that he had overheard high words pass between the deceased and the prisoner on the preceding night; that the former had accused him of having a design on her property, and had forbidden him to enter her room again. Further evidence went to prove that the prisoner had on the preceding day been dismissed from his employment; and, likewise, that he had not occupied his own bed during the past night. These depositions having been taken, a party was sent to examine the apartment of the deceased, and also that of the prisoner, and to take notes of what they should find therein. It was ascertained that the contents of the table were removed apparently after the murder had been committed, as there were bloody footsteps between it and the bed. On examining the body it appeared that the wounds had been given by a knife, the pillow having been previously pressed over the mouth, to prevent any outcry being made. The room was searched, but no instrument could be found on which to ground suspicion. Having made this survey, they proceeded to Wilhelm's room. As they did so, slight traces of blood were visible on an attentive investigation; and further search being made, a knife covered with blood was found concealed beneath the bed-clothes; and under the mattress were discovered the sum of forty marks, which were likewise stained with the hideous evidence of crime. On comparing the knife with the wounds inflicted on the deceased, it appeared that they must have been made by a weapon of much larger dimensions than the one produced; but, as all the rest of the evidence was most circumstantial and conclusive, this circumstance was treated but lightly, and Wilhelm Martin was committed to prison as a murderer.

It must not be supposed that during all this time the friends of the accused remained inactive. The few he possessed were indefatigable in their efforts to prove his innocence. Unfortunately, however, for him, the evidence they gave was not calculated to remove the prejudice against him, and most cruel were the reflections of poor Clärchen when she became aware that, instead of being the happy means of saving her lover, -which she had fondly imagined would be the case, she was made the principal tool by which to work his destruction. Wilhelm was sentenced to die. The popular feeling was strong against him, and the belief in his guilt almost universal. There were few to mourn his early death; but those few wept in earnest. His days were numbered, and he spent them as a Christian man best might, in preparing for the last. Clärchen and his mother saw him often. Early in the morning were these two sorrowing women to be seen pursuing their hopeless walk towards the condemned cell of the unfortunate prisoner. The grief of the mother was the more clamorous, while that of Clärchen sunk deeper, and did its work within. Wilhelm longed for their presence; but when they came he almost wished to be alone again. He felt that there was no hope, and he shrunk from the sight of sorrow which he could not comfort; life, with its joys and sorrows, was departing from him, and he already looked upon them as things in which he had no part. Still there were moments when the love of life made itself felt, and feelings came thronging back upon his heart, which made him feel that it would be very sweet to live, and that it was very hard to die with Clärchen by his side to love him. And there was shame, bitter shame, as he thought on the felon's death, and the crowd that would be assembled to gaze upon his ignominious end. Time wore on, and Clärchen, who had concealed her grief from Wilhelm, (for, would he

not suffer to see her weep?) now showed in her person the ravages which sorrow had inade there.

The last day was all but come-that dreaded day!—and, sad as had been the time, it had passed swiftly. It was the eve of the execution, and Clärchen passed it, as usual, with the lover from whom she was so soon to part. Two hours were worn away; the evening drew towards its close; and but few words had passed between them. Their hearts were too full for speech. A bell tolled. The hour for closing the prison gates had arrived, and they must part. For the first time Wilhelm fixed his sorrowing but tearless gaze on Clärchen. "Meine geliebte !" he exclaimed, with an irresistible burst of emotion, "must I leave thee?" and he leant his head upon her shoulder, and, for the first time since his condemnation he wept. And she wept with him, and her tears, as they fell on the brow which rested on her bosom, seemed as though they fell like a peaceful dew upon his sorrows. "We must part; but to-morrow, dearest, shall I see you? Early it must be," he added mournfully. She could not speak; but her tears feel like rain. One more kiss, and a pressure of the hand, to show that she understood him, and she was gone.

Among those who had been foremost in showing kindness to the mourners was the Ritters Diener. His advances were at first received with coldness by Wilhelm's mother; but this did not last. He succeeded in persuading her that it was by compulsion only that he had given his evidence. But Clärchen could scarcely tolerate his presence. Still the Herr Pruss was universally considered to be possessed of most kindly feelings, and to cherish a high sense of moral rectitude.

Clärchen returned home with a heavy heart, for she had but one more leave to take of him she loved. She found the afflicted mother sitting by the old man's side, answering his childish and oft-repeated questions with a patience which at a moment so trying it was beautiful to witness. They were almost in darkness, for the Frau Martin was frugal, and her work was over.

After a few painful questions asked and answered, Clärchen left the room to procure a light. Heinrich Pruss's door was open. He was not there; and, as the fire was burning in the stove, she did not hesitate to enter and obtain what she required. As with her lighted candle in her hand she was again making her way towards the door, her eyes fell upon an object which on her entrance she had overlooked. It was a ring, that lay half concealed on a writing-table, among some papers. Impelled by a stronger motive than mere curiosity, she hastily drew it forth. There could be no mistake: it had been Katerina's a ring she always wore,—and a hope, a blessed hope, darted like lightning through Clärchen's brain. She searched again a hurried, anxious search, for she felt that she had not yet obtained proof enough to save him. For a long time she sought in vain, and, as she turned over the papers, and held her light in every direction which she thought might be serviceable to her views, she glanced often towards the door, in fear lest the owner of the room should return. At last, in despair of procuring further testimony, she was leaving the room, when she perceived a box, the hinges of which seemed loosened, and the lock but very indifferently secured. In a moment she was on her knees before it; her candle on the floor; her whole soul engrossed in the hope which had dawned upon her. It required but a very trifling force to open the box, and Clärchen strength was nerved by love and fear. The lid was

thrown back, and she saw money. That was nothing: she must look again. She did look; and this time she was rewarded, for she found a knife-a rusty knife-somewhat larger than Wilhelm's, (this her quick eye perceived at once); and, more important than all, among that heap of heavy dollars there was gold. Yes! there was a pair of earrings, which she could swear were worn by Katerina on the night she was murdered. Clärchen saw it all; and saw, too, with happiness too great for words—almost for thought-that she should save her lover. She clasped her newly-found treasures closely in her hands, the knife still open, and was in the act of rising from her knees, trembling with joy and agitation, when a slight noise at her side made her start, and on looking round she perceived the Ritters Diener! Clärchen's presence of mind did not desert her. She felt "I have that which can save his life, and if I can but reach that door I am free. Having before his entrance shut down the lid of the box, she could not feel sure that he had been aware of her occupation, though her proximity to it was suspicious. Her voice was tremulous; but she strove to make it calm, as she said, "Good evening, Herr Pruss; I came for a light, and not finding you, I took it myself." Having said this, she advanced towards the door, slowly, lest he should suspect her.

Poor Clärchen! all your little artifices are useless! a hand is laid upon your shoulder, and you are a prisoner! She screamed-she could not help it as she felt herself dragged by the cruel man still further from the door, and from human aid: but she still held her precious possessions in her hand, the open knife, the ear-rings, and the ring. "A light? and what may you have there besides, my pretty maiden?" said Heinrich, taking her hand in his, and holding it fast. Clärchen could not answer. For a moment her faculties seemed suspended: voice and thought were alike gone. But she still held her hand firmly closed, for an instinct stronger than reason was her prompter. "Come, open your hand: this will not do," said Heinrich impatiently. "I do not wish to hurt you; but I know what you have taken, and I must have it!"

"Never!" cried Clärchen, with sudden energy. you kill me, as you killed Katerina.”

66 Never, unless

Alas! what could she, a poor weak girl, effect against a man strong in his evil purposes, resolved to succeed, and heedless of the means he might employ. But she could yet shriek for aid, and loudly did she call as he endeavoured with all his force to wrest from her the tokens of his crime. But, embarrassed between the efforts he made to secure his prize, and the necessity of endeavouring to stop the mouth of his victim, it was a more difficult task than he had expected. Relentlessly did he wrench back the fingers that with a force almost supernatural resisted his efforts; and, with one hand pressed over her mouth, with the other he strove to open the two small hands which would not be parted from that which was now dearer to her than life. But the handle of the knife is in his power; and with a remorseless hand he draws the blade backwards and forwards through the palm, till the blood flows from many wounds. Still she holds on. It is his life, and she will not lose it. Again he twists the blade round, till the fingers are almost severed from the hand! But, sprained, and cut, and dislocated as they are, the woman's love (truer than the steel that wounds them) still holds on.

The contest was nearly over, for her strength is almost exhausted,

when voices are heard. Help is at hand! Her screams have been heard, and she is saved! Daunted, powerless, and covered with shame, the man of worth was led away by the officers of justice. Clärchen did not faint, but she was very sick, so they laid her on the bed, and dressed her wounds. It was late; and that night she could not visit the prison, so Wilhelm was left to endure hours of mental agony, such as none but those who are to die on the morrow can imagine. But, with that morning light came Clärchen: and she came as the messenger of joy and, when Wilhelm could understand why she looked so happy, he kissed again and again those poor wounded hands, and their tears were tears of joy.

The Ritters Diener suffered in Wilhelm's stead, for the evidence against him was conclusive; he confessed his guilt, and the artifices he had made use of to fix the crime on another. Clärchen and her lover were happy: they were married; and having inherited the wealth that poor little Katerina had intended for them, they were rich, for their wants were few.

THOSE SWEET DAYS! THOSE HAPPY DAYS!

BY P. MTEAGUE, ESQ.

OH! those sweet days-those happy days-
When I was blithe and young;

When o'er each hill and valley

A golden ray was flung:

When the smiling hours, like bounding streams,

Impatient of delay,

Leap'd swiftly on in joyous haste,

And, sparkling, flowed away!

Then eyes were bright, and cheeks were red,

And mantling blushes told

The tale of hearts so pure and warm,

They never could grow cold!

The beauteous face of glowing day,

Or starry gems of night,

Fill'd our breasts with gentle hope,

And our souls with soft delight.

This was all spring; then summer came,
Maturing every joy;

Till autumn's faded leaf proclaim'd

That gold must have alloy

For springs will go, and summers come,
And autumn's power will chide

The lovely forms which, beauteous once,
Her fairest fruits outvied.

And what of that? Time will not wait,
Nor brook an hour's delay;

The seasons change, and why should we
Expect perpetual day?

Enough for those who think aright,

That all is fix'd above;

And that the springs which never fail,
Are friendship, hope, and love!

THE MORAL ECONOMY OF LARGE TOWNS.

INDIGENCE AND BENEVOLENCE.

PART I.

THE NECESSITY OF DISTINGUISHING THE TRUE FROM THE FALSE.

BY W. C. TAYLOR, LL.D.

"THE poor you have always with you," was the declaration of Him "who spoke as never man spake;" it is one of those simple sentences whose obvious truth apparently renders it trite, but which, when we meditate upon, when we "mark, learn, and inwardly digest," is found pregnant with deep and important considerations, involving problems connected with the well-being of every individual man, and the very existence of human society. Who are the poor, and why is their existence as a class pronounced an essential condition of humanity? These are questions which everybody believes that he can answer until he comes to try; but, when called upon to answer, like the philosopher of old he is forced to reply "Si non rogas intelligo." This difficulty, which will be the more felt the more deeply it is examined, reveals to us the most marked peculiarity in the science of moral economy; it is not susceptible of rigid definition or strict demonstration, its descriptions are confessedly vague and incomplete,-its conclusions a mere estimate of conflicting probabilities. Founded on what may be called the " experience of civilization," it finds the registers of that experience vague and unsatisfactory, the nature of that civilisation the subject of angry controversy. Under such circumstances complete truth is not attainable all we can hope for is the evolution of partial truths, and some indications of the direction in which they tend to more perfect developement.

Indigence is, perhaps, one of the most difficult subjects of analysis; its nature and its extent are imperfectly known, even to those who have attempted the investigation; the mere depth of the abyss of misery is not the only difficulty; there is at once a variety and a uniformity in the horrors; there is a complication of physical suffering, mental prostration and moral ruin; many of the streams which keep the horrid pool full to the brim, and frequently threatening to overflow, -flow down from the brightest and sunniest spots in human existence, bearing with them some of the richest treasures of humanity to be whelmed for ever beneath the fathomless waters.

The terms, Poverty and Indigence, usually employed as synonyms, do not express the same idea, nor represent the same situation. Poverty is relative, indigence is absolute; the poor man has not enough, the indigent has nothing; the former wants assistance and support, the latter must have succour, or perish. In modern times a new word has been coined which has not a little increased the confusion of ideas prevailing on this subject: pauperism is employed as a common name both for indigence and poverty, and has, consequently, led to the suggestion of common remedies for the very different evils of both; the pernicious consequences may be traced in our public discussions, in our varied institutions, and even in our legislation. Finally, mendicity has been added to the chaos to express the result of indigence, a result by no

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