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tree-topped banks, and backed by the three placid Eildons. The stream rolls on right under the grassy slope above which Tom's cottage stands, and sweeps grandly round the foot of the red sand-stone cliffs that rise to some height a little lower down.

"You have a fine view, Tom," I remarked one late summer's afternoon as we chatted outside the little shop door, our ears drinking in the delicious murmur of the water.

"Eh, wumman, it's grand-it's ma denner mony a day," was the quiet answer, as his eyes wandered thoughtfully up the river, and rested long and lovingly on the purple-tinted hills which the dipping sun was just then glorifying. Tom's face of quiet content, his broad intelligent brow, from which the thick white hair was thrown well back, his kindly eyes, and his well-formed, strongly-built figure, as he stood balancing himself in the doorway, remained with me for many a day. That Tom may long be able to enjoy the scene he loves so dearly and which he is so well fitted to appreciate, must be the hearty wish of all who know him well, and of every habitué of Dryburgh and its Abbey.

The Gonial Blast.

H. C. W.

T is now fully a hundred years since this famous storm swept over the south of Scotland with such disasterous effects. Those who witnessed it declared that there was nothing on record, save the flood, to compare with it, and there certainly has been nothing like it since.

For two days and nights snow fell heavily and drifted into great wreaths. When it abated farmers and shepherds, guided by their dogs, were kept constantly digging out their sheep and cattle from snow drifts. Many shepherds perished, and a goodly number never recovered from the exposure, and in Eskdalemuir alone 4,000 sheep were destroyed.

Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who had a terrible struggle for life, said that "of all the storms that ever Scotland witnessed, or I hope will ever witness again, none of them can compare with the memorable storm of 1794, which fell with such peculiar violence on that division of the south of Scotland that lies between Crawfordmuir and the Border. In these bounds seventeen shepherds perished and upwards of thirty were carried home insensible, but the number of sheep that were lost far outwent any possibility of calculation."

One farmer alone lost seventy-two scores, and many others in the same neighbourhood lost from thirty to forty scores. Whole flocks were buried and never discovered until the thaw came, after the snow had been on the ground for a week. On the farm of Thickside twelve score of ewes were then discovered all lying with their heads one way.

Many hundreds of sheep and cattle were driven into the lochs and streams by the violence of the storm and never seen again.

When the floods, after the thaw had subsided, 1,840 sheep, 9 cattle, 3 horses, 2 men, I woman, 45 dogs, 180 hares, and a large number of lesser animals were found at a place known as the Beds of the Esk.

In the Moffat district, where the storm was very severe, a shepherd had been to see his sweetheart on the night previous, and made all arrangements for their wedding, but whilst the banns of marriage were being proclaimed in the Parish Church on the following Sunday his body, stiff and cold in death, was being carried from the hill.

Shepherds, when walking and talking together, were overcome with the cold and dropped down by the way, and slept the sleep of death. One man was found who had evidently prepared his bed with some deliberation, having carefully buttoned up his coat, folded his plaid into a pillow, and laid himself down to sleep the sleep of death.

In some glens the drifts were so deep that whole plantations were covered. Sheep were underneath as much as fifty feet of snow. Dogs with unerring accuracy discovered where these lay. Hogg tells of one dog, on the farm where he was shepherd, which in this way saved considerably over two hundred sheep.

Throughout the districts affected by the "gonial blast," superstition regarding witches and other evil influences were very prevalent, hence we find that the storm was attributed by many to the "deil."

Men and women who were marked as being in league with his satanic majesty were blamed for invoking his aid, and for many a long day these marked ones were afraid to show their faces at either kirk or market.

"Gonial blast" was applied to the storm because of the large amount of dead mutton to be had on all the farms. "Gonial" or "braxey" being the local names for the flesh of sheep, fit for human food, though not killed with the knife. The meat is smoked and dried, and when properly cooked is by no means unpalatable, and has been in use along the Borders for many generations.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

All communications relating to Literary and Business matters should be addressed to the Editor, Mr. NICHOLAS DICKSON, 19 Waverley Gardens, Crossmyloof, Glasgow.

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION.

the border MAGAZINE will be sent post free to any part of the United Kingdom, Canada, the United States, and all Countries included in the Postal Union, for one year, 45.

THE BORDER MAGAZINE.

APRIL, 1896.

LIST OF CONTENTS.

CHARLES B. BALFOUR, Esq., of NEWTON DON (Portraits and Illustrations),
BORDER BATTLES AND BATTLEFIELDS. By JAMES ROBSON,

A NEW THEORY OF THE CATRAIL. By W.,

TOM FOX (Illustration). By H. C. W.,

THE GONIAL BLAST,

EDITORIAL NOTES,

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THE QUARRY MASTER. BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK,

A SONG OF BORDERLAND. By Rev. W. S. Crockett,

WILLIAM HEATLIE: A BORDER ARTIST (Portrait and Illustration).

By W. A. & R. C.,

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF the Border COUNTRY (Illustrations). By THE EDITOR, EDINBURGH BORDER COUNTIES ASSOCIATION (Illustration),

CORRESPONDENCE,

BORDER NOTES AND QUERIES (Illustration),

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Editorial Notes.

HE Editor of this Magazine would deserve to pass as a most ungrateful son of the Borders were he to neglect the present opportunity of stating how profoundly pleased and encouraged he has been by the numerous letters which he has received during the last month by almost every post.

Not only from the Border Country have these letters been received, but they have also come from the extremes of London and the Orkney Islands, "with many places in between." The interest which the Magazine has already awakened, promises well for its growing prosperity and its ultimate success. Already the issue of the first monthly part is wholly exhausted and out of print: while the second is daily moving in the same direction. With the present month's issue the circulation will be largely increased.

The Editor has the honour to announce that next month, in the number for May, there will appear the opening chapters of a new novel by Sir

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The Quarry Master.

A BORDER STORY.

BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

CHAP. V.

COMMENCEMENT OF OPERATIONS.

IVEN, a tremendous mass of rock, circular in form, several tons in weight, and deeply embedded in quarry debris: how was this rock to be shifted out of its position by two boys who had neither machinery to move it, nor explosives to shatter it? That was the problem to be solved by the two expectant millionaires.

Tony Wilky had no more idea of how the task was to be accomplished than how communication might be established between this earth and the planet Mars. Nevertheless, he had faith in the budding engineering genius of his companion; as much faith, surely, as would remove a rock, if not a mountain.

The eventful Monday evening arrived when operations were to be commenced. The utmost secrecy had been observed, by Tom and Tony in so far as they knew, not a soul in all the Border Country had the least inkling of what was about to take place in the quarry. Visions of wealth and grandeur were still colouring and clothing their young and fervent imaginations. The division of the profits, after deducting the working expenditure and outlay, was to be a simple affair-so simple that the partners did not think it necessary to engage the services of a chartered accountant to draft the scheme of partnership, or prepare a balance-sheet when the profits were ready to be divided.

Monday evening came, and a pitch dark night it turned out to be. But the darkness had been anticipated by the outlay of "a penny dip," which was lighted and so disposed as to place one half of the mass of rock in shadow, and the other half in light. The former, of course, was next to the quarry entrance, while the other was fronting the quarry workings. Casting their jackets, both boys opened the ball by a vigorous use of the spade which each had surreptitiously brought from home. Their plan of procedure, carefully drafted beforehand by Tom Watson, was to dig a deep trench or hole into which they were to coax and wheedle the Putting Stone. When deposited there, like a huge egg lying in a bird's huger nest, the treasure lying below its former position was to be at once dug out, removed, and divided in secret at home. That done, Tony was to draw up a report of the whole adventure, and arrange for its appearance in the columns of The Border Beacon-a report

which would set the heather on fire, and no mistake.

Poor boys! They little knew the hard work and the harder disappointment that lay before them ere The Border Beacon got the story. They kept pegging away, however-night after night penny dip after penny dip had lent its light, but still the spade-work was necessary, as the great trench was not deep enough to admit the boulder.

At last matters seemed nearing a crisis, for Tony began to lose heart, and became alarmed while working in the trench one night, lest the Putting Stone should by the force of its own weight break through the wall of debris, and tumble into the trench on the top of himself and Tom. It was in vain that Tom endeavoured to show his partner that his fears were groundless, as the walls of the trench were strong enough to resist the lateral pressure of the Putting Stone. By and bye, the walls would be weakened when the trench was deep enough: besides, the pieces of paling there, as Tom pointed out, kept the mass of rock in its place until all was ready for the removal of these supports, when the big stone would roll into the trench by its own weight and almost of its own accord.

All argument, however, was lost upon Tony His courage and perseverance had failed him. The visions of wealth had faded, and the columns of The Border Beacon, which at one time were destined to chronicle the great discovery in the quarry, were now probably soon to publish the whole adventure as a dismal failure.

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"I'll take a wheen shares !" said a voice immediately behind the rock.

Consternation seized the two boys. In their simplicity they imagined that no human eye had seen their operations in the quarry: that no human ear had heard their castle-building on the buried treasure. Yet here was evidence that their secret was out?

In a moment after the first shock of consternation had passed, Tom Watson threw down his spade, blew out the candle, and yelled aloud to the retreating owner of the voice, "Who's there? Speak, or I'll rowe Samson's Putting Stone on the top o' ye!"

But the intruder had gone, and the only response to the threat was the mocking laughter

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of the voice which died away as the owner of emerged from the quarry workings, and gained the public road leading down to St. Johns. (To be continued).

A Song of Borderland.

WRITTEN FOR THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE EDINBURGH BORDER COUNTIES ASSOCIATION, JANUARY 31, 1895.

TUNE, Auld Lang Syne.

I

I HEARD an exile sadly sing

Beyond old ocean's roar,

'O had I but the dove's light wing To reach thy well-known shore.' Chorus. O Borderland, sweet Borderland, Home aye to me and mine, Where I can clasp a friendly hand For auld lang syne.

II.

I see the silver of thy streams

For keen is exile's ken,

And basking in the bright sunbeams
Are meadow, hill, and glen,

Of Borderland, sweet Borderland, etc.

III.

Thrice glorious names that lustre round
Each glamour-haunted spot,

An immortality has crowned

Our Leyden, Hogg, and Scott.

For Borderland, sweet Borderland, etc.

VI.

O winsome lad and lass at e'en

Along the banks of Tweed,
May love's pure altar flame as keen
At every hour of need.

For Borderland, sweet Borderland, etc.

V.

Come, gallants sons, and daughters fair,
Join in a patriot band,

A wreath of worth to weave, and wear
For Scotia's Borderland.

O Borderland, sweet Borderland, etc.

VI.

And we, too, dream of long-gone days,
Though oft through sorrow's tears
Since boyhood clomb the broomy braes
In those fast-fleeting years,

On Borderland, sweet Borderland, etc.

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HE endeavour, however humble, to do justice to the neglected genius and worth of a departed friend is always a praiseworthy task. In the present instance, the duty is lifted far above the region of mere taskwork. It is an honour of the highest kind.

There can hardly be a doubt, that we Borderers did not, in any adequate degree, recognise Mr. Heatlie's genius as an artist, or his worth as a man. To Mr. Heatlie himself, this was of small consequence, he never courted fame or publicity. Ours was the loss, in not knowing more fully, and estimating more fairly, one of God's most precious gifts to us—a man of rare genius, and an honest christian.

Mr. Heatlie was an artist through and through. While on the earth, he was not of the earth. His whole life was dominated by his richly poetical imagination, and imagination, Ruskin says, is but a pilgrim upon the earth with her home in Heaven.

Mr. Heatlie was a genuine Porderer-as his father had been before him and had all a Borderer's love for the Borders. He was born at Ettrick Bridge-End in Selkirkshire, and removed at an early age to Eildon Hall, Roxburghshire, where his father was gardener.

On the death of his father, the widow with her family of son and daughter removed to "The Cloisters," Melrose, a quaint old cottage under the shadow of the Abbey. Subsequently, on the death of Mrs. Heatlie, the brother and sister

removed to Newstead, where William Heatlie died. It was a quiet uneventful life, lived in unobtrusive honesty and godliness.

After studying for a few years in Edinburgh, Mr. Heatlie returned to Melrose and devoted himself assiduously to his art, and it is as an artist that he is best known to outsiders. His intimate friends, however, could hardly fail to come to the conclusion, that as an artist, he was one of "the inheritors of unfulfilled renown." He never did justice to his undoubted abilities. Various causes tended to produce this undesirable result, but principally these two. Firsthis teaching engagements, which, by encroach

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ing so seriously upon his time, for he never scamped any work which he undertook, left him little leisure for serious and sustained effort; and secondly-his innate modesty and self depreciation which led him to underestimate his own abilities.

The art of Mr. Heatlie is solely represented by small pictures and sketches, but though small in size, they are all excellent in quality. He delighted in landscape and architectural subjects, more especially the latter. Indeed, he seldom painted a picture without introducing a building of some sort or other, and from our grand old

Border Abbeys, down to the meanest cottage of a Border hind or ploughman, his brush and pencil were equally at home. Perhaps his best works were several water-colour sketches of bits of Melrose Abbey. He loved the old fabric with an almost religious enthusiasm. As Jerusalem was to the ancient Jews, so was Melrose Abbey to William Heatlie. He took pleasure in its stones, its very dust was dear to him. He knew it thoroughly by heart. Every moulding and bit of tracery, every carved boss and capital, and every coat of arms and inscription were engraved within his memory. His drawing of architecture was faultless. It was careful, painstaking, accurate, thorough. He never painted impossible construction, as artists often do. The work might have been restored from some of his sketches, had such been necessary. The jointing of the stones was all shewn with thorough accuracy, every idiosyncracy of the workman as revealed by his work was lovingly portrayed. The local colouring of the stones, their mode of dressing, and the character of the carvings and the mouldings were faithfully reproduced.

In all his work there was the same loving fidelity to nature, the same accuracy of repre

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sentation.

He had sketches of the Abbey, or bits of it, from all points, and under very varying atmospheric conditions. He had even a sketch of the East-end by moonlight-that witching time for viewing "fair Melrose aright."

Within certain limits Mr. Heatlie was a considerable traveller. There was hardly a place in all the Borderland where he had not visited and sketched. Nearly every year he visited England; he knew Weardale, and Durham, and Cumberland well, and always returned laden with artistic spoil. Mr. Heatlie's best work was done in water-colour. He painted a few pictures in oils, but he never seemed to care much to work in this medium. He did excellent work, however, in pen and ink, and pencil. Some of these latter drawings were prepared specially for book illustration, and a number of them may be seen in a small periodical called The Illustrated Scottish Borders, which ran its short course just previous to Mr. Heatlie's death. Among other books illustrated by him are "The Monks of Melrose," by his intimate friend and pastor, the Rev. Mr. Allan; and some works on Free Masonry.

Shortly before his death he had begun to do work in another medium-pen and ink and colour-and had produced some little things which are perfect gems in their way.

As will be inferred from Mr. Heatlie's natural temperament and disposition, his work is not

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