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• Harry Needham had not perhaps had any preconceived intention to keep Margaret from church ; but he was very well pleased, that, instead of being with her in a pew there, in a crowd, he was now walking alone with her on the brink of his own element. The tide was coming fast in, hurrying on its beautiful little bright ridges of variegated foam, by short successive encroachments over the smooth hard level shore, and impatient, as it were, to reach the highest line of intermingled sea-weed, silvery sand, and deep-stained or glittering shells. The friends, or lovers—and their short dream was both friendship and love-retreated playfully from every little watery wall that fell in pieces at their feet, and Margaret turned up her sweet face in the sunlight to watch the slow dream-like motion of the sea-mews, who seemed sometimes to be yielding to the breath of the shifting air, and sometimes obeying only some wavering impulse of joy within their own white-plumaged breasts. Or she walked softly behind them, as they alighted on the sand, that she might come near enough to observe that beautifully wild expression that is in the eyes of all winged creatures whose home is on the sea.

• Alas! home-church--every thing on earth was forgotten—for her soul was filled exclusively with its present joy. She had never before, in all her life, been down at the sea-shore and she never again was within hearing of its bright, sunny, hollow-sounding and melancholy waves.

6" See,” said Harry, with a laugh, “ the kirks have scaled, as you say here in Scotland—the pier-head is like a wood of bonnets--Let us go there, and I think I can shew' them the bonniest face among them a'.' The fresh sea breeze had tinged Margaret's pale face with crimson-and her heart now sent up a sudden blush to deepen and brighten that beauty. They mingled with the cheerful, but calm and decent crowd, and stood together at the end of the pier, looking towards the ship. “ That is our frigate, Margaret, the Tribune ; ; she sits like a bird on the water, and sails well, both in calm and storm." The poor girl looked at the ship with her flags flying, till her eyes filled with tears. “ If we had a glass, like one my father once had, we might, perhaps, see Laurence. And for the moment she used the word “ father” without remembering what and where he was in his misery. “ There is one of our jigger-rigged boats coming right before the wind.—Why, Margaret, this is the last opportunity you may have of seeing your brother. We may sail tomorrow; nay to night.”-A sudden wish to go on board the ship seized Margaret's heart. Harry saw the struggle and wiling her down a flight of steps, in a moment lifted her into the boat, which, with the waves rushing in foam within an inch of the gunwale, went dancing out of harbour, and was soon half-way over to the anchored frigate.

- The novelty of her situation, and of all the scene around, at first prevented the poor girl from thinking deliberately of the great error she had committed, in thus employing her Sabbath hours in a

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way so very different to what she had been accustomed; but she soon could not help thinking what she was to say to her mother when she went home, and was obliged to confess that she had not been at church at all, and had paid a visit to her brother on board the ship. It was very sinful in her thus to disobey her own conscience and her mother's will, and the tears came into her eyes. The young sailor thought she was afraid, and only pressed her closer to him, with a few soothing words. At that moment, a sea-mew came winnowing its way towards the boat, and one of the sailors rising up with a musquet, took aim at it as it flew over their heads. Margaret suddenly started up, crying, “ Do not kill the pretty bird," and stumbling, fell for

the inan, who also lost his balance. A flaw of wind struck the mainsail-the helmsman was heedless—the sheet fast- and the boat instantly filling, went down in a moment head foremost, in twenty fathom water.

• The accident was seen both from the shore and the ship; and a crowd of boats put off to their relief. But death was beforehand with them all; and, when the frigate's boat came to the place, nothing was seen upon the waves. Two of the men, it was supposed, had gone to the bottom entangled with ropes or beneath the sail, in a few moments the grey herd of the old steersman was apparent, and he was lified up with an oar--drowned. A woman's clothes were next descried; and Margaret was taken up with something heavy weighing down the body. It was Harry Needham who had sunk in trying to save her; and in one of his hands was grasped a tress of her hair that had given way in the desperate struggle. There seemed to be faint symptoms of life in both ; but they were utterly insensible. The crew, among which was Laurence Lyndsay, pulled swiftly back to the ship ; and the bodies were first of all laid down together side by side in the captain's cabin.'--Trials of Margaret Lyndsay. pp. 125-130.

We must conclude with something less desolating--and we can only find it in the account of the poor orphan's reception from an ancient miserly kinsman, to whom, after she had buried all her immediate family, she went like Ruth, in the simple strength of her innocence. After walking all day, she comes at night within sight of his rustic abode.

. With a beating heart, she stopt for a little while at the mouth of the avenue, or lane, that seemed to lead up to the house. It was much overgrown with grass, and there were but few marks of wheels; the hedges on each side were thick and green, but unclipped, and with frequent gaps ; something melancholy lay over all about; and the place had the air oi' being uninhabited. But still it was beautiful; for it was bathed in the dews of a rich midsummer gloaming, and the clover filled the air with fragrance that revived the heart of the solitary Orphan, as she stood, for a few minutes, irresolute, and apprehensive of an unkind reception. YOL. XXXIX. NO. 77.

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• At last she found heart, and the door of the house being open, Margaret walked in, and stood on the floor of the wide low-roofed kitchen. An old man was sitting, as if half asleep, in a high-backed arm-chair, by the side of the chimney.

Before she had time or eourage to speak, her shadow fell upon his eyes, and he looked towards her with strong visible surprise, and, as she thought, with slight displeasure." Ye hae got off your road, I'm thinking, young woman ; what seek you here?" Margaret asked respectfully if she might sit down. Aye, aye, ye may sit down, but we keep nae refreshment here.

this is no a public-house. There's ane a mile west in the Clachan." The old man kept looking upon her, and with a countenanee somewhat relaxed from its inhospitable austerity. Her appearance did not work as a charm or a spell, for she was no enchantress in a fairy tale ; but the tone of her voice, so'sweet and gentle, the serenity of her face, and the meekness of her manner, as she took her seat upon a stool not far from the door, had an effect upon old Daniel Craig, and he bade her come forward, and take a chair farther ben the house.

" I am an Orphan, and have perhaps but little claim upon you, but I have ventured to come here-my name is Margaret Lyndsay, and my mother's name was Alice Craig. The old man moved upon his chair, as if a blow had struck him, and looked long and ear. nestly into her face. Her features confirmed her words. Her countenance possessed that strong power over him that goes

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mys. teriously through the generations of perishable man, conneeting love with likeness, so that the child in its cradle may be smiling almost with the self. same expression that belonged to some one of its forefathers mouldered into ashes many hundred years age. doubt, nae doubt, ye are the daughter o' Walter Lyndsay and Alice Craig. Never were twa faces mair unlike than theirs, yet yours is like them baith. Margaret- that is your name-I give you my blessing. Hae you walked far? Mysie's doun at the Rashy-riggs wi' milk to the calf, but will be in belyve. Come, my bonny bairn, Lake a shake o' your uncle's hand.”

• Margaret told, in a few words, the principal events of the last three years, as far as she could, and the old man, to whom they had been almost all unknown, heard ber story with attention, but said Jittle or nothing. Meanwhile, Mysie came in an elderly, hard-featured woman, but with an expression of homely kindness, that made her dark face not unpleasant.

Margaret felt herself an inmate of her uncle's house, and her heart began already to warm towards the old grey-headed solitary man. His manner exhibited, as she thought, a mixture of curiosity and kindness ; but she did not disturb his taciturnity, and only returned immediate and satisfactory answers to his few short and abrupt questions. He evidently was thinking over the particulars which she had given him of her life at Braehead, and in the lane; and she did not allow herself to fear, but that, in a day or two, if he permitted

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her to stay, she would be able to awaken in his heart a natural interest in her behalf. Hope was a guest that never left her bosom and she rejoiced when, on the return of the old domestic from the bed-room, her uncle requested her to read aloud a chapter of the Bible. She did so,-and the old man took the book out of her hand with evident satisfaction, and, fastening the clasp, laid it by in the little cupboard in the wall near his chair, and wished her good night.

Mysie conducted her into the bed-room, where every thing was neat, and superior, indeed, to the ordinary accommodation of a farmhouse. “ Ye need na fear, for feather-bed and sheets are a' as dry as last year's hay in the stack. I keep a' things in the house weel aired, for damp's a great disaster. But, for a' that, sleepin' breath has na been drawn in that bed these saxteen year! Margaret thanked her for the trouble she had taken, and soon laid down her limbs in grateful rest. A thin calico Curtain was before the low window ; but the still serene radiance of a midsummer night glimmered on the floor. All was silent--and in a few minutes Margaret Lynd. say was asleepi'

* In the quiet of evening, the old man took her with him along the burn-side, and into a green ewe bught, where they sat down for a while in silence. At last he said, “I have nae wife--nae children -pae friends, I may say, Margaret--nane that cares for me, but the servant in the house, an auld friendless body like mysel' ; but if you choose to bide wi' us, you are mair than welcome, for I know not. what is in that face o' thine ; but this is the pleasantest day that has come to me these last thirty years. Margaret was now requested to tell her uncle more about her

раtents and herself, and she complied with a full heart. She went back, with all the power of nature's eloquence, to the history of her young years at Braehead-recounted all her father's miseries-her mother's sorrows,—and her own trials. All the while she spoke, the tears were streaming from her eyes, and her sweet bosom heaved with a crowd of heavy sighs. The old man sat silent; but more than once he sobbed, and passed his withered toil-worn hands across his forehead.--They rose up together, as by mutual consent, and returned to the house. Be. fore the light had too far died away, Daniel Craig asked Margaret to read a chapter in the Bible, as she had done the night before; and when she had concluded, he said, “ I never heard the Scriptures so well read in all my days_did you, Mysie ?” The quiet creature looked on Margaret with a smile of kindness and admiration, and said, that “she had never understood that chapter sae weel before, although, aiblins, she had read it a hundred times. to your bed without Mysie to show you the way to-night, my good niece-ye are one of the family now-and Nether-Place will after this be as cheerfu' a house as in a' the parish.” '-Trials of Margaret Lyndsay, pp. 251, 252.

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We should now finish our task by saying something of • Reginald Dalton;'--but such of our readers as have accompanied us through this long retrospect, will readily excuse us, we presume, for postponing our notice of that work till another opportunity. There are two decisive reasons, indeed, against our proceeding with it at present--one, that we really have not yet read it fairly through-the other, that we have no longer room to say all of it that we foresee it will require.

Art. X. Reliquiæ Diluviano; or, Observations on the Organic

Remains contained in Caves, Fissures, and Diluvial Gravel, and on other Geological Phenomena, attesting the Action of an Universal Deluge. By the Reverend WILLIAM BUCKLAND, B. D. F. R. S. F.L. S. Member of the Geological Society of London, &c. &c. and Professor of Mineralogy and Geology in the University of Oxford. 4to. pp. 303. 27 plates. London. J. Murray, 1823.

To
To those who are acquainted with the history of Geology

during the last century, a new book upon the Deluge will probably be an object of some alarm: But this is really a very interesting volume; and though we differ in some degree from the author, as to the extent of the inferences deducible from his observations, we cannot but admire the promptitude and activity of his researches,--the skill with which he seizes upon the most important views of the subject, and the spirit and facility with which he presents them to his readers. But before we enter upon an examination of the work itself, it is really necessary to say a word or two on the history of the department of inquiry to which it relates.

The Creation and the Deluge have long been the stumbling-blocks of geologists; and were at one time so fertile in visionary speculation and false reasoning, as either to render the very name of geology ridiculous, or produce a sort of dread of that delightful study, from the attacks upon Revelation to which it seemed to lead, and the injudicious defence too commonly opposed to them. At present, however, it seems to be universally admitted, that the object of Revelation was the religious and moral discipline, and not the literary or scientific instruction, of mankind; and that, since the Sacred Books have not communicated the principles either of Astronomy or Chemistry, there was no reason to expect from them those of other departments of knowledge, not more intimately connect

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