felt that she loved her brother's friend, and she feared that she had yielded up her young heart where it was unvalued-perchance despised. Associated with this last idea, as it rose to her mind, was a feeling of maidenly pride which aroused her from the enervating contemplation. in which she had been indulging, and with the self-conquering resolution of concealing the workings of her soul, she arose and proceeded to the house. The friends conversing, in a low earnest tone, struck her ear as she returned through the hagg; and a certain consciousness, inexplicable to herself, made her deviate into another path. But the quick eye of love had caught a glimpse of her white drapery; and, impelling Gideon through a thicket of tangled underwood, they soon encountered the object of their previous conver "Methinks my pretty sister evinces little gratitude for the cares lavished by Lieutenant Malcolm on her suffering brother, by deserting us on the eve of his departure." "You wrong me, Gideon," replied Marion, blushing deeply; put my gratitude to any test you please, and condemn me should I be found wanting." Malcolm grasped the hand of the agitated maiden, exclaiming, "then let me at once dare my fate!" and when she looked round, her brother was gone-she stood alone with her lover. An explanation soon ensued ; and, on their return to the house, Gideon, who had long suspected the cherished secret of the lovers, joyfully hailed, as his future brother, the dearest friend of his heart. The widowed mother of Marion feared for the steadiness of one so young and giddy as her child; but the reasonings of her friend, and the soothings of Gideon, in part allayed her apprehensions, though it was not without deep agitation she blessed and embraced the happy pair on their en trance. This night silence seemed to have exerted an unwonted spell over the usually joyous party assembled round the supper table at the Grange, though the meditative mood of each originated from different and very opposite feelings. Absorbed in blissful dreams of the future, sat the affianced pair; but a radiant gladness illumined their features, and a bright flush glowed on their cheeks, which strikingly contrasted with the sad thoughtful smile of Margaret Halliburton, the painful, though self-conquering composure of Gideon, and the grave and scrutinizing glances of the worthy laird, who, for the first time, began to tremble for the peace of his darling child, and to doubt the prudence which had exposed her to such free and intimate intercourse with one who seemed to regard her but with fraternal affection. How erroneous this judgment of the simple-hearted affectionate father! Gideon loved his daughter with a fervor and hopelessness that was fast sapping the spring of his young existence, though honor and gratitude alike restrained him from wooing the wealthy heiress of his kind and liberal benefactor, to share his ruined fortunes. Day after day he resolved to leave the Grange, yet with a lover's inconsistency he still lingered on; and Margaret, self-deceived, termed her love sisterly regard, and by her winning, unobtrusive kindness, riveted still closer those chains which bound together their warm and too susceptible hearts. Roused, however, to a more lively sense of his desolate prospects, by the contrasting brightness of the happier fortunes of his friend and sister, he resolved to seek in absence, and the duties of his profession, a relief to his deeply wounded heart. The involvement of his prospects had never been alluded to since his return; but after the departure of Malcolm, finding himself alone with Mr. Halliburton, he led to the subject, by regretting that circumstances put it out of his power to add aught to the very scanty dowry of Marion. "On my own account it matters not, as I shall shortly rejoin my corps, and my pay is sufficient to supply all the legitimate wants of a sober bachelor like myself." A smile lurked in the mirthful eye of the laird, as Gideon began to speak, and he resolved to punish him for his want of confidence; but when he listened to the mournful tones of his voice-looked on the calm hopelessness of his pale countenance and reflected on his honorable forbearance, the warmhearted old man grasped his hand, and, in the fullness of his heart, declared how long and ardently he had desired to embrace him as a son. "Go, then," he continued, "and ascertain the sentiments of Margaret, of which I know nothing-should they prove favorable to your hopes, it is well-if otherwise, then-” "Then," interrupted the impassioned youth, "then, after life will be to me a dreary blank," and rushed from the apartment. In the garden he found Margaret; leaning on her offered arm, they sauntered along a rural pathway overhung by bramble, and wild rose-bushes, loaded with their dark and scarlet fruits, till they reached a thymy bank that looked down on the Slitterick. The clear waters of this pastoral stream reflected the soft autumnal clouds intermingled with the shadows of a few scattered trees that grew on the margin; a picturesque homestead stood on a steep acclivity on the opposite bank, and the fleecy flocks ranged over the healthy pastures beyond. For some moments they gazed in silence on the peaceful scene; when Gideon said, in the low suppressed tones of deep inward emotion-" It rests with you, my early companion, whether I shall ever again look on this glorious landscape!" There was a sadness in his voice that awakened a responding chord in the bosom of Margaret; but, sacred be the blissful communion of their pure and holy affection, as, standing alone beneath the blue vault of heaven, in the solemn hour of twilight, their young hearts co-mingled. A bright clear harvest moon had risen and lighted the lovers on their return to the house, before which the laird paced with a perturbed and restless air. But one glance at the blushing happy face of his daughter removed all his doubts; he took her hand, placed it in that of her lover, and called down the choicest blessings of Heaven on their heads. THE WILD GARLAND,* AND SACRED MELODIES.† THESE two little unpretending volumes, from the pens of sister and brother, are, in our eyes, severally or conjointly, of more worth than many an ambitious tome put together in one heavy lump, that, by power of puffing, had each in its day enjoyed, perhaps, no inconsiderable share of popular applause. In these days, much as we love and admire the age, it is, we fear, one of the very rarest qualities even of true merit to be unpretending; per haps because there is so much pretence without any merit at all, that people of worth feel that they must stand up for themselves and their claims, else both will go unheeded, and unacknowledged by the world. Yet they who in happy humility "Hold the noiseless tenor of their way," and prefer the pleasure to the fame of doing good, the calm of conscience to the trouble of glory, seldom go entirely without the reward *Harvey and Darton, Gracechurch Street, London. even of reputation. Their path, though silent, is not unseen-though lowly, is not obscure. More eyes are upon them than they think in their simplicity; ears from a distance catch the sweet music of their strains; and tongues "syllable their names," even in cities, while themselves know it not, in their seclusion. How pleasant-nay, how much more than pleasant-to take up by chance from some table groaning under a load of fashionable novels, some small volume, composed by some lover of nature, that hath found its way there, heaven knows how, like some real rosebud yielding its fragrance among artificial flowers. 'Tis the next best thing to meeting in commonplace but talkative society, where all are jealously a-jabber from fear of being thought stupid, some maid or matron who loves silence best, except when her heart inditeth a good matter, and who then breathes, in a voice "Gentle and low, an excellent thing in some sentiment, which, whether original or not,—and we doubt if anything be entirely original, touches an answering chord in our heart, and inclines our head kindly -perhaps tenderly towards the fair speaker all the rest of the evening. We believe the authors of these little volumes are Quakers. Alas! of one of them we must say was; for Samuel Miller Waring lost his life by a lamentable accident. He was a man of genius, undoubtedly, as his poetry proves; that he was a man of virtue was proved by his life. His sister survives; and of her Duodecimo let us first speakThe "Wild Garland; or Prose and Poetry, connected with English Wild Flowers, intended as an Embellishment to the Study of Botany." We believe that in the fulfilment of her pleasant task, she was assisted by her brother; but hearts touched by the same or kindred feelings express them in language that breathes of their common origin; and there fore we shall not think of speculating on the shares respectively to be assigned to each of the coadjutors. The "Wild Garland," though manifestly written by one who is an adept in the science of Botany, yet lays no claim to science, professes not to throw any fresh light upon the subject, nor to initiate by any new method into its hidden mysteries; but simply to give additional interest to the study of botany, by the association of ideas poetical, historical, or classical, with some of the beautiful productions of our fields and woods. As it is absolutely "a Wild Garland," the author says that the strict arrangement of class and order has not been observed. The flowers of which it is composed have been gathered as fancy directed, and are offered to the reader, not as the fairest and most fragrant, but as a sample of the treasures every hedgerow and meadow may furnish. There are in all but eighty pages and we have no fault to find with them except that they are too few. The engravings are excellent—and it does one's eyes and heart good to look on them all so naturally colored-the round-leaved Sundew, the Common Furze, the two-flowered Linnæa, the Red Poppy, the Wild Germander, the Violet, the Snowdrop, the Common Primrose, the Cowslip, the Common Daisy, the Common Broom-treasures which are strewed along the wayside, both the highways and bye-ways, which he who stands still may gather, and he who runs may read. There are some touching lines on the roundleaved Sundew. Its beauty is truly said to consist in the form and appearance of the leaves which are thrown out immediately from the root, and spread over the surface of the ground; each plant forming a little circular plot of green cupshaped leaves, thickly fringed with hairs of a deep rose-color. These hairs support small drops, or globules, of a pellucid liquor-like dew, which continue even in the hottest part of the day, and in the fullest exposure to the sun. It is found in mossy bogs, and on the borders of ponds and rivulets in moorland districts. To the Round-leaved Sundew. "By the lone fountain's secret bed, "Wouldst thou that thy lot were given, وو "Yes! like the blossoms of the waste Would we the sky-born waters taste, To the High Fountain's sacred spring The chalice let us humbly bring: So shall we find the streams of heaven To him who seeks are freely given; The morning and the evening dew Shall still our failing strength renew." The common furze, gorse, whins, -is not a bank of it beautiful, gleaming goldenly amid the summer woods, and scenting the thin mists that in morning hour float over the murmurs of the awakened river? Here are three feeling quatrains to that bank-and-brae-brightener-and sweetener. "'Mid scatter'd foliage, pale and sere, Thy kindly floweret cheers the gloom; And offers to the waning year The tribute of its golden bloom. "Beneath November's clouded sky, In chill December's stormy hours, Thy blossom meets the traveller's eye, Gay as the buds of summer bowers. "Flower of the dark and wintry day! Emblem of friendship! thee I hail! Blooming when others fade away, And brightest when their hues grow pale." All the verses that ever were written on flowers, are good-at least, we remember no bad ones. So spiritual in their balmy beauty, they inspire not only clods but clod-hoppers. A bunch of flowers suddenly held up before the eyes and nose of the veriest blockhead, makes him for a moment a bard-a poet. The delicate and sensitive 7 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series. mind, again, alive to the visitings of the spirit of beauty that goes glimpsing over the earth, can never be at a loss for joy as long as the daisies dance in the sunshine. Gentle reader! perhaps you never saw a daisy dance? Then are you much to be pitied. They go dancing up hill and down brae, in no regular figure, but overspreading the whole green floor in one indistinguishable gallopade. The sunbeams in which they swim along, settle; and lo! in an instant all the dancers are motionless on their seats. They seem absolutely rooted to the groundand all their faces covered with blushes. But here is a cowslip, and we absolutely smell the sweetscented pale yellow blossom. But listen to a little lay in honor of the flower. The Cowslip. "Unfolding to the breeze of May, "In princely halls and courts of kings In one full chorus swell the breeze. But nature needs no tide's return But let us now pensively turn over the leaves of the "Sacred even of reputation. Their path, though silent, is not unseen-though lowly, is not obscure. More eyes are upon them than they think in their simplicity; ears from a distance catch the sweet music of their strains; and tongues "syllable their names," even in cities, while themselves know it not, in their seclusion. How pleasant-nay, how much more than pleasant-to take up by chance from some table groaning under a load of fashionable novels, some small volume, composed by some lover of nature, that hath found its way there, heaven knows how, like some real rosebud yielding its fragrance among artificial flowers. 'Tis the next best thing to meeting in commonplace but talkative society, where all are jealously a-jabber from fear of being thought stupid, some maid or matron who loves silence best, except when her heart inditeth a good matter, and who then breathes, in a voice "Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman," some sentiment, which, whether original or not, and we doubt if anything be entirely original, touches an answering chord in our heart, and inclines our head kindly -perhaps tenderly-towards the fair speaker all the rest of the evening. We believe the authors of these little volumes are Quakers. Alas! of one of them we must say was; for Samuel Miller Waring lost his life by a lamentable accident. He was a man of genius, undoubtedly, as his poetry proves; that he was a man of virtue was proved by his life. His sister survives; and of her Duodecimo let us first speakThe "Wild Garland; or Prose and Poetry, connected with English Wild Flowers, intended as an Embellishment to the Study of Botany." We believe that in the fulfilment of her pleasant task, she was assisted by her brother; but hearts touched by the same or kindred feelings express them in language that breathes of their common origin; and there fore we shall not think of speculating on the shares respectively to be assigned to each of the coadjutors. The "Wild Garland," though manifestly written by one who is an adept in the science of Botany, yet lays no claim to science, professes not to throw any fresh light upon the subject, nor to initiate by any new method into its hidden mysteries; but simply to give additional interest to the study of botany, by the association of ideas poetical, historical, or classical, with some of the beautiful productions of our fields and woods. As it is absolutely "a Wild Garland," the author says that the strict arrangement of class and order has not been observed. The flowers of which it is composed have been gathered as fancy directed, and are offered to the reader, not as the fairest and most fragrant, but as a sample of the treasures every hedgerow and meadow may furnish. There are in all but eighty pages-and we have no fault to find with them except that they are too few. The engravings are excellent-and it does one's eyes and heart good to look on them all so naturally colored-the round-leaved Sundew, the Common Furze, the two-flowered Linnæa, the Red Poppy, the Wild Germander, the Violet, the Snowdrop, the Common Primrose, the Cowslip, the Common Daisy, the Common Broom-treasures which are strewed along the wayside, both the highways and bye-ways, which he who stands still may gather, and he who runs may read. There are some touching lines on the roundleaved Sundew. Its beauty is truly said to consist in the form and appearance of the leaves which are thrown out immediately from the root, and spread over the surface of the ground; each plant forming a little circular plot of green cupshaped leaves, thickly fringed with hairs of a deep rose-color. These hairs support small drops, or globules, of a pellucid liquor-like dew, which continue even in the hottest |