66

It's

But Jeffrey liked to provoke his wife occasionally, so he answered, as if speaking judicially: Maybe not-though I cannot be sure. no easy saying who is a gentleman nowadays. He has book-learning, if that were any sign of it, as however it is rather the reverse Why, to hear him hold forth when first he sat down you would have thought it was the Minister ! But the liquor has this effec' upon him in which he differs from other folk. At first, whilst the company sat tongue-tied, awkward and stupid-like, he talked, and joked, and sang-it was a treat to hear him! But when the ice was broken and the liquor had done its work, why then, all at once, my gentleman falls silent, drops his head on his hand, and sits like a mourner in the midst of rejoicing, with never a smile for my best anecdote of Torchlight Tom, the salmonpoacher."

The landlady contented herself with replying tartly that at anyrate their visitor had been drunk before the night was over, and perhaps her husband felt that he had now gone as far as he dared, for he answered conciliatingly :

"Well, my dear, there's no fear of our seeing too much of him-he's a bird of passage, nothing more."

In this conclusion, the good landlord was correct, for at that very moment the subject of his discourse (who had given the name of John Lawson) was standing with one foot on the doorstep of the inn, inviting the bystanders to enter and drink with him, and urging as a reason for their doing so, that he intended to proceed on his journey next day, and that it was very unlikely that they would see him again.

"And whither might you be bound, friend?" enquired one of the shepherds, for the canny Scot who dislikes answering questions has no objection to asking them.

But perhaps the stranger was not quite so simple as he seemed.

"That depends on circumstances, friend," was his somewhat dry reply, and then, perhaps, feeling that he had spoken not quite courteously, he added:

"You see I am not situated as you are. Somewhere in this world of hills-all so like

each other to me, and all so different to youI've no doubt that you have a home, with a wife and bairns, or perhaps an old mother, to welcome you to it?"

The shepherd nodded assent.

"Well, home is home all the world over, I suppose, but there's no such thing for me." "That must make life lonesome?"

But the young man passed swiftly into another vein, and it was with a laugh that he answered:

"Not a bit of it! I'm what you call a rolling stone-when my hat is on my house is thatched. But I generally find a welcome wherever I go, and friends into the bargain.” So saying, he jingled the loose coins in his pockets, and stepping into the inn, called over his shoulder to the others to follow him.

It is possible that a fine point of irony may have penetrated his last remark; and certainly the attitude towards him of even the more selfrespecting members of the group had undergone a change, which dated from the time when they first understood that they were invited to drink

at his expense. But where the limited apprehension of the peasant is concerned such fine weapons as irony are simply thrown away; and so all unconscious of the hit, and wearing an air of truly Christian resignation, the men were following their leader into the inn when all at once a most unexpected diversion was created. It was about the hour when, in that ill-provided age and country, on two days in the week, a clumsy public vehicle known as The Coach was accustomed to pass the inn on its way between the two Border towns; and its expected arrival had been the ostensible cause of the gathering at the inn door. At this moment the practised ears of the listeners caught the sound of horses' hoofs on the high road, and the next moment the Coach came in sight. But how different from all remembered precedent was the manner of its approach! Instead of their usual humdrum trot, the horses--generally not much addicted to unnecessary speed-were advancing at a loose hand gallop, which grew faster as they came nearer. A breakage seemed to have occurred somewhere in the equipage, and the lumbering vehicle behind them was oscillating from side to side of the narrow road, on one side of which there was a declivity, scarcely protected by a low mound. But, worst of all, the postillion was not in his place, the box-seat was vacant, and the horses were left entirely without control.

Upon this somewhat alarming spectacle the little crowd outside the inn gazed in helpless consternation. In their own element, some at least of those present were as good men and

true as could be met with anywhere. But this was scarcely the sort of emergency which their training had fitted them to face, and the very necessity for haste seemed to paralyse their powers of action. Meantime one of the meaner spirits sought to excuse himself in advance from interfering by declaring that the coach was empty. Another asked excitedly why the ostler was not there.

But, empty or not, there was one man present upon whom the sight of imminent disaster acted as a call to bestir himself. The wanderer Lawson had been recalled by the hubbub to the door. As the equipage came up, he stepped coolly forward into the road, and at the moment when the runaway horses passed him he made a spring at the nearer of them He caught the rein; but the animals, though not vicious, were terrified, and he was lifted from the ground, dashed down again, and dragged. But quickly recovering his footing, and keeping his hold of the rein, he ran by the side of the horses, till he had made them slacken their speed, which in reality was not very difficult, and then turned them round.

The poor frightened beasts were standing, bespattered with mud and foam, shaking all over, with Lawson at their heads bantering and coaxing them, when the bystanders who had followed along the road at their best pace began to come up.

The first to arrive was Richard, the ostler, an active and trustworthy young man, who, conscious of having been out of the way when he was most wanted, was now inclined to magnify Lawson's exploit, out of an impulse of gratitude that no harm had been done. Then came the others, one by one, and if there had been a lack of initiative before, there was no lack of comment or suggestion now. Indeed it might almost have been supposed that everyone present was deeply experienced in adventures of this kind. And so it came about that, amid all the talking, it was not until the landlord-whose portliness of figure forbade his being in the first flight- had arrived upon the spot, that anyone thought of looking inside the Coach. Then it was discovered that the vehicle was not empty after all, but that a single passenger, a lady, apparently somewhat past the prime of life, reclined in a half-fainting condition in one corner. The gallant landlord addressed her reassuringly, and the carriage having been brought back to the inn, assisted her to alight and consigned her to the care of his wife. Thereupon Mrs. Jeffrey's manner at once became very sympathetic and soothing. Doubtless her womanly feelings were appealed to by the spectacle of distress, but doubtless also her eye

had taken in the distinction of the suffering lady's features, and the richness and refinement of her dress and other accessories.

The steaming horses were being soothed and unharnessed, and the broken Coach was receiving the attention of the local experts, when a quaint and antiquated figure was seen approaching from the distance. He wore a green coat and white cotton breeches, and has none other than Old Francis, the postilion, at whose door the blame of the misadventure lay. His appearance was soiled and woebegone, and he advanced limping; but lamer even than his gait was the story he told to palliate his incompetence and faithlessness. And as those he told it to were perfectly acquainted with his drunken habits and general fecklessness of character, one can scarcely wonder if they paid little heed to what he said.

His fall-for he had rolled from his horse's back-had sobered him for the time. Nevertheless it had been decided for him that the Coach could not possibly proceed on its journey until the damage it had sustained had been at least temporarily repaired. A messenger was therefore dispatched to summon the nearest wheelwright; and Francis, having seen his horses stabled, betook himself to the kitchen, and there sought consolation for the cavalier treatment he had received by burying his large red nose in a quart pot.

The other men, bent on similar refreshment after their exertions, also turned into the inn. But they had proceeded no further than the flagged passage, when Jeffrey, who wished to show his approval of John Lawson's conduct without exciting jealousy, singled out the young man from the rest, and without speaking pushed him by the shoulders through the half-open door of the inn parlour, whilst he himself went off to fetch a glass of spirits from a store which he kept for private consumption. Now the day being dull, and the light-such as it was-obstructed by the height and nearness of the hills, it happened that on entering the room Lawson did not at once observe that he was not alone in it. (Neither, it may be assumed, had the landlord guessed that it had an occupant). The young man went over to the window and looked out. The sky was wan, and seemed overburdened and drawn down. Presently snow began to fall, and he was watching the oblique descent of the flakes, and noticing that, few and small at first, they soon increased in size and number, when he was startled to hear certain words spoken in a mournful voice quite near him

"Better, oh far better, if the accident had proved fatal!"

Glancing quickly round, he at once saw that

the voice proceeded from a large leathern elbow-chair which stood with its back towards him. The speaker was concealed from his gaze, but a mirror which hung over the chimneypiece showed her form in reflection. It is needless to observe that she was the lady passenger by the Coach. As seen in the glass, she looked pale and very ill, her pallor being enhanced by the darkness of the cashmere and furs in which she was enveloped; and it was evident that she had not yet recovered from her recent alarm.

Having taken all this in at a glance, and naturally fancying that the lady knew of his presence, Lawson spoke in reply:

"Pray do not say that, dear madam. It is unkind; for you make me sad when I was happy at the thought of having served you, no matter how slightly."

were

The young man's speech and tone adapted to soothe dejection. But his assumption that the lady knew of his presence in the room had been mistaken, and she was now to the full as much surprised to hear her murmured words replied to as he had been, just before, to hear them spoken. Gathering his identity, however, from what he had said, she roused herself to answer..

"You must forgive me, sir. I have great cause to be grateful to you; and, believe me, I am not insensible. I spoke in the belief that I was alone, and indeed without knowledge that my words were pronounced aloud. I fear I am not quite myself. I have been unhappy, and the experiences of the last day or two have revived very sad associations."

The speaker's utterance was broken, and was obviously the result of effort. Discretion, therefore, would have prompted Lawson to retire, or at least to keep silence. But, in the presence of sorrow, his kindness of heart was stronger than his discretion, and speaking with that artlessness which sometimes characterizes the men of his calling, he said:

"I am grieved to hear of your unhappiness." The touch of sympathy-more trying, far, to some natures than opposition itself-proved almost too much for the distressed lady's fortitude, so that she came near breaking down.

"Oh, I have suffered, as I hope you may

never suffer-suffered in what for a woman is the cruellest way, through those I loved, and sought to love! But the worst is that the blame was chiefly my own, as I see now-when it is too late! Yes, my life has been one long mistake, and that is why just now I wished the end had come."

Seeing that she was not mistress of herself, and fearing that she might be betrayed by over

wrought feelings into speaking words that she might afterwards wish unsaid, Lawson at first forebore to reply. When he spoke it was to say:

"Ah! it is a sad world, dear lady, and I can feel for you; for God knows that I have been unhappy too. But we must even make the best of things—what else can we do? Come, try to cheer up. Perhaps there's a good time coming. If I could serve you, I should be proud to do it -but I fear it's little likely."

The lady thanked him, and said that his kind words had already helped to cheer her. But even as she spoke she sighed. Then, as if seeking to draw off the conversation from too painful topics, she asked him if the inn was his home.

"No, I'm a traveller like yourself." "Westward?"

He shook his head.

"To the east.

Perhaps your path and mine cross here, to-day, and not again. It's the way o' the world!"

She

It was the sailor who seemed to be growing melancholy now. The lady did not reply, for her mind was preoccupied in considering as to how she could with most delicacy make him a return for the service he had rendered her. reflected that she was well off, whilst he appeared to be but an ordinary seaman of the better class, and she would have liked to make him a present. But what could she give him so as not to offend susceptibilities which she had already perceived to be delicate? The question perplexed her, and she had not answered it yet when the landlady returned. Such are the little obstacles which in an artificial life obstruct the action of the better feelings.

(To be continued).

Manor Water.

N these days of railways, many a Border man has found his way up Tweed to the county town of Peebles, now no longer so quiet as described by Cockburn. The town itself has at the present day plenty commercial stir: in summer, visitors from Edinburgh and Glasgow abound, but although mills have sprung up and the auction ring is filled weekly, there is in close proximity to the burgh a choice of pastoral glens so still and sweet as to tempt the denizen of cities into their midst there to forget the work and worry that have beset him in the town. of these is the Vale of Manor, nine miles in length, the source of the stream being among the wilds stretching towards Meggat and St. Mary's Loch, Manorhead being 7 miles distant

One

from the latter. With a general resemblance to some parts of Ettrick and Yarrow in "meek loveliness" and "pastoral melancholy," it has not, like Ettrick, the remains of a Forest, neither has its praise been sung by Wordsworth or Scott, although the latter visited it in 1797 and there had an interview with a weird recluse who lived in the parish, David Ritchie, the original of Sir Walter's "Black Dwarf."

I do not claim for Manor Water any pre-eminence of beauty or fame beyond that of some other glens of Tweeddale. It is the unbroken stillness of Manor and the grandeur of its solitudes that commend it to the poet, the artist, and man

crossed the Tweed to view the scenes depicted by Wordsworth, he yet returned with unabated interest to the glen which in boyhood had cast such a glamour over him. It was impossible for any one brought in contact with the strong personality of John Veitch not to be imbued in some measure with the spirit of the scene, or to fail being educated in some of the lessons that he tried to teach. Borderers generally owe much to him. The inhabitants of Upper Tweeddale in particular came under the spell of his influence; and but for that influence many of the peculiar charms of this valley would have had little or no significance at least to me.

:

of letters while it is eminently refreshing to that large class of men, the overworked, who will find here abundant means for mental and physical recuperation.

My acquaintance with Manor Water dates from 1851, as an angler in the stream; and in after years accompanying the sportsmen to the moors. This acquaintance was afterwards renewed by many rambles on Cademuir, Dollar Law, and Scrape, in company with one who has left his mark on educational life, the late Professor Veitch, who in summer rejoiced in this vale as he did in no other. It was his first love, and though he gave much of his time and admiration to the whole of the Borderland, and

Peebles.

shire. The view opens out, Dollar Law is seen, when Mr. Linton will probably advise the pedestrian to halt at Castlehill with its recently restored Border Peel adjoining the farm house once occupied by Lawrence Anderson, latterly of Chapel, Dumfriesshire, author of "Literary Recreations of a Sheep Farmer." A fine situation this at Castlehill, the most commanding in the glen. Ha'lmanor, Glenrath famous for its Hope and excellent trouting stream; Posso, Langhaugh, and Kirkhope are passed in succession, and ere long you reach the wild solitude of the terminus Manorhead, the last two miles of the public road being on turf, and a shepherd's

There loveliness with moorland pathos dwells To soothe the heart of solitude and fear." Many prose lines might be attempted wherewith to describe Manorhead, but these would fail alongside the words of the poet from whom we have just quoted. Lovers of such mountain scenery as the Broadlaw, Dollar Law, and Scrape, will, if they are sojourning in Peebleshire, visit these giants of the Manor. Supposing, however, that a brief visit only can be made, they must, before quitting Manor Water, have a look at Hallyards and the "Dwarf's Cottage," both of which are so intimately associated with Sir Walter Scott, who, close on a

shealing the only abode. To many men, especially Englishmen, a scene of this kind is so eerie that they regard it as nothing but a dire misfortune to have been induced by their friends to visit the mountain fastnesses. But the feeling of awe is not confined to our English brethren; a townsman in Scotland has been known to succumb to it. Professor Veitch in his fine poem, "The Tweed," admits that there is, until familiarity with such a scene begets a love for it, this sensation of eerieness:

"Where even summer noon has tinge of awe;
And yet a tender hue is on the birk
Down in the cleugh, on sacred nook of green
Low by the burn, and gentle thoughts are born
Of intermitting sough of mountain streams;

century ago, visited the then tenant of Hallyards, Professor Adam Ferguson. It was in July 1797 that Scott, then a young man, was introduced by his host to a low thatched-roof cottage with a door three and a half feet high, the humble dwelling of the weird recluse Ritchie. We quote the following from Chambers' "History of Peebleshire." "At the first sight of Scott the misanthrope seemed oppressed with a sentiment of extraordinary interest which was either owing. to the lameness of the stranger--a circumstance throwing a narrower gulf between this person and himself than what existed between him and most other men or to some perception of an extraordinary mental character in this limping youth which was then hid from other eyes.