some of your blood, have embraced the stake for the sake of truth, and will ye profane the Sabbath which they sanctified? The Scotsman who openly glories in such a sin, forfeits his claim to the name of one, and publishes to the world that he has no part or communion with the land that gave him birth. John Crawford, hearken unto my voice, to the voice of your wife, and that of your bairns, (whose bringing up is a credit to their mother,) and be not guilty of this gross sin." But the fisherman, while he regarded not the supplications of his wife, became sullen at the words of the preacher, and springing into the boat, seized an oar, and, with his comrades began to pull from the shore.

The thousand boats put to sea, and Mr. Simpson returned sorrowful from the beach to the kirk, while Agnes Crawford and her children followed him. That day he took for his text, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy;" and, as he fearlessly and fervidly denounced the crime of Sabbath breaking, and alluded to the impious proceedings of the day, his hearers trembled, but poor Agnes wept aloud, and her children clung around her, and they wept also, because she wept. But, ere the service had concluded, the heavens began to lower. Darkness fell over the congregation and first came the murmur of the storm, which suddenly burst into the wild howl of the tempest. They gazed upon each other in silent terror, like guilty spirits stricken in their first rebellion by the searching glance of Omniscience. The loud voice of the psalm was abruptly hushed, and its echo mingled with the dreadful music of the elements, like the bleating of a tender lamb, in the wind that sweepeth howling on the mountains. For a moment, their features, convulsed and immovable, were still distended with the song of praise; but every tongue was silent, every eye fixed. There was no voice, save heaven's. The church seemed to rock to its foundations, but none fled-none moved. Pale, powerless, as marble statues, horror transfixed them in the house of prayer. The steeple rocked in the blast, and, as it bent, a knell, untold by human hands, pealed on the ears of the breathless multitude. A crash followed. The spire that glittered in the morning sun lay scattered in fragments, and the full voice of the whirlwind roared through the aisles. The trees crouched and were stripped leafless; and the sturdy oak, whose roots had embraced the earth for centuries, torn from the deep darkness of its foundations, was lifted on the wings of the tempest. Darkness was spread over the earth. Lightnings gathered together their terrors, and clothed in the fury of their fearful majesty, flashed through the air. The fierce hail was poured down as clouds of ice. At the awful voice

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of the deep thunder the whirlwind quailed, and the rage of the tempest seemed spent.

Nothing was now heard save the rage of the troubled sea, which, lashed into foam by the angry storm, still bellowed forth its white billows to the clouds, and shouted its defiance loud as the war-cry of embattled worlds.The congregation still sat mute, horrified, deathlike, as if waiting for the preacher to break the spell of the elements. He rose to return thanks for their preservation, and he had given out the lines

"When in thy wrath rebuke me not, Nor in thy hot rage chasten me," when the screams and the howling of women and children rushing wildly along the streets, rendered his voice inaudible. The congregation rose, and hurrying one upon another, they rushed from the church. The exhortations of the preacher to depart calmly were unheard and unheeded. Every seat was deserted, all rushed to the shore, and Agnes Crawford and her children, also, in terror, with the multitude.

The wrecks of nearly two hundred boats were strewed along the beach, and amongst were drifted among the rocks. The dead them, wailing widows sought their husbands, children their fathers, mothers their sons, and all their kindred; and ever and anon an additional scream of grief arose, as the lifeless body of one or other such relations was found. A few of the lifeless bodies of the hardy crews were seen tossing to and fro, but the cry for help was hushed, and the yell of death was

heard no more.

It was, in truth, a fearful day-a day of lamentation, of warning, and of judgment. In one hour, and within sight of the beach, a hundred and ninety boats and their crews, were whelmed in the mighty deep; and, dwelling on the shore between Spittall and North Berwick, two hundred widows wept their husbands lost.

The spectators were busied carrying the dead, as they were driven on shore, beyond the reach of tide-mark. They had continued their melancholy task for near an hour, when a voice exclaimed-"See! see!-one still lives, and struggles to make the shore."

All rushed to the spot from whence the voice proceeded, and a young man was perceived, with more than mortal strength, yet laboring in the whirling waves. His countenance was black with despair. His heart panted with suffocating pangs. His limbs buffeted the billows in the strong agony of death, and he strained with desperate eager ness, towards the projecting point of a black rock. It was now within his grasp, but in its stead, he clutched the deceitful wave that

weel described it-which has this day filled our coast with widows and with orphans, has not fallen upon you in vain; for ye acknowledge your guilt, and are grateful for your deliverance. Your being saved is nacthing short o' a miracle. We a' beheld how lang and how desperately ye struggled wi' the raging waves; we knew not who ye were, and when it was na in the power o' any being upon the shore to render ye the slightest assistance. We saw how ye struggled to reach the black rock, and how ye was swept round it; and, when ye at last reached it, we observed how ye clung to it wi' the grasp o' death, until your strength gave way, and the waves dashed you from it. Then ye was driven towards the beach, and some of the spectators recognised your face, and they cried out your name! A scream burst upon my ear a woman rushed through the crowd and then John!-O, then!"-but here the feelings of the old man overpowered him. He sobbed aloud, and pausing for a few moments, added-"Tell him, some o' ye." "O tell me," said the fisherman; "a" that my father-in-law has said, I kenned before. But how was I saved? or by whom?" The preacher took up the tale. unto me, John Crawford," said he. reason this day to sorrow, and to to be grateful beyond measure. ing ye mocked my counsel and set at nought my reproof. True, it was not the speaker, but the words of truth that were spoken, that ye ought to have regarded-for they were not my words, and I was but the humble instrument to convey them to ye. But ye despised them; and as ye sowed, so have ye reaped. But, as your father-in-law has told ye, when your face was recognised from the shore, and your name mentioned, a woman screamed-she rushed through the multitude-she plunged into the boiling sea, and in an instant she was beyond the reach of help!"

"Hearken "Ye have rejoice, and In the morn

"Speak!-speak on!" cried the fisherman eagerly; and he placed his hands on his heaving bosom, and gazed anxiously, now towards the preacher, and again towards Agnes, who wept upon his shoulder.

"The providence that had till then sustained you, while your fellow-creatures perished around you," added the clergyman, supported her. She reached you-she grasped your arm. After long struggling, she brought you within a few yards of the shore, a wave overwhelmed you both and cast you upon the beach, with her arm- -the arm of your wife that saved you-upon your bosom !"

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merit in what I have done,” replied she, "for wha should have attempted to save ye, had I not! Ye were every thing to me John, and to our bairns."

But the feelings of the wife and the mother were too strong for words. I will not dwell upon the joy and gratitude of the family to whom the husband and the father had been restored as from the dead. It found a sorrowful contrast in the voice of lamentation and of mourning, which echoed along the coast like the peal of an alarm-bell. The dead were laid in heaps upon the beach, and, on the following day, widows, orphans, parents, and brothers, came from all the fishing towns along the coast, to seek their dead amongst the drowned that had been gathered together; or, if they found them not, they wandered along the shore to seek for them where the sea might have cast them forth.Such is the tale of the Sabbath Wrecks-of the lost brave of Dunbar.

For the Ladies' Garland. THE PLAGIARIST. It is the hour, when at the door

The postman's welcome knock is heard; It is the hour the eye runs o'er,

With rapid glance, each new-found word:
Make music to the list'ning ear.
And gentle thoughts-expressions clear,

Each flower a careful hand has placed,
To form a "Garland," for the taste
Of poet, moralist, and sage,
Of laughing youth, and sober age;
Fraught with instruction, and with power,
To give new charms to that sweet hour,
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts (not "meets") away.

But 'tis not for instruction from poet or sage,
That the plagiarist seeks the "Garland's"

page,

Nor to gaze on the "view" of a far-off land,
That he seizes the book with a trembling hand,
And if half its contents his eye has caught,
It is not for the sake of its "scraps of thought;"
He looks-it is not for a "Christmas hymn,"
But something more welcome far to him.

With hope, with fear, with suspense he is sick, His cheek grows pale, and his heart beats quick,

There is seen a word on the rustling leaves,→→
His color returns, and his bosom heaves,
A moment more, and-away with care,—
As his own, those stolen lines are there!

The young are slaves to novelty; the old

Roman general, a man of the heroic spirit that is only inflamed by repulse, rushed forward among the disheartened troops, and roused them by his cries and gestures, to retrieve their honor. After a few bold words, he charged at their head. I singled him out, as I saw his golden eagle gleam in the torchlight. To capture the son of Vespasian, would have been a triumph worth a hundred lives. Titus was celebrated for personal dexterity in the management of the horse and lance: and I could not restrain my admiration of the skill with which he penetrated the difficulties of the field, and the mastery with which he repelled or overthrew all that opposed him.

[Our motley ranks were already scattering; when I called out my name, and defied him to the combat. He stooped over his charger's neck to discover his adversary; and, seeing before him a being as blackened and beggared as the most dismantled figure of the crowd, gave a laugh of fierce derision, and was turning away, when our roar of scorn recalled him. He struck in the spur, and, couching his lance, he bounded towards me. To have waited his attack must have been destruction; I sprang aside, and with my full vigor flung the javelin: it went through his buckler. He reeled; and a groan arose from the legionaries, who were rushing forward to his support: he stopped them with a fierce gesture, and, casting off the entangled buckler, charged again. But the hope of the imperial diadem was not to be thus cheaply hazarded. The whole circle of cavalry rolled in upon us; I was dragged down by a hundred hands; and Titus was forced away, indignant at the zeal which thwarted his fiery valor.

[In the confusion I was forgotten, slipped through the concourse, and rejoined my countrymen, who had given me over for lost, and now received me with shouts of victory. The universal cry was to advance; but I felt that the limit of triumph for that night was come: the engagement had became known to the whole range of the enemy's camps, and troops without number were already pouring down. I ordered a retreat; but there was one remaining exploit to make the night's service memorable.

[Leaving a few hundred pikemen outside the circumvallation to keep off any sudden attempt, I set every hand at work to gather the dry weeds, rushes, and fragments of trees, from the low grounds into a pile. It was laid against the rampart. I flung the first torch, and pile and rampart were soon alike in a blaze. Volumes of flames, carried by the wind, rolled round its entire circuit.

VOL. II.

roused from its sleep; and the extravagant rumors that a great victory was obtained, Titus slain, and the enemy's camp taken by storm, stimulated the natural spirit of the people to the most boundless confidence. Every Jew who could find a lance, an arrow, or a knife, hurried to the gates; and the space between the walls and the circumvallation was crowded with an army, which, in that crisis of superhuman exultation, perhaps no disciplined force on earth could have outfought.

[Nothing could now save the rampart.Torches innumerable, piles of faggots, arms, even the dead, all things that could burn, were flung upon it. Thousands who, at other times might have shrunk, forgot the name of fear, leaped into the very midst of the flames, and, tearing up the blazing timbers, dug to the heart of the rampart, and filled the hollows with sulphur and bitumen; or struggled their way across the tumbling ruins, to throw themselves among the Roman spearmen, and see the blood of an enemy before they died.

[War never had a bolder moment. Human nature, roused to the wildest height of enthusiasm, was lavishing life like dust. The rampart spread a horrid light upon the havoc : every spot of the battle, every group of the furious living, and the trampled and deformed dead, was keenly visible. The ear was deafened by the incessant roar of flame, the falling of the huge heaps of the rampart, and the agonies and exultations of men reveling in mutual slaughter.

[In that hour came one of those solemn signs which marked the downfall of Jerusalem.

[The tempest, that had blown at intervals with tremendous violence, died away at once; and a surge of light ascended from the horizon, and rolled up rapidly to the zenith. The phenomenon instantly fixed every eye. There was an indefinable sense in the general mind that a sign of power and Providence was about to be given. The battle ceased; the outcries were followed by utter silence; the armed ranks stood still, in the very act of rushing on each other: all faces were turned on the heavens.