the surrounding fields; while all, from day to day, was becoming darker and darker within the Manse of Cross-Meikle. Worn to a shadow-as pale as ashes-feeble as a child-the dying mother had, for many weeks, been unable to quit her chamber; and the long-hoping husband at last felt his spirit faint within him; for even he perceived that the hour of separation could not much farther be deferred. He watched he prayed by her bed-side-he strove even yet to smile and to speak of hope, but his lips trembled as he spake; and neither he nor his wife were deceived; for their thoughts were the same, and years of love had taught them too well all the secrets of each other's looks as well as hearts.

66

Nobody witnessed their last parting; the room was darkened, and no one was within it but themselves and their child, who sat by the bed-side, weeping in silence she knew not wherefore-for of death she knew little, except the terrible name; and her father had as yet been, if not brave enough to shed no tears, at least strong enough to conceal them. Silently and gently was the pure spirit released from its clay; but manly groans were, for the first time, heard above the sobs and wailings of the infant; and the listening household shrunk back from the door, for they knew that the blow had been stricken; and the voice of humble sympathy feared to make itself be heard in the sanctuary of such affliction. The village doctor arrived just at that moment; he listened for a few seconds, and being satisfied that all was over, he also turned away. His horse had been fastened to the hook by the Manse door; he drew out the bridle, and led the animal softly over the turf, but did not mount again until he had far passed the outskirts of the green. "Perhaps an hour might have passed before Mr. Blair opened the window of the room in which his wife had died. His footstep had been heard for some time hurriedly traversing and re-traversing the floor; but at last he stopped where the nearly fastened shutters of the window admitted but one broken line of light into the chamber. He threw every thing open with a bold hand, and the uplifting of the window produced a degree of noise, to the Like of which the house had for some time been unaccustomed: he looked out, and saw the external world bright before him, with all the rich colourings of a September evening.-The hum of the village sent an occasional echo through the intervening hedge-rows; all was quiet and beautiful above and below; the earth seemed to be clothed all over with sights and sounds of serenity; and the sky, deepening into darker and darker blue overhead, showed the earliest of its stars intensely twinkling, as if ready to harbinger or welcome the coming moon. "The widowed man gazed for some minutes in silence upon the glorious calm of nature, and then turned with a sudden start to the side of the room where the wife of his bosom had so lately breathed; -he saw the pale dead face; the black ringlets parted on the brow; the marble hand extended upon the sheet; the unclosed glassy eyes; and the little girl leaning towards her mother in a gaze of half-horrified bewilderment; he closed the stiffening eyelids over the soft but ghastly orbs; kissed the brow, the cheek, the lips, the bosom, and then rushed down the stairs, and went out, bare-headed, into the fields, before any one could stop him, or ask whither he was going.

"There is an old thick grove of pines almost immediately behind the house; and after staring about him for a moment on the green, he leapt hastily over the little brook that skirts it, and plunged within the shade of the trees. The breeze was rustling the black boughs high over his head, and whistling along the bare ground beneath him. He rushed he knew not whither, on and on, between those naked brown trunks, till he was in the heart of the wood; and there, at last, he tossed himself down on his back among the withered fern leaves and mouldering fir-cones. All the past things of life floated before him, distinct in their lineaments,

yet twined together, the darkest and the gavest into a sort of union that made them all appear alise dark. The mother, that had nursed his years of infancy-the father, whose grey hears he had org before laid in the grave-sisters, brothers, friends. all dead and buried-the angel forms of his own early-ravished offspring-all crowded round and round him, and then rushing away, seemed to bear from him, as a prize and a trophy, the pale image of his expiring wife. Again SHE returned, and ste alone was present with him-not the pale expiring wife, but the young radiant woman-blusting. trembling, smiling, panting, on his bosom, whisper ing to him all her hopes, and fears, and pride, and love, and tenderness, and meekness, like a brice: and then again all would be black as night. He would start up and gaze around, and see nothing but the sepulchral gloom of the wood, and he nothing but the cold blasts among the leaves. He lay insensible alike to all things, stretched out at ad his length, with his eyes fixed in a stupid steadfastness upon one great massy branch that hung over him-his bloodless lips fastened together as if they had been glued-his limbs like things entirely des titute of life and motion-every thing about him cold, stiff, and senseless. Minute after minute passed heavily away as in a dream-hour after hour roues unheeded into the abyss-the stars twinkled through the pine tops, and disappeared—the moon arose in her glory, rode through the clear autumn beaven, and vanished-and all alike unnoted by the prostrate widower.

"Adam Blair came forth from among the fir trees in the grey light of the morning, walked les urely and calmly several times round the garden green, which lay immediately in front of his house then lifted the latch for himself, and glided wrż light and hasty footsteps up stairs to the room, where, for some weeks past, he had been customed to occupy a solitary bed. The wakeni servants heard him shut his door behind him; ose of them having gone out anxiously, had traced him to his privacy, but none of them had ventured to think of disturbing it. Until he came back, not one of them thought of going to bed. Now, however, they did so, and the house of sorrow was al over silent."-Adam Blair, pp. 4—12.

There is great merit too, though of a different kind, in the scenes with Strahan and Campbell, and those with the ministers and elders. But the story is clumsily put to gether, and the diction, though strong and copious, is frequently turgid and incorrect.

"The Trials of Margaret Lyndsay," by the author of Lights and Shadows, is the last of these publications of which we shall now say any thing; and it is too pathetic and full ef sorrow for us to say much of it. It is very beautiful and tender; but something cloying, perhaps, in the uniformity of its beauty, and exceedingly oppressive in the unremitting weight of the pity with which it presses c our souls. Nothing was ever imagined more lovely than the beauty, the innocence, and the sweetness of Margaret Lyndsay, in the earlier part of her trials; and nothing, we be lieve, is more true, than the comfortable lesson which her tale is meant to inculcate that a gentle and affectionate nature is never inconsolable nor permanently unhappy, but easily proceeds from submission to new enjoy ment. But the tale of her trials, the accu mulation of suffering on the heads of the humblest and most innocent of God's crea tures, is too painful to be voluntarily recalled; and we cannot now undertake to give ou

watching her in her neglect of Divine worship. Se they bent their steps towards the shore.

"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 sun-light 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!

See,' said Harry, with a laugh, the kirks have scaled, as you say here in Scotland-the pierhead is like a wood of bonnets.-Let us go there, and I think I can show 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 ozce 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 to-morrow; 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 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 nfusquet, took aim as it flew over their heads. Margaret suddenly started up, crying, Do not kill the pretty bird,' and, stumbling, fell forward upon the man, who also lost his balance. A flaw of wind struck the mainsail-the helmsman

was heedless-the sheet fast-and the boat instantip filling, went down in a moment, head foremost, in twenty fathom water!

64

The accident was seen both from the shore and 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 head of the old steersman was apparent, and he was lifted 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 w grasped a tress of her hair that had given way in the desperate struggle. There seemed to be fant symptoms of life in both; but they were utterly insensible. The crew, among which was Lauren 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 het 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 bad the air of being uninhabited. But still it was beautiful; for it was bathed in the dews of a rich mid. summer 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.

"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. As old man was sitting, as if half asleep, in a highbacked arm-chair, by the side of the chimneyBefore she had time or courage to speak, her sha dow fell upon his eyes, and he looked towards her with strong visible surprise, and, as she thought, with a 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 countenance somewhat relaxed from its inhospra ble 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 meckness of her manner, as she took her seat upon a stod 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."

4

"I am an Orphan, and have perhaps but line claim upon you, but I have ventured to come bere my name is Margaret Lyndsay, and my mother's name was Alice Craig, The old man moved upen his chair, as if a blow had struck him, and looked long and earnestly into her face. Her features rotfirmed her words. Her countenance possessed test strong power over him that goes down mysterious through the generations of perishable mar necting love with likeness, so that the child ne cradle may be smiling almost with the self-ame

expression that belonged to some one of its forefathers mouldered into ashes many hundred years ago. Nae 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, take 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 her story with attention, but said little 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 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 farm-house. 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 years! 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 Lyndsay was asleep.

"In the quiet of the succeeding 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-nae 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 parents and herself, and she com. plied 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. Before 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.'-' Ye can gang 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 Lyudsay, pp. 251, 252.

We should now finish our task by saying something of "Reginald Dalton ;"—but such of our readers as have accompanied us througn this long retrospect, will readily excuse 1s, 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 al. of it that we foresee it will require.