Chapter IV: Part 4

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?

Amalberga 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 thought 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; and 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 this 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 think 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 my 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 Amabel’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 friend, 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 delayed 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 to 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.

Oh! 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 companion 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!

_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 of 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 favour 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 resident 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.

Long 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 minutes 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 to 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 which 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.

It 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 excited 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 which 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 the 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! in 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 of 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 prepared 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 defend 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] and 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 a guest at the Castle, from which many of our wise-ones augur no good.—Farewell, dear lady, and Heaven’s blessing be with you.

Footnote 2:

About the middle of the 10th Century, Bishop Ulric of Constance
bequeathed “a very large hogshead of good old wine” to the Convent of
St. Gall, on condition that the Monks should themselves be at the
trouble of bringing it home. Unluckily, the waggon broke not far from
the Convent, and the hogshead fell into a deep pit: it was recovered
with great difficulty, and conveyed home in triumph; where in
remembrance of this event a great feast was held, at which the Monks,
wearied with their exertions in its rescue, did not spare the Bishop’s
bequest. About midnight (when all were buried in sleep, overcome by
fatigue and the strength of liquor) a fire broke out in the Convent,
and consumed it, the Monks however escaped with their lives; and the
Abbot is said to have fallen on his knees and thanked Heaven for its
mercies, on hearing that though the Convent was destroyed, he had
saved his strong-box, and the remainder of the Bishop’s hogshead.—This
probably furnished the subject of the satirical ballad, mentioned
above.

_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 was 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 disagreeable 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? might 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. I 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 the 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 the 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 his 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 was 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 that 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?”—

—“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 hitherto 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 Abbess 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.

I 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 being 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 of 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 the 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 has 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 night 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 them 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 dream! 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 see, 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.”—

Such 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 persuasion! 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 have 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 inexplicable 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 to require an immediate reply. In the Convent I shall have leisure enough to discuss it fully.—Again farewell.

_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 resolved 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 she 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: what 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 about 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 husbandman 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 me 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 “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 of 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, and I withdrew my love from him to bestow it upon the man, who will soon call me by the name of Amabel Bloomberg.

_Amalberga to Emmeline._

At length then the time is arrived, when I am permitted to give you some intelligence of your lamented sister, for well I know, that my Emmeline must have lamented for me much: my heart would have assured me of this, even had not Amabel informed me, how many tears the ignorance of my fate had cost you.

Gentle, feeling soul, receive now the narrative of my adventures, of my freedom, of my happiness! at the same time receive the assurance, that it depends on your own pleasure entirely to become as free and as happy as myself. The means too are the easiest imaginable, and (though unknown to us) have long offered us the opportunity of escaping from an abode, where we have experienced nothing but sorrow and persecution.

Yet be it remarked, that things had never been carried to so insupportable a pitch, till the period when I was compelled to take that most hazardous measure of flying secretly from my father’s house. Observe then well, my sister, what I am going to relate, since I fear, you will ere long be placed in the same dilemma, and find no other means of escape, except that by which I profited. Oh! how earnestly have I wished to communicate that means to you; but I could find no security for a letter’s reaching you, till Amabel informed me, that she had a secret and certain channel of communication with the interior of Sargans.

You cannot have forgotten, how full was my heart of grief and affection, when we quitted the Bishop’s court; and that we both had soon ample reason to repent our having laid our hearts open to a man so stern and violent as our father. Fortunately, our most precious secret was still in our possession; our attachments, both so unprosperous, had not escaped our lips, or we should undoubtedly have met with treatment still more severe: yet what could well be _more_ severe than to be separated from you, my sister, and confined for ever within the gloomy walls of a convent?

These ideas were not to be endured. You know, how dear you are to me, and how much it would have cost me to tear myself from one, whom I should have missed at every moment of my life. You know too, that it was easier for _you_ to reconcile yourself to exchanging the unjust Herman for the veil, than for me, on whose heart impressions naturally engrave themselves more deeply; besides I possest the melancholy but sweet recollection, that Eginhart of Torrenburg parted from me with sentiments like my own, and was only prevented from avowing them by the solemn promise which he had given, and by the chains of knightly honour. Oh! Emmeline, it is much easier to sacrifice a rejected heart to Heaven, than one whose affection is returned, even though that affection be unfortunate.

The very thought of a convent was hateful to me; even had it been the Convent of Zurich, to have entered it would still have been misery; since my heart yet cherished worldly hopes, which even under the most gloomy circumstances never fail to accompany that love which is mutual. But now came the moment, when the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha (to whose service I was destined) appeared to me of all others the most odious; and I was firmly resolved to endure every possible misery, rather than suffer myself to be immured in the dwelling-house of hypocrisy and corruption.

My acquaintance with Abbot Luprian and with others the most distinguished among the Monks of Cloister-Curwald, had long ago eradicated from my mind that respect, which is generally entertained for the members of religious communities. Still, female prejudices made me restrict my censure to the one sex; and I fondly flattered myself, that vice could never have insinuated itself into the habitations of the brides of Heaven. Methought, it was to the chaste and pious daughters of the church, that Virtue had fled for refuge; and I ever united with the name of a Nun, the highest idea of human purity, of intense devotion, and of unsullied truth.

Conceive then my disappointment, when I was convinced beyond the power of doubting, that the Convent of St. Roswitha was the most licentious temple, that ever was yet raised to unhallowed pleasure!

You are well aware, what sort of reputation the Monks, who in latter times have been Abbots of Cloister-Curwald, have left behind them. _They_ were the founders of this Convent; knowing this, you may well guess at the nature of the institution. The endowments of this house are immense: the indulgences, with which they have been gratified by the Holy Father of Rome, are as numerous, as its inhabitants could themselves desire. Nothing can be more beautiful and picturesque than the Convent’s situation, nothing more convenient than the regulation of its interior. As to the garments of the Nuns.... Yet that is a subject, upon which I will not trust myself to dwell. That excellent friend (whose name for fear of consequences I will not confide to paper, but which you will easily guess) whose letter warned me of the abyss into which I was so near falling, inclosed a sketch of the dress usually worn by the sisters of St. Roswitha. To convince you of the impropriety of their customs, I need only mention, that these wretched women refuse to make to Heaven the trifling sacrifice of their ringlets, which hitherto every Nun was expected to cut away on the day of her reception. It is true, when they are in the choir, or engaged in a solemn procession, or, when at any time the publicity of their appearance makes it necessary to play the hypocrites, the holy veil conceals their hair curled with care and decked with worldly ornaments; but the veil is but seldom worn except on such public occasions. Besides, would you believe it, Emmeline? they wear shoes with high heels and long-pointed toes fastened up by silver chains; things which to wear, would be reckoned both a sin and a disgrace even for us worldly damsels! judge from their dress what must be their morals, and spare me the pain of a description more circumstantial.