So on they pass, with sack in hand, full bent
To try their sinews' strength in dire experiment.
And long Kirkcaldy from each dirty street

Her num'rous population eastward throws,
Her roguish boys with bare unstocking'd feet,
Her rich ship owners, gen'rous and jocose,
Her prosp'rous merchants, sober and discreet,

Her coxcombs pantaloon'd, and powder'd beaux,
Her pretty lasses tripping on their great toes,
With skins as white as milk or any boil'd potatoes.
And from Kinghorn jump hastily along

Her ferrymen and poor inhabitants:
And the upland 1 hamlet, where, as told in song,
Tam Lutar play'd of yore his lively rants,
Is left dispeopl'd of her brose-fed throng,

For eastward scud they now as thick as ants;
Dunfermline, too, so fam'd for checks and ticks,
Sends out her loom bred men with bags and walking-
sticks.

And market-maids, and apron'd wives, that bring
Their ginger-bread in baskets to the FAIR,
And cadgers with their creels, that hang by string
From their lean horse-ribs, rubbing off the hair,
And crook-legg'd cripples, that on crutches swing
Their shabby persons with a noble air,

And fiddlers, with their fiddles in their cases,
And packmen, with their packs of ribbons, gauze, and
laces.

And from Kinross, whose dusty streets, unpav'd,

Are whirl'd through heav'n on summer's windy day, Whose plats of cabbage-bearing ground are lav'd

By Leven's waves, that clear as crystal play,
Jog her brisk burghers, spruce and cleanly shav'd,
Her sullen cutlers and her weavers gay,
Her ploughboys in their botch'd and clumsy jackets,
Her clowns, with cobbled shoon stuck full of iron tackets.

Next ride on sleek-man'd horses, bay or brown,
Smacking their whips and spurring bloodily,
The writers of industrious Cupar town,

Good social mortals, skill'd the pen to ply;
Lo! how their garments, as they gallop down,
Waving behind them, in the breezes fly;

As upward spurn'd to heav'n's blue bending roof, Dash'd is the dusty road from every bounding hoof.

TO-MORROW.

To-morrow you will live, you always cry;
In what far country does this morrow lie,
That 'tis so mighty long ere it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this morrow live?
'Tis so far fetch'd, this morrow, that I fear
"Twill be both very old and very dear.
To-morrow I will live, the fool does say;
To day itself's too late, the wise lived yesterday
MARTIAL translated by CowLEY.

1 Leslie.

GRACE HUNTLEY.

[Mrs. Anna Maria Hall, born in Wexford, Ireland. She married, in 1824, Mr. S. C. Hall, the originator and editor of the Art Journal and many other important works. In conjunction with her husband, she has com posed and edited about 300 volumes since 1828. Amongst her miscellaneous writings she has produced many books for children, and temperance tales-having powerfully advocated the temperance movement throughout her literary life. Her chief works are: Sketches of Irish Character; Chronicles of a Schoolroom; The BuccaAeer: The Outlar, a tale of the reign of James II; Uncle Horace; Lights and Shadows of Irish Character: The Groves of Blarney; Marian, or a Young Maid's Fortunes-translated into German and Dutch; Stories of the Irish Prasantry; The White Boy; A Woman's Story: Can Wrong be Right? The Fight of Faith: Tales of Woman's Trials, &c. &c. From the latter work we are permitted to quote the following tale. The late Lord Lytton said he considered "Grace Huntley one of the best short stories ever written." A dramatic version of the story was produced at the Adelphi Theatre with great success, Mrs. Yates playing the heroine. The Dublis University Magazine said of the Tales of Woman's Trials, "There is about them a still and a solemn and holy beauty that is worthy of the sacred subject which they illustrate." This work is published by Warne & Co]

[Grace was the only child of Abel Darley the schoolmaster of Craythorpe. Mrs. Darley had died a few weeks after the birth of her daughter: but Grace, under her father's care, had grown up a pure-minded and generous-hearted girl. She married Joseph Huntley, the handsomest youth in the village; but he was also one of the idlest. Soon Grace was compelled to own that the evil reports about Joseph, to which she had long refused credence, were not unfounded. Her husband was self-indulgent, and too fond of the ale-house. In the course of a few years she was subjected to many painful trials and to much disgrace. Still she strove hard to do her duty as a wife and mother: misery schooled her still more in the ways of virtue.]

In less than eight years after their marriage, her little family were entirely dependent upon her for support. The workshop, filled with implements and materials for labour, had passed into other hands; and the pretty cottage, with its little flower-garden, was tenanted by a more industrious master. For months together Joseph used to absent himself from home. under the pretext of seeking employment. So ruined was his reputation, that no one in his own neighbourhood would intrust him with work; and he was but too willing to follow the wandering bent of his disordered mind. How he was really occupied during these excursions was a profound secret even to his wife. Some

When chid by her neighbours for the kind ness with which she treated this reckless spendthrift, she would reply calmly, "He is my husband-the father of my children; and, as such, can I see him want?"

From the very day she had parted with her first portion of dress to pay the baker's bill, she had toiled unceasingly with her own hands for the benefit of her family. Mrs. Craddock could no longer say that she was unskilled in woman's craft; to the astonishment of all, in a little time she was the most exquisite needlewoman in the neighbourhood. Nothing came amiss in the way of labour. Long before daylight she was busied with her housewiferythe earliest smoke of the village was from the chimney of her neat though plain and scantilyfurnished cottage; and so punctual was she in her engagements, that "As true as Grace Huntley" became a proverb in Craythorpe. Humble yet exalted distinction!-one that all desire so few deserve!

One evening, after a sad interview with her father, Grace returned to her own cottage. Ere she had crossed the threshold, a voice, whose tones could not be mistaken, thrilled to her heart. It was that of her husband! He was standing before the fire, holding his hands over the flame; his figure seemed more muscular than ever, but its fine proportions were lost in the appearance of increased and (if the term may be used) coarse strength. His hair hung loosely over his brows, so as to convey the idea of habitual carelessness; and his tattered garments bespoke the extreme of poverty. He turned slowly round, as the exclamation of "Mother, dear mother!" burst from the lips of Josephine, who had been gazing from a corner at her father, more than half afraid to approach him.

One look and one only-was enough to stifle all reproach, and stir up the affection of Grace's heart. Want was palpably stamped upon his countenance; and, as her eye glanced rapidly over his figure, she shuddered at the alteration which a few months had accomplished. For some moments neither spoke; at last he advanced and held out his hand to her: as he walked she perceived that his feet

VOL. IV.

his cruelties, were forgotten-she only remembered that he suffered, and was her husband; and she fell upon his bosom and wept bitterly. Whatever were the sins of Joseph Huntley, either before or after this period of his life, it is but justice to him to believe that the tears he that night mingled with his wife's were those of a contrite heart. When she asked him how and where he had spent his time during the past months, he entreated her to forbear such questions for a little while, and that then he would satisfy her: but the period never came; and the dislike he evinced to afford her any information on the subject, together with his speedy relapse into intemperate and dissolute habits, checked her inquiries, and renewed her fears for the future well-doing of her eldest son.

In the vicinity of gentlemen's seats there are always a proportionate number of poachers; and it requires more than magisterial vigilance to restrain their devastations. Although it was impossible to fix a stigma of this kind on any particular person in the village of Craythorpe, there were two men, basket-makers by trade, who were strongly suspected of such practices. John and Sandy Smith lived together in a wretched hut on the skirts of Craythorpe Common. No one knew whence they came. Lonely and reserved in their habits, they seldom mingled with the villagers. Little children loved not their approach; and the large Newfoundland dog at the "Swinging Hen" would never form acquaintance with them or their mongrel lurcher: the latter, to confess the truth, was as reserved as his masters, and made but few friendly overtures towards the nobler animal. The only thing connected with the strangers that made a respectable appearance was a fleet and firm-footed black pony, which they maintained and treated with great care, for the ostensible purpose of hawking their brooms through the country; but people did talk; and, indeed, it was difficult to account for various petty peculations that had occurred; or how the landlord of the same "Swinging Hen" obtained his exquisite French brandy. Grace learned with regret that an acquaintance had commenced, and quickly ripened into intimacy, between her husband and these men. Joseph was no sooner clothed and reinstated in his humble cottage, than his bad habits returned and his evil propensities grew stronger and stronger.

Yet the ill-temper so constantly manifested towards his wife and younger children was never extended to his eldest boy, who, happy 94

in the removal of all restraint, and heedless of the misery his conduct inflicted on his aged grandfather, flung aside his books, and, careless of his mother's injunctions, appealed to a higher power when he was reproved for his frequently repeated faults. He galloped on the Smiths' pony, and made friends with their dog Covey; began by shooting sparrows and titmice with bow and arrows, and ended by bringing home a hare as a present to his mother, which she resolutely refused to dress, notwithstanding the entreaties of the son and the commands of his father.

"Did you see or take any silver away from hence?" inquired Grace, who had been anxiously occupied in looking over her small chest of drawers.

"How could we get at the drawer, mother?" replied Abel quickly, but reddening at the same time.

"Oh, Abel!" exclaimed Josephine.

"If you have taken the money, tell the truth," enjoined his mother, in her clear, quiet voice.

Abel made a sign of silence to his little sister. Why should I take it?" he said sullenly at last.

"Abel, Abel!" screamed Josephine, attempting to put her hand on his mouth at the same time, "God will hate you if you lie! I saw you take the money-all mother's white shillings; but I thought she bid you do so."

Grace turned slowly round from the table; her face was of an unearthly paleness; no word, no sound passed from between her parted lips; but she stood, like the cold fixed statue of Despair, gazing upon her children. Josephine rose, and climbing on the table, endeavoured to win her mother's attention. Gerald, the sickly brother, getting up from his chair, clasped and kissed her hand. With Abel, there was a struggle-not of long duration, but nevertheless powerful-the struggle of bad habit with good principle; the latter conquered, and he fell at his mother's feet.

"Forgive me forgive me! God knows I am sorry. It was not for myself I took it— father told me

"Hush!" interrupted Grace, "do not say that before these"-and she pointed to the children; adding, with great presence of mind, "It was your father's money, if it was mine, Abel; but you were wrong in not telling me of it. There, Josephine and Gerald, go into the lane, if you will; I wish to speak to your brother."

With almost inconceivable agony, this ex

cellent woman learned that her son was far gone in falsehood. His heart was opened by the sight of his mother's distress; and it takes time to make a practised deceiver. With the earnestness of truth, he poured forth the wicked knowledge he had acquired; and Grace shuddered, while she prayed that the Almighty would watch over her son in this sore and dangerous extremity.

And now came one of her bitterest trials. She had guarded Abel from the effect of his father's sin, as an angel watches over the destinies of a beloved object,-unceasingly, but unseen. She had never alluded to her husband's faults, nor even to his unkindness, before her children; yet now the time had arrived when she must rend the veil-she must expose his shame: and to whom?-to his own son! Now it became her duty-her painful but imperative duty--to caution Abel openly against his own father-against his influences and habits; and to show the child that the parent was guiding him in the way that leadeth to destruction.

If anything like justice has been done to the development of Grace Huntley's character, this sacrifice will be appreciated. How many a deed of unostentatious but devoted virtue performed beneath a peasant's roof-amid the lanes and alleys of humble life, unknown to, or unheeded by, the world!

Huntley soon discovered that his wife had been influencing their child's conduct; indeed, the sacred law of truth formed so completely the basis of her words and actions that she did not attempt for a moment to conceal it.

"Then you mean to set yourself in opposition to me?" he said, all evil passions gathering at his heart and storming on his brow.

"Not to you, but to your sins, Joseph," was her meek but firm reply: whereupon he swore a bitter oath, that he would bring up his own child in the way which best suited him, and dared her interference.

"As sure as you are a living woman," he continued-with that concentrated rage which is a thousand times more dangerous than impetuous fury-"as sure as you are a living woman, you shall repent of this! I see the way to punish your wilfulness: if you oppose me in the management of my children, one by one they shall be taken from you to serve my purposes! You may look for them in vain, until (he added with a fiendish smile) you read their names in the columns of the Newgate Calendar."

That night, as latterly had been his custom, he sallied forth about eight o'clock, leaving his home and family without food or money.