it with a fearful restlessness, as if she dreaded to be seen by the object it supported, whilst at other moments she gazed upon the sleeping figure with an affection which seemed too intense to be endured. At last the figure moved; the lady awoke, and raised her beautiful face from the pillows, like a pearl from cotton.

"Oh God! Mary, my child!" cried the old woman, as she staggered towards the bed, and made an effort to throw herself upon it, endeavouring 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 ruffle, she beckoned to her mother not to approach too near.

"My dear mother," said she, "for goodness sake don'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, have you?"

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?" "Not exactly danger; but if my Lord were to know that been here, it might occasion an unpleasantness between us."

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

you

had

"Danger, mother, how can I be in danger! am I not legally married, and have my rights; but when a man of Lord Anketell's rank and estate marries a workhouse apothecary'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 yourself as my mother!"

A large tear, or rather a continued tear, ran down the pale and withered cheek of the mother. With a tone altered almost to chilling apathy, she cried," Mary, I read in the newspaper that you were dangerously 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 danger-I who had nursed you through the cruel diseases of your 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. I caught a cold at Almack's: but as his Lordship wanted an excuse for not attending 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's thoughts-the curls and the lace.

"But, ma, how shabby, how very shabby, and dirty, too, I declareMarch. vol. XL. NO. CLIX.

2 A

la, I would not have had my Lord's servants see you for the universe. You will never leave off those odious, unbecoming weeds-and father dead so long. Well, I'm glad to find you still living; and I hope you have been happy, and well-and-

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

"La, I thought I heard footsteps; didn't you?-do stop, you make such a noise-no, it is a mistake. Well, ma, I heard of your design about the tombstone in our churchyard, and the monument. I was so alarmed—but I knew you hadn't exactly the means to incur such an expense-and so I was comforted, and

Mary, Mary; that monument is already erected to your poor father's memory, and it expresses

"Gracious goodness! not that he was the village apothecary, I hope?"

"Yes, that he was for fifty years the doctor of that petty workhouse -the shopkeeper of our petty village-and that he was beloved by the poor, and respected 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 Mary, 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 remains of my little property; even your poor old father's silver watch was sold, and now Į–

"Well, ma, that must have been your own fault, for never was there a better mother; and had you written 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 descant on the operation, as she turned over leaf after leaf.

"No, that 1267. is for Mr. Taylor's bill, my shoemaker; he has not been paid anything for four years, and must be paid; and this—let me secc-what did I put these notes in this leaf for ? oh, I remember, 937. for the plumassier; and this 557. is for the perfumer's account; and 377. for the brushes and trifles of that description; but oh, this odious 'Madame de Tressor,' my milliner and dressmaker-619/. in one year, and less than a half-well, my lord's check is not enough, he must settle this bill himself, for I'll have nothing to do with it. But here, my dear ma, I have no occasion to settle Mr. Payne's bill for the brushes and knick-knacks, and so, suppose you take this 377." And the young and beautiful countess stretched out her hand, holding the folded notes slightly pressed between her thumb and finger towards the old woman, 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 shouldn't 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 honest 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 if I 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 marries a very fine young woman, I don't see that the obligation is all on one side; and besides you are my mother."

The mother groaned bitterly.

"It is not like helping cousins, nephews, nieces, and a swarm of toad-eating, insincere, heartless kindred; so, ma-but, good gracious! the room is haunted, or I did hear footsteps, 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 money 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 thin for this bitter weather, and you must want it—indeed 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 grey eyes were dilated, and though they glanced upon her daughter they bespoke perfect vacancy, or at least an unconsciousness 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 crumpled them without the slightest alteration of attitude or change of countenance. Lady Anketell became alarmed, and thought the mother was what she called "death struck." "For God's sake, take the money and go!" she exclaimed with earnestness. The old woman's lips were a little convulsed; she recovered 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 dropped them on the floor, shaking her head, and clasping her hands, she left the room without uttering a word. She appeared like a corpse moving by mechanical 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 toilette, 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 compliments to you, and to say that his Lordship entreats that you will not leave the house without taking refreshments. His Lordship begs you will remain as long as is convenient, and, above all things, he hopes that you will order the carriage when you feel disposed to return home." The old woman was startled at these sounds of respect and kindness; they 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 conceal 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 servants, who bowed to her most respectfully as she passed through the hall. The humility of the servants was a contrast to their previous brutal violence, which could not be surpassed, except by the contrast between the manners of the daughter as the Countess of, and as plain Mary, the apothecary's daughter of the belle of the village for whom so many rival shop-lads had once received and given many broken heads and bloody noses.

In fact, the sound of footsteps and the sigh which Lady Anketell had heard, or fancied she had heard, in the bed-room, were not the sounds of a super, nor altogether of an unnatural being. His Lordship, in passing the ante-chamber, had been attracted by the deep sobs of his mother-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 extent 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 fourpence halfpenny was the sum precisely which the poor old widow 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 Whitechapel, 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 filled to repletion, and almost all heads are filled to the verge of extravagance and wantonness; it was the night of the 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 ingenuity 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, thin, and shabby-shabbyin such a night. The little curved hunchback was drenched to the skin, and looked like a whisk of frozen straw—a bunch of white bristles. The coachman, moved to pity, procured her an ostler's coat where he changed horses, and without the hope of the perquisite. Arrived at the village 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 of the 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 !— and Lady Anketell was relieved from mortification to her fashionable life, and lived happily with her husband.

D. E. W.

CHAPTERS FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A

DECEASED LAWYER.

No. II.

THERE are few statements more calculated to excite attention, and, perhaps, to awaken distrust, than the observation which I made in the introductory remarks prefixed to my former story: that those only who were most familiar with our courts of justice could form any notion how frequently it happened that guilt escaped with impunity, while conviction was awarded to innocence. The proposition is in itself startling, and no doubt requires abundant proof in support of it, ere assent can be expected to its truth. A little consideration, however, of the principles by which the rules of evidence are governed, and of the nature and liability to error of all human testimony, will remove much of the difficulty which precludes our giving ready credence to the assertion, and will greatly diminish our surprise, though it may tend to increase our regret. There is no branch of jurisprudence which requires more constant reference to simple and equitable principles, suggested by natural reason and experience, than the law of evidence; there is none of greater importance to society, and in which the admission of a false principle, or the general misapplication of a true one, would be productive of greater mischief and confusion. It follows, therefore, that the rules of evidence must be fixed and immutable. Without a steady adherence to principles, the law which is supposed to govern them would degenerate into a mere chaos of arbitrary and conflicting decisions.

Let us consider, then, for a moment, what evidence is. To enable a jury to decide upon a past transaction, it is essential that the facts and circumstances which attend it should, as far as they can be recalled, be submitted to their consideration. But it rarely happens that a jury can have actual knowledge of any disputed fact, and consequently they must decide from the information communicated to them by others; and since facts are fluctuating and transitory, their history must be drawn from the only depositaries in which it can reside, the memory of living witnesses, or written documents in which such facts have been recorded. This evidence is, of necessity, divisible into two parts, varying materially from each other in their nature, quality, and degree, the first being that which is direct and positive; the second, that which is presumptive and circumstantial. It is direct and positive when the very facts in dispute are communicated by those who have had actual knowledge of them by means of their senses; and when, therefore, the jury may be supposed to view the fact through the organs of the witness. It is presumptive and circumstantial, when the testimony is not direct, but when, on the contrary, that which is not directly and positively known is presumed or inferred from one or more other facts or circumstances which are known.

The necessity of resorting to presumptive evidence is manifest. It very frequently happens that no direct and positive testimony can be procured; and often when it can be obtained it is necessary to try its accuracy and weight, by comparing it with other secondary circumstances. It has,