easily to be got at. No sooner than one has become trite, and has been perused, ere another is ready at our service. This novelty acts as a spur upon the mind, and ever keeps it in the paths of literature and of virtue. In these small works, we have always a rich repast for little money; and the variety of their pages will sometimes wile away many hours that might otherwise prove tedious.

The typographie art cannot be too much extolled; and the liberties we possess, as connected with the press, cannot be too much the theme of praise. Our greatest blessings have accrued from them; and we every day see more and more reason to feel grateful for these privileges: knowing, as we must, whether it be in the publication of folios, or quartos, or newspapers, or tracts and pamphlets, that we are made thereby the happiest, the best informed, and the most virtuous people of the globe.

MARIA ELEONORA SCHONING. A TALE.

(Continued from our last.) "Maria had been bred up in the fear of God: she now trembled at the thought of her former purpose, and followed her friend Harlin, for that was the name of her guardian angel, to her home hard by. The moment she entered the door she sank down and lay at her full length, as if, only to be - motionless in a place of shelter, had been the fullness of delight. As when a withered leaf, that has been long whirled about by the gusts of autumn, is blown into a cave or hollow tree, it stops suddenly, and all at once looks the very image of quiet. Such might this poor orphan appear to the eye of a meditative imagination.

"A place of shelter she had attained, and a friend willing to comfort her, all that she could: but the noble-hearted Harlin was herself a daughter of calamity, one who from year to year must lie down in weariness and rise up to labour; for whom this world provides no other comfort, but the sleep which enables them to forget it; no other physician but death, which takes them out of it! She was married to one of the city guards, who, like Maria's

father, had been long sick and bed-ridden. Him, herself, and two little chil dren, she had to maintain by washing and charing; and sometime after Maria had been domesticated with them. Harlin told her that she herself had been once driven to a desperate thought by the cry of her hungry children, during a want of employment, and that she had been on the point of killing one of the little-ones, and of then surrendering herself into the hands of justice. In this manner, she had conceived, all would be well provided for; the surviving child would be admitted, as a matter of course, into the orphan-house, and her husband into the hospital; while she herself would have atoned for her act by a public execution, and, together with the child that she had destroyed, would have passed into a state of bliss. All this she related to Maria, and these tragic ideas left but too deep and lasting impression on her mind. Weeks after, she herself renewed the conversation, by expressing to her benefactress her inability to conceive how it was possible for one human being to take away the life of another, especially that of an innocent little child. For that reason, replied Harlin, because it was so innocent and so good, I wished to put it out of this wicked world. Thinkest thou then, that I would have my head cut off for the sake of a wicked child? Therefore it was little Nan that I meant to have taken with me, who, as you see, is always so sweet and patient: little Frank has already his humours and naughty tricks, and suits better for this world. This was the answer. Maria brooded awhile over it in silence, then passionately snatched the children up in her arms, as if she would protect them against their own mother.

"For one whole year the orphan lived with the soldier's wife, and by their joint labours barely kept off absolute want. As a little boy (almost a child in size, though in his 13th year) once told me of himself, as he was guiding me up the Brocken, in the Hartz Forest, they had but little of that, of which a great deal tells but for little.' But now came the second winter, and with it came bad times, a season of trouble for this poor and meritorious household. The wife now fell sick: too constant and too hard

labour, too scanty and too innutritious food, had gradually wasted away her strength. Maria redoubled her efforts in order to provide bread and fuel for their washing which they took in: but the task was above her powers. Besides, she was so timid and so agitated at the sight of strangers, that sometimes, with the best good-will, she was left without employment. One by one, every article of the least value which they possessed was sold off, except the bed on which the husband lay. He died just before the approach of spring; but about the same time the wife gave signs of convalescence. The physician, though almost as poor as his patients, had been kind to them: silver and gold had be none, but he occasionally brought a little wine, and often assured them that nothing was wanting to her perfect recovery, but better nourishment and a little wine every day. This, however, could not be regularly procured, and Harlin's spirits sank, and as her bodily pain left her she became more melancholy, silent, and self-involved. And now it was that Maria's mind was incessantly racked by the frightful apprehension, that her friend might be again meditating the accomplishment of her former purpose. She had grown as passionately fond of the two children as if she had borne them under her own heart; but the jeopardy in which she conceived her Friend's salvation to stand-this was her predominant thought. For all the hopes and fears, which under a happier lot would have been associated with the objects of the senses, were transferred, by Maria, to her notions and images of a future state.

"In the beginning of March, one bitter and cold evening, Maria started up and suddenly left the house. The last morsel of food had been divided betwixt the two children for their breakfast, and for the last hour or more, the little boy had been crying for hunger, while his gentler sister had been hiding her face in Maria's lap, and pressing her little body against her knees, in order by that mechanic pressure to dull the aching from emptiness. The tender hearted and visionary maiden had watched the mother's eye, and had interpreted several of her sad and steady looks according to her preconceived apprehensions. She had con

ceived all at once the strange and enthusiastic thought, that she would in some way or other offer her own soul for the salvation of that of her friends. The money which had been left in her hand, flashed upon the eye of her mind, as a single and connected image: and faint with hunger, and shivering with cold, she sallied forth in search of guilt! Awful are the dispensations of the Supreme Being, and in his severest judgments the hand of mercy is visible. It was a night so wild with wind and rain, or rather rain and snow mixed together, that a famished wolf would have stayed in his cave, and listened to a more fearful howl than his own. Forlorn Maria! thou wert kneeling in pious simplicity at the grave of thy father, and thou becamest the prey of a monster! Innocent thou wert, and without guilt didst thou remain. Now thou goest forth of thy own accord but God will have pity on thee! Poor bewildered innocent! in thy spotless imagination dwelt no distinct conception of the evil which thou wentest forth to brave! To save the soul of thy friend was the drear of thy feverish brain, and thou wert again apprehended as an outcast of shameless sensuality, at the moment when thy too-spiritualized fancy was busied with the glorified forms of thy friend and of her little-ones interceding for thee at the throne of the Redeemer! at this moment her perturbed fancy suddenly suggested to her a new means for the accomplishment of her purpose and she replied to the nightwatch (who, with a brutal laugh, bade her expect on the morrow the unmanly punishment, which, to the disgrace of human nature, the laws of Protestant States (alas! even those of our own country inflict on female vagrants) that she came to deliver herself up as an infanticide. She was instantly taken before the magistrate, through as wild and pitiless a storm as ever pelted on a houseless head! through as black and "tyrannous a night" as ever aided the workings of a heated brain! Here she confessed that she had been delivered of an infant by the soldier's wife, Harlin, that she deprived it of life in the presence of Harlin, and according to a plan preconcerted with her, and that Harlin had buried it somewhere in the wood, but where she know

not. During this strange tale she appeared to listen with a mixture of fear and satisfaction, to the howling of the wind; and never sure could a confession of real guilt have been accompanied by a more dreadfully appropriate music! At the moment of her apprehension, she had formed the scheme of helping her friend out of the world in a state of innocence. When the soldier's widow was confronted with the orphan, and the latter had repeated her confession to her face. Harlin answered in these words. For God's sake, Maria! how have I deserved this of thee?' Then turning to the magistrate, said, 'I know nothing of this.' This was the sole answer which she gave, and not another word could they extort from her. The instruments of torture were brought, and Harlin was warned, that if she did not confess of her own accord, the truth would be immediately forced from her. This menace convulsed Maria Schoning with a fright: her intention had been to emancipate herself and her friend from a life of unmixed suffering, without the crime of suicide in either, and with no guit at all on the part of her friend.— The thought of her friend's being put to the torture had not occurred to her.Wildly and eagerly she pressed her friend's hands, already bound in preparation for the torture-she pressed them in agony between her own, and said to her, Anna! confess it! Anna, dear Anra! it will then be well with all of us! all, all of us! and Frank and little Nan will be put into the orphan-house!' Maria's scheme now passed, like a flash of lightening, through the widow's mind, she acceded to it at once, kissed Maria repeatedly, and then serenely turning her face to the judge, acknowledged that she had added to the guilt by so obstinate a denial, that all her friend had said, had been true, save only that she had thrown the dead infant into the river, and not buried it in the wood.

"They were both committed to prison, and as they both persevered in their common confession, the process was soon made out, and the condemnation followed the trial: and the sentence, by which they were both to be beheaded with the sword, was ordered to be put in force the next day but one. On the morning of the execution, the delinquents were brought together, in order that they might be reconciled

with each other, and join in common prayer for forgiveness of their common guilt. And now Maria's thoughts took another turn: the idea that her benefactress, that so very good a woman, should be violently put out of life, and this with an infamy on her name, which would cling for ever to the little orphans, overpowered her. Her own excessive desire to die, scarcely prevented her from discovering the whole plan; and, when Harlin was left alone with her, and she saw her friend's calm and affectionate look, her fortitude was dissolved: she burst into loud and passionate weeping, and throwing herself into her friend's arms, with convulsive sobs she entreated her forgiveness. Harlin pressed the poor agonized girl to her arms: like a tender mother she kissed and fondled her wet cheeks, and in the most solemn and emphatic tones assured her, that there was nothing to forgive. On the contrary, she was her greatest benefactress and the instrument of God's goodness to remove her at once from a miserable world and from the temptation of committing a heavy crime. In vain! Her repeated promises, that she would answer before God for them both, could not pacify the tortured conscience of Maria, till at length the presence of the clergyman and the preparations for receiving the sacrament, occasioned the widow to address her with- See, Maria! this is the body and blood of Christ, which takes away all sin: let us partake together of this holy repast with full trust in God, and joyful hope of our approaching happiness.' These words of comfort, uttered with cheering tones and accompanied with a look of inexpressible tenderness and serenity, brought back peace for awhile to her troubled spirit. They communicated together, and on parting, the magnanimous woman once more embraced her young friend: then stretching her hand toward heaven, said- Be tranquil, Maria! by to-morrow morning we are there, and all our sorrows stay here behind us.'

"I hasten to the scene of the execution; for I anticipate my reader's feelings in the exhaustion of my own heart. Serene and with unaltered countenance the lofty minded Harlin heard the strokes of the death-bell, stood before the scaffold while the staff was broken over her,

and at length ascended the steps, all with a steadiness and tranquillity of manner which was not more distant from fear than from defiance and bravado.Altogether different was the state of poor Maria with shattered nerves and an agonizing conscience that incessantly accused her as the murderess of her friend, she did not walk but staggered towards the scaffold, and stumbled up the steps. While Harlin, who went first, at every step, turned her head round and still whispered to her, raising her eyes to heaven, but a few minutes, Maria! and we are there!' scaffold she again bade her farewell, again repeating' Dear Maria! but one minute now, and we are together with God.'-But when she knelt down and her neck was bared for the stroke, the unhappy girl lost all self-command and with a loud and piercing shriek she bade them hold and not murder the innocent.

On the

She is innocent! I have borne false witness! I alone am the murderess!" She rolled herself now at the feet of the executioner, and now at those of the clergymen, and conjured them to stop the execntion that the whole story had been invented by herself; that she had never brought forth, much less destroyed, an infant; that for her friend's sake she made this discovery; that for herself she wished to die, and would die gladly, if they would take away her friend, and promise to free her soul from the dreadful agony of having murdered her friend by false witness. The executioner asked Harlin, if there were any truth in what Maria Schoning had said. The heroine answered with manifest reluctance: 'most assuredly she hath said the truth: I confessed myself guilty, because I wished to die, and thought it best for both of us and now that my hope is on the moment of its accomplishment, I cannot be supposed to declare myself innocent for the sake of saving my life-but any wretchedness is to be endured, rather than that poor creature should be hurried out of the world in a state of despair.'

"The outery of the attending populace prevailed to suspend the execution: a report was sent to the assembled magistrates, and in the mean time one of the priests reproached the widow in bitter words for her former false confession. "What? she replied sternly, but without anger, what would the truth have availed? Before I perceived my friend's

purpose, I did deny it: my assurance was pronounced an impudent lie: I was already bound for the torture, and so bound that the sinews of my hands started, and one of their worships in the large white peruke, threatened that he would have me stretched till the sun shone through me! and that then I should cry out, yes, when it was too late.'-The priest was hard-hearted or superstitious enough to continue his reproofs, to which the noble woman condescended no further answer. The other clergyman, however, was both more rational and more humane. He succeeded in silencing his colleague, and the former half of the long hour, which the magistrates took in making speeches on the improbability of the tale, instead of re-examining the culprits in person, he employed in gaining from the widow a connected account of all the circumstances, and in listening occasionally to Maria's passionate descriptions of all her friend's goodness and magnanimity. For she had gained an influx of life and spirit from the assurance in her mind, both that she had now rescued Harlin from death, and was about to expiate the guilt of her purpose by her own execution. For the fatter half of the time, the clergyman remained in silence, lost in thought, and momentarily expecting the return of the messenger. All which, during the deep silence of this interval could be heard, was one exclamation of Harlin to her unhappy friend-Oh! Maria! Maria! couldst thou but have kept up thy courage but for another minute, we should have been now in heaven! The messenger came back with an order from the magistrates

-to proceed with the execution! With re-animated countenance, Harlin placed her neck on the block, and her head was severed from her body amid a general shriek from the crowd. The executioner fainted after the blow, and the under hangman was ordered to take his place. He was not wanted. Maria was already gone: her body was found as cold as if she had been dead for some hours. The flower had been snapt in the storm, before the scythe of violence could come near it."

JOHN CLARE,

THE NORTHAMPTONSHIRE PEASANT.

(Continued from our lust.)

We should have mentioned as preli minary to the publication of Clare's

Poems, that in the year 1817, he left Helpstone, and went into the employ of Mr. Wilders, where he first met with Patty, who was destined to be his future companion through life-but as he observes in one of his letters at this period, "a poor man's meeting with a wife is reckoned but little improvement to his condition, particularly with the embarrassments I laboured under at that time." With the view of relieving himself from these troubles, and thinking it but fair that his love of poesy should contribute to his support, as well as to his amusement, the latter being too great a luxuy for a poor man to indulge in, he began to consider seriously about publishing a small Volume of Poems by subscription; and having some time before ascertained, from a Printer, at Market Deeping, that the expense of 300 Copies of a prospectus would not be more than a pound, he set himself resolutely to work to obtain that sum. The story of his proceedings are told by himself, in these words:

"At the latter end of the year, I left Casterton, and went to Peckworth, a hamlet which seems by its large stretch of old foundations and ruins to have been a town of some magnitude in past times, though it is now nothing more than a half solitude of buts and odd farm houses, scattered about, some furlongs asunder: the marks of the ruins may be traced two miles further, from beginning to end. Here, by hard working, day and night, I at last got my one pound saved, for the printing of the proposals, which I never lost sight of; and, having written many more poems, excited by a change of scenery, and being over head and ears in love-above all, having the most urgent propensity to scribbling, and considering my latter materials much better than my former, which, no doubt was the case-I considered myself more qualified for the undertaking: so I wrote a letter from this place immediately to Henson, of Market Deeping, wishing bim to begin the proposals, and address the public himself: urging that he could do it much better than I could; but his answer was that I must do it. After this, I made some attempts; but not having a fit place for doing any thing of that kind, from lodging at a public-house, and being pestered with many inconveniences, I could not suit myself by

doing it immediately; and so from time to time it was put off. At last I determined, good or bad, to produce something; and as we had another limekiln at Ryhall, about three miles from Peckworth, [Clare was employed at this time in lime burning,] I often went there to work by myself, where I had leisure to study over such things, on my journeys of going and returning. On these walks, morning and night, I have dropped down, five or six times, to plan an address, &c. In one of these musings, my prose thoughts lost themselves in rhyme. Taking a view, as I sat beneath the shelter of a woodland hedge, of my parents' distresses at home-of my labouring so hard-and So vainly to get out of debt-and of my still added perplexities of ill-timed love-striving to remedy all, and all to no purpose,-I burst out into an exclamation of distress, "What is Life?" and instantly recollected that such a subject would be a good one for a poem; I hastily scratted down the two first verses of it, as it stands, as the beginning of the plan which I intended to adopt, and contiuued my journey to work. But when I got to the kiln, I could not work, for thinking about what I had so long been trying at; so I sat me down on a lime scuttle, and out with my pencil for an address of some sort, which good or bad, I determined to send off that day; and for that purpose, when it was finished, I started to Stamford with it, about three miles off: still, along the road, I was in a hundred minds whether I should throw up all thoughts about the matter, or stay till a future opportunity, to have the advice of some friend or other; but, on turning it over in my mind again, a second thought imformed me that I had no friend; I was turned adrift on the broad ocean of life, and must either sink or swim; so I weighed matters on both sides, and fancied, let. what would come, it could but balance with the former: If my hopes of the Poems failed, I should not be a pin worse than usual; I could but work then as I did already: nay I considered that I should reap benefit from the disappointment; the downfall of my hopes would free my mind, and let me know that I had nothing to trust to but work. So with this favourable idea 1 pursued my intention, dropping down on a stoneheap before I entered the town, to give