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ideal of what is tasty, and as it is easily carried, Do try some-I am

I never travel without it. sure you will like it."

"You are evidently a gourmet," replied Lawson, amazed by his host's facetious volubility.

"I should be ashamed of myself if I were not! Is not our dinner, at a modest computation, at least one third of our lives? But people are so unenlightened, they do not realise this. It is a fact that great talents are constantly being devoted to inventing nice things for us to eat and drink, but we are callous, and ungrateful, and go on just as if these things were not! That reminds me, what will you drink now? I have some sound Bordeaux wine here, and a bottle of a light nutty Amontillado."

"Thank you, that is excellent!" exclaimed Lawson, after draining a glass of the latter vintage, “I feel like a pioneer of civilisation when I say so, and certainly you have reason for satisfaction in being the first to introduce enlightenment, as you call it, to a barbarous district of the country. For here, as Cotton makes old Montaigne say, the business of those who drink is 'to pour down, not to taste."" "Ha-ha! Permit me to assist you to another glass."

"I pledge you, sir."

The young men clinked glasses and drank. Meantime Morden was not a little surprised to find his chance-made acquaintance so ready to meet him on his own ground. If he had calculated upon "making an impression," he was disappointed; for the sentiment Lawson had just uttered was one which might have fallen from his own lips. Nor had he been prepared to hear an old French author cited in a modest out-of-the-way inn. He now began to feel that there was probably nothing in respect of knowledge of the world that he could teach Lawson, the almost theatrical polish of whose manners also impressed him. His curiosity was piqued.

It was soon to receive a further stimulus. Their light supper ended, the young men drew chairs to the fire, and whilst trifling with some dried fruits and nuts, continued their conversation over the bottle. But the character of that conversation soon underwent a change. In the first place, at the outset, as we have seen, Eustace was the principal talker; but as time went on this part was transferred to Lawson. And then the inequality of the partnership became apparent; for whilst the seaman gave himself up to the colloquy with all the warmth and candour of an open and expansive nature, his interlocutor maintained a passive or receptive attitude, and in any remarks which he might originate dwelt only on the surface of things.

Now there was a reason for this. For as the two young men sat together before the fire, Morden's eyes had chanced to wander to a mirror which hung over the mantlepiece-the same, in fact, in which Lawson had that afternoon beheld the image of the swooning lady. And seeing his own face and that of his booncompanion reflected therein, side by side, Morden was immediately struck by the strange resemblance which they presented. And the longer he gazed upon it, the more it impressed him.

Probably most men in his situation would have drawn attention to the discovery. But that was not Eustace's way. With all his occasional volubility, there was something radically secretive in his nature, which inclined him to avoid committing himself, even to a seemingly unimportant course of action, until he had studied its full bearing. So now, whilst his friend talked on, he said nothing, but sat with eyes fixed intently upon the glass.

Lawson happened to be talking with animation, and as he spoke he spontaneously illustrated his discourse with gestures, and movements of the head, and from time to time shifted his position. All these movements were observed by Eustace, and presently, like a man in a mesmeric trance, he began to imitate them. Thus when Lawson half-averted his face, he half-averted his; when Lawson raised his right hand, he raised his left; when Lawson threw himself back in his chair and laughed, he did the same. The reflections in the glass, of course, followed suit, until at last the four-fold performance of the same action-namely twice in reality, and twice in the looking glass-produced an effect almost of weirdness. But by this process Eustace was enabled to study the variations and fluctuations of the haunting likeness; which, as different aspects of the two faces and figures were disclosed, now grew almost startlingly distinct, and anon seemed almost to be lost sight of. He continued his pantomime unobserved, until it began to exercise an effect almost of fascination upon himself. Of course had the mirror been placed on a level with Lawson's eye, all that was taking place could scarcely have escaped his attention. But it hung high above his head, and he talked on unaware.

He was speaking of his experiences in foreign countries, and of incidents and accidents of travel. As he talked, he from time to time raised his glass to his lips, and when he set it down empty, the Master, as in duty bound, refilled it. On the part of Lawson the action was doubtless partly mechanical, for he was a talker who threw himself heart and soul into

what he was saying; yet after he had swallowed two or three glasses of wine, a change in the character of his discourse became noticeable. It assumed a more confidential tone, and began to deal more largely with exploits of the speaker's own. This change was not lost upon his hearer, whose expression of countenance, as he listened, passed from the puzzled to the inscrutable. Meantime he kept his eye upon Lawson's glass, whilst putting in a word or two in the conversation, now and again, to keep the ball rolling. At last, when he thought the right time had come, he availed himself of a pause to say :

"My dear sir, you have evidently had an unusually interesting career! But what I envy you fully as much as your experience of men and cities, is your admirable knack of describing them. To meet with the two things in combination is rare; for as a rule, those who have seen, cannot make others see; whilst those who can describe, pass their lives in libraries, and see nothing worth describing. But in you are united, in an uncommon degree, the two attributes of the ideal raconteur.”

It was easy to see that Lawson was gratified by the flattery. His was that simple and affectionate nature which is repaid for all things by a word of praise; and, though no 'talker for effect' (for his discourse flowed naturally), he was certainly a little vain of his social cleverness. And if he had been pleased by his success in the kitchen, how much more so by the discriminating compliments of a professed connoisseur !

His obvious satisfaction was almost touching in its naturalness; he blushed slightly, and murmured something politely and conventionally deprecating.

The Master smiled; then he continued :

"I protest that I mean all I say. And assuredly I am greatly your debtor, for who would ever have expected to pass an evening so agreeably in a barbarous inn at the world's end? However, the night is still young. I suspect

that lazy fellow of ours has gone to bed; but if you will excuse me for a moment, I'll bring in another bottle, and then if you like, we can talk for an hour or two longer, and you can tell me some more of your adventures."

Lawson was nothing loth, and having left the room Eustace presently returned, bearing a curiously shaped flask, which he said contained Pajarete, a luscious winter wine, of Spanish origin. He filled their glasses with the richly coloured oleaginous liquor, and closing his eyes, sipped as with ravishment. Then, taking a sweet cake between his fingers, he drew his chair closer to the fire, and said, in the cajoling, spoiled-child's tone which he so often affected :

"Now we are comfortable! Tell me the longest story you know, if you please; and that must be the story of your life. You know it is a convention of the novelists that travellers tell each other tales over the inn fire." Lawson looked thoughtful.

"Well! it's curious that you should have asked me for that story in particular; for its the very one which, while you were out of the room, I had made up my mind to tell you. And there's something singular in that too, for it's a story I'm not generally very free with. I have swung in my cot for months together alongside the same shipmates, and when they told yarns of their early life, I was always silent as to mine. But you must have a charm with you, I believe ; for, here we meet for the first, and (as I'm sorry to think) the last time in our lives, and straightway I feel tempted to make you my confidant. Would my story might profit you! However, it's unusual, and may serve to pass away an hour.

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(To be Continued).

The Principal and the School-boy. HE perusal of Mr. Robson's interesting paper on "Halidon Hill" in a recent number of this Magazine, brings to our recollection the following reminiscence of the late Principal Cairns.

Some years ago, a party of four persons left Glasgow to attend the ordination services of a young minister at Berwick-on-Tweed. While the train waited for a few minutes at Edinburgh, Dr. Cairns joined the party which now consisted of the Principal, a Glasgow minister, a young warehouseman, a school-boy, and the present writer. Dr. Cairns and the minister almost immediately got into a discussion on some church question which had apparently been before them on some former occasion, and so earnestly did they drift into the argument that the other members of the party remarked to each other, in under tones, that the two reverend gentlemen would probably "talk shop" all the way to Berwick. But they were agreeably disappointed. No sooner had the train got clear of Edinburgh, and into the open country, than the Principal suddenly changed the subject by turning to the youngest member of the group - a fair-haired blue eyed boy of thirteen or fourteen--and engaging him in conversation.

Opening wide his knees and drawing the boy gently in between them, Dr. Cairns began by asking what he was doing at school, how far he had got on in his studies, what profession he was thinking of, what department of school-work

he liked best, and what worst. "Very good," replied the Doctor after all the questions had been answered, "Very good, indeed. Now let us have the practical outcome of some of your school-learning. At this moment we are passing through a historical part of the country. Away to the right, yonder, is Prestonpans-tell me anything you know about Prestonpans."

The boy, feeling quite at home by the Principal's homely and gentle manner, related the story of the battle that had been fought at Prestonpans, quoted the date, mentioned the contending parties, and stated the consequences, all correctly and graphically done.

"That is capital!" replied the Principal,

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Macintosh and Co., Kelso.

will furnish you with one of the best recitations in English literature. But, leaving Tantallon and the Douglas behind us, we are now approaching Dunbar. What do you know about Dunbar?"

"Only what the geography-book says?"

"And what does the geography-book say?" "Dunbar, a seaport of Haddingtonshire, famous for its herring-fishing and its export of potatoes."

"Fresh herring and new potatoes!" exclaimed the Doctor in hearty laughter. "And very good things too-the best dinner I used to get when I was a boy like you. Anything else you know about Dunbar outside that good geography-book any battle fought here?"

"Something about Cromwell defeating the Scots, but that is all I remember."

"And plenty too."

As the express thundered past Ayton, and approached Berwick, the Principal remarked to the boy that there was only time for one question more. "Here," he said, "is Halidon Hill. Can you tell me anything about the great battle that was fought here?"

"No," replied the boy, "I do not remember anything about Halidon Hill.”

"The less the better," observed the Principal, "for here the Scots got such a dreadful thrashing that I do not wonder you have nothing to tell me about Halidon Hill. No Scotsman, far less a Scottish school-boy, likes to tell about the battle in which his countrymen suffered so severely. We have survived it, however, and can now speak quite calmly of Halidon Hill. But here we are at Berwick."

The ordination dinner was duly attended, but the other services were left to the Principal, the minister from Glasgow, and the other parties chiefly interested. The warehouseman, the school-boy, and the present writer, employed their leisure in rambling through the steep streets of the ancient Border town, and along its surrounding ramparts. Next morning the warehouseman started for Glasgow by an early train, while the remaining company of the previous day left Berwick after breakfast. On arriving at Reston Junction, the present writer and the school-boy, (who had previously arranged to return home by Berwickshire, on to Melrose, and thence by Yarrow and Moffat), bade goodbye to Dr. Cairns and the minister. While standing on the platform of the station, Dr. Cairns called a passing porter and inquired how long they had to wait before resuming the journey to Edinburgh.

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"Ye'll hae five minutes at ony rate," replied the porter. "The London express gangs on first." "That's enough." Stepping out Stepping out of the carriage, Dr. Cairns approached the school-boy, still standing on the platform, and desired him to uncover his head, at the same time uncovering his own. Laying his hand upon the boy's head, Principal Cairns reverently pronounced benediction, and invoked a blessing, in the manner of one of the patriarchs of old. "My dear boy," said Dr. Cairns in conclusion, "you are just starting on the journey of life, while I am just about to end mine. In your company yesterday I felt myself as a little child'-glad to exchange for a short while the close of life's experience for a taste of the freshness of its beginning. You and I may never meet again here, but sooner or later

Here the screaming and the thunder of the passing express abruptly closed the parting scene. Principal and School-boy never again met each other on the journey of life. The latter, a few years after the incident here narrated, and just while entering upon a professional career with the fairest prospects all in front of him, was called away first. The latter, full of years and honours, was gathered to his fathers after his life's work had been completed. Sooner or later! It is this every-day phrase which adds the deepest pathos to every human parting.

The Abbeys of the Border.

BY JAMES THOMSON.

NO. I.-MELROSE.

TANDING amid the ruins of one of those sacred piles of the Border, who does not conjure up in his imagination the scenes that took place within them long ago, when the solemn chant was heard, where now the stillness is unbroken save by the night bird's cry, and the grass grown cloisters were paced by hooded friar? It is the intention of these articles to offer a short sketch of the old monastic life and legends connected with the Border fanes, starting with Melrose.

Monastic life commenced on the banks of the Tweed at a very early period. About the year 635 A.D., the King of Northumbria, becoming a convert to Christianity, grew zealous in missionary efforts, and with the assistance of Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarne, set about establishing religious communities, among other places at Melrose, then within his dominions. The monastery was founded on a site on the Tweed about two miles below the present abbey, nearly encircled by a remarkable sweep of the river. Here on a clear green meadow amidst the thick forest then all around, the monks founded their home, and called the spot Melrose, from two Celtic words signifying a bare promontory. The first name of celebrity connected with the monastery is that of St. Cuthbert, who seemed marked from his boyhood for a religious life, for he is said in youth to have beheld the body of the holy Bishop of Lindisfarne borne up to heaven in triumph by a company of angels. About the time of his death, 687, the community was joined by the austere visionary Dryethelme, who spent the whole of his life at Melrose in the most rigorous voluntary penance. He was believed during a severe illness to have been dead for one night, and then brought to life again. During the interval he was conducted through both the abodes of bliss and misery.

The horrors he is said to have witnessed in the latter, influenced him to seek mitigation of the pains of purgatory by anticipating them. Among other methods, a favourite was to immerse himself daily in the Tweed, even in the depth of winter, without undressing or even removing his wet garments. When asked how he could endure such painfully extreme cold, he replied that he had witnessed greater pain and cold. The monastery was destroyed in 839, when it was burned by the King of the Scots, the name then given to the wild inhabitants of the Highlands, and became a ruin after being rebuilt

established at Cisteaux in France. Their rules of life were very strict. They were obliged to perform their devotions seven times every twentyfour hours. The first service was at two in the morning, and the last at eight at night, so that the monks had not much time for sleep. The Scriptures were read to them during their meals, and when any of them went abroad, they were obliged to go two together, to guard and witness each other's conduct, and prompt each other to holy thoughts. They were forbidden to buy tithes, or to possess even rents of land. It was by the labour of their hands in cultivating the

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towards 1073. The records latterly speak only of a chapel of St. Cuthbert, which, however, was much resorted to by pilgrims, even the Pope granting remissions of penance to devotees who had visited the shrine at Melrose.

In the year 1136, King David I. laid the foundations of the Abbey of Melrose, two miles further up the Tweed, the ground of which the present town of Melrose stands, then being occupied by a village called Fordel. The King continued the name Melrose to the religious community, which it had held in its former home.

The monks were of the reformed order called Cistertians, from their having been first

Macintosh and Co., Kelso.

earth and keeping cattle that they got their living. The Cistertians took considerable pains to promote learning, and Melrose, with other such communities, seems to have had its own reputation as an abode of scholars.

The most notable among the early Abbots of Melrose was Waltheof, after death, canonised as a saint. He was the younger son of Simon, Earl of Northampton, a stout warrior. The son, however, being of quieter disposition than the father, while his brothers in their hours of play imitated the attack and defence of castles, had a bias towards the construction of baby churches. Growing older, his

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