In the N.E. corner of the kirkyard stands the "Watcher's House," erected in the days when the seekers after medical knowledge were struggling for the good of humanity against the obstacles raised by its own prejudices and distrust, and when this lonely chuchyard was often pillaged of its newly buried dead by the body-snatchers or "resurrectionists" to supply Marischal College with material for dissection. When the Dee was diverted into its present channel in 1874, on trenching the garden ground beside "Jessie Petrie's Inn"—the foundations and part of the garden wall of which are still standing at the foot of Ferry Road—two skeletons were found, and tradition in the village tells how the body-snatchers, caught at their gruesome toil, were pursued to the river, and being unable to cross without detection, hid the bodies behind the inn, and were never able to recover them again. Better days are with us, and now no sacrilegious hand disturbs the bones that moulder in this "Auld Kirkyard," where it is believed that not even a worm, man's last bosom friend, may enter. A local tradition tells how a portion of the sacred soil was carried from Ireland after St. Patrick had banished the worms and snakes. Since when no worm has ever been found in the holy precincts of St. Fittick.

St. Fittick's Well was in great repute in the days before the Reformation frowned on such superstitious observances, and long afterwards in spite in ordinance and infliction by the powers spiritual and temporal. Down, even till within the memory of people still living, the Well was frequented on account of its healing powers, and people gathered from country and town to lay down their simple offerings—a rag, a nail, a pin—and to seek some benefit. By degrees the religious significance of the rite was lost, but the custom of visiting the well continued, and on the first Sunday of May great numbers of people, chiefly from the city, visited the spring and the neighbourhood, and gave themselves up to amusement and revel on beach and sea brae. Town Council and Kirk Session struggled by laws and punishments to stop those Sunday wanderings and to efface those vestiges of old superstitions, but the customs of centuries die hard, and to-day young and old, to whom the name St. Fittick is a meaningless term and the repute of his well quite unknown, ramble on Sunday's and week-days to the bay once called by his name, and they find the old power still lingers, for the beauty of the Bay, the fresh sea-breeze, and the pure draught from the old spring still bless and heal.

On the wayside bank to the east of the old church there is another well, known of old as the Lady Well,

roofed with an old Saxon vault, and reached by a short flight of time-worn stone steps. It is a quaint and interesting spring, but tradition has brought down little knowledge concerning it. A little way south from St. Fittick's Well, or the Downies Well, as it is also called, stands the great detached mass of cliff called " The Downies Craig,' united to the mainland by a narrow neck, " The Brig o' ae Hair," and shewing a curious perforation in the neighbouring cliff, well named " The Needle E'e.' The Downies Craig is closely linked in history with St. Fittick's Well. The Craig was the usual limit of the wanderings of the May Day revellers. Here they crossed the "Brig o' ae Hair," very different in those days from its present state, for the slenderness of the connecting neck, which gave it its graphic name has been in great part massed by the rubbish, tilted over it, when the adjacent railway cutting was made. On the summit of the Craig there is a stretch of fine green sward, and thereon, the brig crossed, the youthful revellers used to cut the names of their loves.

The Craig, to the North and South of the narrow "Brig," descends sheer to the water, a mighty pendicular wall of gnarled and twisted gneiss. It forms with the landward cliffs a profound chasm, and and narrow, into which in storm, the wtaer is driven with terrific force and deafening turmoil. Eatswards to the sea the Craig descends gradually, with mighty boulders, grey-green with sea lichen and hacked and fissured by the tempests of many thousand winters. Here is the haunt of the hooded crow, wariest of birds, which perches on the inaccessible pinnacles and rears its brood in the spray-dank hollows. There are many caves in the cliffs here, sought in olden times by far other wanderers than May Day revellers. In the year 1640, the ranks of the army of the Covenant were filled by many a forced recruit from the streets of Aberdeen. In this year we read that "seven score burgesses, craftsmen and their servants were seized and forcibly sent off to join Leslie's army for the invasion of England, and many others, to escape the same fate, fled the city and sought shelter about the craig of Downies and the recesses of the neighbouring rocks."

The Old Burgh and Session Records of Aberdeen again and again shew the paternal anxiety of minister and magistrate to check the pilgrimages to the south side of the Dee, for, once the religious meaning of the journey had passed away from the minds of the people. it tended to degenerate into an opportunity for revel and excess, and the solemn reflective quiet of the Sabbath, which the God-fearing Fathers of the City anxiously sought to foster, was seriously disturbed by the liberties claimed by the devotees of St. Fittick.

The fishermen of Footdee did not object to this popular crossing of the water; it was a lucrative custom for them, but they were often fined and censured for hiring their boats on Sunday and watching men were also stationed at the ferry boat to note such persons as crossed the water to Torry, and order them before the Session for reprimand and fine. A few extracts from the old records will illustrate this state of matters three hundred years ago.

On the 8th May, 1603, "The said day it is thocht expedient that ane baillie with twa of the Sessioun pass thro' the toun everie Sabbath day, and nott sic as they find absent frae the sermones, ather afoir or efternone, and for that effect that they pas and serche sic houses as they think maist meit, and pass athort the streits, and chiefly that now, during the symmer seasoun, they attend, or cause ane attend at the ferrie boat and nott the names of sic as gang to Downie that they may be punishit conforme to the act set doun against the brackairs of the Sabbath."

On 1st June, 1606, four men are fined "Ilk ane o' them in forty pence, to be payed to the puir for thair passing over the water to Downie on Sunday last the tyme of the efternones sermon."

In 1616 there is the following municipal enactment. "Gif ony man, womane, barne, or servand, sal be aprehendit in ony time comin', going in the nicht, either be land or sie, to Downie, Sanct Fittatk's Wall, or uther wyis vaiging idillie to ony superstitious place, the persone being maister or mistress of a familie, their sones and dochteris, sall pay furtie schillings of onlaw, totes quoties; and the servants twenty schillings; and the maisters to be comptabill and anserable for their wyffis, bairnies, and servandis."

Again, on the 28th Nov., 1630. "The said Margaret Davidson, spous to Andrew Adam, was adjudjet in ane unlaw of fyve pounds to be payed to the Collection, for directing her nurish with her bairne thairin for recoverie of her health, and the said Margaret and her nurish were ordaint to acknowledge thair offence befoir the Sessione for thair fault and for laving ane offering in the well.

"The samen day it was ordaint be the haill Session in ane voce that whatsomever inhabitant within this burgh wis found going to Sant Fiacker's Well in ane superstitious manner for seeking health to thameselffs or bairnes shall be censured in penaltie and repentance."

"The belief in the Well gradually waned, but there are still people living who remember some instances of the old rite. One old woman in Torry, approaching her century of life, to whom the writer of this sketch appealed for some reminiscence of her early days, brightened up at the mention of St. Fittick's Well, the dull eyes gleamed for a little, as a flash of recognition lit up the worn old face. "I mind fine it was Jessie ____'s bairn, a thrivin' lassikie till it got amo' its teeth, an' sine it dwined and dwined and naething did it ony guid. I dinna ken fa' put it in Jessie's heid, but ae meenlicht nicht she cut twa sheaves o' breid and put them in her breist, and took the bairnie and gaed awa' tae the wallie at the Bay o' Nigg, and she weish the bairnie in the wall, and syne she laid doon the breid tae the fairies and cam' awa hame, and fae that day the bairinie threeve and there are bairns o' that bairn in Torry the day." Once started, this old lady gave many a glimpse of the customs and superstitions of the Torry of a hundred years ago. "We hid ither wyes o' curin' bairns and fouk fin I wis a lassie. I mysel' was the last wife in Torry to cure a bairn wi' unspoken water. There wis a burnie ca'ed the Struak ran doon oot o' far the Brickworks cam to be, past Jessie Petrie's public-house by the waterside. The bairnie was wastin' awa' till a shadow, an' it couldna eat an' it wouldna sleep, but just murnt and murnt, an' its mither was sure the fairies had got at it. So ae nicht I took a sma' pailie an' put a shillin' in't, and gaed awa' to the stroopy at the top o' the Struak an' let the water fae the stroopy run on the shillin', and if it turned heads up the trouble was in the bairn's head, but if it turned tails up it was in its system, but comin' or gaun I spak' tae naebody—for that's waht mak's unspoken water. I met twa or three lassies I kent an' they cried to me, but I said naething, and I met a lad I kent richt well, but I didna speak tae him; and I got hame and weish the bairn wi' the unspoken water and it got better. Did ye iver hear o' three times roon the crook?" she continued. "I min' on the wives i' my mither's hoose daein' that, when I was a bairn. They took three roon stanes fae the Bay o' Nigg, an they ca'ed ane the heid, anither they ca'ed the heart, and the ither ane wis the body, and they put them in the red fire, and the first stane that crackit was the pairt the trouble was in, and then the unweel body was carried three times roon the crook o' the big lum wi' the unwell pairt held next to the crook, an sometimes they got better an' sometimes they didna, jist the same as wi' the doctors noo-a-days."

This bay has borne other names than that familiar to us. Saint Fiacre is the old name of the patron saint of this district. Tradition says he was the son of Eugenius IV., an old Scotch king of doubtful existence. The saint, leaving his native country, retired to a hermitage on the Continent, where he died in 648, and was buried in the Cathedral of Meaux, in France. The Bay is called after him in many ways. St. Fittick's Bay, the common modern form of his name, is derived from Ma Fithatk, the Celtic form of St. Fiacre; by corruption the name Sanct Moffat's Bay is sometimes met with; while in one old chart in the possession of Mr. Barnett, the delineator makes a thoroughbred Scotchman of the old Saint, and calls it Sandy Fittick's Bay.

It is a pretty place, this sheltered bight in the rugged coast line, with its fine bend of foam-frilled water and its beach of great smooth pebbles clattering incessantly in the ebb and flow, pent in to the north by the bold peninsula of the Girdleness with its lighthouse, and to the south by the low broken headland of Greg's Ness. Interesting at all times is this little bay—in calm, when the waters heave smoothly like a bosom in sleep,

- in storm, when the breakers surge shorewards great curving masses of dazzling white, and roar on the pebbles

yields a succession of greens throughout the year. For there, while the snow still covers the distant Mount Battock and Lochnagar, seen white from this hillside, the dainty tassels of the larch swing out in the spring winds sprinkled with the rubies of the young cones ; then comes the darker birch, and last of all, along the old hill kirk road, the beech unfolds its fragile leaves, most brilliant of woodland greens, and over all looms the gloomy fir as surly to the touch of spring as it is sullenly unyielding to the season of frost and tempest. Tullos Hill was planted in 1799. The trees flourish along its northern border, but have almost disappeared from the rest of the hill. The access to it is by an old road entering the hill east of Tullos House by the beech row, but soon lost in whin and bramble; one branch of it used to go straight south over the hill to join the road to the coast, the other turned to the right, and winding westwards, by the elf hillock, led to the Church of Nigg. What is left of this old kirk road is now as waterworn and rugged as the dry bed of a torrent, and bordered with a tangle of rasp and rose, bramble and honeysuckle. Near by, where it used to wind westwards, there are some curious circular trenches long hidden among impenetrable whin, but revealed by recent hill fires. Immediately behind Tullos House, on the borders of the wood there is the curious mound known as the Elf Hillock, now covered sparsely with trees. This is doubtless a place of sepulture. To the west of the hillock there is a little crossing, long called " The Fairies' Briggie," for the keener fancies of our forbears saw here a fit meeting-place for the children of the moonlight, the local representatives of Oberon and Titania, and Puck, and many another merry elf. Joseph Robertson conjectures that our Elf Hillock may have been the scene of a fine ballad given by Scott in his Minstrelsy of the Border, and reproduced in this book.

Beyond the strip of woodland, the hill on its western half is chiefly covered by dense whin, which springs up rapidly, and year by year is still more rapidly destroyed by the frequent fires which careless folk kindle on the hill. From the old road as it enters the hill a path winds up to a great cairn of stones set on the sky-line; this is the Baron's Cairn. The stones are now scattered about by many a young vandal, but formerly they were laid down with care and regularity. It was at this cairn the beacons were lit to warn the warders at the harbour that an enemies' ship approached, in order that the river mouth might be closed by the great boom, and that the block-house cannoniers stand to their guns. The foundations of the watchman's house are to be seen close by the Baron's Cairn. Further west there is another great pile, "The Cat's Cairn," also on the sky-line, and at the east end of the hill a smaller cairn stands, " The Crab's Cairn," while on the northern face, N.E. of the Baron's Cairn, and far below the sky line, there is a huge stone heap known as the "Tullos Cairn." These cairns were probably intended to be commemorative of great events in the sturm und drang of the fierce old days. The monuments remain, characters of a lost tongue, the signification of which we cannot decipher. The cairns were of great importance to the old navigators, and we find the most precise directions given for employing them as guides and landmarks, but it is very unlikely that they were originally piled up for this purpose any more than were the twin spires of Old Machar Cathedral, which were also taken as leading points by sailors. Between the Tullos and Crab Cairns there is a hill-well, far removed from all source of contamination, called Jacob's Well, a rillet from which soaks through a little valley, among the bog moss and pennywort and sedge, to collect in a neighbouring hollow as a broad reedy pool. Along the course of this water trickle a kind of rush known as "sprots'' grows a fine annual crop; these werel argely used for "raips" and thatching. The harvesting of the sprots used to exercise to the utmost the ingenuity and "slimness" of the farmers of Nigg. The sprots are useless until mature, so the neighbouring agriculturalists kept a jealous eye on their growth, each man resolving to reap those sprots for himself as soon as they were ready. Mr. X. and his men stole out one moonlight night and with stealthy scythe cleared the little hollow and set the sprots up in stooks, to carry home at day dawn. Home they returned in the night, hugging themselves in satisfaction at their strategy, and after a brief sleep returned with daylight for their hill harvest. But Mr, XX., a rival sprot seeker, who slept while they reaped, had risen an hour earlier to cut the much coveted rushes, and, finding them ready stocked to his hands, gathered them up in thankfulness of his neighbour's industry.

The "Cheerful Vale of Tullos," as it is called in an old survey, is the subject of a persistent tradition that once upon a time the Dee flowed there. Another tradition has it that a Dutchman long ago offered to lead the Dee down this way, and still more firm is the current belief that it will yet seek the sea in the Bay of Nigg, when

But no longer is the Tullos hollow the undisturbed retreat of farmer and fisherman. It is now the main artery of communication between north and south and daily and nightly there thunders along the erstwhile quiet valley train after train in quick succession, laden with men and merchandise from the south and carrying the produce of the fertile fields that stretch northwards from the Dee and Don, and the sea harverst gathered by the famous fishing fleet of Aberdeen.

From the Baron's Cairn we no longer scan the sea for the men of war of our "auld enemies of England," nor for the hostile cruisers of France. Old Mrs. Greig, who lived into our day, would tell how she once saw, from the watchman's house by the cairn, during the great war with Napoleon, a French privateer chasing a British ship along the coast and firing on her, but to-day the prospect is peace, or but the warring of the elements when the sea is vexed and the firs roar on the hill.

From the old watch-house by the cairn a glorious panorama is spread out, South and East and North and West. Eastward the brown heath meets the blue sea, and beyond that sea and yet more sea, until the blue is the blue of the sky. Away to the North,

on its peninsula the Girdleness Lighthouse lifts its beacon, and from the high ground there, now "The Torry Park," a prospect of sea shore of wonderful extent presents itself. Professor Masson, writing of this part of the coast in 1871 said: "I think I have never seen anywhere else so vast an arch of open sea. Eastward you gaze. Not an island or a headland interrupts the monotony of waters to the far sky-line; and you know that beyond that sky-line you might sail and sail, still without interruption till you reached Denmark or Norway."

You cannot see the Deemouth from the Cairn, but Futty is there by the water's edge, and thence, like a great bow, the yellow sands of Aberdeen Bay sweep northwards in a curve that might be the mould of a rainbow. Banked with bent and frilled with breakers, the beach stretches by Donmouth, the Black Dog, and Belhelvie, with its line of Coastguard houses set white and black on the yellow ground, until it slips from sight where sea-shore and sky meet, and where, when night falls, the lights of Buchanness are seen to flash and fade in the darkness. From the hollow by the shore rise the spires and towers of the white city, ever steadily creeping over the fields northwards and westwards. The Deeside Valley leads up to the distant hills from which, on a clear day, stand out the splendid masses of Mount Keen and Lochnagar, and overhead, as evening falls o'er Tullos Hill, the sea-mews are hoarsely calling as they seek the cliffs after a day's foraging on land, when

HE old village of Torry, from its proximity to a city active in the making of history, has a more vicissitudinous story to tell than the other fishing village along the east coast. Of a distinct race, unchanging in their habits, mixing little with the landward people, except for purposes of trade; yet the neighbouring port, with its foreign-going ships, drew many a fine lad from home, and many a fisher-girl became the wife of a city worker. The village, thus drained, had many ups and downs in its population. At one time crowded with white-fishers, and another the race of fishermen almost gone, and, in their place, a considerable population of working people from the shipbuilding yards and other city industries. In the days when the famous Aberdeen clippers were being built, two ferry-boat loads of carpenters passed, morning and night, across the harbour mouth, to the yards, from Torry, which was the home of the carpenters. These men were clothed in characteristic white suits, and their coming and going was one of the sights of the harbour mouth. By-and-by came an influx from the villages, north and south, Slains and Colliston, Cove, Skateraw, and Portlethen, and the fishing population again reached its old limits; but to-day the descendents of families who have lived in Torry for three generations may be counted on the fingers of a man's hand. Two hundred years ago we find Torry looked upon as a considerable fisher-town, having six boats for great fish, besides lesser ones. Later, when Dr. Cruden of St. Fittick's wrote his account of the parish in 1793, there were 36 men in 6 great boats, besides the old men and boys in numerous yawls—Cove at that time having 24 men in 4 boats, and 14 young and old in yawls.

In 1839 Joseph Robertson, the historian, describes Torry as a "small village, inhabited by a few families of white-fishers," While the Rev, Mr. Thorn, the last Minister of St. Fittick's Church, and the first in the present Church of Nigg, tells us that, in 1843, the population of Torry was 370, at which period the fisher population had dwindled, having only 3 large boats, with 6 men a-piece, the majority of the people being workmen from the city. There was a considerable ship-building industry in Torry about this time. The yards were situated where Wood Street now stands, and it was here that the first hoppers were built in connection with the dredging of the harbour.

The fisher folks are a serious-minded race, living perpetually in an atmosphere of anxiety. All through the season of storm their women folks live in a state of high mental tension, and the effect of such an ever- ecurring strain permeates and dominates the character of the race. To the landward man "the wind bloweth where it listeth," but to the fisher folks whose bread winners in their little boats are at the mercy of the capricious breeze, the wind has a fateful language, at times helpful and cheering, at other times threatening and ominous. They are a thoughtful people, slow to acquire new ideas, but tenacious of those acquired by experience and tradition. Thoughtful, they are necessarily a religious people. The great lonely sea, as they know it in the night and at dawn, kindles that primitive feeling of awe and reverence which is the basis of the religious feeling. The sea, winter by winter, brings them face to face with danger and death, and, winter by winter, some father, or son, or brother comes back from the sea no more. So the idea of the world beyond, where there is no sea and no storm, is ever present with the fisher folks.

What a life of unceasing toil and anxiety was theirs before the days of railways and other facilities. In a description of the east coast, written about 120 years ago, it is remarked that "the town's people complain that their fishers do not go far enough out to sea, where they would find larger fish ; but the truth is the poor men go so far, that they too frequently never return." The same writer remarks that the town is only partly supplied by Torry and Futty, and that large supplies reach it from the villages north and south. " They are even brought from the Newburgh, ten Scotch miles distant, upon women's backs, in baskets. One cannot, without pain, think of a poor woman travelling fifteen English miles before breakfast, with a heavy load upon her back, and yet, were you to express your feelings to her, she would smile, and tell you that she wished she had only fish enough to carry! Such is the force of habit, that they would think it a punishment to be obliged to return home with an empty basket. If they have neither goods nor provisions to take home, they generally put stones in their baskets, about a third of the weight they take in."

Lately the writer heard old Mrs.______ reproving a young lass for complaining of some little duty to be done—"Lassie, ye dinna ken fat it is to be livin'. When I wis your age I had tae start fae Finnan, wi' a birn that took twa tae lift on my back, at three o'clock on winter mornin's, wi' the blin' drift i' my face, an' tramp in tae Aberdeen by the Brig o' Dee road, which wisna sae steep nor slippy as the Suspension Bridge road; then a' foreneen i' the Market; syne we filled oor creels wi' groceries or mussels, an' startit hame in the aiferneen, and eh, sirs, it wis a stiff road hame. On the frosty nichts we ees'd tae pick the middle o' the road, where the horse feet had chippit the ice, but files the hill wis sae slippy we had tae tak the ditches, an mony a nicht the tangles on oor frozen petticoats wad hae oor legs cut an' bleedin' an' frozen again, afore we wan hame. Then there wis the fish to carry up the lang steep Finnan braes, the mussels tae shell, an' the line to bait, the fish to clean an' smoke, syne the hoose tae tidy up, an' the bairns tae look aifter, an' awa tae Aberdeen again. Eh lassie! lassie! mony a week oor een never steekit on a pillow ; an' in the simmer time, besides the ither wark, awa tae the moss, three weary miles, tae cast peats, an' when they were dry an' ready, to carry them hame again, Lassie, dinna complain o' your bit wark bein' a fash."

But the old order changes, the steam which brings tons and tons of rich food every morning from the deep sea, is breaking down the old seclusion of the fisher folks. A process of centralisation goes on apace—the villages are pouring their peoples to the great fishing port, and although some folks cling to the old boat and the old home, a generation or two hence and the peculiar race of our North-East Coast Fishermen will be merged in that new race in the process of evolution on the Torry braes, where the glib tongues of Englishmen and Englishwomen mingle with the broad Doric of Aberdeen and Kincardine, and many a young Scotch man is choosing his mate from among the English "incomers," and many a young Englishman marries a Scotch lassie; and in the houses a dialect new and strange is developing, where words peculiarly Scotch are tripping from English tongues, which give a special flavour and piquancy to the language they find so expressive; and under the shadow of the Baron's Cairn, where once was set the watch for "oor auld enemies, the English," these erstwhile enemies mingle in the common industry, and crowd with a new race the streets that daily are stretching across the fields of St. Fittick.

—But let us pray that our rulers remember that the world is a temple as well as a market, and that in their efforts to build up the new town and develop a great industry, the sweet retreats by hill and shore be guarded with jealous care. With wisdom and foresight the Girdleness plateau has been secured for the people, but this is only a first step. The Greyhope road, with its magnificent prospects of distant hill and neighbouring harbour, of city and sea, must stretch out through the new Torry Park, down the braes to the Bay of Nigg, and thence, skirting the Tullos Hill, join the south road to Aberdeen. Then, with the old well restored, and Tullos Hill secured as a "commonty," the ancient pilgimages, freed from the superstitions of the past, may be resumed, and the blessing of the Saint will rest upon the people.

FORSAKEN, sighing o'er her crumbling bank,
The withering sea-pinks spangled in her hair,
Her sorrows crooning to the sea-winds dank,
The Nymph of Downie sits in lone despair.

The wan moon lit at times the lifting bay,
And bridged with light the sea, from land to sky,
While from the verge the voices stilled by day,
Incessant wrangling-murmured fretfully.

Sails gleam and go as swings the lighthouse flash,
But flash or fade no hopes for her relume ;
The grinding waters o'er the boulders dash,
And gnaw the land and ruthless shout her doom.

Forsaken, sighing o'er her broken well,
She, unavailing, weeps the years of yore,
When in the hollow rang yon silent bell,
And stricken pilgrims gathered by the shore.

Tho' proud Damascus claimed a peerless flood,
The haughty leper was compelled to roam,
But Jordan's stream where awful Prophets stood,
Or waters rising in the still Siloam,

Were blessed with powers no mightier than the pool
That, tireless, trickles to the insatiate sea,
O Sea, O Death, she moans, impatient, cruel,
Like Dragon, hissing, coils to ravish me.

O, Sister Wells, that flow behind the hill,
Sweet Sisters, trickling safely in the town,
Thy rulers guard each old historic rill
And poets dip in thee the laurel crown.

To thee, old Spa, no threatening ocean creeps,
No sea-storms spatter thee with brackish spray,
Safe, though thy great protector, Jameson, sleeps,
And Anderson, thy hard, has passed away.

Thy wrangling singers, Callirhoe, are gone,
Save one whose swan song softly lingers still
Long years since " Flights of Fancy " laurels won,
The tuneful champion of our Old Firhill.

And Corbie, comes there from the Bay of Nigg,
The roar of breakers to thy cosy bield,
Thy neighbour's doom is mine-the Auld Bow Brig—
I also perish-is there none to shield ?

Oh, Ancient " Mannie," still dost thou preside
Above the truck and chaffer of the "Green,"
Have pity on thy sister, for the tide
Is at her lips, and she must perish e'en.

Dear Sister Wells, that flow behind the hill,
Help, or I perish—swallowed by the sea ;
The loathsome crab will squatter in my rill,
And limpets spawn upon the walls of me.

Build up my banks, pile boulder-buttress high,
Beat back the gnawing, grinding, greedy bay,
And I will heal, for in me virtues lie,
And I will cleanse thee lepers every day.

Do business burdens weight the jaded brain,
Does "shop" encompass like a prison wall,
Do dinsome streets distract thee with their pain,
Or dark intrigues and plots municipal?

Come where my well in limpid stillnes lies,
For here no passion rages, save the sea ;
Here cares are lifted up and passion dies,
Sung into slumber by a lullaby

Of Summer Seas that softly kiss my brink,
When thou hast walled me from the North Wind's sweep,
And rolling pebbles musically clink
Where murmuring shallows whisper to the deep.

Then will I heal the pilgrims as of yore,
My virtues linger—all unspent my balm ;
And tossing troubles, loitering by my shore,
Like seas subsiding, settles into calm.

Then build my banks, pile boulder-buttress high,
Beat back the gnawing, grinding, greedy bay,
That I may yield the powers that in me lie,
That I may heal my lepers every day.

UNCEASINGLY the bright swift waves
Come rushing to the shore,
And echo to the lonely graves
Of those long gone before ;
I stand beside St. Fittick's Well,—
I linger on the beach,
And listen to the full-tide swell
And think what it may teach.

Unceasingly the Ocean speaks
Of friends and days gone by ;
And ever waning memory seeks
Relief in silent sigh ;
The toil, the trials of youth's fair day,
The fears, the joys of life,
Are mirrored in yon restless bay
Its power, calm, and strife.

Unceasingly the billows move
Heaven's purpose to perform ;
In each soft gale there's peace and love-
Courage in fiercest storm:
My lengthened day is well nigh spent,
Earth's proud ambitions o'er ;
Once more I stray with sweet Content
By old St. Fittick's shore.

THE sky's o'ercast with thin grey clouds
Nor smiling sunbeam seen ;
Save o'er the sea's horizon shed
A belt of golden sheen,
Which cheers the distant billows
As they smiling roll to land,
And gilds the sails that stud their breasts,
By gentle breezes fann'd.

I see the plaided shepherd,
And hear his bLeating flock,
As on their wanderings they pick
The herbage from the rock ;
Up the ravines the billows roll
With awe-inspiring sigh,
And 'mid their crevices to perch
The sea-fowl screaming fly.

Yon cloud that rides above the wave,
And greets the evening's smile,
Seems, as the radiance on its falls,
Some lovely distant isle ;
And yonder is a rent in it
That seems a haven fair,
And longing looks yon distant barque
To cast its anchor there.

O ! who has not some sunny isle
Where he would wish at last,
When comes the evening of his days
His anchor their to cast,

Some haven, where life's troubled waves
Were calmed down to the play
Of gentle lappings on the beach
Of Nigg's sequestered bay?
And though the over-circling clouds
Were dimming down to-night,
With pleasant memories and hope
The horizon still was bright.

DEATH and the final mould -- Death where was life
And all its means of action, strength and hope,
Men, women, age and youth, voices and eyes,
Thoughts, passions, loves, sorrows and merriments,
Aims shared-in, histories entwined -- but now
Names on a mossgrown tablet; underneath,
Death and the final mould.

Only the brave old belfry, faithful yet,
Stands sentinel by these poor vestiges,
And when the sun is high protects their place
With kindly shadow; or throughout the night
Takes from the busy wind a secret speech
And, in each cranny, whispers of the hands
That raised it long ago and cherished it;
While from the rock near by the dirging sea
Eternally condoles.

IN a Country weel scatter'd wi' hillocks and cairns,
Where the chain o' the Grampians slopes to the sea—
An' the fowk are renowned as the men o' the Mearns—
Stan's the parish o' Nigg, near the mou' o' the Dee.
There lived an auld wifie o' seventy an' twa—
A couthie wee body, tho' stoopin' twa fauld—
Half a century sinsyne, as tradition can shaw,
Kent weel through the country as blythe Nelly Auld.

She joket wi' youngsters, an' played wi' the weans,
Though wrinkled an' yellow wi' age was her face.
For she was as wanton's a quean in her teens,
An' the wifie was come o' the white-fisher race.
She min't upon Cumberland troops gaen south,
Wi' their braw cocket hats, an' demeanour sae bauld,
An' liket to crack o' the scenes o' her youth,
Yet a maiden unmarried was gay Nelly Auld.

The toun's-fowk o' Mayday gaed crowdin' in flocks—
Lads an' lasses in hunners, 'twas just like a fair—
Seekin' fun o'er at Torry or dulse at the rocks,
Climbin' through at the Needle or Brig o' ae Hair.
They gather'd the badderlock, buckie, an' wilk,
Syne away o'er the rocks an' the hillocks they crawl'd.
For partans at Burnbanks, an' whisky an' milk,
Or a drap o' Geneva frae kin' Nelly Auld.

The feck o' our gentry frequentit her house,
For brawly they kent wi' the canty auld body,
Though Provost or Pauper they wad get a house,
As she had quite a talent at mixin' o' toddy.
A set o' droll chiels, on a fine afternoon,
Wad fuddle an' drink till they a' were keelhaul'd,
Nor yet dream, nor think, o' returnin' to toun,'
But sleep i' the barn o' clean Nelly Auld.

Smuggl't gin was in fashion, an', what wad ye think,
The auld gill was tippence, an' Alister Robb
A hale winter nicht on a sixpence could drink,
An' said he wad drink himself rich by the job.
Ae nicht that a core o' our nabobs were there,
They proposed i' their fun, as the story is tauld,
To Alister, tho' he was threescore an' mair,
A marriage between him' an' auld Nelly Auld.

Nelly giggi'd an' leuch like a lassie o' twenty—
Next week was agreed on to finish the rig ;
An' Alister blin'-fu' said he wis content aye,
Sae they bookit them baith in the Kirktown o' Nigg.
Siller marriages fifty years syne war in vogue ;
Ilka guest brought an offerin', with which they install'd
The pair-wha provided the meat an' the grog—
An' sic was the wedding o' wee Nelly Auld.

Croods cam' frae the country, an' croods frae the toon ;
My mither heard lang Lizzie Wobster declare
That some gaed a shillin', an' ithers a croun,
An' countit owre four hunner couples an' mair.
An anker o' gin in a tub was made punch—
They drank helter-skelter to keep out the cauld ;
A hail rostit stirkie there was for a lunch,
To adorn the marriage o' braw Nelly Auld.

Clinchie Blake, wi' his fiddle, was in frae Whitestripes—
Frae the lord to the beggar a' classes were seen;
Robbie Jack an' his son frae Dalmaick wi' their pipes—
Sic a weddin' in Mearnshire never had been.
A' distinction an' difference were lost at the feast—
Sic dancin' an' drinkin' had never been pall'd,
And they daff'd till the sun was far up in the east,
Then they beddet the bridegroom an' dear Nelly Auld.

But Nellie car'd little for blessin' or ban—
It was generally thocht that the body was rich—
An' happy, at last, she had gotten a man,
Her braw siller marriage had gaen her a hitch.
Be that as it may, it is plain to be seen,
Wi' horses, an' cattle, an' sheep in their fauld,
Her nephews are a' muckle fairmers at Skene,
An' may weel bless the marriage o' auld Nelly Auld.

LIKE ony roarin' lion stout
The Baron swore aloud,
" For this insult upon my snout
O Count, I'll have your blood !

" Then name your arms and time to yok',
An' name the field of glory.
Pistols-the morn, at five o'clock,
Upon the hills o' Torry.

Now frae the east red rose the sun
Like ony copper kettle,
And o'er the Cove portentous shone
Upon the field of battle.

His beams had scarce begun to lick
The dew frae aff the heather,
When baith the lads, to time exact,
Were on the field together.

A doctor in the howe appeared
To wait the grand attack,
Wi' a' his instruments prepared
The bullets to extract.

The grun' was paced, and pistols, tee,
Waur loaded, prim'd, and cocket,
And seconds stood aside, to see
Wha first su'd kick the bucket.

The birds and beasts gaed daft for fear
As soon's they heard the pistols;
And fisher wives cried, Lord be here !
As they were gatherin' mussels.

The gu's and kittyweakes screamed
To hear the dire commotion ;
An' skate an' haddocks quicker swimm'd
Out through the German Ocean.

As fly the waves against a rock,
So flew the balls o' lead ;
As meets a rock the dashing waves,
So firm the heroes steed.

Shot after shot came aff like stoure
Frae these redoubted champions,
An' crack for crack for half-an-hour
Resounded through the Grampians.

At length the Baron cried, " Hallo !
I'm curst if I can wound ye."
" I'm sorry I'm the same with you,"
Replied the Count, "confound ye."

" Then," says the Baron, " gie's your ban',
I'll ne'er say Count in future ;
" The Count said, " That's a gentleman,
I'm wae I twin'd your coutar. "

IT was Nigg's lonely churchyard, beside the murmuring ocean,
The roofless church was old and grey, for since its ancient walls
In years gone past resounded with the fervours of devotion,
They long had bleached in summer suns, or dripped in winter squalls.

Among the graves a sailor sat, his locks were long and hoary,
All weather-beaten was his cheek by many a salt sea-breeze,
No doubt of calms and tempests wild he well could tell the story,
'Mid doldrums at the sultry Line, or blasts on Arctic Seas.

I asked the ancient mariner about his meditation
Among the mouldering monuments, among the grassy graves
Of that lone seaside churchyard, and this was his narration
Of strange and fortunate escapes from out the seething waves—

" It was the good ship ' Oscar,' bound for the Arctic Ocean,
Upon the first of April, in the year of grace thirteen,
And loving hearts were thrilled that day by many a wild emotion,
For a whole whaling fleet had sailed from the Port of Aberdeen.

" I was on board the ' Oscar,' a young and ardent dreamer,
Between her masts a garland hung with ribbons fluttering free,
For every sailor's sweetheart contributed a streamer
For luck to the good ' Oscar ' upon the frozen sea.

" The hawser was loosed cheerily that moored her to the jetty,
The sails were set and off we sped beside the long stone pier,
The good ship, everyone declared, looked trim and taut and pretty
As she curtsied o'er the heaving bar amid a ringing cheer.

" Sometimes we tacked about the bay with very little offing,
To wait a boat that was to bring some laggards of the crew,
For, heedless of the danger, some men will still keep loafing,
And this delay brought wild dismay, as soon they sadly knew.

" The day was, like most April days, made up of shine and glooming
At times upon the heaving seas the sunlight glittered clear,
But all the while to eastward some heavy clouds were looming,
Which boded in the seamen's eyes some dirty weather near.

" It lulled, and on a heavy swell we drifted to the leeward,
The vessel had no steering way ; the tide set in with stress ;
There was no wind to fill the sails to tack her to the seaward ;—
Let go the anchors !—or she strikes upon the Girdleness !

" Then from the east a hurricane sprang up with furious rattle,
Driving the showers of blinding snow in fearful gusts and shocks ;
And the great breakers ran like steeds urged on to maddening battle;
The anchor drags-she's driving fast upon the fatal rocks !

" Cut down the main-mast ! it may bridge the fierce and angry chasm
The carpenters and coopers all their saws and axes plied,
It did not fall athwart-ships ! and each heart was smote with spasm,
For it huddled down a useless log along the vessel's side.

" Then 'mid the din of breakers, and the great chain-cable's clanking,
You heard the skipper's husky cry above the roaring squall,
Above the cracking timbers, and the crunching of the planking,
'Twas every man now for himself, and God be for us all !

" Of a brave crew of fourty-four that mann'd that gallant whaler,
But only two, my mate and I, came living through the surf :—
That fatal Greyhope Bay has been the grave of many a sailor,
Whose loved ones cannot shed their tears uoon their grassy turf !

" 'Twas a sad scene this lone churchyard beside the moaning billows
After the storm, the cast-ashores among the graves were laid,
Their sailor garbs their winding sheets, the wet green graves their pillows,
That lovers and relations might claim their hapless dead.

" There was the skipper, brave and bluff, no more his anchor dragging ;
The harpooner, shot down by shaft more subtle still than his;
The lover in his sweetheart's arms no more departure lagging;
The husband where the widow stands in speechless helplessness.

" Since then I've sailed in many a clime, by continents and islands,
By icy bergs, or where the airs are balm and spicery,
Amid the roaring hurricane, or the calm's awful silence,
But now I've coiled my lanyards up- I go no more to sea.

" But oft I take a tack about, a thankful grey old sailor,
And often sit a lonely hour among these grassy graves,
Musing upon the gallant crew of the ' Oscar,' luckless whaler,
And how my mate and I escaped from out the seething waves."

SO far back as September, 1894, the religious needs of Torry, as a growing district, had been under the consideration of the Kirk Session of Nigg, but it was not until early in the year 1896 that the Kirk Session resolved to proceed in the matter, and a public meeting of the inhabitants of Torry was called for the18th of March in that year.

At that meeting a Local Committee was appointed to collect Subscriptions, and to act along with the Church Extension Association of Aberdeen in taking the necessary steps for the erection of a place of worship.

On 19th November, 1898. the foundation-stone of the new Church was laid by Lauchlan M'Kinnon, Jun., Esq., Convener of the Church Extension Committee, and on 24th November, 1899, St. Fittick's Church was dedicated to the public worship of God.

Steps were then taken towards securing a minister for the Church, and on 11th April, 1900, the Rev. Archibald Macintyre, M.A., Assistant in the High Parish Church, Paisley, was elected to the charge, and was ordained by the Presbytery of Aberdeen on the 17th of July following.

Torry district has a population of 10,000, almost entirely working class, with a large proportion of fishermen and fish workers, who have migrated thither from villages all up and down the East Coast, impelled by that stern necessity which no sentiment can overcome; and to supply the religious needs of this large population St. Fittick's Church was built, and its minister called.

The cost of the present unfinished building was £2,313, towards which the Church Extension Committee of Aberdeen raised the sum of £231, the Local Committee raised £220, the Baird Trust gave £500, and the Home Mission Committee of the Church of Scotland gave £259, leaving the sum of £1,000 yet unpaid.

The Congregation is of itself quite unable to face the liquidation of so large a debt, hence our appeal to all who are interested in Home Mission Work, and to all who would help to prevent further lapsing from church ordinances by providing adequate accommodation and service for a growing population.

The need is urgent, for the Church, as it stands, contains only 550 sittings, nearly all of which are occupied, while the growth of the congregation gives indication that soon the church will have to be extended to the complete plan, giving accommodation to 818 worshippers, which will involve a further expenditure of £1,000 -an additional burden, which will mean strangulation unless the help of friends enables the congregation to pay off the debt that at present hangs on them.

It is proposed to hold a Bazaar in the Music Hall, Aberdeen, on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, 19th, 20th, and 21st December, 1901, in preparation for which a Women's Work Party has been meeting weekly for the past nine months, while at a Congregational Meeting, held on the 1st of May last, a committee of over 50 male members and friends was appointed to make the necessary arrangements.

The Presbytery of Aberdeen, at its meeting on 7th May, cordially commended this Appeal to the liberality of all within its bounds; and we can assure you of the gratitude of the Congregation for any help you can afford us in our present efforts.

ARCHD. MACINTYRE,
Minister of St. Fittick's.

JAMES COUTTS,
Trustee, Vice-Chairman.

D. M. WALKER,
Clerk.