along the ground with stealth and silence, | cottage-door, she had a flushed and agitated knelt before the little window, so as to observe, appearance. through the broken shutter, the occupation of the inmates. The dog alone was conscious of her approach; but the men were too seriously engaged to heed his intimations of danger. Merciful powers!-had Grace Huntley suffered so long, so patiently, only to witness such a scene! She almost wished that God in his mercy had stricken her with blindness; she prayed for insensibility--for death-for anything save the knowledge now imparted with such fearful truth. Would that it were a dream! But no-the horrid proofs were before her eyes -in her ears; and the one drop of comfort, the only one, was the information that her son had returned home by a shorter path that the ruffians feared yet (oh, the import, the dreadful import, that little word carried with it!) that they feared yet to trust him with all their secrets: they feared to bring him yet to their den. "Then there is hope for my poor child," she thought, "and I can-I will save him!" With this resolve, she stole away as softly and as quickly as her trembling limbs would permit. The depredators revelled in their fancied security. The old creaking table groaned under the weight of food and ardent spirits; | and the chorus of a wild drinking song broke upon her ear as returning strength enabled her to hasten along the rude path leading to Craythorpe. The first gray uncertain light of morning was visible through the old church-yard trees, as she came within sight of her cottage. She entered quietly, and saw that Abel had not only returned, but was sleeping soundly by his brother's side. Grace set her house in order took the work she had finished to her employer-car -came back, and prepared breakfast, of which her husband, having by this time also returned, partook. Now he was neither the tyrant whose threat still rung in her ears, nor the reckless bravo of the common; he appeared that morning, at least so his wife fancied, more like the being she had loved so fondly and so long. "I will sleep, Grace," he said, when their meal was finished-"I will sleep for an hour; and to-morrow we shall have a better breakfast." He called his son into the bed-room, where a few words passed between them. Immediately after, Grace went into the little chamber to fetch her bonnet. She would not trust herself to look upon the sleeper; but her lips moved as if in prayer; and even her children still remembered that, as she passed out of the "Good morning, Mrs. Huntley," said her old neighbour, Mrs. Craddock. "Have you heard the news? Ah! bad people going-" "True, true!" replied poor Grace, as she hurried onwards, "I know-I heard it all—” Mrs. Craddock looked after her; surprised at her abruptness. "I was coming down to you, Grace," said her father, standing so as to arrest her progress; "I wished to see if there was any chance of the child Abel's returning to his exercises; as this is a holiday, I thought—” "Come with me," interrupted Grace, “come with me, father; and we will make a rare holiday." She hurried the feeble old man along the road leading to the rectory; but returned no answer to his inquiries. The servant told her, when she arrived at her destination, that his master was engaged-particularly engagedcould not be disturbed-Sir Thomas Purcel was with him; and as the man spoke, the study door opened, and Sir Thomas crossed the hall. "Come back with me, sir!" exclaimed Grace Huntley, eagerly; "I can tell you all you want to know." The baronet shook off the hand she had laid upon his arm, as if she were a maniac. Grace appeared to read the expression of his countenance. "I am not mad, Sir Thomas Purcel," she continued, in a suppressed, tremulous voice; “not mad, though I may be so soon. Keep back these people and return with me. Mr. Glasscott knows I am not mad." She passed into the study with a resolute step, and held the door for Sir Thomas to enter; her father followed also, as a child traces its mother's footsteps, and looked around him and at his daughter with weak astonishment. One or two of the servants, who were loitering in the hall, moved as if they would have followed. ‘Back, back, I say," she repeated, “I need no witnesses-there will be enough of them soon. Mr. Glasscott," she continued, closing the door, "hear me while I am able to bear testimony, lest weakness-woman's weakness -overcome me, and I falter in the truth. In the broom-sellers' cottage across the common, on the left side of the chimney, concealed by a large flat stone, is a hole-there much of the property taken from Sir Thomas Purcel's last night is concealed." "I have long suspected these men-Smith, I think they call themselves; yet they are but two. Now, we have abundant proof that three men absolutely entered the house" "There was a third," murmured Grace, almost inaudibly. "Who?" "My-my-my husband!" and, as she uttered the word, she leaned against the chimneypiece for support, and buried her face in her hands. The clergyman groaned audibly; he had known Grace from her childhood, and felt what the declaration must have cost her. Sir Thomas Purcel was cast in a sterner mould. "We are put clearly upon the track, Mr. Glasscott," he said, "and must follow it forthwith; yet there is something most repugnant to my feelings in finding a woman thus herald her husband to destruction "It was to save my children from sin," exclaimed Grace, starting forward with an energy that appalled them all: "God in heaven, whom I call to witness, knows that though I would sooner starve than taste of the fruits of his wickedness, yet I could not betray the husband of my bosom to-to-I dare not think what! I tried I laboured to give my offspring honest bread; I neither asked nor received charity; with my hands I laboured, and blessed the Power that enabled me to do so. If we are poor, we will be honest, was my maxim and my boast; but he-my husband, returned; he taught my boy to lie, to steal; and when I remonstrated when I prayed, with many tears, that he would cease to train our-ay, our child for destruction, he mocked-scorned-told me that, one by one, I should be bereaved of my children, if I thwarted his purposes; and that I might seek in vain for them through the world, until I saw their names recorded in the book of shame! Gentlemen, this was no idle threat last night Abel was taken from me--" "I knew there must have been a fourth," interrupted Sir Thomas, coldly; "we must have the boy also secured." The wretched mother, who had not imagined that any harm could result to her son, stood as if a thunderbolt had transfixed her-her hands clenched and extended-her features rigid and blanched-her frame perfectly erect, and motionless as a statue. The schoolmaster, during the whole of this scene, had been completely bewildered, until the idea of his grandchild's danger or disappearance he knew not which took possession of his mind; and filled with the single thought his faculties had the power of grasping at a time, he came forward to the table at which Mr. Glasscott was seated; and, respectfully uncovering his gray hairs, his simple countenance presenting a strong contrast to the agonized iron-bound features of his daughter, he addressed himself to the worthy magistrate: "I trust you will cause instant search to be made for the child Abel, whom your reverence used kindly to regard with especial favour." He repeated this sentence at least half-adozen times, while the gentlemen were issuing orders to the persons assembled for the apprehension of the burglars, and some of the females of the family were endeavouring to restore Grace to animation. At last Sir Thomas Purcel turned suddenly round upon Abel Darley, and in his stentorian tone bawled out, "And who are you?" 66 The schoolmaster of Craythorpe, so please you, sir-that young woman's father-and one whose heart is broken!" So saying, he burst into tears; and his wail was very sad, like that of an afflicted child. Presently there was a stir among the little crowd-a murmur-and then two officers ushered Joseph Huntley and his son into the apartment. He walked boldly up to the magistrate's table, and placed his hand upon it, before he perceived his wife, to whom consciousness had not yet returned. The moment he beheld her, he started back, saying, "Whatever charge you may have against me, gentlemen, you can have none against that woman." "Nor have we," replied Sir Thomas; "she is your accuser!" The fine features of Joseph Huntley relaxed into an expression of scorn and unbelief. "She appear against me! Not-not if I were to attempt to murder her!" he answered firmly. "Grace!" exclaimed her father, joyfully, "here is the child Abel-he is found!" and seizing the trembling boy, with evident exultation, he led him to her. The effect of this act of the poor simple-minded man was electrical-the mother instantly revived, but turned her face from her husband; and, entwining her son in her arms, pressed him closely to her side. The clergyman proceeded to interrogate the prisoner; but he answered nothing, keeping his eyes intensely fixed upon his wife and child. In the meantime the officers of justice had been prompt in the execution of their duty: the Smiths were apprehended in the village, and the greater portion of the property stolen from Sir Thomas Purcel was found in the hut where Grace had beheld it concealed. When the preparations were sufficiently forward to conduct the unfortunate men to prison, Joseph Huntley advanced to his wife. The scornful, as well as undaunted, expression of his countenance had changed to one of painful intensity; he took her hand within his, and pressed it to his lips without articulating a syllable. Slowly she moved her face, so that their eyes at last encountered in one long mournful look. Ten years of continued suffering could not have exacted a heavier tribute from Grace Huntley's beauty. No language can express the withering effects of the few hours' agony; her husband saw it, and felt, perhaps for the first time, how truly he had once been loved, and how much of happiness he had sacrificed to sin. "'Twas to save my children!" was the only sentence she uttered, or rather murmured; and it was the last coherent one she spoke for many weeks. Her fine reason seemed overwhelmed. It was a sight few could witness without tears. The old father, tending the couch of his afflicted daughter, would sit for hours by her bedside, clasping the child Abel's hand within his, and every now and then shaking his head when her ravings were loud or violent. About fifteen years after these distressing events had agitated the little village of Craythorpe, an elderly woman, of mild and cheerful aspect, sat calmly reading a large volume she supported against the railing of a noble vessel that was steering its course from the shores of "Merrie England," to some land far over sea. The ocean was calm and clear-so very calm that it reflected, as if from a solid surface, every vapour that floated along the heavens; it was like sailing into a new world-a creation whose laws and boundaries must remain for ever unknown to us. How exciting to imagination! So many fantastic forms revelled beneath the transparent crystal, huge rocks looking like castles, exaggerated by the watery distance; bleak Alpine landscapes stretching far away; and then the monsters of the deep moving in the solemn majesty of silence!-living things, without one sympathy for the earth about them; without a single feeling that we can comprehend!-it may be, if our eyes do not weary, that, in fancy, we gaze deeper down, and strange unearthly forms are succeeded by deeps on deeps the very eternity of waters!-where we can see nothing but the blue abyss!-down -down-down! It is a fearful thing to pass over their mysteries- a great lesson-this teaching us how little we really know of what exists around us—of the marvels that "compass us in on every side," of the mighty miracles that are working day by day, night by night, in the infinity of space. Many of the passengers on board this vessel laughed and talked, and speculated on the future, as if they already grasped the wealth of the New World, or had altogether forgotten the old: the solitary woman continued to read, and yet there was a sweetness and forbearance in the expression of her countenance which gave assurance that she would close her book and reply, if any choose to question or speak to her. Two gentlemen, who were lounging on the quarter-deck, armin-arm, frequently passed her. The elder, in a peculiarly kind tone of voice, said, "You bear the voyage well, dame!" "Thank God, yes, sir!" "Ah! you will soon wish yourself back in Old England." "I did not wish to leave it, sir; but duty compelled me." The gentlemen walked on. "Who is she?" inquired the younger. "A very singular woman. transported for life a husband whom she loved, notwithstanding his crimes. She had, at that time, three children, and the eldest had already become contaminated by his father's example. She saw nothing but destruction for them; her warnings and entreaties being alike unregarded: so she made her election-sacrificed the husband, and saved the children!" "But what does she here?" "Her eldest son is now established in a small business, and respected by all who know him; her second boy, and a father whom her misfortunes reduced to a deplorable state of wretchedness, are dead; her daughter, a village belle and beauty, is married to my father's handsome new parish-clerk; and Mrs. Huntley, having seen her children provided for, and by her virtues and industry made respectable in the Old World, is now on her voyage to the New, to see, if I may be permitted to use her own simple language, whether she can contribute to render the last days of her husband as happy as the first they passed together.' It is only justice to the criminal to say, that I believe him truly and perfectly reformed." "And on this chance she leaves her children and her country?" "She does! She argues that, as the will of Providence prevented her from discharging her duties together, she must endeavour to perform them separately. He was sentenced to die; but, by my father's exertions, his sentence was commuted to one of transportation for life; and I know she has quitted England without the hope of ever again beholding its white cliffs." ODE ON MELANCHOLY. BY JOHN KEATS. No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with beauty-Beauty that must die; Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; LIFE'S CHASE. (FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHULTZE.) The chief of the huntsman is Death, whose aim Soon levels the brave and the craven; He crimsons the field with the blood of his game, Like the stormy tempest that flies so fast, Man shakes And quakes At his bugle blast. But what boots it, my friends, from the hunter to flee; Far better to meet him thus manfully, And when against us he shall turn his brand, His fate From a hero's hand. ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. BY ROBERT BURNS. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear-Jessy! Altho' thou maun never be mine, 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside-Jessy! I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, I guess by the dear angel smile, Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, BEHAVIOUR. BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.1 Grace, Beauty, and Caprice Graceful women, chosen men Their sweet and lofty countenance His enchanting food; He need not go to them, their forms He looketh seldom in their face, So dances his heart in his breast, Too weak to win, too fond to shun The much deceived Endymion The soul which animates Nature is not less significantly published in the figure, movement, and gesture of animated bodies, than in its last vehicle of articulate speech. This silent 1 See the Casquet, p. 211, vol. i. A reviewer in Blackwood says, "A more independent and original thinker can nowhere in this age be found." and subtile language is Manners; not what, but how. Life expresses. A statue has no tongue, and needs none. Good tableaux do not need declamation. Nature tells every secret once. Yes, but in man she tells it all the time, by form, attitude, gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and by the whole action of the machine. The visible carriage or action of the individual, as resulting from his organization and his will combined, we call manners. What are they but thought entering the hands and feet, controlling the movements of the body, the speech, and behaviour? There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil an egg. Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius or of love-now repeated and har- | dened into usage. They form at last a rich varnish, with which the routine of life is washed and its details adorned. If they are superficial, so are the dew-drops which give such a depth to the morning meadows. Manners are very communicable; men catch them from each other. Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons she had given the nobles in manners, on the stage; and, in real life, Talma taught Napoleon the arts of behaviour. Genius invents fine manners, which the baron and the baroness copy very fast, and, by the advantage of a palace, betters the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they have learned into a mode. Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People who would obtrude, now do not obtrude. The mediocre circle learns to demand that which belongs to a high state of nature or of culture. Your manners are always under examination, and by committees little expected a police in citizen's clothes-but are awarding or denying you very high prizes when you least think of it. We talk much of utilities-but 'tis our manners that associate us. In hours of business we go to him who knows, or has, or does this or that which we want, and we do not let our taste or feeling stand in the way. But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, and wish for those we can be at ease with: those who will go where we go, whose manners do not offend us, whose social tone chimes with ours. When we reflect on their persuasive and cheering force; how they recommend, prepare, and draw people together; how, in all clubs, manners make the members: how manners make the fortune of the ambitious youth; that, for the most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries manners; when we think what keys they are, and to what secrets; what high lessons and inspiring tokens of character they convey; and what divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine telegraph, we see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, power, and beauty. Their first service is very low-when they are the minor morals: but 'tis the beginning of civility-to make us, I mean, endurable to each other. We prize them for their roughplastic, abstergent force; to get people out of the quadruped state; to get them washed, clothed, and set up on end; to slough their animal husks and habits; compel them to be clean; overawe their spite and meanness, teach them to stifle the base, and choose the generous happier the generous behaviours are. The power of manners is incessant-an element as unconcealable as fire. The nobility cannot in any country be disguised, and no more in a republic or a democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist their influence. There are certain manners which are learned, in good society, of that force that, if a person have them, he or she must be considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, wealth, or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and you give him the mas-expression, and make them know how much tery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. He has not the trouble of earning or owning them: they solicit him to enter and possess. We send girls of a timid, retreating disposition to the boarding-school, to the riding-school, to the ballroom, or wheresoever they can come into acquaintance and nearness of leading persons of their own sex; where they might learn address, and see it near at hand. The power of a woman of fashion to lead, and also to daunt and repel, derives from their belief that she knows resources and behaviour not known to them; but when these have mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and recover their self-possession. | Bad behaviour the laws cannot reach. Society is infested with rude, cynical, restless, and frivolous persons who prey upon the rest, and whom a public opinion concentrated into good manners, forms accepted by the sense of all, can reach; the contradictors and railers at public and private tables, who are like terriers, who conceive it the duty of a dog of honour to growl at any passer-by, and do the honours of the house by barking him out of sight: I have seen men who neigh like a horse when you con tradict them, or say something which they do not understand; then the overbold, who make their own invitation to your hearth; the perse |