Volume 2 — PART THE FOURTH.

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Count Donat’s Daughters.

Emmeline of Sargans to Amabel Melthal.

Perhaps, dear Amabel, you had good reasons for quitting the Castle of Sargans, though filial respect forbids my examining what those reasons were; but have not I reasons equally good for lamenting your departure? oh! never more term me your mistress; that name is painful to my heart and injurious to our friendship. You know well, that I never treated you as really filling that 158station, to which you were destined, when in the days of our childhood my father first brought you with him to Sargans. You were not my attendant; you were my companion, were my sister! away with the jargon of illustrious ancestry and of humble birth; such distinctions disgrace the lips of Helvetia’s daughters; and in truth, dear Amabel, when all is justly weighed, she who is the daughter of Henric Melthal, the relation of Walter Forest and the pupil of Gertrude Bernsdorf, has far greater cause to be proud of her origin, than one who is the offspring of Donat and Mellusina, and who must blush to name as her grandfather Ethelbert of Carlsheim, the unfortunate and the guilty.

Yet take comfort, Emmeline of Sargans! 159you too can number some few among the connections of your family, who would not disgrace the best and proudest. The venerable Urania Venosta deigns to bestow on you the names of daughter and of grand-child; what matters it, that her blood does not actually flow in my veins, since her heart feels towards me the affection of a mother?

Never can I prize too highly my good fortune in having gained an interest in the bosom of this admirable matron, and being occasionally permitted to profit by her intercourse!

For this too am I indebted to you, my Amabel! its true, I can still remember well to have seen her in this Castle, while I was yet but a child; I remember 160well, that she bestowed on me the most affectionate appellations, that she suffered me to repose in her arms, and that when she quitted Sargans, I wept bitterly, and begged, that I might accompany her. But the harshness with which my father repulsed my dear lost sister and myself, whenever we ventured to express a wish that we might see Urania once more, aided by the lapse of years and the volatility of youth, had by degrees nearly effaced all recollection of her; when you, my beloved friend, arrived at the Castle, and recalled to my mind the noble image of Urania. You boasted, that you had resided for some time under her protection, and that she had taken the greatest pains to instill into your 161young mind lessons of the purest virtue, in order that you might impart them to the two poor orphan sisters, when your father should conduct you to Count Donat’s fortress; a step, to which nothing less powerful than Urania’s influence could have induced Henric Melthal to consent.

That step was the preservation of Amalberga and of myself. Orphans in truth we were! brought up under the tuition of such a father, and associating with his abandoned intimates, what was it probable would become of us? Heaven be thanked, you have saved us, or at least you have saved me. But you are torn from me; and now that you are gone, how difficult should I have found it to remain steady in the way that I 162ought to pursue, had you not shown me the secret path through the wood which terminates at Urania’s convent. I have already frequently eluded the vigilance of my attendants; I have visited Urania; have always found the doors of her cell open to me, and methinks have never returned, without feeling myself happier and better than when I came.

And all this do I owe to you, and yet in writing to your friend Emmeline, can you resolve to offend her by calling yourself her servant? Amabel, you are my benefactress; while I exist, never will I cease to thank you.

163

Emmeline of Sargans to Amabel.

I have just left the venerable Urania, but I have received in her society to-day less satisfaction than usual. I have gone through a strict examination. Though, Heaven be thanked, my heart is unconscious of harbouring any thing which I should blush to own, yet I could not help feeling, that such close enquiries were painful to me, and that it was impossible for me to answer every question with equal readiness. Explain to me, Amabel, what was the cause of these sensations; you are more intelligent than I am, and have frequently set me right, while I have 164been bewildered among the secret avenues of my heart. Who was it but Amabel, who first taught me to look into myself, and to sit in severe and impartial judgment over my own thoughts and feelings?

Urania during my former visits had thought proper to enquire, how far I am acquainted with the annals of my family. I did not conceal from her, that Gertrude Bernsdorf during the short visit which Count Donat suffered me to pay you in the Vale of Frutiger, had made known to us every thing, of which during fifty years she had been an eyewitness. Urania blames highly the good old woman’s loquaciousness, and assures me, that above half what I have heard from her was only calculated to do me 165harm. I can well believe, that Urania is in the right; it is at least certain, that Gertrude’s narrative had almost robbed me of one virtue, respect for the character of my father; how can I love and esteem that cruel Donat, who was the author of all those complicated misfortunes, which afflicted so many of the best of earthly beings, and my admirable friend Urania among the rest? the benevolent saint chides me for encouraging such thoughts, and bids me forget that, which she has herself long since forgotten; but how is it possible for me to obey her? alas! I have already been myself too severely the victim of Count Donat’s vices. I cannot forget that he abandoned my youth to the ill impressions of his low-born 166and libertine associates; that he degraded me to be the companion of his Parasites and his harlots: I cannot forget, that it is he and his harsh treatment of her, that I must thank for the loss of my beloved Amalberga!

The subject of Urania’s next question regarded the fate of my sister: on this point also I answered her with openness. I did not merely relate those melancholy scenes, which never can be effaced from my memory; I painted them with such warmth and in such lively colours, that the emotion with which my story was heard convinced me, that I had made them present to the eyes of my auditor. Still was she not contented with merely hearing me briefly recite those circumstances, which made her mingle her 167tears with mine: she has desired me to communicate to her in writing all that has past in the most circumstantial manner; and she flatters me with the hope of her being able to found such conjectures on this narrative, as may be the source to me of much future consolation, and may even be the means of finally re-uniting me to my dear lost sister.

Oh! were I but certain, that this would really be the consequence, with what pleasure should I undertake a task, which I shall now enter upon so unwillingly! Amabel, you saw how many tears I shed, when that unexpected and most inexplicable event took place; and you will not wonder, that sitting where I now do, those tears flow with renewed violence. It was in this very chamber, 168that I saw Amalberga for the last time! what pain did it cost me to tear myself away from her! in what distraction did I fall at the feet of my cruel father, and entreat him no longer to imprison my beloved sister, or at least to make me her companion in captivity! he repulsed me with frowns; and the innocent girl heard Count Donat’s own hand turn the lock of this chamber, in which the next morning she was no longer to be found. My father and myself mutually accused each other of her flight; his accusations were curses, mine were confined to tears: whether both were equally innocent of Amalberga’s disappearing is at least to me still a mystery.

And these events, which when even slightly hinted at gave my heart a 169severe pang, must I compel myself to commit to paper calmly and circumstantially!—yet be it so! the painful task will cost me many tears, but they will not be the first tears, which have streamed within these walls. Urania informs me, that this very chamber was long her own; how severe were her afflictions is already known to you.

I now come to the third subject of enquiry, with which (I might almost say) my adopted mother tortured me this morning; and I am scarcely less unwilling to mention it even to you, than I was unable to reply to her with firmness and sincerity.

You cannot have forgotten what past at the tournament, at which I saw the Bishop of Coira’s nephew for the 170first time. Urania seems to be almost as well acquainted as you and myself with all that past on that occasion; and were I not thoroughly convinced of the discretion of my faithful Amabel, I might be tempted to suspect her of having incautiously suffered herself to be seduced into revealing the secrets of her friend.

I was not so frank, as you might possibly have been in a similar situation; and my want of confidence in her drew down upon me in some degree the matron’s displeasure. I will endeavour on a future occasion to repair my fault, but I doubt being able to prevail on myself to do so. It seems to me very difficult, I might almost say quite impossible, to lay before the eyes of a Nun 171considerably advanced in years those weaknesses, which she must have long since forgotten and have learned to despise and ridicule; even supposing, that she should ever have been subject to them in the same degree with myself.

I flatter myself, that I deserve to be forgiven, and that I should run no risque in discovering my secret sentiments even before the most severe tribunal. Who could see Herman of Werdenberg without emotion? neither is it an object of slight importance, to obtain by marriage my deliverance from a family so constituted as Count Donat’s. I am assured daily, that I might immediately obtain that deliverance, would I but insist upon being permitted to 172assume the veil; and heaven only knows, what step I should not be ready to take, rather than remain longer exposed to such dangers as environ me at Sargans, had I not hopes of being released in a more agreeable manner, by the hand of my beloved warrior. Do you think it possible, my friend, that Herman should persist in his obstinacy much longer, when his only motive is grounded on his aversion to my name, the melancholy and hated name of Count Donat’s daughter?

It would be superfluous to describe to you the mode of life at present followed in the Castle of Sargans; things go on in their old track. The female favourites of the Count my father resemble each other so nearly, 173that the change is scarcely perceptible, when one Sultana retires, and a new one commands in her place. Those days, which I might otherwise pass in tranquillity, while Count Donat with his wild companions are ranging among hills and forests in pursuit of game, those days are now made almost insupportable, thanks to the insolence of the reigning mistress of the Castle. Besides this, the boon companion of my father’s riotous pleasures Abbot Luprian of Cloister-Curwald, through impatience for the return of the hunters, never fails to make his appearance at the Castle too soon; and then not knowing how to dispose of his time, he thinks proper to bestow it on me, a favour with which I could most readily dispense. 174This man is odious to me beyond measure: the ostentatious pomp of his appearance continually reminds me of that worthless Guiderius, who made Urania pass so many uneasy hours. Perhaps, my aversion to the Abbot is merely founded on prejudice; God grant, that I may not find cause to be confirmed in my ill opinion.

175

Amabel Melthal to Emmeline of Sargans.

It is not then necessary for me to apologize, or to justify my secret departure from her father’s Castle, before the tribunal of Lady Emmeline: it seems, she is already aware, that it was absolutely necessary for me to tear myself away from one who is most dear to me, whether the name by which I call her is that of mistress or of friend.—Oh! would that my prayers could obtain from Heaven, dear Emmeline, that the many acts of kindness which you have bestowed on me, might soon be rewarded by your deliverance from the 176snares, with which your virtue is now surrounded; by your deliverance from them through the affection of Count Herman!

Yet should you reach this utmost aim of your wishes, I doubt much, whether you would even then enjoy such complete happiness, as is mine at this moment. Fortune acts by the great-ones of the earth much like a step-mother. Their highest state of bliss is seldom any thing better than splendid captivity; and the pomp and state in which they exist, the throng of shining courtiers who wait upon their footsteps, the necessity of sustaining the dignity of their rank (an obligation, which frequently weighs upon them most heavily) all these are in fact absolute 177fetters. We, more humble children of the land, are acquainted with no pomp except that of nature, which appears to us ever new; no attendants are ours, except such as inclination and a similarity of tastes and feelings induce to be the voluntary companions of our steps; and no duties are imposed on us but those which are most delightful in the performance, domestic virtue and love for the land to which we are indebted for our birth.

Oh! Lady, how earnestly do I wish for your presence in these dwellings of tranquillity! I deny not, that the vallies in which your father’s lofty fortress stands, are fair and fruitful; your castle on the Rhine, whose walls are bathed by that proud river flowing past them 178in calm majesty, is a noble and stately mansion, and the shades of the Munster-Vale remind me of those of Paradise: but compared with the days which I now pass in these calm and happy habitations, believe me, the pleasures of your more brilliant mode of life appear but as mere shadows.

Yet let us have patience! the spirit of liberty will by degrees pervade every quarter of the land, and then will every quarter of the land be as happy, as that which I inhabit. Even among us, there are certain men (you will observe, that I say men, for we women are ever more easily satisfied with our condition than that haughty sex) there are among us some men, who in spite of all the freedom which we enjoy still speak frequently 179of chains and task-masters, and make loud complaints against the prevalence of cruelty and oppression. They call the emperor’s representatives (one of whom is established in our neighbourhood) by no gentler name than that of tyrants; and they are by no means pleased, when these powerful lords condescend to honour us with their intercourse, and to take a part in our rural festivities.

You know well, lady, that I am not disposed to like the society of persons of rank much superior to my own: yet in justice to our newly arrived governor, I must beg you not to imagine, that the Lord of Landenberg in the least resembles either a voluptuous Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, or a fierce 180and tyrannical Count Donat of Carlsheim. No! he is a man, who unites the agreeable polish of courtly manners to the frank and generous heart of a true Helvetian; he willingly adopts the plain familiar tone, which prevails among our retired mountains, and is right in thinking, that it must be gratifying to every one of us to obtain the notice of a man of such peculiar merit and who fills so distinguished a situation.

In our part of the country a thousand rural feasts are at present celebrating, such as might be worthy of the golden age. The most illustrious of our people are assembled here from all quarters; and the smile of joy and bloom of health, which animate the 181countenances of these numerous pilgrims of pleasure, make our society more gay and brilliant, than is ever found to be the case at the costly entertainments of princes. Every thing is pleasing and satisfactory, except that on the countenances of some of the men (as I before informed you) I can sometimes discover the marks of secret discontent. Among them I must reckon my father and brother, Gertrude’s husband (Gertrude herself was prevented by indisposition from joining us) and Walter Forest, who is lately arrived from the Vale of Frutiger; of all these, not one seems to receive the attentions and kindness of our worthy governor with as much gratitude, as his condescension deserves. Its true, the numerous 182society at present collected in our valley, and the festivities which are every day taking place, are profest to be in honour of the arrival of the emperor’s new representative; but to me it appears evident, that their intention is less to show respect for him, than to furnish an opportunity of examining his behaviour, and of prying into the secrets of his heart, when thrown off his guard by gaiety and pleasure.

Methinks, lady, what I write is not proper to be seen by every eye: but the bearer of this letter is trusty; and besides the characters of our pens are to most of our cotemporaries inexplicable riddles. The other day, when we carried presents to the Castle, according 183to custom on the arrival of every new governor, the Lord of Landenberg singled me from the croud of girls of my own age, and enquired, whether I was a native of these vallies. On this my dear partial mother undertook to answer for me; and in the course of her speech she found means to run over the list of my accomplishments (as she fondly called them) among which she enumerated the art of writing. The governor looked astonished, and acknowledged, that in this respect he must give way to me though a female; nor did he believe, (he added) that among all his lay-attendants there was one who knew how to guide the pen, unless it were Wolfenrad, his Seneschal.

184—“Here, Wolfenrad!” he continued, motioning to him to advance; “this pretty maid is Amabel Melthal, who I am told is well instructed in the arts of reading and writing. Were you still unmarried, she would make a proper wife for you, and both might be of great use to me in my family affairs.”—

I blushed and retired hastily, and concealed myself among my companions; married or unmarried, Wolfenrad should never be my choice—the conversation too seemed to have taken a turn by no means to the taste of our matrons, for they lost no time in leading us back from the Castle; and when Walter Forest returned with my father and brother from an excursion, which they 185had made among the eastern mountains, they blamed the conduct of the matrons in suffering the young Damsels to accompany them on their visit to the governor. My mother was censured more than all the rest for not having at least ordered me to remain behind; for they say, that my education in the convent of Zurich under the venerable Urania, and the polish which my manners acquired during my residence at your father’s Castle, have given me a kind of foreign air, which distinguishes me from the rest of the girls, and which in spite of my inferiority to most of them in point of beauty, makes it difficult for me to escape without observation.

I must now close this long epistle, 186by wishing you patience to endure your present difficulties, and recommending you to look forward to better times, which I hope are at no great distance.

187

Emmeline of Sargans to Urania Venosta.

I once possest a beloved companion, who was dear to me as myself; Amalberga was her name. She was my sister; but the bonds, which nature had formed between us, were slight in comparison, with those of affection; an affection which I should have felt for her, had I been a princess, and Amalberga a peasant’s daughter. It seems to me as if whole years had elapsed, since we were separated; and yet all circumstances, and particularly the unremitting activity which is still exercised in pursuit of the fugitive, combine to assure 188me, that only a few months have crept away since her disappearance.

You desired, dear mother, to see the history of the poor persecuted girls traced by my pen; I now send you the produce of several sleepless nights, for the night is the only time which I am permitted to call my own. I suspect, you foresaw that the harshness of my jailors would ere long interrupt my personal intercourse with you, and that this was the motive, which induced you to advise my having recourse to my pen.

Count Donat suffered his daughters to grow up under his roof in total ignorance of what was owing to themselves and to others. He believed, that he had troubled himself about us quite 189sufficiently in making us over to the superintendance of a young governess, whose beauty and whose levity were her sole recommendations to favour. It was clearly her interest totally to neglect the heiresses of Carlsheim and Sargans, in order that after our removal from the world she might entirely engross the attentions of our childless father, a considerable portion of whose inheritance she doubted not being able to secure to herself.

In what regarded our persons, this neglect did us no detriment. In spite of want and oppression of every kind, the natural strength of our constitutions carried us through all difficulties, and we daily increased in bloom and stature: but the health of our minds was seriously 190shaken. No principles of virtue were inculcated; no one explained to us the difference between vice and virtue; and surrounded as we were on all sides by the worst examples, we already began to contract the bad habits of our despicable associates.

Our father’s enemies were almost as many, as there were noblemen whose domains bordered upon his own. Not one was there amongst their number, who had not been offended by him either personally or indirectly: but of them all his most dangerous and deadly foe was Count Lodowick of Homburg, the husband of that Minna of Mayenfield, for whom your history has taught me to feel such unbounded love and admiration.

191How then was it possible, after all the bitter causes of complaint which Minna alledged against Count Donat, both on her own account, and on yours and her mother’s; how was it possible, that in spite of Donat’s unremitting enmity of which he daily gave fresh proofs, the noble Count of Homburg should have condescended to sue for peace at a time, when he was the strongest; and that he should even have confided so far in the honour of his enemy, as to trust himself and his lovely wife at the Castle of Sargans?

In this transaction is not your hand perceptible, Urania? oh! you had not forgotten, that within those hated walls were immured two forsaken children, the destined victims of vice or of the 192grave. Your benevolent proposal of taking us under your care, which you laid before our father in our earliest childhood, was received by him in the same manner, with which he treats every thing tending to promote the interests of virtue; those frequent attempts, which you afterwards made to draw us within the circle of your power, proved without effect; and you now endeavoured through your friend the Countess of Homburg to snatch us from the precipice, on whose brink we stood. I am not unconscious, my kind protectress, how many artifices were tried in vain to entice us out of the precincts of the Castle of Sargans; how often during our childhood, now one emissary and now another strove to rescue us by 193force from the dominion of our worthless governess; how once the Retainers of the Convent of Zurich had actually succeeded in carrying us to some distance from the Castle, before we were overtaken and brought back to our paternal prison; and how when Count Donat complained of this outrage and demanded satisfaction of the Bishop, the good Priest returned him for answer, that he would do better to send his daughters of his own accord to be instructed by the Nuns in piety and virtue, than to retain them in the Castle of Sargans in order that they might be educated by his paramours, and become in time as worthless as their instructors. It is to you, dear mother, that we are indebted for all these endeavours to 194rescue us from ruin, and the visit of the Countess of Homburg was equally your work.

This interview between Count Lodowick and my father possest the merit of at least wearing the appearance of friendly inclinations: whether it was the means of inducing them to live on better terms in future, than had hitherto been the case, I cannot pretend to decide: but it is certain, that the Countess did not neglect the object, which had induced her to enter once more the hated Castle of Sargans. Immediately on her arrival she requested, that my sister and myself might form the society of her daughter, whom she had brought with her. Count Donat could not in common decency refuse 195her this mark of attention. Therefore during the few weeks that Count Lodowick’s family resided at Sargans, we were seldom out of the company of the Countess and her daughter, from both of whom we received a thousand undeserved testimonies of interest and attachment.

It was no slight sacrifice, which the Countess made to gratitude and friendship, when she suffered us to associate so intimately with her well-educated daughter: it was much to be feared, that she would contract some of the numerous failings, to which we had been subjected by our neglected education. But Helen of Homburg, though she was younger than ourselves, ever contrived to make us adopt her own 196proper mode of conduct, instead of suffering herself to be drawn into errors by our example.

The mother of our young friend was not contented with having planted the seeds of morality and religion in our hearts; she was anxious not to give up her benevolent task, till she had effected our total preservation. She therefore proposed to take us entirely under her superintendance, and made her request in a tone and manner, as if she had not the least doubt of its being granted. But this very request furnished our father with an opportunity of breaking off with Count Lodowick altogether, a step which he had only been prevented from taking sooner by the inconceivable generosity 197and forbearance of his illustrious guest.

Count Donat’s answer to the noble Minna’s request was proud and insolent; her rejoinder was conveyed in that tone of delicate but cutting irony, which is peculiar to herself. Her husband commented on Count Donat’s uncourteous behaviour with more warmth and bitterness, than he is accustomed to employ; and the consequence of this conversation was a total rupture between the two Counts, and the absolute overthrow of that edifice, which they had past so many days in raising.

Without an hour’s delay did the Count of Homburg quit Sargans; nor would his journey home have been unmolested, had he not been provident 198enough, when he visited the fortress of his antient foe, to bring with him a retinue well-armed, and in number not to be despised.

I believe, that he would not have found it impossible at that moment to have carried us off with him: but even though affection for the poor children might have induced his lady to propose such a step, undoubtedly the Count of Homburg’s high notions of honour and integrity would have made him recoil with aversion from the idea of forcibly taking his daughters from a man, into whose Castle he had been received under the appearance of friendship.

Thus did we lose this invaluable chance of preservation. It is true, we were still too young to understand, that preservation 199was necessary; but yet we felt most sensibly the pain of parting from the Ladies of Homburg: nor did we feel a little mortified at being replaced under the care of the unworthy women appointed to superintend us, whom respect for our illustrious protectress had compelled to keep in the background during her residence at Count Donat’s Castle.

Yet though the Countess of Homburg’s visit had failed in its grand object, it was not without its use. We had past two weeks in the habits of decorum; we had learnt to see our own failings, and to admire the advantages possest by others; and this knowledge served us as a regulator for our future behaviour. The manners of Helen of 200Homburg became the model, by which we formed our own: we were no longer in danger of adopting the evil lessons of our superintendents, for in the remembrance of Helen we had constantly before us a lively idea of feminine delicacy and indeed of feminine perfection.

Oh! Urania, unwearied discoverer of new means to effect the happiness of the two poor orphan-girls, I dare flatter myself, that when the Angel arrived at Sargans whom you sent thither (shortly after the Count of Homburg’s visit) to guide us to the paths of goodness, she found that we had already advanced some steps: at least it is certain, that she found us willing and resolved to follow, where she, and Urania, and Virtue pointed out to us the way.

201Henric Melthal (one of my father’s vassals, who had always shown too little willingness to advance his evil designs to be a favourite with his master) one day brought his daughter to Sargans. He entreated, that she might be received into the service of the Count’s daughters; and either his chusing a moment when Donat fortunately happened to be in an unusually good humour, or satisfaction at finding the stubborn Henric at length inclined to perform willingly the duties of a vassal, or perhaps the observing glance by which he convinced himself that Amabel would in time be beautiful, made Henric easily obtain his demand.

Amabel was accepted as our attendant; she became our play-fellow, and 202I may say, our best instructress. It was you, who had educated the amiable girl, doubtless with a view to your adopted children; you know well, how much service Amabel was capable of rendering us, and (God be thanked for it!) I trust, that her intercourse has not totally been without effect.

The well-grounded and solid information possest by that dear girl, her firm attachment to virtue, duty, and truth, and the vast extent of her brilliant qualities, all lay concealed beneath the modest veil of rural simplicity, which hid from every eye the treasure we possest in her, and was for many years the means of preserving to us so invaluable a friend.

We grew up with Amabel in the 203closest intimacy; we even obtained permission to accompany her in one of her visits to her father, and there became acquainted with an antient friend of our family. It was Gertrude Bernsdorf, who completed that part of our education, which was too difficult for the power of our young companion. Our eyes were opened; we saw all the dangers of our residence under Count Donat’s roof in their true light. We meditated an escape, whose object was taking refuge with you in the Convent of Zurich: but we were too well guarded to effect our purpose. Its true, no one suspected the open-hearted Amabel of deceit; but still a variety of attempts to carry us off had put our father on his guard, and we were 204seldom suffered to quit the Castle without attendants.

I cannot persuade myself that it was a sentiment of paternal affection, which made the Count of Carlsheim so anxious to preserve us under his roof. His behaviour towards us left us no doubt, that we might have perished without our loss costing him a single tear; he had also frequently given us to understand, that he designed us for the Convent: but still he could not resolve to gratify those, who wished to take us from him, by suffering them to succeed; neither would he hear of our residing in that Convent, where we should have been so happily and so honourably situated, under the protecting care of the venerable Urania.

205Since you, dear mother, abandoned the world, great alterations have taken place in our neighbourhood, of which you may not be aware: at least Gertrude has assured me, that for ten miles round the Castle of Sargans, every thing since the days of her youth is become so different, that she scarcely knows the place to be the same. Like most people when advanced in life, Gertrude was accustomed to find great faults with these changes: she hated the sight of trees, which thirty years before she had seen no higher than bushes; she sighed to perceive, that the mountain-torrents had washed away this hill at one time and that at another; and she looked on it as little better than profanation, when she found buildings raised on places, 206which formerly were corn-fields or pasture-land.

But nothing was more offensive in her eyes than a particular Convent for females, which had been lately erected at no great distance from the Abbey of Cloister-Curwald; and which on account of the extraordinary privileges bestowed on it by the Holy Father, of the beauty of its situation, and of the advantageous manner in which its interior constitution was regulated, had grown rapidly into repute.

Our father had pitched upon this Convent for the future abode of Amalberga and myself; perhaps, it was the first time in our lives, that we had found reason to be perfectly satisfied with his decisions respecting us. We 207were convinced, that our wish to inhabit the same place with our benefactress Urania would never be gratified; with every day we felt more sensibly, that any religious house whatever would be a much more creditable abode for us, than the Castle of Sargans. Besides, the Convent of St. Roswitha (for the Nuns belonged to that order, who had established themselves in the neighbourhood of Cloister-Curwald) possest the charm of novelty, and our friend Amabel had exprest her opinion in favour of its establishment. In defiance therefore of the prejudiced Gertrude’s warnings and admonitions, we determined (whenever Count Donat should seriously advise our taking such a step) to declare ourselves ready to assume the 208veil in that Convent, which he had himself selected.

There needed nothing more than such implicit obedience to induce our father to alter his intention. His early intercourse with the worthless of both sexes, his misanthropic seclusion from all general society, and a glance thrown by him upon the formation of his own heart, had made him distrustful of every one else. He suspected hidden views in the most indifferent actions; and he always suspected them most, when he found others most disposed to conform themselves to his wishes.

Our departure for the Convent of St. Roswitha, which (had we disapproved of going) would undoubtedly have taken place the next day, 209was now postponed; it was however judged expedient for us to remove for some time from Sargans, an hostile attack being expected from one of his neighbours, whose views (so Count Donat imagined, though on what grounds I know not) were directed towards the persons of Amalberga and myself.

It happened just then, though it happened but very seldom, that our father was on good terms with the Bishop of Coira. Count Herman of Werdenberg, a relation of our family, at that time filled this important office; his court was selected as our place of refuge from a danger, which only existed in Count Donat’s imagination, and the nature of which he would in all 210probability have been himself greatly embarrassed to explain.

We set out, accompanied by Amabel. Our reverend relation received us with that respect, which was due to our station; I believe indeed, he allowed us even a larger share of it, than we could reasonably claim on the sole score of our rank.

His manner gave us confidence and gaiety, and we soon became attached to the kind-hearted Prelate. We were in truth but simple country-girls, quite unacquainted with the manners of the great world, and only wise enough to be sensible of our deficiency. Accustomed to be treated with nothing but severity, Count Herman’s gentleness delighted us; and his protection encouraged 211us to enter willingly into those societies, where it was his pleasure that we should be introduced.

The Count of Werdenberg is quite a different kind of person from his predecessors, the old Bishops of Coira. When I recollect the portraits of the venerable Adelfried-Herbert, and of the pious Thomas of Planta, such as I saw them in your closet; and when I compare their austere and mortified countenances with that of the penetrating, the polished, the gallant, the martial Herman of Werdenberg; when too I reflect how different their simple Priest’s habit appeared from the glittering and costly robes, in which our Cousin appeared when we were unexpectedly presented to him for the first time, 212though the day was not a festival; when I think on all these things, my dear mother, I can scarcely persuade myself, that he and the originals of your pictures ever have belonged to the same profession.

The manners of the Bishop’s court were entirely new to us, but were not the less pleasing. Certainly, our father must have been little aware of the nature of the place, whither he had sent us for shelter; or else it must have been the most bitter hatred against his daughters, which induced him to make us first acquainted with the pleasures of the world, in order that the recollection of the enchanting scenes which they were now witnessing, and the hopeless desire of witnessing them 213again, might make the cloister for which he destined them seem doubly hateful.

Everything here appeared new to us; not merely the amusements which offered themselves every day to our enjoyment, but the discovery which was made to us in a very few hours after our arrival, that we were beautiful.

—“Beautiful?” said I to Amalberga; “How could it possibly happen, that we should not have found this out long ago?—It is true, I always thought, there was something uncommonly pleasing in your countenance, my dear sister; but still your features were too much like my own, for me ever to have suspected them of being beautiful.”—

214We consulted Amabel on this important point. She assured us with that simplicity which was natural to her, that we did not appear beautiful to her, for that on the banks of the Lake of Thun (where she was born) the blooming charms of the village damsels were far superior to ours, at least as far as she could give an opinion; a confession, which we heard her make without feeling the slightest displeasure.

Perhaps in time we should have returned to our former opinion of our beauty, if we had heard them praised by no one except the old Bishop, who was the first to make the remark. But among the young knights, whom the love of Tilts and Tournaments had collected at Count Herman’s court, there 215were many whose existence seemed to hang upon our smiles, and who loaded us with compliments which we not only heard but too willingly, but even began to consider as a tribute, which ought not to be withheld from us with impunity.

Among the youthful warriors whom a splendid Tournament had attracted to the court of Coira, were two who particularly attracted the attention of my sister and myself; and it happened to be precisely these two, who seemed blind to that beauty, on which we had now learnt to set so high a value. It is true, Count Eginhart of Torrenburg, to whom my sister gave the preference, afforded us strong reasons for suspecting, that he was not insensible of the power 216of Amalberga’s charms; yet his attentions to her were ever cold and constrained, like those of one who had already formed engagements, and had only just discovered, that he had been too hasty in making his choice.

As for me, my situation was still more unpleasant. The youthful Herman of Werdenberg, the Bishop’s nephew, had indeed paid me a few unmeaning compliments on my arrival, before he was informed of my name; but after our first interview, he treated me with utter neglect, and seized every excuse for avoiding my society. Nay; he carried his unjustifiable aversion so far, that when on the evening before the Tournament his Uncle gave him a scarf of my colours, with a command to wear 217it at the next day’s solemnity, it was not without difficulty, that he abstained from insulting me (whom this unexpected mark of the Bishop’s partiality for me had covered with blushes) by positively refusing to accept his gift.

—“These are the colours of the Lady Emmeline,” said the Bishop, “of the future Heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans. The permission to wear them publicly, which I now give you in her name, may authorize you to encourage hopes, whose completion will not be purchased too dearly with the most precious blood that runs in your veins.”——

I attempted to express my disapprobation of the Bishop’s inconsiderate conduct, and to disclaim the permission 218which he asserted me to have given; but vexation choaked my utterance, and I was obliged to quit the chamber, unable longer to restrain my tears from gushing.

—“This is not to be endured!” I said to myself, as I hastened to take refuge in my own apartment. “Good Heavens! then interest is the only motive, which can persuade Herman to connect his fate with that of Emmeline! let her be as fair, as kind, as amiable as she can be, Emmeline will still be nothing in the eyes of Herman, but the Heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans.—Alas! poor slighted girl! hide yourself to-morrow in your thickest veil, nor let the public eye perceive the blush of shame on your cheek, when every 219one who sees Count Herman’s mail decorated with the sky-blue scarf, will cast on you a look of congratulation, and believe that you are the most fortunate of your sex while you are in fact the most wretched and despised.”—

Much as it cost me, I resolved to deny myself the satisfaction of witnessing Count Herman’s exploits, and under pretence of indisposition I absented myself from the Tournament. My sister alone distributed the prizes; but Herman had gained the first, and according to the regulations of the lists he was under the necessity of laying it at the feet of the lady, whose colours he had thought proper to wear.

I was compelled to go through this painful scene, and to see him kneeling before me: but it was evident, that 220he performed his task with the utmost reluctance; and his manner provoked me to such a degree, that I could not refrain from assuring him—“that I ascribed no part of this compliment to my own merits, but attributed it entirely to my bearing the title of an Heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—

—“Oh! lady,” exclaimed Herman with all that impetuous warmth which is usual in young warriors, and which frequently borders on imprudence and rudeness; “how much are you mistaken! the title, which you have mentioned, has no charms for me; besides, you cannot be unconscious, that only in consequence of my Uncle’s positive command did I tender my services to a daughter of Count Donat.”—

221Could any human being have spoken with more contempt and insolence? From that moment I really began to abhor the very sight of the youthful Count of Werdenberg, though the Bishop redoubled his exertions to influence me in his favour. At length finding me deaf to all his insinuations, and that I persisted on all occasions in avoiding his nephew, he plainly declared his resolution of making me his niece, whether my father should consent or not; since the gift of my hand would make young Herman lord of all those extensive domains, which are generally known by the name of the Twelve Cantons.

In reply, I declared my father’s intention of making me take the veil; 222I also mentioned, that my sister being older than myself had much stronger claims than mine to the paternal inheritance; but above all I dwelt upon Herman’s behaviour to me, which became more insulting with every succeeding day. The Bishop treated the two first objections very lightly, declaring, that the mild and bashful Amalberga seemed designed by nature for a Nun, and that her embracing a religious life, would leave me sole heiress to my father’s possessions: but when I declared my full persuasion, that I was the object of his nephew’s aversion, the Bishop gave way to an involuntary fit of laughter.

—“The youth is an ideot!” exclaimed he. “Lady Emmeline, I protest 223to you, that in the very first moment of beholding you his heart was made your own, and he spoke of your charms with rapture, as long as he was ignorant of your name: in truth, his passion was so evident, that it was this alone, which suggested to me the idea of making him happy by bestowing you upon him. But no sooner was he informed, that his adored Emmeline was the daughter of that Count Donat, whose cruelty and licentiousness have made him an object of abhorrence throughout Helvetia, than he changed his intentions, and swore to extinguish in his breast every spark of affection for one, who from her birth and mode of education could not possibly be worthy of the love of a man of honour. The youth spoke much 224about the dissolute manners of Sargans, about libertine associates, and unprincipled courtezans, to whom the care of your youth had been committed: nay, (to conceal nothing from you) he even found fault with your amiable gaiety of character, which he called by the harsh name of levity; and which (according to him) showed him but too plainly what your husband must expect, fascinating as are the outward charms, with which you have been so liberally endowed by nature.”—

Such, Urania, were the Bishop’s words; but how shall I explain to you the effect, which they produced upon my mind! at the outset of this conversation, the Uncle’s unjust and interested views had increased my resentment 225against the nephew; and I was prepared to express my disapprobation of both in the strongest terms, when this last speech gave a sudden turn to my thoughts, and rendered it impossible for me to utter a syllable more respecting the business, which was then in deliberation.

—“Herman’s heart once was mine!”—Such was the sentence, which now occupied my whole mind.—“His heart once was mine,” I repeated to myself, as soon as I was alone; “was mine, before he knew my name and expectations! and it is on this name and these expectations, that his whole aversion is now grounded!”—“the licentious manners of Sargans.”—“My education committed to unprincipled courtezans.”—“Oh! 226that is true, too true; but yet Herman, does the mariner, who gains the land amidst the fury of winds and waves, deserve less praise, than he whom favouring gales have wafted into the haven? and is it just, that Amalberga and Emmeline should be objects of contempt and abhorrence, because even in the very bosom of vice, surrounded by a thousand snares, a thousand dangers, they never yet wandered for a moment from the paths of virtue?—but it seems, my levity shows but too plainly, what my husband may expect from me! oh! Herman, that was cruel, was unjust! it’s true, nature gave me a light heart and a fondness for amusement, which (having but just escaped from my paternal prison) perhaps I may have sometimes 227suffered to carry me too far; but was this a reason sufficient for condemning me? alas! perhaps these very spirits, with which you now reproach me as a crime, are but a precious gift of Providence to enable me to bear with fortitude the weight of future woes!”—

These reflections cost me many tears, and I hastened to communicate their cause to Amabel and my sister. With their assistance, I soon discovered that it was absolutely necessary to quit the Bishop’s court without loss of time. Amalberga was not less anxious to avoid the Count of Torrenburg, than I was to quit the unjust Herman for ever. Its true, her gentle manners, her quiet and retired turn of mind had saved her from that prejudice against a child of 228Count Donat’s, which my gaiety had excited against me in the bosom of the Bishop’s nephew; but still her union with the man of her choice was equally impracticable, though on a different account.

The Count of Torrenburg was already betrothed to the youthful Helen of Homburg, whom I formerly mentioned in such advantageous terms. He had never seen her; of course she was totally indifferent to him, while what he felt for Amalberga.... Yet how was it possible for the noble Eginhart to break his knightly word? and even had he been resolved to break it, how was it possible for Amalberga to rob the friend of her youth of an husband so truly deserving, that scarcely could Helvetia produce his equal?

229Amalberga and Eginhart had never exprest their mutual sentiments in words: but it appeared to me, that they had long understood each other sufficiently to render any verbal explanation needless.

Our departure was determined. Our next letters hinted to our father, that he had but little reason to expect, that the Bishop of Coira would assist his views respecting us; and we soon received an order to return to Sargans. Amalberga and Eginhart made their adieus rather by looks than words: as for myself, I thought it unnecessary to take any formal leave of Count Herman. I felt sentiments in my heart towards him, which I insisted upon terming aversion, and grief that I had ever 230thought favourably of him; but Amabel assured me, that I felt nothing of the kind—she said, the whole was nothing more than a misunderstanding, which was greatly to be lamented; and she vowed never to rest, till she had justified me in the opinion of a man, who by his endeavours to detach himself from the woman whom he adored, because he believed her unworthy of his love, had proved sufficiently, how totally his soul was devoted to the cause of virtue.

We had managed ill respecting our hints to Count Donat. They excited his suspicions against the Bishop of Coira, and he insisted upon a full explanation. This it was impossible to give, without betraying all our own secrets; 231and the embarrassment, with which we answered our father’s questions, drew down a considerable share of his suspicions upon ourselves.

We had soon the grief to witness the renewal of hostilities between Count Donat and the Bishop, and to accuse ourselves of having furnished the occasion. At the same time we were watched with the utmost strictness, and on the pretence of suspecting us of carrying on together some secret intercourse, (though with whom was not mentioned) we were separated. I had always been in a slight degree a greater favourite with Count Donat than my unfortunate sister, and my beloved Amabel was suffered to remain with me. Amalberga was confined alone in 232this chamber, which I at present inhabit, and ordered to resolve upon taking that step, which she had formerly been forbidden to think of; and which now was only insisted upon, because it was fancied, that she discovered some symptoms of unwillingness.

A day was already fixed, when Amalberga was to take the veil in the Convent of St. Roswitha. She discovered more repugnance to this measure with every succeeding day, though for what reason I know not. Her love for the Count of Torrenburg was hopeless; what then remained for her, except a cloister? the Abbot of Curwald past several hours daily in endeavouring to persuade her to obey her father’s commands; and the dislike, which I feel myself towards this man, makes me 233think it probable, that his interesting himself in the business made her still more unwilling to comply. Besides this, she received a letter from Gertrude Bernsdorf, which Amabel found means of delivering secretly, and which probably was not favourable to the Convent of St. Roswitha. However, I am still ignorant of its contents; since though whenever I was permitted to pass a few moments with my sister, she endeavoured to find means of communicating something to me which lay upon her heart, so many spies surrounded us, that the attempt was always made in vain.

I have already informed you, my kind protectress, on the last time that I saw my sister, how I threw myself at 234my father’s feet, and implored for gentler treatment both for her and for myself; how I entreated in vain to be at least permitted to pass that one night with her; and how I had the agony of being informed the next morning that she was torn from me, without the least information being given as to whither she had been conveyed, or the least hope held out of our ever being re-united.

Since that time my situation has become more painful in many respects. My friend, my Amabel was compelled to abandon me, because it became evident that Count Donat thought her handsome enough to be raised, or rather to be degraded, to the rank of one of his favourites. You know well, that 235Amabel’s open nature never suspects villainy or danger, except where their existence is not to be mistaken; and therefore you cannot doubt, that she had good cause for her flight from Sargans; her departure and my sister’s disappearance, following each other so closely, robbed me of even that little share, which I possest in my father’s confidence. It was evident, that I had assisted Amabel’s escape, and from this he argued, that I was equally culpable respecting Amalberga’s. Would to Heaven, that this charge were just! willingly would I pay for the certainty that my sister is safe, by suffering twice as much as I do on Amabel’s account, and which I carefully conceal from my 236friend, that the knowledge may not pain her gentle heart.

Oh! Urania, you may chide as you will, but can I love such a father? think, that to him alone I owe the loss of my sister and my friend; think too, that his misdeeds were the sole cause, which robbed me of the heart of the man, on whom my whole earthly happiness depended! Herman hated and despised me only for being the Count of Carlsheim’s daughter; now (as I hear) he is the suitor of another maiden; and all those hopes, with which Amabel so fondly used to flatter me, of one day regaining his good opinion, are lost, and lost for ever.

I am at length determined to take the veil; fool that I was, for having 237delayed to take it long ago! how easily might I have remained in your convent at any one of those times, when I privately contrived to visit you! who would have thought of looking for me there? or if found, who would have been able to force me from the protection of the powerful Domina of Zurich?

Alas! these reflections come too late! I dare not quit my chamber, unless accompanied by watchful guards; and no one is suffered to visit me, except my attendants and the odious Abbot of Cloister-Curwald. He is the only person, who combats my resolution of obeying my father, and shutting myself up for ever in the Convent of St. Roswitha. I could almost fancy, that he acts thus, because he knows me disposed 238to do exactly the contrary of every thing, that he advises. In general these dignified ecclesiastics are much more inclined to speak in favour of religious seclusion than against it.

Yet whatever may be his design, it is certain that I shall take the veil, or rather that I must take it. My father’s unaccountable determination of burying his acknowledged heiresses in a cloister, is decided and immoveable. I understand, that weary of his riotous mode of life and of the dominion of unprincipled wantons, he meditates a second marriage, and that he has selected one of the fairest and most virtuous among the Helvetian ladies to enjoy the happiness and honour of enlivening days, embittered by age, infirmities, and remorse.

239Oh! pardon me, dear Urania, for expressing myself with such bitterness when writing of one, who with all his faults is still my father! my unfortunate situation, and the weakness of human nature must plead my excuse for what I have said above: neither did I mention Count Donat’s future intentions for the purpose of exasperating you against him, but of interesting you in the cause of the innocent girl, on whom my father has fixed his choice. In truth, I need but mention the name of her, whom every engine of force and cunning will be employed to bring into his power, to induce you to exert yourself in defeating his schemes: she is no other than ... Helen of Homburg! she is the daughter of your friend and pupil, Minna; she is the grand-child of the 240companion of your sorrows, Edith of Mayenfield! she is the betrothed bride of the noble Torrenburg! oh! hasten, if it be possible, to prevent the misery of her, who in the days of my childhood through her instructions and example purchased for herself the strongest claims on my gratitude! for myself, I ask nothing but your blessing to assist me in that profession, which I shall shortly embrace irrevocably, without bestowing one other lingering thought on all the pleasures, which I leave behind me in the world, and of which I have now taken my farewell for ever!

241

Amabel to Emmeline.

Oh! lady, that you were but with us! your sufferings in your father’s Castle, and your melancholy resolution of taking the veil would soon be effaced from your thoughts completely! Great-ones of the earth, do ye possess even one of those many unconstrained and innocent pleasures, which daily fall to the lot of us, your inferiors? then only do you enjoy the rights of Nature, (to which we, the favourites of that kind mother, have no better claim than yourselves) when you throw aside your fetters, and dare to act like the noble-minded Peregrine of Landenberg. He, though the representative 242of our feudal lord the powerful Emperor, esteems us as not beneath himself, and lives with us, as were he one of the same humble station.

Last Sunday ... never shall I forget that glorious day! when the first beams of the sun were discovered rising from behind the hills of snow, and began to tinge the lake with crimson, all the young maidens of our quarter were already assembled on the green meadow before my father’s house—(you know, that Henric Melthal is universally respected, on account both of his age and his wisdom.)—We were to proceed to the neighbouring church in solemn procession, and as Henric’s daughter the right of heading the company was mine: but I resigned my place 243favour of a stranger damsel, who has lately arrived at our village, and who (however exalted may be her proper rank) has become so well acquainted with its disadvantages, that she has been induced to resign it, and seek comfort and oblivion for past sorrows in the bosom of rural tranquillity. Dear lady, could you but see this unknown maiden.... She has adopted our simple dress, and her peasant’s habit makes it as difficult to with-hold admiration from her, as to discover her: I mean to say, that it alters her appearance so much, that whoever had known her in more costly apparel, would scarcely recognize her in her present garb. I saw her for the first time so drest on this occasion; she has of late been 244resident in the Convent of Engelberg, and.... But I am running on, forgetful that I meant to describe to you the festivities of last Sunday.

As we moved on under the guidance of our elected queen, our white robes and unbound ringlets fluttered loose in the morning-air, whose freshness stained our cheeks with a deeper red, and even spread a slight tinge over the lovely pale face of our Conductress. It was Easter-day; with songs, pious and joyful such as suited the occasion, we reached the Lake, where a croud of painted boats waited to waft us to the opposite shore, on which the grey spires of the Convent-church were discernable; and thither was our pilgrimage directed.

245Long ago, a Convent was established here respecting which there are still many traditions current; but now nothing of it remains but a heap of ruins. The church however is still in perfect preservation. It is never opened, except on Easter-day: and as the Friars hold this place in abhorrence as having been the scene of many monastic crimes and of Heavenly vengeance, it has ever been found difficult to persuade any of them to officiate within these deserted walls. On these occasions, therefore, the short service is frequently performed merely under the superintendance of the two elders of our village. The service consists of nothing more than the expansion and humiliation of the heart before the Almighty for a few 246minutes in adoring silence, and a solemn hymn chaunted by the whole united congregation, the words and melody of which are equally simple to the ear and affecting to the heart.

Walter Forest and Werner Bernsdorf, as the two eldest, opened the holy doors for us, and we descended a few steps into the chilling aisle of the church: they commended us girls, for having shown our impatience to pay our service to Heaven by arriving the first. Soon after the matrons made their appearance, conducted by Gertrude Bernsdorf; oh! with what joy did this venerable woman, the counterpart of her former mistress and friend Urania, receive our conductress, the lovely stranger! I mean, how pleased she was 247to see, that we girls were sensible of our duties, and were arranged in the church before her arrival.

While we sank on our knees, and silently offered up our gratitude to Heaven, the men arrived.—I was still kneeling by the side of our conductress (our hearts were full; much had we to return thanks for on that day) when the solemn hymn began around us, and compelled us to change our attitude. The chorus of a thousand voices, whose united melody made the vaulted pavement tremble beneath our feet, informed us, that the assembly had increased greatly during our prayers. We hastily drew back, for all eyes were fixed upon us; but alas! I found it impossible to withdraw my attention from the objects 248which surrounded us, and restore my heart entirely to that devotion, from which the commencement of the hymn had rouzed me.

Alas! dear lady, your poor Amabel, who past so grave a censure on the sudden inclination conceived by yourself and your sister for two knights, with whose merits you were well acquainted; that very Amabel has been still more weak and hasty in her choice! it was a man who stole my thoughts from Heaven, and who made it difficult for me to withdraw my eyes from his countenance. In truth, it was scarcely possible not to look at him now and then; for he was placed exactly opposite, and forgetting the motive which had brought us together, he seemed to make me the only object of his contemplation.

249It was now, Emmeline, that I envied you one of the privileges of your rank; I mean, your veil which we simple country-girls, who love to look unimpeded at the Almighty’s lovely world, and who have no reason to conceal our countenances, consider in general as an unnecessary piece of dress. For the first time I wished for a veil at once to conceal my confusion, and to restore the man (who continued to gaze on me with fixt glances), to that devotion, which he seemed to have lost.—However, he soon recovered himself; but as for me, I still felt during the remainder of the service that kind of uneasiness, of which I have so often heard others speak, and which I have so often treated with derision.

Well! say, that it be love, which has 250excited such emotions in my bosom, why should I grieve? the path of the humble children of the soil is not so rough and uneven, as that of the mighty-ones; the inclinations of the one are not so subject to difficulties, as those of the other; our inclinations and acknowledgements are embarrassed by no superfluous considerations of decorum and etiquette; and unless the eyes of my unknown friend have deceived me, I am far from indifferent to him, and we may hope for mutual happiness.

Yet you will smile, when I describe to you the person, of whom I speak. The youthful Amabel has given her heart to no stripling: the noble-looking exalted man, with his heroic mien and with that look of true Helvetian frankness 251which attracts the observer’s confidence so irresistibly, is already in the Autumn of life; and yet....

But what am I doing? you cannot suppose, that this transient feeling can affect my heart seriously?—Oh! no, no! everything is forgotten, or must be forgotten, and it shall be done without a single tear. The object of my attention disappeared immediately after the service, nor have I seen him since. Perhaps, the whole business was a fabrication of my fancy, for the fair stranger, who stood next to me, cannot recollect to have observed such a person.—But then she was so entirely absorbed in her devotions, that she did not even remark, that Peregrine of Landenberg never removed his eyes from her during 252the whole ceremony; and when the procession set forward on our return, he followed her with looks that were by no means equivocal: at least this is asserted by several of my village-companions.

Emmeline, how happy would it make me, should such a heart as Landenberg’s be bestowed on your ... I would say, on my fair and unhappy friend. She loves without hope; and Peregrine of Landenberg, very handsome, very good, and very powerful, is in every respect calculated to make her happy. The persons, whom the good emperor sends among us as his deputies, are not inferior in power to princes, and in birth are as illustrious as Count Donat; and Peregrine is so mild, so pious, so noble! 253in truth, the condescending manner in which he treats all who are subject to his authority, and the little distinction which he makes between his station and ours, have won me to his interests completely.

You will chide me for writing on no other subject than love; but liberty, health, and the contemplation of the beauties of nature are the best nourishers of that sweetest of all feelings! and be comforted, dear lady; for you too shall one day bless the hour, when your heart first learnt to love. Let but this fair stranger be once the bride of Peregrine of Landenberg, and we shall soon find means of rescuing you from your captivity: then shall Herman of Werdenberg (in whose union with the Damsel 254of Eschenbach there is not one syllable of truth, and to whom I am certain you are still as dear, as before he knew your name) be compelled to do justice to your excellence, and every trace of misunderstanding shall for ever be cleared away.

The word “misunderstanding” reminds me, that the day whose beginning I have described to you, did not conclude quite so well as was expected. While the youths and maidens under the care of some of our matrons past the evening with songs and dances, there arose some little discord among the men. I mentioned to you in a former letter the prejudices of some of them, among whom I am sorry to count my father. The Lord of Landenberg had 255prepared a splendid feast at the Castle; but our elders thought proper to decline partaking of it, and Landenberg was obliged to consent instead to become a guest at their rustic table in the valley. Peregrine showed us this mark of condescension with a good grace. Unluckily during the entertainment there arrived the emperor’s lieutenant of the next Province, by name Gessler; and with him came the Abbot of St. Gall, one of the most abandoned characters existing. These began to reproach our worthy governor for his complaisance, and to treat our elders with contempt; till the indignation of the latter was excited, and they gave the scoffers such answers, as they deserved. The worst treated however was the Abbot, who thought proper to 256defend Gessler’s conduct without having either eloquence or common sense in his discourse, nor indeed even breath sufficient to utter it. Upon this several of our young men (my brother Arnold was one of the foremost) interrupted him by singing in chorus the ballad called “Bishop Ulric of Constance;”^[2] 257and at the end of every stanza they introduced an extempore chorus applying the ballad to the present Abbot. This at length offended him so much, that he left the place almost distracted with passion; but Gessler thought proper to remain behind, and is still 258a guest at the Castle, from which many of our wise-ones augur no good.—Farewell, dear lady, and Heaven’s blessing be with you.

259

Emmeline to Amabel.

Difficult as it was, I have accomplished my painful confession to Urania, and I feel my heart relieved; I also made another important discovery to her, but alas! without effect. It related to Count Donat’s views upon the youthful Helen of Homburg. As was expected, her parents rejected his suit, and it was not concealed from him, that she was already betrothed to Eginhart of Torrenburg. My father’s spies brought him intelligence, that on Easter-Monday Helen was to be conducted to her bridegroom’s Castle; and Count Donat chose his time so well, that it 260was almost impossible for his unfortunate victim to escape him. He set forward suddenly with the greatest part of his soldiery; and this morning I heard with horror, that Helen has fallen into his hands! she has been carried by him to the Castle of Upper Halbstein, where he is determined to make her his wife either by fair means or violence, before her friends have time to effect her rescue. My heart bleeds for the poor Helen!

I have already received orders to prepare for my departure to the Convent; it is thought desirable, that as soon as the nuptial festivities are over, I should no longer make the Castle of Sargans my residence, Count Donat supposing that my presence would be 261disagreeable to his new bride. Alas! dear Helen, my presence disagreeable to you? though I could not relieve you from the weight of your cruel destiny, surely the society of the friend of your childhood, of a companion in sorrow, would enable you to bear them with greater fortitude.

Methinks, Amabel, it seems to me now more difficult to resolve on entering a Convent. Heaven knows, I wished not, that Helen should be so unfortunate as to become my father’s wife; I spared no pains to rescue her from this impending danger; yet if in spite of my efforts she should be compelled to become the Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans, might not that event produce the most desirable consequences? 262might not her virtue and charms work a blessed change in Donat’s nature? might I not in her society and under her protection again look forward with pleasure to living in that world, which had once such charms for me, but which of late I have considered as an object of such disgust? oh! what blessed effects might the presence of such a mistress produce throughout the domains of Sargans!

In Continuation.

Where shall I look for help! how shall I find some means of changing my father’s determination respecting me? This Convent.... Oh! Amabel, call me not capricious, for I have now good reasons to dread and shun that Convent. 263I have been warned, warned by some supernatural being, not to take the step prescribed to me by my father: and shall I be disobedient to the voice of Heaven?——Hear, what has happened to me! I went this morning to walk with my usual guards for a few minutes on the battlements. I left my chamber-door locked. Yet on my return I found a slip of parchment fastened on my tapestry frame, containing these words:

—“Fly from Sargans! destruction awaits you at the Convent.”—

I had scarcely time to conceal this writing, (whose import, while I read it, had made my blood run cold) before the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald entered 264the room: I have already mentioned, that he pays me a daily visit.

The impression made upon my mind by what I had just read, for some time prevented me from attending to his conversation: I believed, that in this late occurrence I had received a confirmation of that delightful idea, that there exist guardian Angels, who at times condescend to snatch poor mortals from destruction; and my heart, already half estranged from the Convent by the hopes which I grounded on the exertions of my amiable step-mother, began to search for additional reasons, why I should decline taking the veil, once so much the object of my desires. On a sudden something which fell from 265the Abbot in discourse, caught my attention; and I now first discovered, that the conversation which he had been addressing to me, agreed entirely with the warning of my guardian Angel. I drew back in astonishment! its true, he had before frequently exprest his disapprobation of the Convent; but he now spoke with more energy than ever, and advanced such strong arguments, as could only have failed of their effect, because advanced by him.

It immediately struck me, that the mysterious warning was an artifice of this man, who by means of that cunning (which is universally ascribed to him) had managed to obtain entrance privately into my chamber; and who now, by his taking this artful method to give 266his arguments the greater weight with me, became more than ever an object of suspicion. Under this impression, I threw the writing towards him with contempt; and asked him—“whether he knew, whose hand had written the warning, which agreed so wonderfully with his discourse?”—

I was prepared to hear him deny positively any knowledge of the parchment, and pour out a long declamation to prove, that it must have come straight from Heaven: how was I astonished, when on the contrary I saw the most lively surprize and indignation exprest upon his countenance. With a stammering tongue he asked me, how I came by the writing; and before I could answer, he hastily enquired, whether I 267was sure, that my chamber-door had been fastened, and whether I knew anything of a private entrance? to these questions I made no reply; I wished to obtain information, not to impart it.

With every moment he became more uneasy. He examined the windows, tried all the locks, stamped upon various parts of the flooring, and then resumed his seat opposite to me, and for some time appeared to be lost in thought.

After a long silence—“and so then” I began, “the worthy Abbot Luprian denies, that this writing came from him, and that it was intended to give my mind that impression, which his arguments were unable to produce?”—

—“And even suppose,” he resumed after a considerable pause, “suppose 268that I should confess your suspicion to be well-founded; would you therefore accuse me either of treachery, or of views inimical to your interests? well then, lady; since the attempt to deceive you would be vain, I own, that these characters were traced by me. Take the advice, which they give you; take mine with it, and fly from Sargans!”—

—“Fly, say you? my Lord Abbot, this is the first time, that I ever heard that word from your lips!”—

—“Yes, lady, I repeat it! fly from the insolence of your young step-mother, from the tyranny of your unfeeling father!”—

—“And whither should I fly?”—

—“To the Convent.”—

—“What? of St. Roswitha?”—

269—“Oh! no, no, no! any where, but thither! fly to Zurich, to the protection of your adopted mother, of the venerable Countess of Carlsheim.”—

Sweet as his words sounded, I knew too well the impracticability of this advice, to indulge the idea for a moment. It was plain, that he was only trifling with me; I turned from the hypocritical Friar with contempt, and requested his absence.

Amabel, you already know, what disgraceful reports are circulated respecting this man; reports, of whose justice his conduct towards myself has left me no doubt! the modesty of Innocence is always ashamed to own, that she has been made the object of an improper attachment: I have therefore 270hitherto avoided the confession, that Luprian (whose religious vows forbid his laying any claims to the indulgence of honourable love) has been daring enough to avow a passion for me! this it is, which makes his advice so hateful to me; and this it is, which makes me so determined to watch every word which falls from his lips, in order that I may act exactly contrary.

The neighbourhood of his monastery would make me averse to entering the Convent of St. Roswitha, did not his endeavours to put me out of conceit with it convince me, that my abode there will lay obstacles in the way of his designs: he naturally foresees, that I shall be better guarded against his importunities when protected by the good 271Abbess and her pious train, than in this Castle where there is no compassionate being to listen to my entreaties and complaints.

Before he left me, the Miscreant again mentioned the Convent of Zurich; he again advised me to hasten thither, and had the insolence to propose to be the companion of my flight! you will not therefore wonder, that I repeated my commands to be left alone in a tone the most peremptory—I was obeyed.

I past a great part of the night in melancholy reflections. It was late, when I retired to bed; but after the adventure of that evening not thinking myself in safety, I took care to fasten every window most carefully, and trebly turned the key of every lock.

272I started from my slumbers in alarm: methought, a cold hand had touched me! I uttered a loud scream on perceiving, that the gloom of my chamber was dissipated by a glimmering light, and that a tall figure was standing at the foot of my bed. My first thought was, “this is a new artifice of the Abbot;” but there was something in the appearance of this figure so singular, that my earthly terrors gave place to others of a much more awful nature.

It was a tall pale man, his countenance bearing the marks of extreme old age, and wrapped in a monk’s habit. The blue faint glare of a lamp in his right hand gave so strange and frightful an appearance to the deep cavities of his cheeks and eyes, that I was certain of 273being in the presence of a Denizen of the other world, and in terror I concealed my face beneath the coverlet.

The fearful vision stood long by my bedside. It muttered much in a melancholy and imploring voice; but the bed-cloaths, in which my head was enveloped, prevented my distinguishing what was said, till I caught something which sounded like “Amalberga:” that beloved name brought me in some measure to myself. After a few moments’ hesitation I ventured to lower the coverlet, and to look up.

—“What?” cried I; “com’st thou to tell me, that Amalberga’s spirit stays for me? speak, awful vision....”—

It heard me not! it had left my bedside; I still saw at the further extremity 274of my spacious chamber the glimmering of the lamp; but in a moment afterwards all disappeared.

I consumed the remainder of the night in examining, what could be the meaning of this midnight visit? I put together the few fragments of the Spectre’s discourse, which had reached my hearing; and at first I concluded, that the Abbot (from some motive or other, but from what I vainly strove to form a guess) had falsely accused himself of being the author of the mysterious warning; and that the parchment and the spectre, which had both been conveyed into my apartment so unaccountably, must needs have some connection. However, more mature reflection left me no doubt, that both the one and 275the other were artifices employed by the detested Monk to betray me into his power; and I resolved never again to sleep in this suspicious room, which so easily afforded entrance either to corporeal villains or to immaterial apparitions.

My resolution was taken, and I executed it. The insolent house-keeper was well pleased to hear, that I meant to quit this handsome apartment with its noble prospect over hill and dale, and which she immediately appropriated to her own use; while I was contented to take hers in exchange. I have accordingly established myself in a small chamber in the Western Tower, where the only attendant who is suffered to approach me is an old house-maid, who 276has out lived two generations of the family of Carlsheim. She is a kind-hearted creature, and frequently endeavours to beguile me from weeping over my doubtful and gloomy prospects by many a tale of events long past, and which now only exist in her recollection.

Part of what she has told me, I shall now repeat, since it seems to have some connection with my midnight visitor. The old Bertha listened with great attention, while I recounted what had happened, and paused for some time, before she made any observation.

—“Lady,” said she, “it is clear to me, that you are deceived in supposing, that what you saw on that mysterious 277night was either the delusion of a dream, or the artifice of some villain; no, lady, no! as sure as you sit there, you have been visited by the real spectre of a dead man!

“Long ago ... (Lord forgive me! it is long indeed, since I came to live in this Castle!) long ago was that very apartment the bed-chamber of the good Countess Urania, who (they say) is still living in some Convent or other. Her husband Count Ethelbert was a cruel man, almost such another as my lord your father, whom Heaven mend, I pray it! well! the Monks of Cloister-Curwald expelled their Abbot and the good Prior Matthias, who took refuge with the Countess; and by means of a subterraneous passage she enabled 278them to escape. Unluckily Count Ethelbert was among the number of their enemies; in a passion he sent his wife away from Sargans, and then descended into the subterraneous chambers to seek for the fugitives. An old servant of Count Ethelbert’s assured me, that his lord discovered two of them, and brought them back to that very chamber, where they were tortured in hopes of making them confess some secret or other, though what I know not. At length they were put back into one of the subterraneous dungeons, whose entrance the Count caused to be walled up, and there they were left to perish with hunger. Ah! lady, lady! the dead, if they choose it, could reveal many a cruel act, of which we little 279dream! many of my fellow-servants, when afterwards Ethelbert lost his senses, could not comprehend much of his ravings; alas! I comprehended them well! I knew much that must have prest heavy on his conscience, and which now is known to few except myself.

“After a time the bodies of the good Monks were removed from the cavern, because it was said, that their spirits appeared in that chamber, and wept, and wailed so piteously, that nobody could sleep for the noise! yet they were not allowed Christian burial, but were cast into that ruined draw-well in the little back-court, in which finally Ethelbert himself lost his life, being thrown into it by the Abbot Guiderius. So you 280see, lady, crimes ever meet with their just punishment, while innocence often is rewarded, and always is avenged; which I mention for your own consolation. But as I was saying, doubtless it was the blessed spirit of one of these good Friars, which appeared to you the other night; and truly it is a pity, that your fear prevented you from listening to what he said, for I warrant you, he had good cause for coming. However, it is now too late; and methinks as matters stand, you will do well to take the only means of security now left you as soon as possible and enter into the holy sisterhood of St. Roswitha, where you will be well taken care of, both in body and soul.”—

281Such was the discourse of my old attendant, which in truth was not calculated to abate the awful impression made on me by this mysterious visit! however, whether her explanation was right or false, it is certain, that the advice contained in the conclusion of her speech was the best that could be given. I have just received an order from my father to hasten my departure, since in a few days he means to bring home his young bride, and will be displeased to find me still at Sargans.

In Continuation.

Then my father has renounced me, and for ever! renounced me for Helen’s sake, and as they tell me, at Helen’s 282persuasion! oh! how much must she be changed, if she knows and countenances the severity, with which I am treated. Then farewell my paternal mansion, and welcome, ye holy walls! yet why should I grieve to go? what do I lose in the one? what have I to fear in the other?

And yet methinks, I do not feel quite satisfied in seeking the Convent of St. Roswitha. Oh! if it were but possible to escape to Zurich, where Urania.... But alas! this is impracticable. A strong guard is appointed to conduct me, not whither I wish to go, but whither my father chuses me to be carried.

Farewell, ye gloomy walls, which 283have witnessed so many of my tears! farewell too, thou my good kind-hearted Bertha! would I had known sooner, that among the Castle’s inhabitants there existed one such honest creature, whose simple counsels would have frequently stood me in much stead, and whose maternal sympathy would have cheered many a heavy, heavy hour!

The moment for my departure is come; every thing is prepared. The insolent domestics of the Count of Carlsheim, and his still more insolent paramours (they are not banished for Helen’s sake!) laughed even now, when they saw me weep, while I embraced poor Bertha. From my window I see the litter ready, and near it stands Abbot Luprian with that 284inexplicable look, which he always wears, when there is mischief in the wind. I will not honour him even with a single word! oh! were I but safe within the holy walls of St. Roswitha! were I but sure, that on the road no artifice will be employed to betray me into the power of this Miscreant! Bertha’s account both of him and his predecessor Guiderius have taught me thoroughly, how much is to be apprehended from men of his character.

Farewell, farewell, my Amabel! Bertha has undertaken to convey this letter to you: write a few lines to inform my adopted mother, whither I am gone. I have not yet answered your last letter; it was too gay, and too unimportant 285to require an immediate reply. In the Convent I shall have leisure enough to discuss it fully.—Again farewell.

286

Amabel to Emmeline.

I am anxious to receive your answer to my last; yet I will not wait for its arrival, before I continue the narrative of rural events: my heart is too full, and I reproach myself much for having wrapt my meaning in such mystery, when I last wrote to you. Shame upon me, for having trifled with your good heart, and made myself a cruel sport of throwing out hints to awaken your curiosity, when I had it in my power to make you happy by communicating the most agreeable intelligence. Yet surely you must have guest my meaning; your heart will long ago have 287resolved your every doubt on the subject. No sooner shall you have asked yourself the question.—“Why does Amabel write all these trifling particulars to me? What have I to do with the stranger, of whom she talks so much? what concern is it of mine, whether Landenberg loves her, and what influence can her becoming the bride of the emperor’s lieutenant have upon my fortunes?”—no sooner shall you have asked yourself these questions, than a voice within shall whisper the name of Amalberga; and the letter which I now write, will give you the assurance, that the voice spoke true.

Yes, dear lady; your sister is now an inhabitant of this Valley; she has hitherto been sheltered in the neighbouring Convent of Engelberg, which 288she only quitted on hearing, that the festivities, which are at present celebrating in honour of liberty, would give her an opportunity of embracing her friends, the venerable Gertrude and your Amabel. She earnestly desired to discover to them her situation, and more particularly wished to discourse with me, from whom she hoped to obtain the latest intelligence of her beloved sister.

I am quite vain of the friendship, with which I am honoured by the illustrious stranger, who meets here with universal admiration. Yet in spite of the preference, which she shows me above the rest of my companions, (whom she also condescends to call her own,) still I am not her confidante. You know, that she is naturally reserved: 289what was the cause of her sudden repugnance to taking the veil, which had once been the object of her wishes; why she fled from Sargans; what induced her to remain so long concealed at Engelberg; all these points are still unknown to me. Gertrude probably is better informed: probably too the packet, which your sister sends with this, contains an explanation of all these mysteries; I flatter myself you will with your usual goodness impart so much of the packet’s contents, as will satisfy your Amabel’s curiosity.

In hopes of inducing you to comply with this request, I will not delay to communicate to you all my own little secrets; though I fear your interest 290about your beloved Amalberga and your impatience to examine her letter, will leave you but little concern to bestow on the affairs of the humble Amabel.

Know then ... that I am a bride; yes, the bride of a man, whom I love with my whole soul—and yet he is not the person, who made such an impression on my silly heart during the Easter-service.

Fool that I was! I cast my eyes on the noblest among all the sons of Helvetia, and thought, that he was just good enough for the simple Amabel Melthal! Has the name of William Tell never struck your hearing? Helvetia boasts no citizen more virtuous, no patriot more zealous, no seaman more expert, no 291husbandman more industrious, no counsellor more prudent, no warrior more brave!

And this very man was it, this identical William Tell (who into the bargain has long been married, and has several children) who because he happened to throw a few accidental glances on the weakest and vainest of our country-damsels, made her conclude forsooth that the man’s heart was hers, and that he desired nothing better than to possess her heart in return.

I should be a thousand times more ashamed of my folly, had there been no cause at all for my falling into such a mistake. In truth, William Tell’s eyes, which put all my devotion so completely to flight at church, were not fixed on 292me without some meaning; nor were they entirely without that expression, which I fancied them to contain. He really was more struck with my appearance, than with that of any of my companions; it was affection, which made him consider me with such earnestness; and after making a few enquiries respecting me, he did not disappoint my expectations; he actually came, and demanded me in marriage.—Only, he did not demand me for himself. No; it was for his half-brother Edmund Bloomberg, who in a few days more will become my husband.

Ah! dear lady, I could say much on this subject. Certainly, love and courtship are very different things in our station and in yours. The important 293“yes” is drawn from your lips by the authority of parents, by convenience, or perhaps by a sort of preference, which you dignify with the name of love; but when we acknowledge the noblest and the chastest of all human affections, our feelings are exhilarating and pure as the gales, which blow from our mountains; we look boldly towards the distant futurity, which love paints in colours as much more beautiful than the present, as the views from the summit of yon lofty rocks are superior to any thing to be discovered in the Valley. But you...!

Its true, my present engagement is the disappointment of my first love; but yet it is really love, which I feel for Edmund. He was already no object 294of indifference even on Easter evening, when he was my partner in the dance: I discovered in his countenance features, which reminded me of the unknown, and his discourse betrayed a thousand traces of generosity and benevolence. But when he declared himself to be the brother of the brave William Tell; when William came to make proposals for me, and I blushed to recognize in him the object of my admiration; when he told me in words, which never could have sounded so well in any other mouth, that he selected me for his sister with as much care and as much affection, as he had formerly selected another maiden for his wife; then did my heart resign itself fully to his directions, 295and I withdrew my love from him to bestow it upon the man, who will soon call me by the name of Amabel Bloomberg.