sour face, and wearing spectacles, who was seated opposite to 'it's no use whatsoever to cry, for it will be all the same in a hundred years hence.'

me;

“Let her have her cry out, it will do her good,' remarked an elderly woman at my side; it's only the youthful that can shed tears so freely; and a time will come, when this poor young thing may wish to be able to cry as she does now.'

"For my part, I can't see the good of crying,' observed a young man who had a pale face and weak eyes; ‘if people leave old friends, they must hope to find new ones; and, to my thinking, new friends are much the pleasantest.'

"You'll not think so when you have lived longer in the world,' answered the old woman.

"There you happen to be wrong,' said the young man flippantly, for I have lived more in the world, though not half so long, as you have.'

"It's to be hoped you have profited by it,' replied the old

woman.

"It will be all the same in a hundred years hence,' rejoined the old man.

"It will not be all the same, and a man of your years should not put such heathenish notions into the heads of young people,' said the old woman, somewhat angrily.

And what notions pray, would you think it right to put into their heads instead?' asked the man with spectacles.

Ay, ma'am, tell us that?' asked the young man.

"I would put into the heads of the youthful, that on their own good or evil conduct, depends what their fate will be here and hereafter.'

"I thought as much,' answered the young man superciliously.

"I hope you will always think so,' said the old woman. "But, if I should not?'

"Why, then, it will be all the same in a hundred years hence,' rejoined the old man.

"The elderly woman was about to enter into a discussion on this point, when the coach stopped at an alehouse to take up a parcel, and she instantly forgot her desire of refuting the opinions of her adversary, and asked for a glass of water, which she kindly put to my lips, saying, 'Drink this, my dear, it will do you good.'

"There was something so motherly in the action, and in the mode of it, that it recalled similar acts of kindness often experienced from my own mother, and brought the tears afresh to my eyes; but I no longer felt so strange and deserted like as

before, now that one of my own sex, and a respectable looking woman too, seemed to take such an interest in me.

"You'll soon forget the country, when you have once seen what a delightful place Lunnon is,' said the young man. 'I can't bear being out of it long, though I do make the folk stare when I go home into the country,' and he looked complacently at his dress. How they do examine the cut of my clothes, and the shape of my hat when I go to church.'

"More shame for them,' remarked the elderly woman, ' for when people go to the house of God, they ought to think of other matters than dress, and such like foolish things.'

"It will be all the same in a hundred years hence,' observed the old man.

"No, it will not be all the same,' said the elderly woman angrily, and you may find it won't be, to your cost; you ought not to put such thoughts into the heads of young people, if you are so weak as to entertain them yourself.'

"Weak!' reiterated the old man, 'what do you call weak? I am a philosopher-a freethinker.'

"I'm sorry for you,' said my new acquaintance, sighing deeply; but I suspected as much. Then you are weak indeed! God bring you to a better state of mind."

"I'm a bit of a freethinker myself,' said the young man, and he pulled up the collars of his shirt, conceitedly.

"Do you know what a freethinker means?' demanded the old woman.

"To be sure I do hah! hah! hah! know what it means, indeed; that's a good idea. Why, it means a person who is not afraid of doing or saying what he thinks fit,-in short it is-it is a sort of a philosopher, as this gentleman very properly explained.'

"I'll tell you what I think it means,' replied the elderly woman. 'A poor weak vain mortal, who, not having sufficient understanding to comprehend the greatness and goodness of God, doubts or denies his power.'

"You think, then, that I shall suffer hereafter for my freethinking?' asked the young man, with a contemptuous smile. "I judge not, lest I be judged,' answered the old woman; 'but I believe, that if not hereafter, you will suffer on earth, for as you cannot expect to escape from the trials and sorrows to which all are born, what consolation can you hope for them, or where look for patience to support them, if you disbelieve in a future state a state where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?'

"It will be all the same in a hundred years hence, that is my consolation,' said the old man.

"Yes, it will be all the same in a hundred years hence,' repeated the young man. At this moment we became suddenly sensible that the coach was moving with a frightful velocity, and, as we were descending a very steep hill, we all became apprehensive of danger-'O Lord! O Lord! we shall be killed,' exclaimed the young man, his face growing ghastly from the force of terror; the old man grasped the holder at the side of the coach and clung convulsively to it, his countenance expressing all the agony of fear, while the old woman fervently recommended herself to the protection of heaven. We had nearly reached the bottom of the steep hill, when the coach was overturned, and I lost all consciousness of what occurred, until I found myself on the road side, supported by a woman, who was applying cold water to my face and temples, from which blood was streaming, occasioned by some cuts from the shattered glass of the coach-window, with which it had come violently in contact. The old man was extended on the ground, groaning from the pain of a broken leg, the young one was bemoaning the fracture of his left arm, and the elderly woman, who had dislocated her wrist, and was severely bruised, was returning thanks to God for having escaped so well.

"My leg, my leg!' exclaimed the old man.' I'm sure it is broken in two or three places. Never was there any thing like the pain I suffer.'

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My arm is much worse,' groaned the young man. 'No one can have an hidear of the excruciating torture I endure.' "Let us thank the Almighty that we have escaped with our lives,' said the old woman.

"Thank God indeed,' murmured the would-be philosopher, ' for a broken leg.'

"Yes, and for a broken arm,' added the young man; ‘I see nothing to be thankful for.'

"Can you not be consoled by the reflection that it will be all the same in a hundred years hence?' asked the old woman, somewhat sarcastically. This is the consolation of philosophy is it? just what I thought. It enables you to mock religion, and the dependence on Providence which it inspires, but it cannot teach you to support pain, notwithstanding your constant boast, that it will be all the same in a hundred years hence.'

"Get me conveyed to the next inn as speedily as possible, and dispatch some one for a surgeon,' said the would-be philosopher, writhing with pain, and turning from the calm, but searching glance of the old woman.

"Yes, take us to the next hinn as quick as you can', rejoined the young man. You can have no hidear what my sufferings are, and some people,' and he looked angrily at the old woman,

'are so spiteful, that they have no pity for other people when they have had their precious limbs broken.'

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'You wrong me, for I see you allude to me,' observed the old lady, gladly would I afford you any relief in my power, but I wished you to become sensible of the weakness, as well as wickedness of the principle avowed by our fellow-traveller.'

"Don't mind her, let her talk on; it will be all the same in a hundred years hence.-Oh! my leg, my leg, will no one support my leg?'

"I will', said the old woman and she extended the only band which the accident permitted her to use, and with the utmost gentleness and tenderness, supported the shattered limb, while four men placed the groaning freethinker on a door, in order to remove him to the inn. A surgeon was called in, and the old woman refused to allow him to examine her wrist, until he had set the fractured limbs of her fellow-travellers.

"We pursued our journey to London alone, the two men being unable to proceed, and the rest of the route passed without accident, the excellent old lady giving me the best advice, and a cordial invitation to visit her in Gracechurch-street, where she resided. She took me in a coach to my aunt's dwelling, for my relation having waited herself at the coach-office for nearly an hour in expectation of my arrival, had returned to her home, leaving instructions for me to follow her in a hackney-coach; but my new friend would not trust me alone, so took me herself to my aunt's, into whose arms she confided me, promising to pay me a visit in a few days."

Now comes the history of the London adventures," said Wilson to Thomas, "was there ever such a proser in the world as Mother Chatterton?"

"What did you say, Mr. Wilson?" asked the old dame.

"I said," answered Wilson, speaking as loud as he could, "that I could listen for ever to your story, it is so very entertaining, and he thrust his tongue into his check, and winked at Thomas.

""Tis very kind of you, I'm sure, to think so," replied Mrs. Chatterton, with a look of the utmost complacency.

"I hope you'll not leave out a single circumstance that took place after your arrival in London," said Thomas, slily; “for it would be a pity for Mr. Wallingford to miss any thing in such a lively story."

"Indeed you are too flattering, Mr. Thomas. I was afraid you'd be tired of hearing it."

"Never, Mrs. Chatterton, never. than the history of Clarissa Harlowe. it to us more than eight or nine times.

It's much more amusing
Why, you have not told
Do you remember, Wil-

son, how often she has set us to sleep with it?" The last remark was uttered in a low tone of voice.

"Bless me! it's nearly twelve o'clock," observed Mrs. Chatterton. "Well, how time flies! I did not think it was so late;" -and having rang for the maid, who officiated in the various services of cook and parlour-maid, she retired to her chamber, civilly wishing good-night to her companions.

"I do not wonder at your looking tired," said Wilson, "for the old woman's story is enough to set any one to sleep: I am surprised you can listen to it."

"You would find it much more amusing to read a novel," said Thomas," and you could, moreover, close it when you were tired, which can't be done with Mrs. Chatterton's clapper."

"Mrs. Chatterton is an excellent and kind-hearted woman,' observed Mr. Burton, who had that moment won his party at chess, and was consequently in unusual good humour: "yes, Mrs. Chatterton is a highly respectable person and merits the attention which Mr. Wallingford shows her,-ay, and which reflects credit on him," resumed Mr. Burton.

CHAPTER V.

ONE day so exactly resembled another in the domicile in which I now found myself, that I felt disposed to acknowledge the truth of Mrs. Chatterton's observation on the effect of a monotonous routine of existence. My mind became sobered down to it; and I could have fancied that I had been weeks, nay, months, instead of days, an inhabitant in the dingy 'mansion in Mincing-lane. In the evening, Mrs. Chatterton resumed her drowsy reminiscences, to which I listened with a patience, if not with an interest, that won her regard. Letters from Percy Mortimer proved, that amidst the occupations and amusements of his college life, he had not forgotten his humble friend, to whom, with all the frankness peculiar to his nature, he poured out his feelings as unaffectedly as when we rambled together through the park, at that pleasant home to which my thoughts so often reverted.

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Well, sir," said Mrs. Chatterton, next evening, taking up her knitting and narrative together, "we left off my story at the point of my arrival in London. My aunt's reception was less cordial and affectionate than I had anticipated; and this coldness made me think still more frequently of those dear relations whom I had left behind. I was continually dreaming of them, and pining for the green fields, and the songs of the