ever looked on. It is true there were cold critics who complained that he ranted, or overdid his parts; but I was not of their opinion. For I have always judged a touch of fine exaggeration not inappropriate to portrayal of the almost superhuman energy of the characters of our older drama. Certainly the dignity of his carriage, the sonorous vibration of his voice, the studied art of his elocution which, divining the intention of the poet, unfailingly fitted to each word its proper accent,-certainly all this was beyond praise. And when, in the character of King Henry the Fourth-attired in welldarned hose, and wearing on his head a pasteboard diadem-he serenely folded about him a mantle of tawdry cotton-velvet, there was not a scoffer in the audience but was fain to overlook these defects and to confess him, in the words of the playwright Montacute loved best—"every inch a king.' But, such was his versatility, that he was seen to almost equal advantage in broadly humourous parts, especially in that of Falstaff. His favourite dream was to personify Tamburlaine; but this the exiguity of our company and its resources, not to speak of the taste of our audience (perhaps fortunately) rendered impossible.

Montacute was well versed in our old dramatic literature, and when expounding its beauties or extolling its glories (which he never tired of doing) he found in me an interested listener. We became great friends, and his partiality soon led him to insist on my appearing in leading parts in our performances. I say advisedly his partiality, for even my vanity-and I had no lack of it-did not long prevent my discovering that nature had never intended me for the stage. My aptitude for it was, indeed, of the slenderest -in fact I was all but destitute of that mimetic faculty which is certainly the basis of the actor's

art.

And when attempting to sustain a comic character, it was chiefly by the awkwardness of my efforts that I amused the audience. However, if I could not impersonate, I could at least "spout" or declaim-an accomplishment which I owed to the zealous tuition of our manager. And so, when it happened that the character to be represented was fairly akin to my own, I could generally make a passable appearance; and I have played Norval, or Bertram, behind six tallow candles in a barn, to a crowded audience of yokels who applauded me to the echo. And here let me observe that it is not in dealing with the wholly unlettered classes that an actor's chief difficulties arise. Among them, the native dramatic instinct, though undeveloped, is unimpaired in vigour; and if you will only give them nature, strongly marked,

with enthusiasm, you may soon satisfy yourself of your hold upon them. But with the sophisticated, yet ignorant, inhabitants of towns it is otherwise. They have lost robustness, and have learned just enough to make them believe that it is clever to laugh in the wrong place; and so you can never tell beforehand how a performance will affect them.

With the strollers I spent two years, at the end of which period-though I still retained a sincere admiration and liking for Montacutethe glamour which had seemed to me to hang over the player's life, and which had first attracted me to it, had long since been dispelled. In its place the contrast between real and ideal now stood glaringly exposed, and I became impatient to sever my connection with the theatre. A letter from Tregarthen, which had followed me from post-town to post-town, supplied the needed occasion. It informed me that, after a protracted engagement, the writer was at length about to enter the state of holy wedlock with the pastor's daughter, and concluded with a cordial and pressing invitation to me to be present at the ceremony. The sight of my friend's writing filled me with desire to shake him by the hand once more, and I lost no time in bidding adieu to my fellow mimes. We had worked together pleasantly enough; yet among them all I believe that the manager was the only one who did not in his heart rejoice over my departure. His character was above pettiness; but I fancy that in general, among actors, jealousy will be found a force too potent to admit of friendship between rivals.

It is high time, however, for me to draw my story to a close. It was with undiminished friendship that Tregarthen and I met again. His wedding took place soon afterwards; but he was not left long undisturbed in the enjoy ment of his bride's society. Three days later he unexpectedly received the offer of an advantageous situation on board a vessel of large tonnage, which was on the point of sailing for the Mediterranean, and this he deemed it prudent to accept. His position of confidence in the ship put it in his power to provide for me on board of her; and as by this time I had entirely abandoned my hopes of meeting with my mother, I readily agreed to his proposal that he should do so. Our first voyage was with a mixed cargo to Marseilles; and subsequently we visited several of the sea-ports of Italy, Sicily, and Spain. The novelty of the scenes thus opened up delighted me, and for a time the love of travel became my ruling passion. In later voyages I visited Algiers, Malta, Tunis, Tripoli, the Greek islands, Constantinople and

the coast of Asia Minor; after which the tide of my fancy set to nor'ard, and I took service on a vessel engaged in the Baltic trade. But I need not weary you with a detailed itinerary. After parting with Tregarthen a second time, I had continued to correspond with him, and I knew from his letters that he was steadily rising in his profession. His parents were by this time dead, and he had found it convenient to remove his wife and family to the East Coast. His last letter was put into my hands at Whitehaven only some three weeks ago. It informed me that he had been appointed by a syndicate of oil-merchants to the command of one of their whaling vessels. The conditions of his employment were highly favourable, and he added that nothing was wanting to complete his satisfaction but that I should be with him on his first voyage. With this object in view, he mentioned the probable date of the sailing of the fleet from Whitby, requesting me, if I had a mind to go with him, to meet him either in that port, or else, a few days later, at Berwick-onTweed, where he proposed to touch. You will understand that in writing thus Tregarthen shot a bolt at a venture. However fortune favoured his missive, which reached me within the due time, and found me (as the saying is) at a loose end. By this time I had experimented freely on existence, and had seen many phases and aspects of human life. I had been a wanderer by sea and by land, and had known wealth, poverty, and that middle condition of independence, which is perhaps the most honourable of all. It rested with me now to act on the results of my experience. After an evening spent in reflection, I resolved to accept Tregarthen's offer; and in coming to this resolution I was influenced by the conviction that the best thing I had known in life so far was a tried friend. It is true that in the peculiar religious sentiments of Tregarthen, I had long ceased to participate. But this caused no disagreement between us; whilst my admiration and respect for the man remained unaltered. I honoured him for his faithfulness to his convictions, and I loved him for himself. For the longer I go about in this shifty and unstable world, the more highly shall I prize that confidence with which he never fails to inspire me-that as he believes the voice of duty to dictate, so will he act; and that whatever words may fall from his lips in our discourses, those words are the sincere, single-hearted, expression of his mind. To call such a man my friend, to think of him as such at all times and in all places, and to say to myself He is there, is as a sheet-anchor amid the storms of life! As for the sea, perhaps, to

a wifeless fellow like myself, that represents the feminine element. Fickle it is, as I suppose a woman may be; but then its fickleness breaks no hearts. And there is this also in its nature which I love --if it is uncompromising, it at least makes no false promises. From the time when wind and wave first greet you, and greet you with a buffet, you know with what you have to reckon. And a life of fair and not too unequal striving is a good enough life for me. And so, sir, you see me now on my way to the rendezvous with Tregarthen. And then, ho! for the frozen seas."

The sailor relapsed into silence. Whilst he had been speaking, the old eight-day clock, which ticked in a corner of the inn parlour, had struck the hour and half-hour more than once. And though the Master of Beltrees had listened with an interest which was not entirely due to the merits of the story, it was with resignation (to say the least) that he heard the lengthy narrative draw to a close.

A

To be continued.

Chiefswood.

MONG the thousands of tourists who drive or walk up the country between Melrose and Abbotsford every season, there are few who are aware that, running parallel with the public road, there is a foot-path which is one of the most romantic and beautiful in all that classic neighbourhood. The path here referred to was one of Sir Walter Scott's most favourite haunts. Climbing to the summit of the hilly country behind Abbotsford, he used to walk along the shore of Cauldshields Loch, find his way down the Rhymer's Glen, and call at Huntly Burn where lived his friend Sir Adam Ferguson, or farther down the burn to Chiefswood, the residence of his son-in-law, John Gibson Lockhart. The Rhymer's Glen is open to the public now, but ninety-nine tourists out of every hundred never see it, since they neither have time to visit it, nor do they know where it is should they have the time.

In this charming retreat of Chiefswood, Lockhart spent the happiest of his days after his marriage with Miss Sophia Scott. Writing from Abbotsford to his brother Tom, Sir Walter, in 1820, thus describes the home of the young couple. "They are," he writes, "to spend their vacations in a nice little cottage in a glen belonging to this property, with a rivulet in front, and a grove of trees on the east side to keep away the cold wind. It is about two miles distant from this house, and a very pleasant walk reaches to it through my plantations, which

now occupy several hundred acres. Thus there will be space enough betwixt the old man of letters and the young one."

While giving some of the finishing touches to Abbotsford, Scott was extremely unwilling to authorise the demolition of the rustic porch of the primitive cottage, with its luxuriant overgrowth of roses and jessamines. In short, he could not make up his mind to sign the death-warrant of this favourite bower until winter had robbed it of its beauties. He then made an excursion from Edinburgh specially to be present at its downfall, and to save as many of the creepers as seemed likely to survive removal.

while down at Chiefswood, was in pacing one of the ponies, called Douce Davie, through the green lanes among his woods, with the children about him, while Laidlaw and Lockhart kept near at hand to hear his instructions about pruning and thinning the plantations.

In the autumn of 1831, Sir Walter's health was in such a critical condition, that he was urged to spend the approaching winter away from Abbotsford, among new scenes, in a more genial climate, and, above all, in complete abstinence from all literary work. But he still clung to Abbotsford, and put off the day of departure as late as possible. In the meantime, he had

These he subsequently planted with his own hands around a similar porch that had been recently erected at Chiefswood.

Many delightful pictures of Scott's life we get through the trees, as it were, at Chiefswood. It was a supreme pleasure to him to have his daughter, her husband, and their children, so near him. The presence of these children always had a soothing and cheerful effect upon him. However languid and low-spirited he got, and into these moods he frequently fell during his brave battle with adversity, he always recovered himself in the company of his grandchildren. One of the greatest pleasures he had,

Darnick.

settled that Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart should dine at Abbotsford, and he and his daughter Anne at Chiefswood, day about. In both homes he was willing to have a few guests, so long as they were not strangers to him. Under these arrangements his health rallied wonderfully. On occasions he was even gay, and like his former self, particularly when the weather was warm and fine enough to tempt the party to dine beneath the trees at Chiefswood. The winter came, and Sir Walter went to Italy, but he returned home in the autumn of the following year, only to bid farewell for ever to all earthly scenes and friends.

Not much about Chiefswood does Mr. Andrew Lang tell us in his recently published "Life and Letters of John Gibson Lockhart: " for Lockhart himself, in the celebrated biography of his illustrious father-in-law, had largely discounted all that could be said. We gather this much, however, that Lockhart's married life was a singularly happy one, and that he was devotedly attached to his wife and children. When in London, he longed to be at Chiefswood, because there he found most repose in being busy over a change of literary work. Many of his novels, if not all, were written thereValerius, Adam Blair, Reginald Dalton, and

his Spanish Ballads. These novels are not much read now, although we observe that a new edition is in preparation under the editorship of his biographer.

Chiefswood was but a small cottage--originally called Burnside, if we mistake not-when Lockhart and his wife began house-keeping there. In imitation, on a much smaller scale, however, of Abbotsford, Sir Walter made an addition to it now and again until it attained to the dignity of the modern villa as depicted in the photograph which Mr. Black, of Darnick, has so kindly sent us.

Edinburgh William Blackwood & Sons. POLLOWING closely upon the publication of the late Professor Veitch's "Memoir," noticed in our last month's number, the present volume comes doubly welcome. Of the seven essays which it contains, six of them originally appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, while the last, on the ancestors of Mr. Gladstone, is included by permission of Messrs. Longman. In dealing with Manor and Yarrow, Professor Veitch is always at home and breathing his Border Essays. By John Veitch, M.A., LL. D.

*

Selkirk.

native air. In the former he gives us a graphic account of David Ritchie, whom Sir Walter has immortalised in his novel of "The Black Dwarf." In addition to the particulars already known regarding the life and habits of the recluse of Manor Water, the Professor relates many interesting reminiscences which may almost be called personal; for his mother had often seen "Bowed Davie," and could narrate many incidents which took place during his occasional visits to Peebles. The poor mis-shapen creature used to be sadly annoyed by the boys of the town while hirpling along the streets. In these encounters she felt much sympathy with him, and often

stated her belief that there was much kindliness in his nature, notwithstanding the fearful out-bursts of anger and unparliamentary language called forth by the cruelty of his unthinking tormentors. In expressing such sympathy, Veitch's mother was but following up, though unconsciously, the opinion stated by Kant when he says, that there is something of the divine in every man. If the divine in David Ritchie's case was but feebly developed there was, as Professor Veitch observes, "at least a twinkle of it, misanthrope and irritable sprite as he was."

In his essay on "The Dowie Dens," Veitch states it as his belief that the original ballad is to be found in the copy of verses handed down, for several generations, in the family of an old Peebles-shire cottar and poet, named William Welsh. Perhaps the most delightful paper in this volume is the one entitled "The Yarrow of Wordsworth and Scott."

There is much ingenious speculation on the subjects of the "Inscribed Stone" near Yarrow Kirk, and the "Black Dike" on the English side of the Border. In "Side lights on the Battles of Preston and Falkirk," the author may, at first sight, seem to have gone beyond the locality and the scenery suggested by the title of his volume. A perusal of this interesting paper, however, brings us back to the Border Country, and places amongst us a bundle of old letters which were written by one James Christie, who lived at Neidpath on the Tweed. In these letters there are many new and hitherto unknown sidelights thrown on the incident of "the ill-fated affair of the '45."

The same remark as to being outside the bounds of the Borders may also, at first sight, seem to apply to the subject of the last essay in the volume. Here again, however, Professor Veitch is on his own ground while tracing the ancestors of Mr. Gladstone from their original home of Libberton, a moorland parish to the north of Biggar, from which they "brizzed yont" to Tweedside, Teviotdale, and ultimately over the Border into England.

We have to thank Mrs. Veitch, not only for publishing these Essays, but also for issuing them exactly as they left her husband's hands at first. They are therefore before us in all their untouched fulness and fervour. We feel grateful that they treat of subjects which were so dear to the heart of their author: for the heart of Veitch was ever in the Borderland, and surely no fitter or more appropriate volume could be given to the reading world at the close of his life and his literary career than just these fresh and charming Border Essays.

F

Fernieberst Castle.

ERNIEHERST CASTLE is situated on the right bank of the "crystal Jed," in the midst of pretty scenery, about two miles from the town of Jedburgh. The stronghold, which has been recently restored, was the ancient seat of the Kers of the Lothian line, and has figured in many a Border feud and foray. The Kers are said to have settled in Jedwater reaches six hundred years ago. The seventh descendant of Ralph Ker, who settled in Teviotdale in 1350, is designated of Fernieherst in the Parliament records of 1476. To this date, then, or somewhat earlier, belonged the original castle, which was a mere house in the heart of Jed Forest. Here the first laird, Thomas, lived for half-a-century and died in 1499. He was succeeded by his son Andrew, afterwards Sir Andrew, and popularly known as "Dand." He performed some wonderful feats in the rude times of Border warfare. In 1523, when the castle was captured after a desperate struggle by the English, he was taken prisoner. He must, however, have soon regained his liberty, as he is mentioned as having commanded 4000 soldiers at the seige of Wark Castle in the same year. For his bravery and loyalty to the Scottish monarchs, Andrew was made Warden of the Middle Marches of Scotland, and in 1542 knighted by King James V. and made a grant of the bailiary of all the lands and lordships of Jed Forest. Sir Andrew died in 1545, and was buried in Jedburgh Abbey.

The castle was re-taken by his son Sir John, who was knighted in the Abbey in 1552. During the turbulent times when the Borders were invaded by the English Wardens, and when Jedburgh was in the hands of English and Spanish soldiers, Sir John did yeoman service in driving them out. He was laid to rest beside his father in the Abbey transept in 1562.

He was succeeded by his son Sir Thomas, who in 1570, the day after Moray's murder at Linlithgow, swept over the Border with fire and sword, hoping to kindle a war that might lead to Queen Mary's release. For his great zeal on behalf of the unfortunate Queen he was imprisoned, and died in 1586. The castle, which was destroyed on his imprisonment, was not re-built till 1598.

Sir Thomas' son, Andrew, named after his great-grandfather, succeeded his father, and became Provost of Jedburgh in 1601. It was

he who built the greater part of the present castle, which still bears his coat-of-arms. In 1622 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Jedburgh, and died in 1631. Having died