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"I," said Tom Watson, a brisk rattling lad of fourteen, "I want to be a contractor for great public works, Consulting Engineer to Her Majesty's Government, and that sort of thing. I shall begin my career by buying up the old quarry, as my father tells me Colonel Downward is anxious to sell the whole place. Here I'll settle down and be known, in the sweet by and bye,' as Sir Thomas Watson, Baronet, of Eildonlea-if not Lord Eildonlea."

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Scarce soars ambition quite so high with me," replied his companion, Tony Wilky, a would-be poet, journalist, or novelist. "I'll first of all dispose of my mother's business, and get rid of this infernal drudgery of paper delivering in the mornings, join the staff of The Border Beacon, and settle down, as proprietor of the paper in a snug villa in the neighbourhood of St. Johns."

The speculations and dreams, here specially reported, brought the prospective contractor to the door of his father's cottage where the parting took place for the night, after arranging to see each other next day. The would-be journalist and newspaper proprietor then hurried forward to St. Johns, where his mother and sister kept the Post Office, with its adjuncts of book-selling, stationery, circulating library, and newspaper agency.

CHAP. II.

THE OLD QUARRY.

THE old quarry, which had given shelter to our two young friends, Tom Watson and Tony Wilky, may be found on the northern slope of a green hill on the fine old residential estate of Eildonlea, a mile to the west of the town of St. Johns. This estate, at the time of the boys' discovery in the quarry, was in the market, but though it had been twice exposed for sale, no purchaser had as yet offered the low upset price fixed by the local firm of writers. The head forester was the only person left on the estate, and this forester was John Watson, the father of one of the prospective millionaires.

There was a tradition in the county that this same old quarry had ruined the late laird of Eildonlea, and impoverished his successor. Believing that a mine of wealth lay hidden in the hill, the old laird referred to tapped the hill on the northern slope and was satisfied that the fine building material which lay stored up there was destined to yield untold wealth to his heirs and successors for many generations to come. But though the hill was tapped, the mineral wealth had not yet been reached Year after year of excavation and spade-work had only resulted in utter failure and disappoint

ment to everyone-except the old laird who still believed in the quarry. Even when the workings had been abandoned, he used to visit it day by day, and sit among its debris like Marius among the ruins of Carthage. Plenty of stone had indeed been got at, but it was found to be utterly useless for building purposes-soft, brittle, and inclined to crumble into sand after a day or two's exposure to the atmosphere.

A strange affair happened one day at the old quarry, and nearly resulted in the tragic end of the poor old laird, who had left the disused workings only a few minutes before the following incident took place. On the summit of the green hill containing the quarry workings there stood, once upon a time, a tremendous mass of rock, round in shape, and of a totally different geological composition from the soft and friable stone found in the quarry. Tradition named the enormous boulder "Samson's Putting-stone," from the fact, probably, that Samson had never seen it, or at all events that he had probably never thrown it. Geologists, of course, explained the whole business by saying that the mighty water-rolled boulder had been dropped from some passing iceberg millions of ages before Samson was even thought of.

Be that as it may, Samson's Putting-stone was lying so provokingly close to the edge of a steep declivity on the top of the hill, that it had long become a standing object of adventure on the part of the boys and young men of St. Johns— "What a go to set it rolling down the hill!" By dint of undermining, and coaxing, and shoving, the great boulder was actually set free. Away she went thundering down the hill, until she reached the great gap made by the quarry workings, into which she plumped and took up her residence firmly embedded in the debris. The old laird had only left the quarry workings a little while before the arrival of Samson's Putting-stone had he remained a few minutes longer, the consequences may be far more easily imagined than reported here.

It was behind this tremendous piece of rock, hereafter known as Samson's Putting-stone, that the boys sheltered themselves on the night of the hail storm. It was on this same stone that some one had cut the inscription :

"Blest be the man.........turns me. For underneath.........gold.........found." The author of the inscription was generally understood to be the old laird who, however never experienced the blessing that was to come upon the man who should turn the stone round and find the wealth that lay concealed beneath.

When the old laird of the quarry died, his only son, Colonel Downward, assumed the reins

of government at Eildonlea. Unfortunately for the Colonel, there was not much left to govern, for evil days had fallen upon Eildonlea, and misfortune followed upon misfortune.

Retiring from the army, Colonel Downward devoted himself to the personal management of his estate, and did what he could to restore the broken fortunes of his house by retrenchment and reform in many directions. Agricultural depression, however, and a general fall in rents, made the restoration of his fortune one of the most difficult problems that had ever looked him in the face.

Keeping no company at Eildonlea, Colonel Downward fell back upon himself. He became gloomy and depressed, allowed his sorrows to prey upon him, and fell an easy prey to despondency and to despondency's brother, despair. Alone, and attended only by the gamekeeper one day, the Colonel went shooting over the moorland that stretches away from the summit of the Quarry Hill. Meeting with but indifferent sport, he lost his temper over the erratic conduct of the dogs, and abused the gamekeeper for having trained them so badly. Ellison, the gamekeeper aforesaid, was about to offer some explanation, but the Colonel blazed up. "Don't speak to me," he yelled out: "I've a good mind to empty both barrels -one into you, and the other into these infernal dogs."

"Colonel!" replied Ellison, quite calmly but resolutely, "Ye forget that your barrels are baith emp'y, an' that mine's no'. Tak' my gun, an' shoot the innocent dowgs if ye like-they're your ain property; but by the livin' God that's abune baith men an' dowgs, if ye take aim at me, I'll smash your arm before ye pu' a trigger."

"Ah!" replied the Colonel, suddenly brought to his senses, "I never thought I would live to see the day when I would be spoken to in this way by a-by-by a gamekeeper!

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"As little did I ever expect to be spoken to by a-by-by a Colonel in the way ye ha'e just dune, sir. But ye provoked me, Colonel; if ye

thocht I wad stand an' be shot down like a dowg, let me tell ye, that ye were never mair mista'en in a' your life."

Not a word did Colonel Downward utter in reply. Throwing his own discharged gun among the heather, he turned round and walked rapidly down to Eildonlea. Never again did he shoot over the moor with Andrew Ellison, or indeed with anybody else. Within two months after the incident here narrated, the Colonel removed his family to Edinburgh, and Eildonlea was advertised to sell or let. Before going, however, he left this note for the

gamekeeper: "Forgive me, Ellison, I have never forgotten the incident on the moor behind the Quarry Hill. I was not myself that day, nor am I myself even yet. But to show you that I am anxious to atone for my most unjustifiable conduct and rudeness, let me inform you that a friend of mine in the North wants a thoroughly reliable gamekeeper, and I have strongly recommended you for the situation. It is yours if you care to apply for it."

"The dear Colonel!" said Ellison to his wife as he read the letter and laid it on the table, "I have never been mysel' syne that day either. It's the only quarrel we ever had. But's it's a' made up now, and I'm Andrew Ellison yince mair."

Needless to add that the gamekeeper made application for the situation in the North, and that he at once obtained it.

As already mentioned, the estate was left in charge of John Watson, the head forester, and it was in the condition here described when the boys made their great discovery in the quarry on the night of the hail-storm.

(To be continued.)

Mr. John Usber as a poet.

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BY SIR GEORGE DOUGLAS, BART.

R. JOHN USHER, late farmer of Stodrig, and Laureate of the Borders, as I have heard him called, has passed away at Kelso, at the ripe age of eighty-six. In so long a life, it was matter of course that a man of his strong vitality should find room for great and varied activity; and though well pleased to have the opportunity of laying my pebble on the cairn of a respected neighbour and a well-liked friend, I cannot help wishing that the task of writing about him for the Border Magazine had fallen to one who knew him earlier and in a more varied relation than I can claim to have done. For I am sure there must be good stories to tell, and interesting traits of character to record, of his early life, of his feats in horsemanship, of his life as a farmer, of his brilliancy and geniality as a boon-companion. That these will be committed to writing some day, and the sooner the better, I sincerely hope, as I sincerely regret the circumstance which makes of them, as regards myself, a sealed book. Owing to a difference of nearly fifty years in our ages, it was as Usher," as he was affectionately called by the people hereabout, that I first knew him; and, later in life, when congeniality of taste drew us closer together, it was of literary matters that we were eager to talk when we met. So it is only

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in old age and on the literary side that I can pretend to have known him intimately, which side was, after all, the less characteristic side of his nature. He would himself have been the last to overrate his poetic talents, and there was no one whose self-respect would have revolted sooner from the sickly over-praise which is the fashion of the present day.

He may be said to have begun his connexion with literature in earliest childhood, and under circumstances in themselves sufficient to kindle the flame of inspiration in him. His father owned Toftfield, now Huntlyburn, a small property then adjoining Abbotsford, but afterwards acquired by Sir Walter Scott and added to the larger estate; and as a little boy, Usher had the honour of standing between the knees of Sir Walter, and singing him a song, in reward for which he received the present of a pony from the great man. Later in life, as an athlete and and frequenter of Border Games, he became familiar with the Ettrick Shepherd; and among other literary lights with whom he was acquainted were John Wilson, Henry Scott Riddell, and (of course) his fellow-Kelsonian, Stoddart. He himself began to compose early, his first song being written in 1834, for a banquet given to a defeated candidate for East Lothian at the first parliamentary election after the passing of the great Reform Bill. This shows the poet to have lighted immediately on the style of composition which suited him best. For he was at his best as a song-writer, and perhaps especially at his best as a writer of "occasional " and local songs; songs, for instance, written to celebrate such events as the Majority of the Marquess of Bowmont, or the Presentation of a Portrait to the Duke of Roxburghe, songs on the Kelso Volunteers, Kelso Mechanics' Institute, and last, not least, Kelso Curling Club, in which lastnamed composition he admirably hits off characteristics of the various players, and humorous incidents of the season's play. Probably it was from this facility in occasional pieces that he got his title of Laureate of the Borders. Of course the drawback of this style of composition is that its interest is local and ephemeral. However the poet also succeeded admirably in songs appealing to a wider public. His four charming songs on Scotch proverbs are an instance-to which he himself composed melodies, and his singing of which was an agreeable incident in many an evening's entertainment. They are full of a mellow and tuneful wisdom which entitles them to be preserved. Then there is his "Pipe of Tobacco," a capital Smoker's Song, and his "Channel Stane," an equally good song inscribed to "a' keen

curlers," and therefore not of merely local application. These last two are his most finished, and probably his most lasting contributions to Border literature. His remaining poems are chiefly of a personal character, that is they are inspired by themes, such as an old friend, a first grand-child, genial companionship, the death of a favourite horse, suggested by his everyday life and which appealed directly to his deeper feelings. In them he generally embodied his sadder thoughts, as opposed to the livelier impulses which found expression in his convivial songs. Coming straight from the heart, they express warm feeling sweetly, and bear upon them the impress of a strong personality. In more sustained styles of poetry he accomplished nothing, missing perhaps the stimulus of a direct personal interest, or the near prospect of a sympathetic audience. Late in life, when meditating the publication of his book, he applied to me for a subject for a longer poem which should serve to swell its bulk. I suggested Queen Mary's ride from Jedburgh to visit the wounded Bothwell at Hermitage. The subject suited him well enough, for it had to do with two of the things which he liked best, namely the Borders and a horse; whilst he was also a chivalrous admirer of beauty in the fair sex. But if he dreamed over it, he did no more. In knowledge of literature, while quite without pretension, he was qualified to hold his own in conversation with professional men of letters; and lest this assertion be thought to savour in the least degree of patronage, let me ask how many men of letters exist who could hold their own with practical farmers in conversation about farming? He retained his musical powers almost to the last, and when last I heard him sing, three and four years ago, notwithstanding his great age, he acquitted himself with perfect grace, winning hearty applause from all present. He was indeed one who bore his years lightly. His fine and plentiful silver hair, his well-knit figure, the neatness of his attire, all harmonized well with his native dignity and the courtesy of his manners. Nor was his personality the less attractive for being somewhat subdued by age. Throughout the Borders, his merits were widely recognized; and I doubt not that at his funeral to-day very many who, like myself, knew, valued, respected and admired him, will assemble to pay the last tribute of respect to one who supplied a rare (though not unique) instance of a vein of poetic feeling and creative imagination combining with the sturdy character and shrewd practical capacity of the typical Border Farmer.

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A Border Boarding School. UR young lady readers may probably feel interested in the following account of a Boarding School as conducted some fifty or sixty years ago in the Border Country by one of the most beautiful and sensible women of her day. Her husband had been a medical man, but lost his health in the hard work and long rides in all kinds of weather. At his death, his young widow was left utterly unprovided for. Instead, however, of sinking under her sorrows, Mrs. Beauly Hill, the lady referred to, opened a school and soon began to feel in her experience how sweet had been the uses of adversity when borne in the right spirit, and accepted without complaint or murmuring.

The course of instruction at Friar Bank was of the simplest kind. There was "neither ginger-bread nor nonsense in it," as one of Mrs. Beauly Hill's admirers used to say, and she had many admirers, but of these we have no narrative to relate, in the meantime at least. Young ladies were admitted into this school not to be "finished," but to be educated and prepared for creditably entering upon the path of life which should open out for each after leaving Friar Bank. Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic-the three R's of modern education-Needlework, Cookery, and Household Management, were the main branches of instruction which Mrs. Beauly Hill took in hand to teach and not to "profess." All the other fashionable crazes of the day, such as "the use of the globes," how to sit on a high-backed chair and carry a stiff back, and such like nonsense, were laughed out of court by this sensible woman. The only extras she allowed at Friar Bank were Music and Dancing, but these were taught by visiting masters at stated intervals.

Out of the five-and-twenty young ladies boarded at Friar Bank, one had to take her turn for a week at a time to learn household management by actual practice. She had to consider herself, for the time being, at the head of an establishment supposed to be her own. She had to rise at seven, superintend the preparation for breakfast, give instructions as to the "doing out" of the rooms, look after the luncheon, and become responsible for the most important event of the day-dinner at six o'clock. The evenings were spent in recreation and amusement. favourite pastime then was the propounding of "Guesses" or Conundrums. When these were original, so much the better, as the fun and hilarity they produced were all the more enjoyable. Only one of these “Guesses” has been preserved, and it may be recorded here as a specimen of what amused a lot of young ladies and set them

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all a-giggling for a good quarter of an hour. In the town, of which Friar Bank was an outlying villa, there was a firm of Millwrights and Engineers known as Metcalf & Turnbull. These gentlemen formed the subject of the following conundrum one evening: "Who is the braver man of the two-Metcalf or Turnbull?”

When all had "given it up," the propounder of the riddle, a fair-haired beauty named Miss Harden, solved it by saying: "Mr. Turnbull, for he turned a bull; while Mr. Metcalf only met a calf!"

After the consequent hilarious laughter and applause had subsided, Mrs. Beauly Hill, colouring deeply, criticised it thus: "What a ridiculous guess, my dear Miss Harden. But it's clever too." I fancy she would have said more, but the "colouring up" continued, for it was well-known that Mr. Turnbull, the clever young engineer, was one of Mrs. Beauly Hill's most devoted admirers.

School work began at ten o'clock next morning by the whole of the pupils, boarding and day, assembling in the school-room and repeating, reverently and simultaneously, the Lord's Prayer. Thereafter the young ladies broke off into their various class-rooms and began the work of the day by attacking the perplexities of Arithmetic, or "counting" as it was called then, English Grammar, Reading, Writing, Sewing, and so on. Mrs. Beauly Hill's system of teaching was based on no system but her own, and that was simply evolved from the large stock of common sense and sound judgment which she naturally possessed, based, however, on the solid groundwork of education which she herself had received in Edinburgh.

When once a pupil was able to read fairly well, the practice of reading was transferred from the school or text-book to the real book of actual

literature. It is impossible for the present generation to realise the delightful charm which the novels and poems of Sir Walter Scott gave to our grand-parents in their young days. While a class was sitting engaged in needle-work, sewing "samplers" with imitations of houses, trees, cocks and hens, one of the young ladies would take "The Antiquary" and read aloud to the others. There was, in this system, no such thing as listless reading: the interest was sustained throughout the lesson, and the proper expression came out quite naturally.

Arithmetic was taught in an equally practical way. After the preliminary and elementary rules had been thoroughly mastered, theory was carried into practice by the production of the household pass-books and the checking of the prosaic details furnished by the butcher, baker, and grocer.

Penmanship was carefully learned by copying into a book the strokes, hooks, letters and combinations of letters, which were engraved in copperplate and pasted on slips of pasteboard. Writing was not done then by steel pens, such as are universally used now, but by quills which needed frequent mending. Mrs. Beauly Hill could do many things, but she could neither make nor mend a quill pen. Mr. Poynter, the banker, however, used to look after the pens, and send one of his clerks up to Friar Bank every morning with a fresh supply. Mr. Poynter was another admirer, and considered the matter of the pens simply as a labour of love on his part.

Excepting the endurance of an exceptionally long service in the Parish Church, Sunday was the pleasantest day of all the week at Friar Bank. It was a day of comparative rest and enjoyment -the outcome of Mrs. Beauly Hill's own personal and living religion which was not a thing for Sunday only but for every day of the week. After breakfast at nine o'clock, family worship was conducted by the head of the household. The "Exercise" consisted in the singing of a Psalm or "Paraphrase," the reading of a portion of Scripture, and a short extempore prayer. Thereafter preparation was made for going to church by all except the young lady whose housekeeping for the week began on Sunday morning.

The remaining four and twenty young ladies mustered in the dining room, and were there marshalled into church-going order. Some were fair, and some were dark: some were tall, and some were short: some were considered plain-looking, while some were budding beauties. But they all looked pleased and happy and bore on their faces a sort of trade-mark with the motto, "Educated at Friar Bank." What odd dresses these young ladies wore! Great open-faced bonnets, locally called "ruskies" and made of fine leghorn or coarse plaited straw. In winter they had each a cloak thrown over their shortwaisted dresses with "gigot of mutton sleeves," white stockings, and shoes with the long ends of the laces twisted neatly round the ankles. Each young lady carried a small Bible wrapped in a neatly-folded white handkerchief, with a sprig of balm or "southern-wood," the fragrance from which was designed to keep drowsiness away in church. Peppermint drops, however, were the special favourites, and it was calculated that there must have been at least a pound and a half of these confections consumed every Sunday in the Friar Bank pews during divine service. Dinner at half-past four on Sundays—a cheery, genial, delightful family party. It is true there

were no gentlemen ever present, but that could not be helped. Sometimes, however, a friend of one of the young ladies was invited, but that friend was generally the mother, aunt, or sister of the pupil. Mrs. Beauly Hill took her place at the head of the table, and the young lady who acted as housekeeper for the week presided at the lower end. Let us suppose that this latter was Miss Harden, the heroine of the famous "guess" which alone has survived the wreck of time and change. A pretty creature she was-the making in her of a nice wife for the fortunate fellow who should woo and win her. Plenty of money, too, for she was an heiress, and worth the running off with to Coldstream, or Lamberton Toll, or Gretna Green, some day. In the meantime, however, she was too young for any such adventure, so we will only think of her as taking her place at the lower end of Mrs. Beauly Hill's table, and creating sunshine and enjoyment all around.

her.

The servants bring in a thundering tureen of sheep-head broth to begin with. Owing to the lengthened service in the church, the young ladies have had nothing since breakfast-except peppermint drops. Accordingly they were all ready for dinner and full justice was likely to be meted out to it. The said sheep-head broth seemed to be greatly enjoyed, if evidence might be taken on that point from the rapidly-emptied plates and a second supply. As yet there is not much conversation, for business was first and pleasure afterward. The entrance of the sheep's head itself, however, was the signal for the conversation opening all along the dinnertable. Flanked and supplemented by boiled fowl and roast-beef, the dinner began in earnest, and it was great enjoyment to see how heartily the young ladies could dispose of these "pieces of resistance."

Miss Harden slices down the fowls in beautiful style, for carving was taught at Friar Bank by Mrs. Peacock of the Black Bull, who went up twice a week to teach the art. Such fun there is over the merry-thought!

Plenty of

time allowed for dinner. Rice and other puddings follow, while biscuits, or "bakes" as they were then locally called, varied by shortbread, cake, and dessert, wind up the entertain

ment.

So passed the Sunday evening at Friar Bankthe pleasantest evening in all the week; all too short, for every young lady had to retire early to rest, as each and all had to be up half an hour earlier on Monday morning in order to fold away the dresses and ornaments that had been worn on Sunday only.

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