with an affection which seemed too intense to be en.
dared. At last the "figure moved, the lady awoke,
and raised her beautiful face from the pillows, like a
pearl from cotton. ‘ ‘

‘ Oh God ! Mary, child I’ cried the old woman, as
she staggered towards the I bed, and made an effort
to throw herself upon it, endeavoring to clasp her
daughter in her arms, but the bed was by far too
high. and the lady put out one of the most delicate
and pretty hands ever seen, and shaking her lace
rufiic, she beckoned to her mother not to come too
near.

‘ My dear mother,’ said she, ‘for goodness’ sake
dont’t come so near; you don’t know the mischief
you might do. I have a fever on me, and your
clothes are really wet. Why, you have not come
«through the rain?’

The old woman buried her face in the bed clothes,
and sobbed piteously. At length recovering herself,
she said, with a hurried tenderness-—

‘Oh, Mary, tell your poor, old mother, is there
any danger 7’

‘ Not exactly danger; but ifiny Lord were to know
that you had been here, it might occasion an unplea-
santness between us.’

"But, Mary, child, are you not in danger?’

‘Danger,'mother, how can I be in danger! am I
not legally married, and have my rights; but whena
man ofLord Anketell’s rank and estate marries a
workhouse apo.hecary’s daughter like me, it is only
grateful in me not to mortify him by my family, and

in his own house too, and before his servants I trust
in goodness you did not announce yourselfas my
mother ‘.‘

A larger tear, or rather a continued tear, ran down
the pale and withered check of the mother. With
a tone altered almost to chilling apathy, she cried,

     

‘ Mary, I read in the newspaper that you were dan-
gorously ill. You had never written to me since
your marriage, and I was content not to mortify you ;
but when I found your life in dunger——-I who had
nursed you through the cruel diseases ofyour infancy
-—-I who had-—oh God! oh God!—it was too much
to let my child go out of the world without kissing
her poor face—-once, all my own. I have walked to
London from to hear one word of tenderness
from my own child; and I find her life not gone;
but nature is extinct, and you are the child of pride
-’—not my child.’

‘Lord Anketell’s wife, you meant to have said,
mother.‘ But I really was ill. Icaught a. cold at
Almack’o; but as his Lordship wanted an excuse
for notnttending the House whilst the bill is in
committee, he got the newspapers to publish that I
was dangerously ill. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, mother,
reach me that handkerchief, and the eau de Cologne.
Your tears, I do declare, have taken all the curls
out of my hair, and my wrist, too, is wet through
and through. Lord, ma, only see the lace——’

‘ And you are not ill, Mary,’ said the old woman ;
‘ not really ill ;' and she pressed the fair little hand
to her haggard lips——-hung over the face of her
daughter, regardless of that which alone occupied
that daughter’: thoughts——the curls and the lace.

‘ But, ma, how shabby, how very shabby, and dirty,
too, I declare-—la, Iwould not have had my Lord’s
servants see you for the universe. You will no.
vor leave oifthoso odious, unbecoming weeds—and
father dead so long. VVell, I’m glad to find you still
living; and I hope you have been happy, and well
-——snd——-’ ,

' Very happy, very well,’ said the old woman,
wringing her hands and sobbing bitterly.

‘ La, I thought I heard footsteps; did-n’t you !———do
stop, you make such a noise—no, it is a mistake.
Well, me, I heard of your design about the tomb.
stone in our churchyard and the monument. I was
so~_alarmed——-but I knew you hadn’t exactly the
mains‘ to incur such an expense-—-and so I was com-
fortcd, and--—’

‘ Mary, Mary; that monument is already erected
to your poor tather’s memory, and it expresses——’

‘ Gracious goodness! not that he was the village
apothecary, I hope '2’.

‘ Yes, that hoiwas for fifty years the doctor of that
petty workhousc—the shopkeeper of our petty vil.
lngc——-and that he was beloved by the poor, and re-
spected by the rich.’

‘Oh, how very unfortunate; for my Lord naturally
wishes to avoid all tracing of my parentage, and
Burke's ‘Peerage merely says that Lord Anketell
married ,Ma.ry, daughter of , Esq., of ,
in the county of , and that reads very well.’

‘ Oh, Mary, your brain is turned, and it breaks my
poor old heart! My last illness cost me all the re.
mains of my little property; even your poor old
fathor’s silver watch was sold, and now I-’

L 4Well, ma, that must have been your own fault, for

 

     

 

 

AMRIAN RAILROAD JOURNL, AND

     

‘never was there a better mother; and had you writ

ten one word-—but give me that pocket book off the
table—no, not the red with the gold clasp, but the
purple with the ruby.’ ‘ '

The old woman mechanically handed the pocket

book, and the fair lady raised herself on her downy
pillows, and began to count its contents, and to dos.
lcanft on the operation, as she turned over leaf after
ea“ .
‘ No, that 1261. is for Mr. Taylor's bill, my shoe-
maker ; he has not been paid any thing for four years,
and must be paid ; and this—let me see—-what did I
put these notes in this leaf for? oh, I remember, 93l.
for the pluinassicr; and this SSL is for the per-fumcr’s
account; and 37l. for the brushes and triflcs of that
description ; but oh, this odious Madame de Tressor,
my millincr and drcssniaker--6191. in one year, and
less than a half———well, my lord’s check is not enough
-—hc must settle this bill himself, for I’ll have nothing
to do with it. But here, my dear ma, I have no oc-
casion to settle Mr. Paync’s bill for the brushes and
knick-knacks, and so, suppose you take this 37l.
And the young and beautiful countess stretched out
her hand, holding the folded notes slightly pressed
between her thumb and finger towards the old wo~
man, who stood aghast with astonishment.

‘Ha! ha! ha! Well, ma, you make me laugh;
you may well be astonished when you see such sums,
and recollect how the shillings used to be saved, and
the broken bottles sold from father’s shop, to buy me
my winter’s cloak and clogs———but take the money.’

The old woman shook her head, and thrust the
proffered notes from her.

‘Why, ma, I should’nt offer them to you if they
weren’t mine. To be sure, when a rich man, or a
man of title, marries a poor girl, he doesn’t marry the
whole family; and indeed it is not exactly holiest for
a woman to give away her husband’s property to poor
relations; but his lordship gave me this money for
myself, and has no right to know what I have done
with it; and ifI appear in good style as his wife, and
don’t get into debt beyond his allowance, what right
has he to complain; besides, if a rich old man mar-
rice 8. fine young woman, I don’t see that the obliga-
tion is all on one side ; and besides your are my mo-
ther.’

The mother groaned bitterly.

‘It is not like helping cousins, nephews, nieces,
and a swarm of toad eating, insincere, heartless kin-
tired‘, so, ma——but, good gracious ! the room is haunt-
ed, or I did hear footsteeps, and a sigh, too. Pray,
ring the bell—-no, not for the world-—the servants
would see you———but ma, look all round the room for
me. You know how nervous I was when a child.
Well, you won’t stir? Good heavens '. take the mo.
may and say good bye, and let me ring the bell, for
I begin to be very much frightened. Here, dear
mother,‘ take the money, for your clothes are very
ihin for this bitter weather, and you must want it-
tndeed you must.’

During all this time, the poor old woman had stood
upright and rigid; like a figure of extreme old age
suddenly petrified. Her large gray eyes were dila.
ted, and though they glanced upon her daughter
they bespoke perfect vacancy, or at least an uncon_
sciousness of the volubility with which she had been
assailed. As the daughter again pressed her to take
the money, she took the notes in her hand and crum-
pled them without the slightest alteration of attitude
or change of countenance. Lady Anketell became
alarmed, and thought the mother was what she call
ed ‘ death struck.’ ‘ For God's sake, take the mo-
may and go 1’ she exclaimed with earnestness. The
old woman’s lips were a little convuised; she reco.
vered her senses, and suddenly catching a glance at
the ball of rumpled notes that she had been pressing
in her palm with the grasp of convulsion, she drop-
ped them on the floor, shaking her head, and clasp-
ing her hands, she left the room without uttering a
word. She appeared like a corpse moving by me-
chanical contrivance. Lady Anketell followed her
with her eyes till she had got out of the door;
and then, taking an oval hand.mirror from her toi-
lette, she began to adjust her curls, lest her waiting
woman might see them in their disordered state.

As the mother descended the grand staircase, she
was met by Lady Anketell’s waiting woman followed
by a. footman with a tray and cold fowl and tongue,
and decanters of wine. ‘ I am ordered, Madam,’
said the maid, courtesying with the most profound
respect, ‘ to give my Lord’s most respectful compli.
ments to you, and to say that his Lordship entreats
that you will not leave the house without taking re.
freshmellts.
long as is convenient, and, above all things, he hopes
that you will order the carriage when you feel dis-

.possd[to ‘return home.’ The old woman was startled

at these sounds of respect and kindness: they

'...._.—.-.—._...:... —..——

His Lordship begs you will remain as _

    

.-.. \

touched her heart. Unable to speak, she shook her
head in token of dissent. She had been recalled
to sensation and consciousness: her efforts to con.
ceal her emotion were fruitless : her lips were
strongly convulsed, and, putting her hands to her
face to hide her feelings, she burst into tears, and
hurried out of the house through the line of ser.
vants, who bowed to her most respectfully as she
passed through the hall. The humility of the ser.
vents was a contrast to their previous brutal vio.
lence, which could not be surpassed, except by the
contrast between the manners ofthe daughter of the
Countess of , and as plain Mary ,
the apothecar_v’s daughter of ,the bells of
the village for whom so many shop-lads had once
received and given many broken heads and bloody
noses.

In fact, the sound of footsteps and the sigh which
Lady Anketel had heard, or fancied she had heard,
in the bed room, were not the sounds ofa super, nor
altogether of an unaatural being. His Lordship, in
passing the ante-chamber, had been attracted by the
deep sobs ofhis mothcr-in-law. He had entered the
bed-room, and, concealed by the curtain, he had
witnessed the whole scene between the daughter
and the mother. His feelings were moved to the ex.
tent of offering the poor old creature refreshment
and the ride home; they were moved to this extent,
and no further.

Two pounds thirteen shillings and four pence half.
penny was the sum precisely which the poor old wi-
dow had in her pocket, as she tottered down the
steps from the portico of her daughter's mansion at
Whitehall. She hurried to the inn, at White-
chapel, and that night took her outside place in the
mail to It was a wet and bitterly cold night,
preceding, by eight-and-forty hours, that night on
which all hearts are made glad, all stomachs are fill-
ed to the verge of extravagance and wantonness ; it
was the night ofthc twenty-third of December, when
the decrepit old widow seated herself outside the
mail, immediately behind the coachman. The
wind drove the sharp sleet so fiercely that no inge-
nuity of the loom could withstand its searchings, and
but for the cold at the heart, the old widow might
have been sensible that her daughter was not wrong
in describing her dress as old, threadbare, and shab-
by—shabby——~in such a night. The little curved
hunchback was drenched to the skin, and looked
like a whisk of frozen straw-—a bunch of white bris-
tles. The coachman, moved to pity, procured her
an ostler‘s coat where he changed horses, and with-
out the hope ofthe pcrquisite. Arrived at the vil-
lage of , the widow was lifted into her cottage.
The bright warming pan was put in requisition, and
less than twelve hours had witnessed the transition
ofthe old creature from sobbing on the quilt of Lady
Anketell, in her splendid room, to gasping under the
brown and red rug in her stone paved chamber. In
four hours she was a corpse. .

   

 

TI{E TOWNSMAN.—-BY Lcion Hum-.
More Boots ; and -no more Smith .’

Boots being a subject of inexhaustible interest to
the contemplative mind (whether the mind be of such
an order as deeply observes the boots of other men,
or of such as sits in the shape ofa well-dressed body,
more deeply considering its own; or lastly whether
it be ofthat class, which uniting experience with re~
flection, comes to the question with an impartiality
humanized by self.love,) we have willingly acceded
to a request made to us for the utterance of some
further thoughts on a matter so obviously connected
with the “march of intellect.”

Nor is it to be objected, that we are travelling out
of the path of our Townsmsn, in devoting a whole
paper to this very urbane subject; for besides its
right to the application of that epithet in its ordinary
sense, as implying a polished elegancy, it is well
known to all the lovers of slioe-leather, that there is
no boot like your “ town.macle boot ;” and therefore
no town—made article connected with the subject,
whether boot or essay, can be anything but what is
extremely proper and metropolitan.

Much could we say on the lustre cl boots from all

when to say that a man was “ well-booted,” was to
say that he was well.armed at all points, and irresis-
tible. Homer’s fondness for this epithet is so re-
markable, that boots perhaps may be considered as
the things he admired most, next to good cheer.——
‘ Boot and saddle” oj mutton may be conjectured to,

sound of the trumpet. But we cannot enter at any
length into the epical or historical parts of oursub-
ject. . ‘
most illustrious lights of it,‘ as they strike upon on
from the legs of ages; such as the Seven-league

antiquity,especially during the heroic ages of Greece,‘

have been his military cry-— his interpctratioa of the '

We mustbs content with catching a few oftho'_