ELEONORA Maria Schoning was the daughter of a poor mechanic in the city of Nuremberg. Her mother had died in giving her birth; and when she was years old, she, the sole mourner, followed her father to the grave. Maria's life up to that period had been one of uninterrupted hardship and sorrow. Whilst she was yet almost an infant, her father fell sick; and after protracted suffering entirely lost the use of his limbs. Child as she was, she waited on him assiduously, and when necessity obliged them to part with a woman who had been engaged to take care of both father and daughter, she had the sole charge of the invalid. And well she fulfilled her duty. From the age of thirteen she scarcely quitted his bedside. By night, her little mattrass was stretched on the floor beside his couch; by day she attended to all his wants, rubbed warmth into his withered limbs, and with a preternatural strength that filial love supplied, she lifted him on her shoulders in and out of bed. At the same time she managed their little household economy with a sagacity and prudence beyond her years.

Neither instruction, nor society, nor help, nor hope, had Maria Schoningshe did not know what play was; she had neither friend nor companion; her character was formed in a school of constant self denial, till she had grown insensible to privation. She expected nothing-she required nothing.

Her father died with blessings and prayers upon his lips, and with his latest breath recommended his good and faithful daughter to the protection of Heaven. Indeed, she needed it, for who was so desolate as Maria Schoning!

Martin Schoning had not always been so poor as he was in his latter years. He had been a skilful, industrious, and thrifty workman; and in the early days of his marriage had not only lived very comfortably, but had contrived to lay by something to maintain him in his old age. But first his eyes failed him, which in the trade he followed were much needed; and then his general health grew feeble. He had thus been thrown out of employment, and fallen into poor circumstances. It had been only by the most rigid economy and an admirable prudence that his daughter had contrived so to eke out his scanty store as to make it last till the period of his death. When he was laid in the grave, and the expenses of the funeral discharged, there was only as much remaining as might serve to provide the poor orphan with bread till she could look about for some employment. There was also the little furniture of the humble cottage, which her father had recommended her to sell, in order that with the proceeds she might repair her scanty wardrobe, and make a decent appearance in whatever service she might obtain.

But in the first anguish of her bereft heart poor Maria could not think of these matters; she could think but of what she had lost-her only friend-her only interest in the world-all that bound her to life, was gone!

When such hurried words as despatch the poor to Heaven had been muttered by the minister, when the grave was covered in, and the gravedigger and sexton had gone their way, Maria too went home. She would rather have staid; she would have willingly sat by the grave all day, but the churchyard was a thoroughfare; and the passengers looked at her-some stopped and stared-some spoke; she could not shed her tears in quiet.

At home she was sure nobody would disturb her.

But she was mistaken; she had not been home half an hour, when some one knocked against the door; it was the assessor. He had come to inspect the property of the deceased, in order to ascertain if he had duly paid his scot and lot,

and owed nothing to the state. He asked for the keys; Maria gave him the only one she had, which was that of the cupboard where her little stock of money and clothes were stored. He was a great man, this official-very! so he routed about and turned out everything, without the slightest regard to the poor mourner, and having thoroughly examined the premises, he decided that Martin Schoning had defrauded the state-he had been under-rated, and his goods must be seized to make up the deficiency.

They were easily seized, and carried away, too; a truck conveyed the whole from the door, except the modicum of money; that went into the great man's pocket.

When her household goods and the despoilers were gone, Maria, who had no chair left, sat down upon the floor. She was alone again, and could weep with no human eye upon her-that was at least something; and there she remained all night, sleeping a little ever and anon, and then waking again to the recollection of her misfortune-and to her tears.

But with the day came more troubles. The tax officers returned, and said she must quit the house, which they had orders to take possession of. So Maria arose from the floor and went forth into the street. A person who happened to be passing and heard what was doing bade her go to the assessor's office and represent her case. "I don't think," said he, "they have any right to turn you out." So she went. She found several men writing, and one of them asked her what she wanted. She tried to speak, but tears would come instead of words. When she had stood there sobbing some time, and by her broken sentences they had obtained some idea of the nature of her errand, they told her it was useless coming there, as the matter did not rest with them; they had no authority whatever to mitigate the decree of the assessor. So she was turned into the streets again, where she walked about for some hours. When night came she mechanically turned her steps to the churchyard of St. Jacob's, where her father lay. His grave seemed the only spot on earth she had a claim to; and there, exposed to wind and weather, she remained till morning-and even slept.

When the day dawned she awoke, and fled, terror-struck, into the city. She fled the dead, but without seeking the living. On the contrary, she roamed through the least frequented streets, sought no notice, asked no alms. At length, weary, she took refuge under a quickset hedge that enclosed a garden; and there she hid herself for some hours, till hunger sent her back into the town, to wander through the streets again. When the evening closed in, she once more repaired to the churchyard; and it was past midnight when she again quitted it, and the streets were almost empty.

At the period we write of (1789) there existed a law in Nuremberg, that any female found in the streets after ten o'clock should be carried to the policeoffice. The watch received half-a-crown for every woman they took there. Of course they let none escape, so they seized on Maria and dragged her before the magistrate. When she was led into the office, she found herself in the presence of two gentlemen, one of whom had a book before him, in which he wrote down the names of the women that were brought up; the other had his hat and great-coat on, and was standing with his back to the fire. He was a fine, ruddy-looking, stout man, with an unpleasant expression of countenance, a clear, sonorous voice, and ready speech.

A few questions were put to the poor girl which clearly showed that they suspected her to belong to a very unfortunate class of women, and brought the blood of indignation into cheeks which, till now, never had cause to blush. She opened her lips to repel the imputation the question conveyed, but confusion arrested the words she would have spoken; her voice and limbs failed her and she sunk insensible on the floor.

The bell was rung, and the magistrate, whose name was Albert Herrenhausen, desired that she should be conveyed into another room; and that as she did not appear a hardened offender, she should be dismissed in the morning, with an injunction never to be found in the streets again at forbidden hours.

It was some time before she recovered her senses; when she did, they gave her a mug of water and a morsel of bread, and allowed her to stretch herself on a bench, where she passed the night. At an early hour they put her forth, without making any inquiries into the particulars of her history; but strongly enforcing the consequences that would ensue if she disobeyed the magistrate's order.

But how was she to avoid the infraction?-she, who had not where to lay her head. What pillow had she but the grave? she knew of no other; and since it appeared to her that death was her only refuge she resolved to throw herself into the Pegnitz-the river that runs close to the city.-There, "on that other shore," she should at least meet her father. That hope winged her feet, and she fled through the streets like one possessed.

She had almost reached the stream that was to terminate her earthly sorrows, when, as she was rushing through a mean alley that led down to the water, she heard herself called by name.

"Maria Schoning !" said a voice; "Maria Schoning, whither are you going so fast ?"

name.

Involuntarily she stopped; it seemed so strange that any one should know her The voice was familiar to her ear, too, although it was long since she had heard it; it was that of Ann Herlin, the servant that had lived with her father in her childhood. Ann had married an invalided soldier, and happened to be standing at her house door, when the hurried step and wild aspect of the unfortunate girl attracted her attention. "Maria, where are you running to?" said she. But Maria's face answered for her; despair was written on her features. "Good Heavens!" cried Ann, seizing her by the arm, 66 come in here!" and leading the poor fugitive into the house, she placed her by the fire, warmed her perishing limbs, and gave her food.

This unexpected mercy brought tears; the crushed heart found relief; and as soon as she could speak Maria hid her face in the bosom of her friend, and told her sad story and miserable state. "What could I do," said she, "but die ?"

But Ann comforted the bruised spirit, and bade her suffer all things for the love of God. "Life is short, dearest child," said she, "but eternity is long. We must bear the burthen that is put upon us; in his good time the Lord will lift it from our shoulders. It is not for us to fling it down."

What comfortable words these were, and what a blessing it was to have found a friend! Ann bade her remain with her. "My home," said she, "as long as I have one, shall be yours;" so Maria took up her abode with kind Ann Henlin.

But Ann was very poor; she had two children; her husband was sick, and unable to work; her house was a wretched hovel, and their fare was coarse and scanty. A worthy, honest creature was Ann; but she, too, was one of those persons who seem doomed to misfortune from their cradle. The world had always gone ill with her; she had struggled hard to rise above her difficulties, but they were stronger than she was. Adverse fate had beat her out of everything but her faith and her virtue; these were nearly all she had left, but they were much, and with her charity they enabled her to bear her burthen.

It was this poverty that Maria was invited to share, and thankful she was for it. Of course she took her part of whatever work was to be got, and helped to nurse the children and the sick man.

It was in the month of February that old Martin Schoning had died; and during the ensuing spring and summer the labour of the two women kept want from the door; but when winter came round again their difficulties increased; employment became scarce; and Ann, exhausted by fatigue, cold, and poor living, fell sick. Maria toiled night and day to win bread for her benefactress as long as she could get anything to do; and when she could not, they had recourse to selling their little furniture, bit by bit, till all was gone but the bed that Anton Herlin lay on.

Ann was ill the whole winter; towards spring she showed symptoms of amendment; but as she improved the old man grew worse, and early in the month of March he died.

The only assistance they had through these troubles was from the doctor, who attended them gratuitously. But he was a very poor man, who, though he took no money from them, could not afford to give them any. Sometimes he brought a flask of wine in his pocket, and sometimes a little food, for he saw that Ann's illness was occasioned by want of proper nourishment and the comforts her exhausted constitution required.

She got better at last; her health seemed tolerably re-established, but her mind appeared affected by her enduring misfortunes. She had become silent and abstracted, and often sat for hours on a low stool, the only seat they had left, buried in a sort of stupor. Meantime work failed wholly; charity might have aided them, but Maria was too shy to ask it.

It was the last day of March, the weather was extremely cold, and the only morsel of bread they had had been divided betwixt the widow's two children in the morning. It was now night; and for the last two hours the youngest girl had been crying uninterruptedly for food, whilst the eldest lay on the floor in a state of complete exhaustion. In a corner of the room sat Maria, rocking backwards and forwards her attenuated frame, as if seeking by incessant motion to suppress the gnawing pangs of hunger. Ever and anon she glanced at the children, and then at their wretched mother, who with her hands crossed upon her breast, lay silent and motionless on the straw mat that served her for a bed.

Suddenly the great clock of the cathedral struck ten. Maria started to her feet; that hour, that clock, seemed to have awakened some new train of thought, Her movements were hurried; there was a strange wildness in her eye; she pressed the children convulsively to her breast, imprinted a kiss on the forehead of her unhappy friend, and rushed out of the house.

She

The wind blew, and the rain fell fast, and the streets were deserted. met nobody but the watch, who immediately seized her; and as he happened to be the very officer that had arrested her before, he told her mockingly, that as this was the second time she had been found offending, she would be flogged in the morning, in order to teach her better behaviour for the future.

for

Maddened by the bitter contumely of the man, her own sufferings, and the thought of the starving ones to whom she had no hope of bringing bread, a terrible idea took possession of her diseased and excited mind; and turning wildly to the officer, she bade him lead her away to the magistrate at once; I am far more guilty than you think," said she; "I have done a murder on my child." Surprise silenced the insolent laughter of the man, and with all speed he conducted her to the town house, where she was shut up for the night; the charge being of too grave a nature to be investigated at that late hour.

On the following morning she reiterated her assertion. She declared that she had been delivered of a child, which with the assistance of her friend, Ann Herlin, she had murdered; and that Ann, with her consent and approbation, had buried the body in a wood; the exact spot she could not tell.

Upon this Ann was forthwith apprehended as an accomplice in the crime; which, of course, she utterly denied. Neither persuasion nor threats availing to bring her to a confession, the two women were confronted; when to Ann's amazement, Maria persevered in her denunciation:-" We murdered the child, and Ann buried it in a wood."

Ann fixed her eyes on her friend, and after contemplating her for some moments in silence, she asked her what she had ever done to her, that could merit such a return as this; and turning to the magistrate she reiterated her denial. "I am innocent; I know nothing whatever of the crime of which she accuses me." As nothing more could be elicited from her, the magistrate desired that the instruments of torture should be brought in, for the purpose of extracting confession; but this was a very unexpected turn in the affair to poor Maria-that they should both be condemned to death, she had expected; but to see her benefactress submitted to the rack was a trial she had not reckoned upon.

With an energy and rapidity that prevented the officers impeding her intention, she rushed across the room, and seizing the already bound hands of

her unhappy friend, she whispered in her ear, "Confess all! confess all! dear Ann! Our sufferings will be soon over, and your children be provided for in the Orphans' Hospital."

Maria's design was manifest. Ann Herlin impressed a tender kiss on the lips of the poor girl, and then, turning calmly to the magistrate, she admitted the truth of the accusation. "All the young woman says is true," said she; "I am as guilty as she is. She is, however, wrong in one particular; I did not bury the child, but threw it into the river."

This avowal appearing perfectly satisfactory, the women were led away, and separately confined. They exchanged a significant smile as they parted, and a look that spoke the determination of each to be firm and faithful. Judgment was soon pronounced; they were condemned to die on the scaffold; an interval of four-and-twenty hours only being allowed them for preparation. They passed the night calmly, slept, and prayed.

In the morning they were conducted to the chapel, where prayers were read; and when the prison clock tolled the hour of execution, they ascended the cart that was to convey them to the scaffold-Ann with a firm step and unmoved countenance, but Maria with trembling lips and features that betrayed the deepest anguish. They were obliged to assist her out of the cart and up the steps that led to the platform. When she had reached it, her strength and her recollection seemed entirely to fail her. She did not fall, but she stood stiff and motionless, with her eyes fixed upon her friend. The consciousness that she was taking away the life of that faithful friend by a lie had struck terror into her soul-pity and dismay into her heart. She was prepared to die herself, but not to see Ann die. But the latter, who penetrated her feelings, bade her take courage:"In a few minutes," said she," we shall be with God!"

In the meanwhile, the executioner having made his final preparation, and the minister having pronounced his last benediction, Ann advanced. "Me first," she said; and with an expressive look at Maria, she pointed to the heavens above, saying, "yet a little, and we are there!" and then laid her head calmly on the block. The axe was already raised over it, when Maria awakening from the trance of horror that seemed to have stiffened her limbs, and palsied her speech, uttered a piercing scream.

"Kill her not! spare her! spare her!" cried she, "she is guiltless, I alone murdered the child."

She then threw herself at the feet of the minister, and swore to him, by all that was sacred, that the accusation was a false one, from first to last. "I never

had a child," said she, "and therefore could not have killed it." For myself I merit death for the crime I have committed in falsely accusing the best of women-I desire to die; but, oh! do not let me leave the world with the sin of murder on my soul, for murder it will be if you take away the life of Ann Herlin."

Truth spoke in her passionate voice and agonised countenance; the executioner stayed his hand, and the minister inquired of Ann Herlin whether what the girl now asserted was the fact. "God, alone knows it is!" answered Ann. "I was willing to die in order to escape the wretchedness of life, and I am willing still; but I cannot suffer that poor soul to leave the world in the persuasion that she is my murderess."

The sensation this scene created may be imagined. The crowd that had assembled round the scaffold was violently excited, and insisted that the execution of the sentence should be suspended; a stretch of authority which the official persons present said exceeded their powers. However, the people prevailed; and a messenger was despatched to the magistrates to inform them of what had happened.

During the interval, the minister took the opportunity of approaching the women and inquiring into their history, whereupon they related to him those particulars of their distress and destitution which had reduced them to so desperate an expedient to escape from them. Maria depicted, in the most affecting lo zabod brood valoris nati