in the distance. The steamer was aground, heeling over on her port-side, and the waves were buffeting her to pieces. I managed to climb to the starboard side of the funnel, the base of which prevented me from slipping along the steep deck, while the bulwarks and paddle-box behind formed a barrier against the violence of the waves.

But this latter advantage did not last long; plank by plank, paddle-box and bulwarks were torn to pieces, and the loose splinters were a fresh source of danger. A sailor clinging to the skylight over the engines, not far from my station, had his arms broken by a mass of wood and iron which was hurled against him; and then the waves, which now washed the deck without opposition, had him at their mercy. They rolled him back, away from me, then threw him forward almost to my feet, so that I could see his pitiful, appealing eyes; but before I could clutch him, they snatched him away again. So they worried him to death, and then sported with his corpse.

There were two boats; the captain and crew attempted to get one afloat; but the gear was out of order, or they were clumsy, or the situation was unfavourable. Any way, the boat was capsized, and some of those who were trying to launch it were, I think, crushed, judging by the cry I heard. The other boat, which was near me, had a side stove in, but amongst the ruins of it I saw the yellow rim of a life-buoy, which I determined to have. It was a task of peril and difficulty to reach the place, but I effected it, and there, inside the boat, clinging to the thwarts, I found my old man, the diamond-merchant.

'Mine, mine!' he cried, when I had disentangled the life-buoy, and passed one of my arms through it. He could not have meant that it was his private property, because the name of the steamer was painted upon it; I suppose he had formed the intention to appropriate it before I came, and his strength had failed him. The boat proved a better protection than it had looked. When the large waves struck the stranded vessel, they rose up and enveloped her, flooding the decks with water, which poured off them again in cataracts. I found on each occasion that the boat was lifted at the same time that it was flooded, and this of course brought relief when the reflux came. I had not, as before, to cling hard to prevent being dragged away, the give of the boat as it floated and subsided easing

the strain.

The vessel was settling down in the sands, burying herself as she swayed, burrowing like a mudfish it was plain that no living thing subject to drowning could remain with her long. It had been broad daylight now for hours; we were in the mouth of some river, for land could be seen on both sides. But no vessel coming to our assistance was visible. It was a mere question of time, however; the wind had gone down, and the sea was not too rough for a good boat; we were sure to be seen. With the aid of the life-buoy, a man might well float till he was picked up, and its value was evidently immense.

Mine!' reiterated the old man, clutching at it as the boat was floated for a longer time than it had been yet. And when the water receded, and we were once more stranded on the deck, he felt in his breast, drew out a leather case, and cried: A

fortune for it! a fortune for it!'

I looked at the nearest bank; it seemed quite

possible for a strong swimmer to reach it, and I was a very strong swimmer. Not probable, perhaps, but possible. Money was not worth steady industry, sustained self-denial, but it was well worth striking one blow for.

'On your word as a dying man,' I said, 'do you believe that if I survive, I shall get ten thousand for the seventy-five jewels?'

'Double, on my oath-double!'

I took my arm out of the life-buoy, and put it over his shoulder, at the same time receiving the leather case.

I had run up on deck in my shirt and drawers, and was pocketless; so I took off a handkerchief I had round my head, tied the jewels up in that, and then secured it about my waist.

I had hardly done this before the boat in which we were was washed clear of the deck, and as, though broken and full of water she proved too shallow and buoyant to go down, I still clung to her for a minute or so; but the waves washed so high over her gunwale, that I had to let go, and swim to a loose oar which was floating near. The old man was kept well out of the water by the buoy; I saw him a couple of waves off with his shoulders well above it. There was no spray now to drown him, for the wind had sunk to a whisper, and, if his strength lasted, he seemed safe. He had made a good purchase. As for my own prospects, my short trip from the boat to the support to which I now clung was sufficient to shew me that I had not enough left in me to swim ashore; no, nor half the way, nor a quarter of the way. My weight slightly submerged the oar, so that, when the crest of a large wave caught me, I got a ducking which robbed me of the breath I wanted so badly. But I could fight for a long time yet, having something to hold on by. Some part of the steamer which must have been tenable up to this time, was so no longer, for several fresh figures were suddenly to be seen in the water, clinging to anything that would float. Three of them made for the buoy, and two reached it, which sealed the fate of the diamond-merchant. Not that the buoy became useless; it was as good a support to the three men as my oar was to myself alone; but that was not enough for the old man, who required to be kept higher out of the water. I saw him still holding on for some time after he had ceased from all attempts to keep his head up; then he disappeared altogether. I nearly met the same fate; I was all but unconscious when a shoreboat came to my rescue. A sailor twisted his hand in the handkerchief tied round my waist, and sought to draw me into the boat by it. It gave way, and I dropped back again into the water. He caught me again by the arm, and dragged me back to life. But my diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires had gone to the bottom of the Scheldt.

For a few hours, and up to my chin in water all the time, I was a moderately rich man; all the rest of my life I have been a poor one. On! if that knot in my handkerchief had held, or if the Dutchman who rescued me had caught hold of my leg, or hair, or ear- But it is too provoking; I can't bear to think of it.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Pater noster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGE Also sold by all Booksellers.

STIRLINGSHIRE FOLKS LONG AGO. IN a farm-house in Stirlingshire, long years ago, the younger son of a good old family preferred the pastoral life of a farmer to the army, for which he was originally intended. To him, seed-time and harvest, the sheep on the hill-side, the cattle in the meadow, the horses at the plough, were dearer far than the routine of parade, the discipline of quarter-deck, a lawyer's wig, or the study of anatomy.

He would have made a good clergyman, that simple-minded, kind-hearted man. He was religious in the truest sense of the word. His wife was equally kind-hearted and good, and was never beard to say a censorious word of any person. She was charitable in thought, word, and deed.

They are both dead; and of the numerous merry-hearted children whose early days were spent under that old roof-tree, some are in their graves, some toiling with brave hearts under a foreign sky, and some in feeble health in English households, striving to follow the example of those parents in their works of mercy and charity.

What we relate of the Stirlingshire farm was many years ago, when gas was in its infancy, and steam-boats beginning to supersede the smacks that plied between Leith and London. Railways were talked of with wonder at many a fireside. Telegraphs, photography, sewing-machines, and atmospheric churns, would have seemed little short of witchcraft; yet life was full of interest even then. Stirling shops were out of reach for every-day wants. A visit to Edinburgh was a rare occurrence --something to be dreamed of months before, and remembered long years after. Pedlers (packmen and packwomen) were welcomed alike at the isolated manor-house, the busy farm, and the muirland cottage. At the wayside village, and even in larger towns, many people preferred doing a little business with the pack-people, whose goods had generally the charm of novelty and reputed cheapness.

Among our pedlers was a shrewd old man, whose name we never heard. We children called him,

PRICE 1d.

'The Man with the Long Nose.' He always wore a drab-coloured greatcoat with large metal buttons. How we rejoiced when that weather-beaten packman made his appearance, undid his box of multifarious wares, and spread them out on the broad oaken table! He did not ask us to buy anything; he knew a sight of his quaint picture and story books, buck-horn penknives, sham trinkets, and grotesque toys, was enough. He talked to the farmer of the crops and the weather; to the mother, of the children's growth; to chance visitors, of the topics of the day. When the children had selected what their pocket-money could pay for, our longnosed friend had a comfortable meal before continuing his journey. As a rule, in each of his rounds he presented one of the young folks with a little present, in the shape of a halfpenny ballad, a penny story-book, three darning-needles, or a bodkin.

One day he paid us an early visit there had been illness and anxiety in the household—no time to attend to pedlers and their packs. The old man soon took his departure: he had had nothing to eat, our mother quickly remembered, and sent me after him with a large piece of bread and cheese. Past the farm-yard, the fir plantation, the low stone bridge, I ran, and overtook him in the hawthorn-hedged by-road, beside the blue-painted gate leading into the "Two-tree Park.' He was much pleased. After putting his luncheon into his huge greatcoat pocket, he detained me, nothing loath, till he had rested his box against one of the gate-bars. I see him now, unstrapping that ancient mahogany box, and slowly searching in its mysterious depths for the little picture-book he gave me, a yellowcovered book full of prim-looking people and primitive letter-press.

The air was sweet with May blossom; the Ayrshire cows browsed lazily beneath the two trees; the brook gurgled among the rough gray stones that impeded its progress; sounds of the traffic from the high-road came over the Saugh-tree Park and the Blush Quarter, but nothing attracted me then but the old pedler and my picture-book. Memory brings all back to me now!

'The Cheap Wife,' famous for her hardness of hearing and unwillingness to abate one penny of her bargains, came to us in her rounds the first Monday of every month, with her large pack of drapery and haberdashery goods. Our summer and winter frocks were often bought from her, her gay ribbons trimmed our hats and bonnets.

In spite of her cognomen, some people declared her goods were dear, but we only quote other people. To us, that deaf, fresh-coloured, doublechinned, middle-aged woman was always The Cheap Wife. If her cotton prints were a halfpenny per yard dearer than in Stirling, they were reckoned infinitely better, and consequently cheaper. It would have been treason to have said anything against the Cheap Wife, though some daring people did try to beat down her prices.

"The Dunfermline Table-cloth Wife' called on us about twice a year with the daintiest table-linen one could wish to see. Can the National Linen Warehouse, can Wilson in Bond Street, shew us anything more exquisitely fine, more purely white? Some of the members of our family had a weakness for table-linen, and many a table-cloth and tray-napkin found a resting-place in the ancient teak linen-chest in the mid-garret- tenderly hoarded for years, and then most of them sold when the old home went to strangers. We have a Dunfermline table-cloth still, with its border of antlered deer, and a tray-napkin of the same pattern. We never see them without remembering the Table-cloth Wife, with her enormous pack, which seemed far too heavy for so slender a little woman as our active black-eyed friend. Her husband wove the linen, and she sold it.

Kirsty Scott, old, withered, lame, with her oddly fashioned cap, and gray duffle cloak, was among our regular pack-people. She had drapery goods too, and coloured Nottingham stockings, that were made for anything but an ordinary foot; however, we bought them, and wore them, though secretly astonished at their shape. Kirsty Scott was a favourite in the kitchen, as she detailed all the country-side gossip, and had cheaper and gayer home-spun striped calicoes than even the Cheap Wife.

We had also two Irish chapmen, who afterwards set up as shopkeepers, and had a prosperous business in that village on the banks of whose classic river Gil Morrice sang, and Sir John the Græme fought and fell.

One of these Irishmen throve as a draper, the other as a glass and crockery merchant: the former was of a thoughtful type of character, reserved in manner, upright in his dealings; the latter, jovial, talkative, and attached to creature comforts. On being asked how much whisky he consumed each day, his reply was characteristic: 'I take a glass in the morning at my own expense, and another at night; and if anybody asks me to take another during the day, why, indeed, I just take it.' When he frequented country-houses with his large basket of beautiful china, few people found out that, though perfect in quality, each piece had a flaw. Notable housewives, proud of their bargains, were mortified afterwards at finding a secret crack in their choice vase or tea-pot, which discovery, however, they generally kept to themselves.

'Salt Charlie' was not a pedler in the usual sense of the word. He had a cart and white

horse, and drove every fortnight into the farmyard. He supplied us with salt-whose snow-white flakes surpassed the salt of the village grocercrockery, salt-fish, and many other commodities. broad bonnet-a large round Tam-o'-Shanter cap He was a small man, with shaggy brows and a will best describe it. Salt Charlie and his pony were fed and rested while the latest country news were discussed. We always greeted the worthy man and his white pony with pleasure; his gaudy porringers and unshapely mugs we looked upon as fine specimens of art; and in very early days some of us confounded him with Prince Charlie! That alone cast a halo round the old beetle-browed cadger!

A worthy couple, Willie and Effie Sharp, sojourned at different houses in the country as their services were required. They were adepts in making rush and straw mats, straw mattresses, heather brooms and ranges.* Their mode of life led them often among the wild moors, where Willie was bit by an adder on the ankle. It lamed him for life, but he still managed to get about and support himself and wife, or rather they helped to support each other. Willie was a theologian, and liked to discuss religious subjects. He and Effie were much attached to each other. We had lost sight of them for years, when Effie came back alone. Willie was dead. He died in my arms, the old woman said with tears in her eyes; 'but noo he is in the Everlasting Arms, nae mair weary moors to travel across, and nae mair countin' o' bawbees, when work is scarce and meat dear.'

We must not pass over John Featherstone, a ratcatcher from Yorkshire, who spent many weeks at the farm when the out-houses were infested with rats. John was a spare, silent old man with a hardy pony and a number of steel traps. In the Stirling market, he made known his calling to the public by a dried rat-skin fastened to the top of a long pole.†

Of an evening, John Featherstone sat by the kitchen fire and made geese-nests and door-mats of plaited straw. He was proud of his thrift-case, a piece of square wood with strings across, through which he placed a bundle of dried reeds, each one neatly cut and ready to act as a rushlight. This thrift-case he fixed within the kitchen chimney a little way above the right-hob. He was not pleased if the servants lit their candles without using a thrift; and the geese wounded his feelings if they did not take kindly to their new-fashioned nests Of his former history we knew nothing, but judged from his habits that he was an arbitrary ruler in his own house.

An old woman frequently came, whose advent was especially welcome to the children, as her wares consisted of a species of 'black rock,' which, she said, was 'guid for the cough, and the cauld, and the shortness of breath.'

Another, who wore caps of a quaint fashion, and gave herself languid airs, sold peppermint and cinnamon waters. She was not at all patronise, except by the servant-maids, whom she used to bribe with sips of her cordials to puff them in the

parlour. Then there was Blind Bethia, whose basket was stocked with pretty pin-cushions, needle-books, and such-like knickknacks, made by the ladies at C, with whom Bethia was a great favourite; and she had as ready a sale among the muirland lairds and small farmers as the bearer of the mission-basket now has at fashionable watering-places.

In our quiet country life, the beggars were also a constant source of interest to us-the blind folks led by friendly hands from door to door, each family sending a servant with the blind beggar to the next house, after providing him or her with food. Then there were our lame beggars-old men with Kilmarnock night-caps and hodden-gray coats, ancient crones with white flannel hoods and blue home-spun wrappers-who traversed the country in a peculiar sort of palanquin, and were indebted to charity for their bearers. There were 'beggar's blankets' and a warm corner in the 'barn-loft' for those who really seemed needy, and came late begging for 'a night's quarters.' A poor family was sometimes kept from Saturday to Monday, and even longer, if one of the party was infirm or ill.

Strange and sad were some of their histories. One of these poor creatures-a.partially paralysed young woman-was crossing a bleak moor, some years before, with her baby in her arms; a snowstorm came on, blinding her eyes and benumbing her frame; her healthy arm was gradually losing its power-she could hold her child no longer. Wrapping it carefully in her threadbare cloak, and placing it for shelter beneath some bushes, the mother hurried to the nearest house for help as fast as her trembling limbs would admit. Feeble and lame, it was long ere she reached a farin on the outskirts of the moor, and was again on her way back to her child, with two strong men, the snow-drift dimming their sight and clogging their footsteps. It was too late; the baby was deadgone home for shelter and rest to the Saviour who especially invites little children to come unto Him. The wretched mother nearly died from the effects of that stormy night. She was a gentle creature, with soft brown eyes, and the patient, wistful look which is so often akin to suffering.

An old peasant-woman was talking to our nurse one day, out of doors, of her failing sight, her weak chest, and other trials. A gangin' wife' came past. She stood still, listened for a minute, and then exclaimed: Ye may talk o' your trials, but I'm thinkin' mine hae been sairer. My gudeman was a collier, and one day was brought hame to me a corpse; my twa braw sons were colliers too, and in the course o' a year or twa they too were brought hame to me dead. These were awfu' trials, and a'maist mair, ye wad think, than ane could bear; but there was anither, far waur, and I've never got owre it. My only dochter fell into great misfortunes, and I lost her. Oh, I'll never get owre it!'

"The Whinging Blackness Man' was pasty-faced, blear-eyed, and peevish, as his name betokens; yet we liked to see him shambling towards the house. His arrival had actually gladdened us when he appeared in his usual lachrymose mood, one sultry summer day, at our Blackness seabathing quarters. Hence his nickname; and henceforth he was enrolled as one of our beggars.

One of our regular beggars was a tiny Frenchman,

always clean and neat, but looking as if most days in the week were jours maigres to him. Humble was his obeisance, meek his cordial merci. He never lingered about the place, but was alert in movement, and very silent-doubtless because our Scotch servants could not understand him. One of my sisters having been complimented on her diligence as a French scholar, got by heart a few phrases from the vocabulary; and the next time the little Frenchman appeared with his wistful, anxious face, after he had had his usual aumous (alms), she glibly pronounced her well-conned questions. Such a brightening of the face, such a light in the eyes, as the man poured forth a fluent reply, not one word of which she could comprehend! He soon seemed to see how matters stood, and, with the usual bow and 'Merci bien, Mademoiselle,' turned away, leaving my little sister rather crest-fallen at her inability to understand the voluble torrent of the apparently unknown tongue which had greeted her ears.

We had our 'gentle beggars' too, of whom I can only remember Old Tibby, and Archie, 'the stickit minister.' Old Tibby wore a threadbare scarlet cloak, trimmed with ermine-real ermine, but sadly spoiled from age and exposure to all weathers. She was nearly related to a radical muirland laird, who talked big and looked high. Why his old Aunt Tibby begged her bread from door to door, while he had enough and to spare, was a mystery we never could fathom. Archie, the stickit minister, was an object of reverence to our old nurse, whom he always called Miss Mellis. He got his alms in silver. Archie wore rusty black, was absent in manner, and hopeless in look. He received his alms gratefully, and smiled-but what a woe-begone smile! Poor old Archie! he had erst his early dreams of fame within the gray college walls, though now he begged for daily bread, through summer heat and winter snow. All the servants were proud to help him, though he was but a 'stickit minister.' He sometimes did light farm-work at 'thrang' or busy times, such as hay-making and harvest. My father was so far a political economist, that he preferred to give ablebodied persons work instead of mere alms.

Laird Stirling was a sturdy beggar who had muddled away all his fortune. He was offered a shilling a day and his dinner to work in the garden and do other jobs about the farm. Laird Stirling shook his meal-bag defiantly, and exclaimed: 'I mak mair o' that, I mak mair o' that!' He did not shew his face for long afterwards.

Our

The beggars were always provided with oatmeal bags, which were liberally filled at the farm-houses, one handful at a time being the usual alıns. parents thought it better to give food than oatmeal, because many of the paupers sold the meal for whisky.

In later and more luxurious times, even meal was not always appreciated. Two beggars met at the foot of a steep road in our neighbourhood one afternoon, and were overheard to say: 'Dinna waste your shoon comin' this gate; it's a mean hole-no sae muckle as a bawbee.'

'But surely you got meal?' 'O yes; but wha cares for meal?' Davie Blair, a half-witted man, who did errands

*Hopelessly plucked.

for us, received twopence for each parcel he brought from the nearest village. One morning the cook asked him to sit down and wait a few minutes for payment, as the mistress was engaged in the parfour. He walked to the lobby-door and called out that he was in a hurry. Have patience, Davie,' the mistress answered. "'Deed, no,' shouted Davie; 'I have nae time for patience.'

Of our half-witted mendicants, the most remarkable were 'Long Harry Ritchie' and 'Daft Jock Nelson.' Though apparently harmless, they would in present days have both been in an asylum. The former was a gigantic man, morose and melancholy mad; he scorned a halfpenny, and would only accept a muckle ane'-a penny. The latter occasionally found work at farm-houses. He was fond of singing and jokes-danced after a fashion, and enjoyed life such as it was for him.

Space would fail to tell of all the gipsy and fortune-telling tramps. Some pitched their tents on old by-roads and waste places near our farm, and then no day passed without a visit from the encampment. Here it was a gigantic swart man selling horn spoons, and so savage in aspect, that the women-servants, if alone, were afraid to dismiss him without making a purchase. There it was a slender, bright-eyed, raven-haired woman, with tin-ware on her arm. Pertinacious and persevering were the tinklers, but they were not looked on with a favourable eye. When they were camped on the outskirts of our land, the dogs barked more of nights, and odds and ends about the premises mysteriously disappeared. A neighbouring farmer's pig died and was buried. Ghoul-like came the gipsies to beg leave to disinter and eat the remains!

On autumn afternoons, we had many a merry blaeberry gathering on the moors of Gircosh, among warm-coloured mosses, purple heather, and sombre juniper bushes. The younger children, when tired of blaeberries, rambled off with our old nurse to look for the staghorn moss or 'deergrass' (the badge of the Mackenzie clan), which twisted itself over the gray-lichened stones and rough crags. With our hats decked with deer-grass, our baskets brimful of blaeberries, we often finished the evening by drinking tea, and eating scones and blaeberry jam, at a muirland lairdship on the borders of Gircosh. Hospitable, kindly people the laird's family were. Many a merry hour we spent in that stone-floored parlour, with its shelves of stuffed owls, hawks, weasels, and squirrels, a stately heron presiding over all. There was a large bookcase too, where we first made acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott's works. An old-fashioned clock stood in one corner of the parlour, and two in the kitchen, so we had due warning when it was time to go home; but Nurse Mellis had enough to do sometimes to get us and our baskets across the fields and by-roads that lay between our home and the muirland lairdship.

Every park or field had its peculiar charm for us. Well we knew where the best blackberries and sloes were to be found, where the scent of the bog-myrtle (sweet gale) was strongest, where the primrose first shewed forth its yellow blossoms, where the plover's plaintive note lingered latest; and in all our rambles, from the venerable oak-tree on whose mossed branches we could sit in safety, and look down into a spring of crystal water,

* Whortle-berry-Vaccinium myrtillus.

to the camstane quarry with its pulpit-like nooks, our old nurse trotted after us in her round frilled cotton cap and dark-blue print gown.

Our servants infinitely preferred the camstane to pipeclay or whiting for keeping the stone passages and kitchen floor more permanently white. On our way home from Gircosh, when we did not go to the laird's house, we sometimes rested at a cotter's farm on the borders of the moor. In the clay-floored kitchen, old Peggy Gray, the mistress, in peaked white cap, stuff gown, and ample checkered cotton apron, spun at the fireside. Sometimes, as a great favour, she allowed us to turn her spinning-wheel and handle the flax, her daughter Katie meantime baking oat-cakes, of which we had always a portion, and a piece of curd if it was cheese-making day. When Peggy Gray paid us a visit, she wore the same style of peaked cap or souback mutch, and a woollen shawl: we should not have recognised her in a bonnet. Peggy was a good old soul, though almost a fatalist; and instead of lamenting over the misdemeanours of some of the neighbours, she would say in a resigned tone of voice: Puir laddie, he couldna win by it; it was ordained for him or ever he had a sark on his back.'

Nestling under moss-covered stones, furze bushes, and bracken, Peggy Gray's well was famous for the coolness and clearness of its waters, even on the hottest summer day. In summer, people came from afar for its pure waters, alike sought after for making good tea and firm butter. That springwell was wistfully remembered in a foreign land when one of our brothers lay languishing on his sick-bed. Gircosh and the oak-tree were remembered too. Tender memories of youth, that so often return to us on our death-bed ́ere God takes us home!

Our tiny nurse Mellis was related to Rob Roy, as her family Bible clearly shewed, and very proud she was of her cousinship to that redoubtable outlaw.

In after-years, our nurse had a little attic room in St Ninian's, whose walls were decked by pictures done by us-sad daubs some of them were, but they pleased her. At the time of the Disruption (1843), some one asked her if she was going to leave the Established Kirk. Na, na,' she said; 'I are gang wi' Leddy Polmaise.' Leddy Polmaise staid in. While our nurse had only one tune and no ear, Mary Beatoun, another of our old servants, who often came back to visit us, had a perfect ear, and sang ancient Scotch ballads with taste and spirit. Mary Beatoun had been industrious and hardworking all her life, the best of dairy-women; no cheese so good, no butter so sweet and yellow, as that turned out by her skilful hands. She hated to be idle; and when her sight hopelessly failed, more than one operation for cataract proving useless, she submitted with unmurmuring patience to her lot. She had a wonderfully brave heart, and in these dark days, with a widowed mother still depending on her for support, Mary Beatoun's spirits never flagged. She was one of those women, not rare in Scotland long ago, who could turn her hand to anything: plain cooking, washing and ironing, she excelled in; while few kept up like her in hay or harvest field with the most stalwart man. Even after she became blind, she made better oat-cake than many who had their eyesight; while nothing pleased her more than to help at the milking, morning and evening, when she found