water schemes was before Parliament is hardly successful, but a much happier effort is "Love in Yarrow" the familiar story of a philosophic misogynist, much given to burning the midnight oil, who

"met his fate on Yarrow braes,

Small blame to me or credit;

I could not move him from his ways,
An unseen trifle did it.

Love's eyes with dewy light suffused,
Dealt out from silken lashes,
The fire that always has reduced
Philosophy to ashes!

He tried again his studious joys
When comfortably married,

But when his pretty wife brought boys
Philosophy miscarried.

Oh, great are the Philosophies!
But deep are Nature's forces!-
To-day I saw him on his knees,
They said the game
was horses.""

The last line is a delightful touch, worthy of the author of "The Professor's Love Story" himself. And then there is "Autumn Leaves," a fine poem dealing with an incident akin to that which Hamilton of Bangour has treated in his familiar "Braes of Yarrow."

"'Twas down beside the Fairy well,

Alone came gentle Isobel

To meet her lover in the dell,

When evening winds were softly calling.

No other sound in earth or air

Disturbed the silence everywhere,
While Autumn leaves were falling."

But he for whom she looked came not, and
"Where restless waters whirl and rave
In foam about the Druid's Cave,
They found him by the lonely wave.

The moaning winds about him calling-
And her through morning light they trace
To where upon her upturned face

The Autumn leaves are falling.

Beneath the quiet churchyard sod,
Where shadowy beeches wave and nod
To winds that are the breath of God,

Through Life and Death forever calling,
Where all our loves and sorrows run,
Their graves are lying in the sun,

And Autumn leaves are falling."

"Retreat in Yarrow" a poem inspired by the solitudes of Dobb's Linn contains two especially fine verses in which a thought is expressed very similiar

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Passing now to the consideration of the poems our author has written in the Scottish dialect we find in them the same characteristics which we have noted in his other poems with the added beauty of pathos which the vernacular is so well able to convey. "Death in Yarrow" is the story of a young life prematurely clouded, "The Emigrant's Letter" is an epistle from one who had crossed the seas, and "Looking back in Yarrow-A Golden Wedding," is a charming description of the feelings of an aged couple on celebrating their golden wedding, an event which causes them to take a retrospect of the changes which have occurred in their native vale since

"The day we took oor chance

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As man an' wife thegither." The conservatism of age is certainly strong in this Darby and his Joan. Say not that the old times were better than these," is not an injunction which they could accept. Of the benefits of new fangled things, from slated roofs to reaping machines, they are exceeding sceptical, and as for modern education they will have none of it.

"Just look at oor new schulin'

I carena hoo it's honour't;

A hantle o't's just fulin';

And knocks the bairn donnart.

I'll grant ye ane in ten

The system forces forrit :

It suits the few, but then

The bulk o' them's the waur o't.

No every change we make
Can aye be for the better,
In some we but forsake

The speerit for the letter.
The mind may cram and feed
On endless information-
Unless some sense gang wi'd
It's no richt eddication.

Wi' buird schules roond us set,
Where ilka little bantam
Maun gape his gab and get
The regulation quantum ;
Wi' their diploma'd lair,
Inspector for adviser,
They ll maybe stap in mair.

But deil a ane's the wiser."

After this it is not surprising to be told that the fin-de siecle novelists are "puir beside the Shirra” and that

"Anglicees'd fine mainners

And clippit ways o' speakin,"

do not find so much favour as they did with the lady who opened the door to Mrs. Curly of Tilliedrum; moreover in these days of railway racing it is interesting to be reminded that

"Lang syne, aboon the brig,

Nae wheel but on a barrow
And Doctor Russell's gig,
Was ever seen in Yarrow.
Now coaches, cadgers' cairts,
And carriages galore,
Hailin' frae a' the airts,

Gang rumlin' by the door."

It is however in "Selkirk after Flodden-A Widow's Dirge October 1513" that our author reaches the high water mark of his powers as a poet. The title of the poem is self-explanatory and if it be the case, as Mr. Lang has declared, that Shairp's "Bush aboon Traquair," is the most beautiful song written since those of Burns; then it may truly be said that since Jean Elliot composed her lament for Forest Flowers "a' wede away" nothing more tender and pathetic has been written than "Selkirk after Flodden."

"It's but a month the morn,

Sin' a' was peace and plenty, Oor hairst was halflins shorn, Eident men, and lassies denty; But noo it's a' distress

Never mair a merry meetin'; For half the bairns are faitherless And a' the women greetin'.

O, Flodden Field!

Miles and miles round Selkirk toun, Where forest flowers are fairest,

Ilka lassie's stricken doun

Wi' the fate that fa's the sairest.
A' the lads they used to meet
By Ettrick Braes or Yarrow,
Lyin' thrammelt head and feet
In Brankstone's deadly barrow.
O, Flodden Field!

Round about their gallant king,
For countrie and for croon,
Stude the dauntless Border ring,
Till the last was hackit doon:
I blame na what has been-

They maun fa' that canna fleeBut oh, to see what I hae seen,

To see what now I see !

O, Flodden Field!"

The temptation is strong to quote the whole of the poem, but the exigencies of space forbid us to do more than add the last three verses.

"Then I turn to sister Jean,

And my airms aboot her twine,

And I kiss her sleepless een,

For her hairt's as sair as mine

A hairt ance fu' o' fun,

And hands that ne'er were idle,

Wi' a' her cleedin' spun
Against her Jamie's bridal.

O, Flodden Field!

Noo we've naither hands nor hairt-
In oor grief the wark's forgotten,
Tho' it's wanted every airt,

And the craps are lyin' rotten.

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From what has been said and quoted it will be seen that if "J. B. Selkirk's" is but a minor poetic note, it is nevertheless a note of great sweetness and beauty rising at times to considerable power. Certainly of all of our modern Border bards he it is who most closely unites us to the past-to the time when "Perys of Cokburne and hys wife Marjorie" were laid to rest at Henderland, to the time when the scattered remnant returned to the Forest from the blood-stained banks of the Fill, and even to the remoter time when the dead Douglas won a field, and shadows of crimson stained the ripples of Otterburn. And this brings me to ask, in conclusion, a question which is after all the raison-d'être of this article. When are we to have a new collected edition of Mr. Brown's verses, a book which would be prized by many, and for which I, at anyrate, have looked "fu' lang"?

W. E. WILSON.

Strike the Border Harp Again!

STRIKE the Border Harp again!

Tell the thrilling story;

Wake once more that wild refrain
From the ages hoary.

Tell us of the reiver's ride
O'er the English Border,
Of the men who then defied
Every law and order.

Though the mighty Minstrel's gone,
And the chords are broken,

Still there lingers some sweet tone-
Some grand tale unspoken.
Shadows mystic still surround
Ruined peel and shieling;
Fairy glens may yet be found
Poet dreams revealing.
Wondrous land of warlike song
Down the ages ringing,
Shall the minstrel's hand now fail,
Or his voice cease singing?
After winter come the birds,
In the season vernal;

Though we sing with other words,
The music is eternal.

"TWEEDSIDE LADDIE."

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SIR GEORGE DOUGLAS, Bart., (Portrait and Illustrations). By Rev. Dr. TULLOCH,

PAGE

I

THE EDINBURGH BordererS' UNION. By the Secretary, Stuart DouglAS ELLIOT, S.S.C., A TWEEDSIDE VILLAGE,

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A POET OF THE YARROW, (Illustrated). By W. E. WILSON,

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SONG: STRIKe the Border HARP AGAIN! By "TWEEDside Laddie,”
EDITORIAL NOTICES,

THE QUARRY MASTER: A Border Story. By ALEXANDER SELKIRK,

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II

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MR. JOHN USHER AS A POET. By SIR GEOrge Douglas, Bart.,

A BORDER BOARDING SCHOOL,

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF THE BORDER COUNTRY. BY THE EDITOR, .

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OUR NEW MAGAZINE.

HE Prospectus announcing the preparation

of a Border Magazine gives way this day to the Magazine itself. We make no apology to our readers for introducing this new candidate for their favour and support. Though we cannot say that it is intended to supply the orthodox and time-honoured institution "a felt want," we yet believe that it will find a place for itself in the heart and home of all who are interested in, or in any way connected with, the Border Counties of Scotland. For this is the day of Magazines they are multiplying around us in every department of Literature, Art and Science. While the newspapers keep us abreast of all that is going on from day to day in every quarter of the globe, there is, at the same time, an earnest longing for something less exciting during the leisure hours at home when the work of the day is done. Books are not always at hand, and here it is where the Magazine comes in. There is, perhaps, no district in Scotland more worthy of having a Magazine all to itself than the Border Country. Rich and varied as are its Literary, Historical and Romantic Associations of the past, the new Magazine will

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seek rather to illustrate what is passing in the present. The former, however, cannot be wholly left out for the past and the present are so inseparably united in the history of the Border Country, that the one is simply the complement of the other.

The Prospectus of every new work is apt to promise too much. A glance at the above List of Contents will serve at least to indicate what has been attempted. We ask the kind indulgence of our readers for the inevitable short-comings of a first part. The second will, we trust, show a marked improvement. While the third, and succeeding issues, we hope, will reach such a respectable high-water mark that everybody "alang the Marches" will begin to feel that they cannot do without their Border Magazine.

Owing to the great pressure on our space in this opening number, we have been obliged to hold over several Articles, Reviews of Border Books, etc. These, however, we hope to overtake next month. Meantime we have to express our warmest thanks for the encouragement that has reached us from many unexpected quarters: notably from the Border Country itself.

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The Quarry Master,

A BORDER STORY.

BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

CHAP. I.

THE GRAND DISCOVERY.

NE Saturday afternoon some eight or ten boys were returning to their homes after a splendid run with the Duke's fox-hounds. For miles and miles across country, the young hunters had followed the chase on foot, never thinking of the weary trudging that lay behind them after the excitement of the day was past. The sport had been excellent, and the weather was all that could be wished. There had never before been such a large and distinguished meet " of ladies and gentlemen as had that morning assembled at the "Pincushion Cover on the hillside, about a mile and a-half above the quaint old-fashioned town of St. Johns.

Reynard, poor fellow, had exerted himself to the utmost, you may be sure, to make the run as long as possible. He was tracked to earth at last, however, and with his capture and death the run was over. Ladies and gentlemen were riding homeward, with appetites such as those only feel who have been in the saddle all day, and tasted nothing since breakfast except, perhaps, a hurried pull at a flask of sherry and a snap at a beef or tongue sandwich.

But the boys! Wearied, foot-sore, hungrier than hawks, and more travel-stained than tramps, they were trudging homeward in the most piteous plight that can well be imagined. Gradually the party of eight or ten diminished in number as boy after boy "hirpled" downward to the hamlets in the valley, or crawled upwards to the farm-onsteads on the hills. At last there were left but two, and these two kept plodding steadily onward and forward in the direction of St. Johns.

While still a good mile from the town, a sudden hailstorm came down-so sharp and fierce and violent in its intensity as to force the wearied foxhunters to seek the shelter of an old disused quarry which happened, fortunately, to be near at hand. Almost blocking up the entrance to the old quarry was a tremendous mass of rock, round in shape, and resembling a gigantic plum-pudding. While the storm was still raging outside, the two boys seated themselves behind the plum-pudding and amused themselves with speculating how short-lived would be its existence there, were it really a pudding, smoking hot and ready for the onslaught.

"Hulloa!" cried one of the boys, running his fingers along a course of green moss on the crust of the pudding nearest to his touch. "Hulloa! here's the letter B cut in the rock, and here's another, and another, and lots more!"

The boy's companion rose to examine the moss-grown letters. What was his astonishment in turn to find that these letters formed several words: that the words formed themselves into something like a couplet, and that the couplet, with a missing link or two, ran thus: "Blest be the man.........turns me.......

For underneath.........gold.........found." Here was a great and grand adventure! Weariness, hunger, and hail-storm were all forgotten in the excitement of the great discovery. Visions of wealth and wonder rose before the eyes and filled the imaginations of the young discoverers ! Bagfuls of gold were probably lying below the rock in such number and quantity as to require removal in carts, lorries, railway trucks, and wheelbarrows. A prodigious discovery truly-by far the greatest event that had taken place in the Border Country for many a long day.

But how was the buried treasure to be got at! That was the question-a question that would require the most earnest consideration and no end of caution in carrying into execution. While the boys were still discussing the matter, the twilight came on, and rapidly deepened into darkness. That put an end to speculation and consideration for the time being: but only for the time being. Groping their way out of the quarry workings, the youthful discoverers set out for home-overjoyed, elated beyond measure. Each of them felt himself a millionaire in prospect richer in thousands than any sum in arithmetic that they had ever wrought out on their slate at school.

As they hurried homeward, the boys frequently halted, proposed, and composed, a vow of the most solemn secrecy over the grand discovery. Not a living soul was ever to hear the faintest whisper about it. They alone had discovered it death was even hinted at as the punishment of the one who should breathe the slightest inkling of the matter. The survivor was to become the sole partner of the tremendous wealth that lay beneath the boulder at the mouth of the quarry at Eildonlea.

The storm was past: the night had set in : the stars were glittering in all their splendour, and hanging like lamps out of heaven. As the boys walked homeward, speculation crowded upon speculation, and excited their imagination. to such a degree as to make them feel that the Border Country was far too small to hold them.

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