we find the following exquisite paragraph:  “there is something so commanding, so holy, in virtue, that, though the wicked may not imitate, they cannot withhold from it their admiration.”  As Huntley looked upon his wife, he thought she never appeared so lovely.  Some of the affection of earlier and purer years returned warmly to his heart; and as he kissed her, words of happier import broke from his lips—­“God bless you, Grace!  I am a sad scoundrel, and that’s the truth.”  Joseph deserts her, and in less than eight years after their marriage, her little family are entirely dependent upon her for support.  The husband returns, and sets the eldest boy to rob his mother; the villany of the father is reproved by Grace, meekly but firmly.  Joseph takes the boy under his guidance, and becoming acquainted with “John and Sandy Smith, (two poachers,) who lived together in a wretched hut on the skirt of Crayton Common,” he soon initiates the little fellow into crime.  After a storming quarrel with his wife—­]

That night, as latterly had been his custom, he sallied forth about eight o’clock, leaving his home and family without food or money.  The children crowded round their mother’s knee to repeat their simple prayers, and retired, cold and hungry, to bed.  It was near midnight ere her task was finished; and then she stole softly into her chamber, having first looked upon and blessed her treasures.  Her sleep was of that restless heavy kind which yields no refreshment.  Once she was awakened by hearing her husband shut the cottage-door; again she slept, but started from a horrid dream—­or was it indeed reality! and had her husband and her son Abel quitted the dwelling together?  She sprang from her bed, and felt on the pallet—­Gerald was there; again she felt—­she called—­she passed into the next room—­“Abel, Abel, my child! as you value your mother’s blessing speak!” There was no reply.  A dizzy sickness almost overpowered her senses.  Was her husband’s horrid threat indeed fulfilled? and had he so soon taken their child as his participator in unequivocal sin?  She opened the door, and looked out upon the night; it was cold and misty, and her sight could not penetrate the gloom.  The chill fog rested upon her face like the damps of the grave.  She attempted to call again upon her son, but her powers of utterance were palsied—­her tongue quivered—­her lips separated yet there came forth no voice, no sound to break the silence of oppressed nature.  Her eyes moved mechanically towards the heavens—­they were dark as the earth; had God deserted her?—­would he deny one ray, one little ray of light, to lead her to her child?  Why did the moon cease to shine, and the stars withhold their brightness?  Should she never again behold her boy, her first-born?  Her heart swelled, and beat within her bosom.  She shivered with intense agony, and leaned her throbbing brow against the door-post, to which she had clung for support.  Her husband’s words rang in