epoch of vast importance in South
African history. It is the "landing of the British Settlers" in the
year 1820. The spot is that on which now stands the flourishing
commercial town of Port Elizabeth, styled, not inappropriately, by its
inhabitants, the "Liverpool of South Africa."

Standing near the stern of one of the surf-boats, his strong right hand
grasping the gunwale, and his grave eyes fixed on the shore, one of the
exiles from Scotland lifted his voice that day and said--

"Hech, sirs! it's but a puir, ill-faur'd, outlandish sort o' country. I
wad fain hope the hieland hills of our location inland are mair
pleasant-lookin' than this."

"Keep up your spirits, Sandy Black," observed a sturdy Highlander who
stood at his side; "those who know the country best say that our
location is a splendid one--equal to Scotland itself, if not superior."

"It may be so, Mr McTavish," replied Sandy, in a doubtful tone of
voice, "it _may_ be so."

"Hallo!" suddenly and loudly exclaimed a dapper little man, whose voice
betokened him English.

"What is't, Jerry?" demanded Sandy Black, turning his eyes seaward, in
which direction Jerry was gazing.

The question needed no reply, for Sandy, and indeed all the various
people in the barge who stood high enough on its sides or lading to be
able to look over the gunwale, observed a mighty wave coming up behind
them like a green wall.

"Haul hard!" roared the seamen in charge.

"Ay, ay," shouted the soldiers on shore.

As they spoke the billow lifted the boat as if it had been a cork, fell
under it with a deafening roar and bore it shoreward in a tumult of
seething foam. Next moment the wave let it down with a crash and
retired, leaving it still, however, in two or three feet of water.

"Eh, man, but that _was_ a dunt!" exclaimed Sandy, tightening his hold
on the gunwale, while several of his less cautious or less powerful
neighbours were sent sprawling into the bottom of the boat among
terrified women and children.

All was now bustle and tenfold excitement, for the soldiers on the beach
hurried waist-deep into the sea for the purpose of carrying the future
settlers on shore.

Thomas Pringle, the leader of the Scotch party, and who afterwards
became known as the "South African poet" had previously landed in a gig.
He gave an opportune hint, in broad Scotch, to a tall corporal of the
72nd Highlanders to be careful of his countrymen.

"Scotch folk, are they?" exclaim