Feudal Tyrants;
            or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. II

                                 ◆ ◆ ◆






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                            FEUDAL TYRANTS;


                                  OR,


                 _The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.


                               A ROMANCE.

                        _TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
                            IN FOUR VOLUMES.


                                 ◆ ◆ ◆

                            BY M. G. LEWIS,

                               AUTHOR OF

            _The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._

                                 ◆ ◆ ◆

                                VOL. II.


                          ═══════════════════
                           _SECOND EDITION_.
                          ═══════════════════

               The portals sound, and pacing forth
                 With stately steps and slow,
               High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
                 And mitred fathers in long order go.

                                         — GRAY.

                   ══════════════════════════════════

                                London:

             Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,

          FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
                                   ──
                                  1807


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                            FEUDAL TYRANTS,

                              &c. &c. &c.

                         ═════════════════════


                            PART THE SECOND.


     _Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March._

With this letter, my dear brother, you will receive a part of the
manuscripts, which I engaged to send you: these leaves contain the
memoirs of the unfortunate Urania Venosta, which have interested me
greatly from a variety of reasons. I had erroneously supposed that the
MS. was complete, but it proves to be nothing more than a fragment.
Perhaps I imprudently included the second part of her adventures in the
number of those papers, which I was compelled to restore to the Abbess’s
custody; but I am rather more inclined to believe, that Time has
destroyed the remainder of these memoirs, whose conclusion I am so
desirous of perusing.

It’s true, I have found a few more detached leaves, and the last page or
two; but these only serve to augment a curiosity, which would have
remained totally unsatisfied, if I had suffered the labour of examining
the moth-eaten parchments to overcome my perseverance. I have now no
reason to regret the trouble which I gave myself, since I owe to it the
possession of several other manuscripts, relating to persons and
circumstances already mentioned by Urania. The memoirs of Minna of
Homburg and of Lucretia Malaspina are both lost; but I have found much
respecting the two Ladies of Sargans, to whom Urania’s narrative is
addrest; much too respecting the noble and ill-fated Adelaide; as also
several letters written by the latter, one of which seems to supply
tolerably well the chasm in Urania’s memoirs. As soon as I succeed in
decyphering them (which, thanks to the dust and the moths, is no easy
task) I will not fail to impart to you their contents.

You will ask me, what impression the perusal of this history has made on
my heart. Ah! my dear brother, it is but too certain, that the
unfortunate are apt to find their own resemblance every where! At first,
how little similar do the fortunes of Urania and myself appear! and yet
how easily might it have happened, that we should have both been sisters
united in the same misfortune! Might not Henry of Montfort, (whose loss
has cost me so many tears,) in spite of his fair exterior, have proved
at heart as great a monster, as Ethelbert of Carlsheim proved in spite
of _his_? May not the prayers, with which I solicited Heaven to grant me
Henry’s hand, have pleaded for that, whose possession would have proved
to me the bitterest curse of Heaven?

Eternal Providence! never more will I murmur that you denied me a
request, whose consequences were known to you far better than to myself.
I besought you to bestow on me a blessing; you granted it by withholding
that, which if conferred on me would perhaps have made me miserable for
ever.


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           _Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower to Urania Venosta._

Oh! tell me, unhappy wife of my unhappy father; you, whom I would so
gladly call my mother, had not she to whom Nature bade me give that
valued name, compelled me to blend with it no ideas but those of pain
and terror; you, whom I already love, and whose future affection I wish
so anxiously to obtain; oh! tell me, Urania, was it but a dream, or have
I indeed found at length the friend and sister whom I sought so long in
vain, and whose counsels and whose comfort my tortured heart needs so
greatly?

Yet alas! what avails it that we have met? Already are we separated, as
I feared we should be, and separated (as I _now_ fear) for ever! Yet,
much as I grieve for what I lose myself by this event, still more do I
grieve to think, that what _you_ lose is greater!

How much do I now reproach myself, that when I stole to your tent at
midnight to warn you and the fair partner of your captivity of what was
about to happen, I should have been so tardy in acknowledging,—“_Count
Donat of Carlsheim is a man not to be trusted_.”—Yet forgive me, Urania;
Donat is my brother; and oh! it is so painful to declare a brother’s
disgrace!

I charge you, dear friend, in the name of Heaven and the Holy Virgin I
charge you, suffer not yourself to be deceived by his perfidious
friendship. On your journey to the Castle seize the first opportunity of
escaping; should you be once inclosed within the gates of Sargans, you
have nothing to expect but a cruel death or an ignominious prison; and,
alas for the damsel of Mayenfield! _she_ has a still more dreadful lot
to apprehend!

That hypocritical abbot Guiderius, or whatever be his detested name, who
came to my brother’s camp with his monks under pretence of pleading in
your behalf, was skilful enough to discover Count Donat’s darling
weakness. He promised him the possession of a young beauty, who
(according to his account) was entirely at the Abbot’s disposal. My
brother, who never confides in the word of ecclesiastics, insisted on
the immediate accomplishment of this promise; and the poor Minna was
betrayed into the seducer’s hands. You accompanied her, and by your
presence increased the ardour with which I had resolved to labour at
preserving the innocent girl; a service which I had already rendered to
many others, who found themselves enveloped in the same snare.

I saw you, Urania; oh! how strong was the sympathy which attracted my
heart towards you, my heart to which at this moment a friend is so
necessary! It’s true I have a sister; but she.... But you have already
_seen_ Mellusina, and you shall now _know_ her.

Mellusina is privy to the designs of her faithless husband. Nothing but
the promise of overlooking all his errors of this nature, and the
temptation of her immense wealth, could have induced Donat to bestow on
her the title of his wife. She is neither lovely in person, nor amiable
in manners; and she bears a mortal hatred to every woman, who possesses
those advantages which Nature has denied to herself. I cannot boast much
of her good will towards me; yet I am compelled to pay my court to her,
that she may not injure me with my brother, of whose powerful help my
dear unfortunate husband stands at present but too much in need.

I trust a time will come when I may reveal to you the whole history of
my sorrows; at present I can only repeat my warning. Yet surely some
invisible power was disposed last night to give that warning in my
stead! What could be the cause of that singular and terrific sensation,
which we all felt at that moment, when Mellusina’s sleep at length left
me at liberty to afford you the information, which this letter contains?
What was it that startled us all at the same instant, and made us utter
a scream of fear? What form was it that passed before us so swiftly?
Whence came that sound, which seemed like a distant bell tolling? Whose
were the cold fingers which seemed to grasp my neck?——Struck with an
universal terror, we sprang from our seats at once, and asked each
other—“What was that?”—Even the slumbering Mellusina was rouzed from her
insensibility by alarm, and the hand with which she drew me from your
tent was cold and trembling!

Surely, Urania, this _must_ have been the warning of your guardian
angel, who wished to accomplish that which Mellusina’s presence forbad
my performing without danger ... unless indeed I were to give this
mysterious event a different, and a more dreadful meaning! I know not
why, but since that moment of terror in which we parted, the thought of
my father never quits me for an instant! I trust no misfortune has
befallen him.—Is he not in the hands of his son?—Alas! alas! and is not
Donat capable of violating even the first and most sacred rights of
Nature?

Oh! good, good father! since I have seen Urania Venosta, how much more
warmly does my heart glow towards you with filial affection! How
despicable, how execrable was _she_ described to be, for whose sake my
mother was sacrificed; and how different did I find her from the
description! Her dignified air, her interesting countenance, inspired
even the savage Donat with respect! Oh! surely I have been equally
deceived respecting Count Ethelbert; surely I shall still enjoy the
blessing of being clasped to the bosom of a _virtuous_ father!

Once again, beloved Urania, be cautious both with regard to your own
proceedings and Minna’s.—Fail not to let me know, as soon as possible,
what passes at the Castle, if your evil genius decrees that you should
be brought thither, and if an opportunity is afforded you of answering
me by the faithful messenger, by whom this letter will be delivered.
With regard to myself, I shall only inform you briefly, that my
intention of warning you was suspected. Mellusina was commissioned to
watch over me last night, as soon as it was discovered, that I had
stolen to your tent unknown to my brother and his wife. In order to
prevent the execution of my good design this morning, I was forcibly
compelled to suffer you to depart without me for the Castle of Sargans;
and I understand, that my absence was accounted for to you by the
pretence of sudden illness. I am now setting out, by Donat’s orders, for
the convent of St. Mary, at Basle: the Abbess is my secret friend, and
soon after my arrival you shall hear from me. I trust, that I shall
learn what has happened to you at the return of my messenger; and I need
not assure you, that nothing in my power to assist you shall be
neglected for a moment. Farewell!


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             _Urania Venosta to the Abbess of St. Mary’s._

The explanation which you demand of me, dear mother, would be very
painful to make. For the benefit of my husband’s grand-daughters, I have
confided to paper the whole history of my misfortunes; and the first
time that you visit our Domina, the manuscript shall be laid before you.
For the present I shall only tell you thus much: From that fearful
moment when an invisible agent warned me, that misfortune was at hand;
when we all felt, saw, heard something, which even yet none of us have
been able to describe or understand; when I saw my earthly guardian
angel, _your_ Adelaide and _mine_, torn from me, and felt (yet knew not
wherefore) that a separation from her was the signal for robbing me of
all my hopes; from that moment was I doomed to experience sorrows, whose
bitterness was till then unknown to me, practised as I was in the school
of suffering.

The morning had scarcely broken, when we set forward for the Castle of
Sargans; illness, as it was said, compelled Adelaide to remain behind,
and her letter was not delivered till too late to be of use. Ere we
reached the fortress, intelligence arrived that my unfortunate husband
was no more. Guiderius, to whom the charge of him had been committed,
had either been too remiss in watching him, or had trembled for his own
miserable existence while exposed to a madman’s fury; or, as his enemies
scrupled not to whisper (though the fact seems too atrocious for me to
give it credit), had himself been the means of “ridding the world of an
useless creature.” Such was the expression used by the insolent vassal,
who informed Count Donat that his father had perished by an untimely
death: I had the satisfaction of seeing, that the Count of Carlsheim
rewarded the base wretch as he deserved!

The body of Count Ethelbert was found in the ruined well, into which (so
said the Abbot) he had precipitated himself in a fit of frantic passion.
This story did not meet with implicit belief; even Count Donat was
openly among the disbelievers. Yet (after I had passed some time in the
prison, which I was compelled to enter on the very evening of my arrival
at that castle, of which I was the rightful owner) I was assured by my
jailors that the Abbot of Curwald was fully reinstated in Count Donat’s
favour, and constantly partook of the licentious feasts, the noise of
whose riotous pleasures penetrated even to the depth of my subterraneous
dungeon.

Yet I was not entirely forsaken. My guardian angel, my kind protecting
Adelaide suffered no circumstance to escape her, that might tend to my
relief. On the first evening of our acquaintance (alas! it was the first
and last, for never since have I been permitted to embrace the dear
one!) I mentioned accidentally that the daughters of the Emperor Rudolf
had been my earliest friends and playmates: from this trifling hint did
Adelaide derive means for effecting my deliverance. No sooner was she
permitted to leave the convent, in which her brother at first caused her
to be confined, than she made use of her liberty to procure mine; and
(since she knew that gentle means would be of no avail) she endeavoured
with the strong arm of authority to force me out of the power of my
inhuman jailor.

She, who in a single interview had been inspired with so much interest
and compassion for the unfortunate Urania; she, who in spite of her want
of power was still able to benefit me so much, could little suspect that
six powerful Princesses would remain inactive, when the business was to
rescue from misery the companion of their childhood, the selected friend
of their youth. Alas! she found herself mistaken: five of Rudolf’s
daughters were the wives of sovereign Princes; the interests of kingdoms
occupied their attention, and left them no thought to bestow on her whom
they had once treated as their equal, and to whom they had sworn at
parting firm friendship and affection without end. One only of the five
(it was Matilda, the virtuous Duchess of Saxony) listened to Adelaide’s
unwearied intercessions, and exerted her whole influence to obtain the
Emperor’s interference in my behalf.

Her endeavours were at length successful; but ere I regained my freedom
many years had elapsed, and by all but Adelaide’s ardent friendship I
was believed to be no more. During the first months of my captivity
Minna of Mayenfield had experienced a persecution, compared to which my
dungeon appeared a Paradise. For its particulars I refer you to the
journal of her imprisonment, as written by herself: the Helvetian women
even then were well skilled in guiding the pen, and did not yield in
that noble art to many of the highest dignitaries of the church. Dear
unfortunate Minna! who can restrain their tears while reading in your
own affecting language the sad account of sufferings and trials, almost
too difficult for the strength of a Saint to endure with fortitude or
even patience, much less for an unprotected girl; and yet Minna passed
through the flames victorious!

The enamoured Donat neglected no means of seduction, which might tempt
his virtuous captive from the path of honour, and in this shameful
attempt Mellusina was his faithful assistant. It is shocking to think,
that a wife should be so depraved as to aid in removing the obstacles,
which impede her husband in his licentious pursuits; and that a woman
should forget her sex so far, as to aim at the destruction of female
innocence! I am persuaded, since the world was created, there has been
but one woman capable of such unworthy conduct; and that one was
Mellusina.

The fascinating arts of seduction having proved vain, they were followed
by violence and ill-treatment; and when, after passing several months in
ignorance of her fate, Lodowick of Homburg at length forced Count
Donat’s fortress in search of his bride, he found her in a subterraneous
cell, similar to that in which I was myself imprisoned. I heard the
tumult occasioned by her deliverance, and doubted not that my own was at
hand.—Alas! my hopes were vain! My feeble cries could not reach the
hearing of my friends; they knew not that those caverns contained any
captive except Minna. Mellusina managed to persuade my adopted daughter
and her deliverer, that I had paid the debt of Nature. They shed
unavailing tears upon the grave, which the deceiver pointed out to them
as mine, while buried alive beneath the castle’s foundations I shrieked
to them for help in vain; and I sank from the height of my deceived
hopes into the deepest despair, till time and faith in God at length
restored me to composure.

The only effect resulting to myself from Minna’s deliverance was, that
the strictness of my imprisonment was increased. The Count of Homburg’s
desperate enterprize could only have succeeded, while Donat was absent;
and the latter now seldom left the Castle, lest similar accidents should
occur. They say, that the fires of the infernal regions burn doubly
fierce, when their monarch returns from his wanderings on earth; such
too was the case in the Castle of Sargans—When their tyrant breathed the
same air with them, the chains of the poor captives were rendered doubly
heavy, and their sufferings doubly sharp!

Yet was he not permitted to kill me, since Heaven had decreed, that I
should at last see the moment of deliverance. Adelaide still maintained,
that I was in existence; imperial majesty interfered in my behalf, and
insisted on Donat’s producing proofs of my death. My tyrant became
embarrassed, and at length proposed to me that my liberty should be
restored, provided I would voluntarily make over the whole of my
possessions (which descended to me in right of my uncle) to the man, who
had so long unlawfully possessed them. I joyfully embraced the offer. I
had long considered liberty as the only real wealth; I had long
harboured no other wish than to end my wretched life in the repose and
security of a cloister!

The sacrifice of my inheritance was completed, and Donat condescended to
conduct me from my prison with his own hand; he even carried his
hypocrisy so far (when he presented me to the nobleman who had
negociated with him by order of the Emperor and the Duchess of Saxony)
as to call me “his kind mother, to whose affection he was indebted for
the greatest part of his possessions.” Yes! the wretch dared to profane
the name of mother! How ill would that sacred word have accorded with
the marks of his tyranny, with which my wrists were still scarred, had
it been pronounced before impartial hearers? But the persons into whose
charge I was delivered, were contented with having obtained my liberty,
the only point expressed in their instructions. Far was it from the
intention of my royal deliverers, that I should have been compelled to
pay so dearly for my escape from Donat’s power; but I was myself
prepared to make the sacrifice, and was besides much too weak to
vindicate my rights against my powerful oppressor. Those who could have
advised me and acted in my behalf, Edith and her daughter, were far from
me, and still believed me to be no longer in existence.

Under the protection of the imperial envoys (though in truth their
manner of executing their commission had given me but little reason to
believe them much disposed to protect me) I hastened to the convent,
which I had selected for my future abode. Yet I left behind me in Count
Donat’s castle a treasure, with which I was deeply grieved to part, and
which I would most joyfully have taken with me. During the few days
which want of strength to begin my journey compelled me to remain his
guest, the Count of Carlsheim thought it proper to shew me every mark of
outward respect; his attentions, which he forced me to endure, excited
in me only sentiments of disgust at his hypocrisy, till he presented to
me his daughters, or (as he chose to call them) my grand-children, whom
my bounty had destined to be the future heiresses of Sargans.

They were lovely innocent cherubs, born during the second year of my
captivity. The birth of these twin-sisters had cost Mellusina her life;
and the loss of a mother so unworthy might have been reckoned their
gain, had not Heaven abandoned them to the care of a father, whose
example was likely to ruin them both in body and mind. Oh! Emmeline! oh!
Amalberga! how closely did you entwine yourselves round my heart, even
in those few days of our first acquaintance! When I was about to leave
you, you clung to me, wept, and begged me to take you with me! Oh! could
you but have known what I suffered, when I tore myself from your little
arms, Heaven knows how unwillingly!—I cast a melancholy look on Count
Donat, and in the most humble manner hazarded a request: but instantly
his brow was clouded with frowns, and in an ironical tone he asked
me—“Whether I could not confide in his sincerity without his delivering
up hostages?”—

Heaven be praised, his sincerity and his insincerity have been since
then a matter of indifference to me; protected by these holy walls and
the power of the good Domina of Zurich, I no longer tremble at the
thoughts of Count Donat’s hatred. Nor have unexpected causes of
rejoicing been denied me, even in this abode of pious seclusion. The
youngest of the Emperor Rudolf’s daughters, the gentle and pious
Euphemia, whose grave and prudent air had made her an object of ridicule
to her sportive sisters and the thoughtless Urania, and who in the days
of petulant youth had ever been excluded from our circle and our girlish
secrets; Euphemia was the first, whose open arms received me on my
arrival at the convent of Zurich. She congratulated me with a joy, which
evidently came from the heart, on my having reached a place of security;
and she offered me a friendship, whose value I now first learnt to
estimate, when time and sorrow had humbled and instructed me.

She had learnt my story through her sister, the Duchess of Saxony, and
had quitted the convent of Tull, where she led the life of a Saint, to
wait for my arrival at Zurich, and comfort me in person for the many
sufferings which I had undergone. I have since had good reason to
believe, that her approach to Count Donat’s neighbourhood, and her
declared resolution never to rest till she had obtained my liberty (a
resolution which she took care should reach the Castle of Sargans), had
no slight weight in influencing the determination of my tyrant: the
wretched Urania would probably have expired long since in Count Donat’s
dungeons, had not the eyes of this benevolent Princess been fixed upon
the forlorn one’s destiny!

What have I not besides to thank her for! It is to her that I am
indebted for a reunion with my beloved Edith and her daughter, who
received me as one just risen from the dead. It is to her too that I am
indebted for your valuable friendship, Holy Mother, and for the hope of
once more embracing my preserver, my sister, my Adelaide! Till that
wished-for moment arrives, never must you expect me, venerable Lady, to
desist from entreating you to make me more accurately informed
respecting the past adventures and present situation of my unequalled
friend. I know, they are both strange and melancholy; and a cloister is
exactly the place, where the relation of such histories nourish the
emotions of holy pity, and produce a calm submissive adoration of the
wonderful and mysterious ordinations of that Providence, which formed
and which governs the world.


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                           _PART THE THIRD._


                              ═══════════

                                MEMOIRS

                                   OF

                    _Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower_;

                  Written by the Abbess of St. Mary’s,
                    and addressed to Urania Venosta,
                   Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.

I must begin, noble Lady, by requesting your pardon for having delayed
so long to make known to you an history, which I thought would have more
interest in the mouth of its heroine, than it could possibly receive
from my unskilful pen. Fatal events (I grieve to say it) have for ever
deprived you of that satisfaction; and you must either learn Adelaide’s
adventures from me, or from no one.

Have not these few words already led you to guess the melancholy truth,
which this letter is intended to break to you? Oh! that the painful task
of being the first to inform you “that Adelaide is no more,” had been
imposed upon another! Yet surely it is scarcely possible, that report
should have been totally silent at Zurich, respecting events which have
excited the attention of the whole German Empire.

Yet dry your tears, virtuous Urania! they who have lived in the world so
long as we have done, should not grieve for the departure of our
beloved-ones; the hope of speedily rejoining them in another world,
never to be separated from them more, should console us under this
temporary deprivation. Lament not, that you are prevented from shewing
your gratitude to your generous deliverer; she will find the reward of
her glorious deeds in Heaven; alas! she found none on earth!

Tell me, dear Adelaide, thou suffering Saint! Chaste martyr of the
holiest love, say, with what feelings do you now enshrined in glory
review the sorrows, which oppressed you in your mortal progress?
Doubtless you review them not with such tears as obscure the eyes of
your friend, while in this mournful hour of midnight solitude she
retraces the transactions of your eventful life! Methinks I see your
form radiant with light hover round me, and hear you with a smile bid me
weep no more over afflictions, which now seem to yourself no longer
deserving of a single tear!

You see, Urania, how difficult I find the task of beginning a narrative,
which must rend open anew many an old and cruel wound; you see how
anxiously I endeavour to delay the executing so painful a commission.
But I gave you my promise! You shall be satisfied!—Permit me, however,
to be as brief as possible, and to reserve the relation of minute
particulars till the time, when I shall have an opportunity of
explaining them to you in person.

That which I look upon as the first of our dear Adelaide’s misfortunes,
was her being the daughter of Lucretia Malaspina. Lucretia (you already
know but too well) was not lovely enough to bind Count Ethelbert’s heart
in lasting fetters; nor did she possess that generous and almost
Saint-like forbearance, with which Urania supported the misfortunes
necessarily entailed upon the wife of such an husband. The discovery of
an artifice, which her short-sighted policy had induced her to practice
upon him, contributed to alienate Ethelbert’s affections, and to convert
what already was indifference into the most positive aversion.

Lucretia’s wealth was a chief inducement with the Count of Carlsheim,
when he offered her his hand. The birth of a son gave occasion to a
discovery, that the estates believed to be her own absolute property
were only held in trust for her eldest son, to whom they descended with
the first breath of air that inflated his lungs. Within a year after
Lucretia had been brought to bed for the first time, to Ethelbert’s
infinite surprize he was summoned to surrender his wife’s estates to the
guardians, appointed by her uncle’s will to take charge of them, till
the new-born infant should arrive at years of discretion. Ethelbert’s
rage was extreme; he was compelled to surrender the property, and in
revenge was barbarous enough to tear the child from its mother’s arms,
commit it to the care of strangers without informing her to whom, and
then to abandon her with every expression of hatred and contempt.
Lucretia bore this parting (dearly as she loved her incensed husband)
with the more fortitude, from her secret consciousness that she
nourished in her bosom another innocent creature, and from her fears
that if Ethelbert were present at the time of her delivery, the new-born
babe would be separated from her in the same manner, that she had been
deprived of its brother. The same apprehension, on being brought to bed
of twins, induced her to conceal the birth of one of them, in order that
she might at least have the pleasure of seeing it grow up under her own
eye, should Ethelbert’s vengeance induce him to deprive her of the
other. Accident directed her choice, which fell upon Adelaide.

The event, however, proved her fears to have been for this time
unfounded. At a distance from her, and totally engrossed by his own
libertine pursuits, Ethelbert scarcely deigned to bestow upon her a
single thought. Yet Lucretia’s partiality for her son Donat, which every
day increased, prevented her from revealing the birth of his
twin-sister, who would then have had a joint and equal right with him to
those estates, of which at that period the death of his elder brother
(while yet an infant) made him to be supposed the sole inheritor. Thus
Adelaide grew up under her mother’s eyes, and was the play-mate of her
brother, without having the least suspicion how nearly she was related
to either of them. This was of inconceivable advantage to her in her
early education. She believed herself to be a vassal’s daughter in that
house, of which she ought to have shone as the joint-heiress; and as the
youthful Donat enjoyed all the advantages of his rank, and made his
dependents feel the whole weight of his influence, many a lesson of
humility and patient suffering did Adelaide learn in her youth, which
was of material service to her in the painful scenes, which she had
afterwards to encounter. Donat ruled his mother with the most despotic
authority; his resemblance to herself, that violence of passions which
he possessed in common with her, and the docility with which he received
her pernicious instructions had won Lucretia’s whole heart, and left no
room in it for her neglected daughter; who thus was early afforded
frequent opportunities of submitting to injustice, without being
conscious that her treatment was unjust.

Lucretia had been wise enough to foresee, long before they arrived, that
such events might very possibly happen, as actually did at length take
place. With all her love for Ethelbert, she had discovered his faults
sufficiently to make her take precautions for her own security; and she
endeavoured to confine his actions by means, which though they still
preserved her the title of his wife, were nevertheless insufficient to
prevent her suffering the extreme of misery and disappointment.

She knew well, that little as Count Ethelbert _loved_ religion, he
greatly _dreaded_ it: she therefore (previous to their marriage)
insisted on his taking a most solemn oath, that however they might
disagree, or however his sentiments might alter, he would never attempt
her life, nor would (even in case of a divorce) make the offer of his
hand to a rival, as long as she herself should still be in existence.
She thus hoped to bind her inconstant lover in eternal chains; but she
little dreamt of so tyrannical a subterfuge, as that by which the
hypocrite contrived to evade the consequences of his oath.

Though she found all endeavours to regain his affection were vain, she
still watched her husband’s conduct with jealous eyes. While he visited
in turn every Italian state, whose reputation promised him new means of
indulging his propensity to pleasure, her spies still pursued him
wherever his footsteps strayed. Lucretia was accurately informed
respecting his intrigues; and seldom did the objects of Ethelbert’s
licentious passions escape without experiencing the vengeance of his
wife. His short-lived inclination once gratified, the Count of Carlsheim
heeded but little what became of his victim, and Lucretia was suffered
to exercise her resentment unimpeded; but the case was altered, when
Urania Venosta became the mistress of his heart. Her extraordinary
beauty, her high rank, and her immense possessions made him at the same
time desirous of becoming her husband, hopeless of gratifying the
passion with which she inspired him, except by giving her his hand. It
therefore became absolutely necessary, that Lucretia should be removed.
He contrived by various well-imagined artifices to lure her into
Germany; where she had no sooner set her foot, than he caused her to be
seized privately, and confined in Ravenstein Castle. A plausible story
was then spread of her having expired suddenly: no one was interested to
dispute the fact, except her son, who in truth was fondly attached to
her; but his youth and devoted attention to licentious pursuits
prevented Donat from inquiring minutely into the circumstances, which
attended his mother’s death. Lucretia was believed to be no more by all
but Count Ethelbert, who was thus left at liberty to pursue his designs
upon the lovely heiress of Sargans.

Adelaide had accompanied her mistress (for such she was taught to
believe her mother) when she quitted Italy; she refused to be separated
from her, followed her courageously to the Castle of Ravenstein, and
shared with her the miseries of her long captivity. Then was it, that
the mother’s heart for the first time felt a sentiment of tenderness for
her rejected daughter. Adelaide learnt from Lucretia’s lips her real
name and rank, and while she clasped her to her bosom, was permitted for
the first time to call her mother. Yet was the severity of her fate but
little alleviated by this discovery. Lucretia’s heart was naturally
hard; it was incapable of harbouring so pure a sentiment as that of true
parental love. Long sufferings and much disappointment had still further
embittered her character. To that kind of moral delirium, which ever
attends on a corrupted heart, was now frequently added a temporary
alienation of the understanding; and when Adelaide reflected, that the
wretched woman, whose complicated misery (both mental and corporeal) was
every moment before her eyes, was her own mother, the knowledge of her
birth only served to make her feel a double portion of agony.

Day and night was Lucretia employed in forming plans of revenge against
her cruel husband, and the innocent usurper of her matrimonial rights.
She had early taught the innocent Adelaide to hate Urania Venosta: in
the eyes of that deceived girl the heiress of Sargans was nothing better
than Count Ethelbert’s abandoned paramour, who had insolently forced
herself into the place of his lawful wife, and had been the principal
and conscious cause of her mother’s being confined in that deserted
castle. But in despite of these prejudices against you, which Lucretia
had infused into the heart of her daughter, she found it impossible to
make her enter cheerfully into the plans, which she was continually
forming for your destruction. Adelaide was well aware, that her mother
was totally without the power of carrying her wicked designs into
execution; but still she could not prevail on herself to assume even the
appearance of giving them her approbation. This obstinacy and incessant
contradiction of her hopes and views at length made her so completely
the object of Lucretia’s aversion, that she insisted on her daughter’s
being separated from her, and confined in the deepest dungeon, which the
subterraneous caverns of the Castle could supply.

You are acquainted, Urania, with the weakness of the man, who was at
that time Castellan of Ravenstein. He possessed a singular kind of
conscience, which frequently made his actions contradictory. Lucretia
had found means to send letters to her son in Italy, of which conduct
(as it was not formally prohibited in his instructions) he affected not
to take notice; but as he had been ordered to confine her _rigorously_,
she found it impossible to obtain from him the slightest alleviation of
her sufferings. Again, as Adelaide had been delivered to his custody at
the same time with her mother, no entreaties could prevail on him to
restore her to liberty; but it required but little persuasion to make
him believe, that she ought to submit to the punishment, which the
person (whom he believed to be her mistress) thought proper to inflict
on her.

Adelaide therefore was separated from her unnatural mother. She was
removed to a subterraneous cell, whose strength proved the means of
preserving her on that dangerous night, when Lucretia in despair and
frenzy enveloped the whole fortress in flames. The fire raged above her;
but she knew not what occasioned the confusion, which seemed to have
taken place in the Castle. Her wretched mother died without mentioning
her name, and her corse was committed to the earth unknown to her
daughter. The deliverance of Urania and the Countess of Mayenfield was
effected; the Castellan, who alone knew the place of her confinement,
had been dangerously hurt during the conflagration, and in his last
moments was too much occupied by the terrors of approaching dissolution
to bestow a thought on his prisoner. No one knew what was become of the
poor Adelaide; no one enquired, no one cared.

Scarcely had you escaped from Ravenstein through the well-imagined
device of Walter Forest and his followers, before your jailors began to
suspect the truth. A variety of circumstances combined to prove that
they had been over-reached, and they were enabled to see the whole
adventure in its true light. In truth, nothing but the rashness of the
attempt and the rapidity of its execution could have prevented them from
making this discovery sooner.

They were provoked beyond measure at the contemptible part, which they
had played on this occasion; too much time had already elapsed to leave
them any hopes of over-taking the fugitives, and to pursue them now had
been only giving themselves unavailing trouble. When they reflected on
the wrath of their tyrannical lord, terror almost turned their blood
into ice. It was evident, that nothing could preserve them from
destruction, but immediate flight from a place, whose natural horrors
were increased tenfold by the ravages of the late conflagration, and by
the recollection of many a cruel action, which they had committed within
those dreary walls!

Flight then was resolved upon unanimously; but they thought it as well,
not to quit Ravenstein with empty hands. It’s true, the whole wealth,
that was to be found there above ground, consisted in chains, rusty
armour, and instruments of torture; but report had assured them, that
treasures of immense value lay concealed in the subterraneous parts of
the Castle, and these they determined not to leave behind them.

They tore open the bosom of the rock, on which the Castle was situated,
without discovering aught but Adelaide’s dungeon, in which she was found
almost at the point of death, not having tasted nourishment for several
days. They were humane enough to remove the unfortunate girl into a
purer atmosphere, and to exert themselves in some measure to effect her
recovery. Her beauty probably was of some use in persuading the younger
part of the garrison to assist her the more readily; and what little
wealth she possest in jewels (the only presents of her unnatural mother)
purchased for her the protection of the more ancient and flinty-hearted.

While they were busied in attending upon her, she heard them talk much
respecting the escape of two ladies, who as well as Lucretia and herself
had been prisoners at Ravenstein: she also heard Walter Forest mentioned
as their deliverer, for Count Ethelbert’s deceived soldiers had by that
time discovered who their deceiver _really_ was, and where he resided.
On these hints did Adelaide build a plan for her escape from the society
of these lawless ruffians, for whose temporary mercy (she saw clearly)
she was only indebted to her illness and to the hurry of their
preparations for flight. At the risk of her life therefore did she, in
spite of her weak condition, take the advantage of a stormy night to
escape from the Castle, and hasten to the tranquil valley inhabited by
that friend of the opprest, Walter Forest; who failed not to receive the
poor Adelaide also with the same openness and hospitality, with which he
had received ourselves.

She rewarded his kindness by apprizing him of the attack, with which he
had been threatened by the soldiery of Ravenstein in revenge for the
artifice, by which he had contrived the escape of their captives. The
warning however proved unnecessary, for the cowardly vassals of the
Count of Carlsheim had already altered their plans. Adelaide’s flight
had ruined their hopes of falling upon Walter by surprize; they did not
dare to attack openly the brave inhabitants of the Frutiger Valley; and
they judged it more prudent on many accounts to proceed without delay to
request protection of the Lords of Eschenbach from the resentment of the
Count of Carlsheim. Ravenstein Castle had originally belonged to the
family of Eschenbach; the protection asked was readily granted; the
rebellious vassals of Count Ethelbert took the oath of allegiance to
their new master, and the shattered towers of Ravenstein Castle were
delivered into his possession.

In the mean while Adelaide, under the escort of some of Walter Forest’s
people, arrived in safety at the place, to which she had desired to be
conducted. She knew in what part of Italy Donat was then resident; and
as the prejudices, with which she had been inspired against Count
Ethelbert and his second wife, prevented her seeking a refuge in her
paternal mansion, there seemed for her no proper abode except with her
brother. Her reception was kinder, than she had expected from her
experience of Donat’s unfeeling nature. He was young, and indulged
himself to excess in the pleasures of voluptuous Italy: if his dissolute
mode of life had not bettered his heart, it had at least made it softer,
and more accessible to compassion, when the indulgence of that sentiment
did not interfere with his own gratifications. Therefore though he
listened with impatience to Adelaide’s melancholy account of her
mother’s sufferings in Ravenstein Castle, and suffered his pleasures to
make him put off from day to day the affording Lucretia that aid, of
which her daughter (who was still ignorant of her decease) never ceased
to assure him, she stood so much in need: still was he not without
compassion for the helpless situation of his sister, nor so blind to
merit, as to reject the title of brother to a creature so amiable and so
deserving. Of their relationship he had no doubt; Adelaide had brought
with her the acknowledgment of her birth written by Lucretia’s own hand;
and had other proofs been wanting, the strong resemblance imprest by
Nature on the features of Donat and his sister would have left the
spectator no doubt, that they sprang from the same parents.

Adelaide, however, soon discovered, that she could not long accept with
propriety the protection afforded her in her brother’s house. Count
Donat was surrounded day and night by a swarm of youthful libertines,
who sported in the sunshine of his wealth, assisted him in his
licentious pursuits, and were his companions in all the excesses of his
unrestrained habits of enjoyment. His lovely sister became the general
object of their insolent addresses; and Donat had neither firmness of
mind nor love of reputation sufficient to guard her against their
importunities.

She entreated permission to retire into a convent; but this was refused
her with too much anger and determination to permit her making the
request a second time. She therefore found herself compelled to give her
hand to one of her admirers, who might at least protect her from the
insults of the rest; and fortunately both for him and for myself, the
man who was least displeasing to her among the number, was Rodolpho of
the Beacon-Tower; was my brother. I have to thank _him_ for the
happiness of calling one of the best of created women by the name of
friend; I have to thank _her_ for having snatched from the jaws of ruin
the dear but erring youth, whom I loved, though but his sister, with
affection not less fervent than a mother’s!

At that time I resided in an Italian cloister, sufficiently near the
theatre of Count Donat’s exploits for the report of them to reach me,
and to make me bewail the fate of those, who were drawn by his example
into the whirlpool of licentiousness.

Alas! the intelligence at length reached me, that my unfortunate brother
was one of the young Count of Carlsheim’s most distinguished companions
in his profligate career. Mutual friendship united them; and Rodolpho’s
warm heart and too yielding nature made him look upon it as the highest
pitch of human glory, when he trod in the footsteps of his abandoned
friend.

My warnings and remonstrances had no effect upon the poor misguided
youth. You must be well aware, dear Urania, that instructions coming
from the mouth of a Nun are little regarded by the worldly, merely
because it _is_ a Nun who speaks them. Very different was the effect of
those reproofs, which the lovely Adelaide condescended to bestow on her
admirer. I have already told you, that among the Damsel of Carlsheim’s
suitors my brother was the man who displeased her the least; and this is
the strongest term which can be applied to her sentiments towards him at
that period. It is true, Rodolpho was esteemed (and that justly) the
handsomest youth in Italy; but Adelaide’s mind was too elevated to
suffer her heart to be captivated by the mere glare of a pleasing
exterior. The man, whom she now honoured with her choice, would
undoubtedly have been seen by her with as much indifference as his
worthless companions, had she not found some traces of manly sense in
his bewildered brain, and in his erring heart some still surviving
sparks of the love of virtue.

What cannot female beauty, when united with solid sense and a feeling
mind, effect upon a being, who is not yet totally lost to every sense of
goodness? Guided by the hand of Adelaide, already had Rodolpho retraced
many a step in the paths of vice: she made his immediate departure from
the theatre of his follies the only condition, on which she would bestow
on him her hand. He loved her; he complied: Adelaide became my sister,
and my brother was entirely rescued.

Oh! dearest Adelaide, how heartily did I thank you (when bidding you
farewell) for removing from the dangers of Italy a man, whom I knew to
be as safe in your arms, as under the wings of his protecting angel!
Willingly did I part with him, since he left me but to follow the path
of virtue, in which you knew how to guide him so well!

She was no sooner Rodolpho’s wife, than Adelaide insisted on his
immediately performing his promise to quit Italy: she saw, that her
personal remonstrances had no power to hasten Donat’s departure for
Ravenstein; and she was obliged to content herself with receiving from
him the most solemn assurances, that he would proceed to liberate his
unfortunate mother without further delay; assurances, which he had
frequently made before, and which were performed no better on this, than
they had been on former occasions.

Adelaide, advised her husband (who could refuse nothing to her
entreaties) to accompany her to the Court of the German Emperor, where
there was no doubt of his easily obtaining an employment suited to his
rank and talents. Rodolpho had but one objection to offer against taking
this step. Rudolf of Hapsburg had been succeeded in the imperial throne
by Adolphus of Nassau. This unfortunate monarch, who was long the friend
and benefactor of our family, was cut off in the middle of his glorious
career by the sword of Albert of Austria; and his crown became the prey
of the powerful conqueror, whose brows it still decorated. My father
lost his life in defence of his sovereign at the battle of Worms; and
his last words commanded his son Rodolpho (who together with many other
young Knights made on that day his first trial in arms) to revenge the
deaths of his father and his sovereign.

This dying injunction was the reason, why Rodolpho had hitherto refused
to accept any employment from the successful Albert; and as good
intentions frequently produce bad effects, the want of proper occupation
had betrayed him into that dissolute course of life, from which he was
snatched by Adelaide. This dying injunction was the cause also of his
being still unwilling to lay himself under obligations to one, whom he
had long been accustomed to call by no other name, than that of the
“regicide Albert.”

Adelaide however prevailed at length over all his objections; he entered
into the Imperial service, and endeavoured to forget, that the man, whom
he acknowledged as his master, was the murderer of the beloved and still
regretted Adolphus: yet frequently no influence less strong than
Adelaide’s would have been able to repress the ebullitions of that
struggling resentment, which still existed in his bosom, and to retain
him firm in the path of his duties. However, in spite of his
disinclination to Albert’s service, he proved himself to be a hero on
all warlike occasions; and often did he express the warmest gratitude to
his wife for having rescued him from his ignominious effeminacy, and
excited the dormant flame of valour in his bosom.

Still he lost no opportunity of showing, that Albert’s yoke sat heavy
upon him, and that he desired nothing more ardently than to exchange the
Imperial service for some other. Dissentions arose between the Emperor
and his two sons, the Margraves Dietman and Frederick; Rodolpho failed
not to side with the latter, and became their father’s prisoner. The
unfortunate Adelaide could of herself do nothing to assist her husband,
and hastened to implore for him her brother’s powerful interference.

Count Donat’s situation had undergone material changes during her
absence. She had left him, not only in possession of the large domains
bequeathed him by his maternal grandfather, but the favourite of a
Prince who loaded him with favours and wealth. Sudden death had deprived
him of this powerful protector; his unbounded extravagance had exhausted
his treasures; and no means of rescuing himself from the most degrading
state of poverty was left him, except an union with a person incapable
of inspiring him with the least affection; and who had nothing to
recommend her to his choice except her immense property, and her
childish passion for this handsome libertine. Shortly before Rodolpho’s
imprisonment had Mellusina become the wife of Count Donat; and on
Adelaide’s arrival in Italy, she understood, that her brother had at
length set out on his long-promised expedition to Ravenstein Castle.

Thither she followed him, and was politely though coldly received by her
new sister-in-law. Mellusina gave herself out to be a natural daughter
of the deceased Emperor Adolphus; and she believed herself entitled by
so illustrious an origin to treat every one else with haughtiness and
contempt. Had she had any other resource, never would Adelaide have
accepted the protection which was here afforded her with such insolent
condescension; but friendless and destitute as was her present
situation, she now could do nothing but suffer and submit.

She found her brother too much occupied by his own projects to bestow a
single thought upon the affairs of others. He listened not to the
imploring voice of his sister; he heeded not the misfortunes of his
former friend. Grief for the untimely death of his mother, who had
perished through his inattention to her prayers, and projects of revenue
against those whom he accused of her sufferings, engrossed his every
thought. Adelaide could obtain nothing from him, except a promise of
assistance when he should have satisfied his animosity against
Lucretia’s murderers; and instead of seeing him lead his forces to the
fortress in which her husband languished, she was obliged to follow him
to Sargans, where she had many a painful scene to undergo, of which you,
dear Urania, were partly a witness.

Sorrow and self-reproach; the disappointment of his too highly-raised
youthful expectations; his union with a woman whom he hated; and above
all the consequences of a life passed in scenes of the most unbridled
profligacy, a ruined constitution and an accusing conscience; all these
together had hardened Count Donat’s heart, and embittered his temper;
had annihilated his few good qualities, and had left his bad ones
visible in the full extent of their enormity. His misanthropic heart
longed for a suitable employment, and only waited for an excuse to make
others feel the tortures, which preyed upon himself. The sight of
Adelaide brought more strongly to his mind the recollection of his
wretched mother, whom he had so long forgotten, and who had so vainly
applied to her son for help: he remembered well, how often his sister
had implored him to set forward for Ravenstein, and had warned him, that
his mother’s death might probably be the consequence of his delay. The
more he reflected, the more fierce became his rage; and he determined to
proceed to Rhætia, revenge his mother, and exact from his father a
severe account respecting her long imprisonment and miserable death. It
was also his design to enforce his right to his paternal estates, from
which Count Ethelbert (incensed at the discovery of Lucretia’s artifice
in regard to her supposed possessions) had disinherited his children by
his first wife.

Count Ethelbert and Urania Venosta had been described to Adelaide in the
most odious colours; notwithstanding which, she shuddered, while
listening to the threats which her brother breathed against them. How
did the sight rend her gentle heart, when she saw the avenger’s sword
raised by the son against his father! Her prayers, her remonstrances had
no effect upon Count Donat and his ambitious wife, who founded on
Ethelbert’s ruin plans for their own future greatness. During her abode
at Ravenstein, Adelaide discovered for the first time the natural
cruelty of her brother’s disposition: report cannot have permitted you
to remain ignorant, with what torrents of blood the furious Donat
inundated the vales of Frutiger. The anxiety and terror, with which you
received the news of his approach towards your residence, sufficiently
prove that you were aware, how little hope you entertained of escaping
from his frantic fury.

Adelaide was aware of it also; and she trembled, if not for her unknown
step-mother, at least for her unfortunate father, who (tyrant as she
believed him to be) she still thought possest from Nature an authority
over his children, which no conduct of his could forfeit, however
criminal. The distrest daughter would have suffered still more severely
from apprehension, founded on reasons but too strong; had she not seized
a lucky moment of unusual good humour to obtain a solemn oath from
Donat, that Ethelbert’s life should be held sacred by him, and that she
never should endure the agony of seeing her brother’s hands stained with
the blood of their common father.

Dreadful is it to think, that such a promise should have ever been
reckoned necessary! In truth, Count Donat himself felt the bitter
reflection conveyed in Adelaide’s request; and while he yielded to her
importunity, he chid her with severity for harbouring such ungrounded
suspicions. I am persuaded, that Donat was not quite the monster at that
time, which he appeared to be when seen in his moments of frantic
passion; nay, I am inclined from a variety of motives to ascribe to him
a very trifling share in that melancholy transaction, whose real
circumstances are covered with a veil of impenetrable obscurity, and
whose execution was too barbarous for me to attribute it even to the
base Guiderius himself. Doubtless Count Ethelbert’s miserable end was
effected by a sudden burst of frenzy; in a moment of terror and despair
his own hand inflicted on himself the punishment of former errors, and
(I fear!) of former crimes!

You appeared at Count Donat’s camp, Urania, to solicit the pardon of
your wretched guilty husband. To see you was sufficient to obtain for
you Adelaide’s affection, and to annihilate every prejudice, which had
so carefully been instilled into her mind against you. She endeavoured
to make you aware of the dangers which threatened you; but obstacles
both visible and invisible interposed, to prevent your preservation.
Your friend’s unwillingness to speak ill of a brother; Mellusina’s
unexpected intrusion and persevering stay in your tent; and above all,
that singular and inexplicable occurrence which made the whole society
separate in such terror, all combined to retain you in the road,
destined to lead you into long captivity.

Never could Adelaide mention without shuddering the mysterious adventure
of that night. She ever anxiously avoided speaking on the subject, and
referred me to you for more accurate information. However, the account
which in compliance with my request you forwarded to me, was nothing
more than that, which I had already heard from my sister-in-law: anxiety
to unravel this mystery made me even have recourse to Mellusina, but
without success. Her account of the matter was no less obscure, strange,
and unaccountable.

The next morning, her brother thought it adviseable to prevent Adelaide
from accompanying you to the Castle of Sargans, and therefore gave out,
that she was taken ill unexpectedly. In truth, this was no pretended
indisposition. The supposed interference of a spiritual being had made
the strongest impression upon her imagination; and when Count Donat’s
attendants delivered her up to my charge (he was then ignorant, how
closely she was connected with the Abbess of St. Mary’s) her situation
was such, that you cannot easily picture it to yourself too
melancholy—The return of the messenger, whom she had dispatched to you,
only served to increase her illness; he communicated to her without
sufficient precaution the news of her unfortunate father’s miserable
death, and added to it the account of your ill-treatment and captivity.
Like all who are possest of sensibility too acute, she loaded herself
with reproaches for not having taken measures to prevent these heavy
misfortunes; and it was long, before the soothing of friendship could
succeed in pacifying her. To complete her distress but one thing more
was necessary, and it arrived: a report prevailed (and was universally
credited) that her husband had fallen a victim to the Emperor’s
resentment. As Superior of St. Mary’s cloister, I could have afforded my
poor sister a secure and agreeable shelter within these tranquil walls;
but the desire to weep over her husband’s grave, and her anxiety to
rescue you from the dungeon in which you languished, compelled her to
return once more into the hated world. She was conscious, that you were
the captive of a man, whose cruelty was but too well known to her; and
she vowed solemnly never to rest, till she had broken the chains imposed
upon you so unjustly.

She saw too plainly, that the united forces of the Counts of Mayenfield
and Homburg would be unable to force you out of the power of the mighty
Lord of the domains of Carlsheim and Sargans, besides both Edith and her
daughter were persuaded of your death, and looked on Adelaide’s
assertions of your existence in Donat’s dungeons, as being the mere
effusions of that enthusiastic affection, which easily believes whatever
it wishes to be true. But no representations, no neglect could induce
your protectress to lay aside her hopes of effecting your deliverance;
and she addrest herself to the Emperor Rudolf’s daughters, whose
powerful interference she trusted would easily obtain your release.

Of all those powerful Princesses, the Duchess of Saxony alone (the
virtuous Matilda, whose own domestic misfortunes might have furnished
her with a sufficient excuse in the world’s estimation, for declining to
embarrass herself with the affairs of others) exerted herself seriously
in your behalf. Her sister Euphemia, retired in a convent and forgotten
by the world, had little to offer toward your release except good
wishes; yet what little she _could_ offer, she offered gladly, and
shared her sister’s joy at the news of your deliverance. I understand,
that this royal Nun will soon exchange her convent at Tull for that
which you inhabit, solely from the wish to end her life in your society.
Oh! Urania, how greatly does all that I hear of you increase my desire
to know you personally! What unusual merit must that woman possess, who
could obtain so warm and unabating an interest in the hearts of three of
the noblest of created beings, Euphemia, Matilda, and my poor Adelaide!

Yet I forget too long the heroine of my history, while occupying myself
with Urania; I resume the thread of my narrative. Adelaide found at
Emperor Albert’s court, (whither she repaired to plead in your behalf in
person) that an happiness was reserved for her, which she had never
expected to enjoy again on this side the grave: her husband was still
living. The same false report, which had persuaded her of his death, had
taken no less pains to persuade Rodolpho, that she was faithless. Her
journey to Italy for the purpose of persuading her brother to interfere
in behalf of her imprisoned Lord; the expedition to Sargans, in which
she was obliged to accompany Count Donat; the length of time, which
elapsed without his knowing what had become of her, and which she had
past in my convent almost at the point of death; these and a variety of
other circumstances had all been represented to Rodolpho in the most
odious light. In his dungeon (whence he had but lately been released on
the reconciliation between the Emperor and his sons) it was impossible
for him to detect the falsehood of these reports; but Adelaide needed
but to shew herself to the man who loved her with such unbounded
affection, and all his injurious suspicions were annihilated at once. A
few words were sufficient to persuade him of the truth; a truth, which
was confirmed by the testimony of those, under whose eyes she had been
residing.

What tongue is capable of describing the reunion of two lovers long
separated; it is a fore-taste of that reunion, which we expect to enjoy
with the objects of our affection beyond the grave, in another world
better and happier. The one saw her belief in the untimely death of her
beloved dissolved like a painful dream; the other saw those stains
removed, which had sullied her purity on whom his soul doated; both
felt, that the turbulent raptures of their early love were less sweet,
than this renewal of their long-tried affection! Forgive me, Urania; a
cloistered Nun ought not to describe such emotions, though she cannot
help feeling them: doubtless, you understand such things better than we
do, who have been confined from our earliest years within the walls of a
convent, and shut out from the most precious rights of human nature.

From this moment began the most fortunate part of our friend’s life.
Adelaide found her husband improved by years and corrected by adversity;
absence and misfortune had made him still dearer to her; and she now
first felt towards him the whole excess of love, of which her
affectionate heart was capable. She now had no other wish, than to enjoy
her happiness in quiet and retirement. The Lords of Eschenbach had
new-built the fortress of Ravenstein, and proffered it to her husband
(who had long been united with them in amity) as a fit residence, should
it be no longer agreeable for him to remain at the Court of the offended
Emperor. Gladly would Adelaide have hastened thither; but Rodolpho had
contracted obligations, which at that time prevented him from
immediately quitting the Court. He was indebted for life, for freedom,
for opulence, to the favour of a princely youth, whom it was only
necessary to see in order to admire; and whose situation it was only
necessary to know, in order to feel interested for him, even had
Rodolpho not been so closely bound to him by the ties of gratitude. This
man was the cause, why Adelaide’s husband found it impossible to comply
with her request.

Need I name to you this noble, this dangerous youth? Alas! who has not
heard of the unfortunate John of Swabia; who does not pity and detest in
him at once the injured Prince, and the lawless avenger of those
injuries?—Wretched youth! what have you gained by that rash and
detestable action, to which you were guided by evil counsellors? In what
climate do you wander accursed like the first murderer, without being
able to fly from your own conscience, and what will be at last the goal
to which your painful wanderings lead?

The young Duke of Swabia, at the period when Rodolpho attached himself
to his fortunes, was not the criminal, which he is now become through
passionate rashness, and through impatience under the pressure of
adversity: the epithet, which is now affixed to his name, and which
probably will be transmitted to the latest posterity, at that time would
have made him recoil with horror. Young, amiable, and unfortunate, he
created an interest in every bosom. Even Adelaide (whose prudent
foresight made her from the very beginning augur some misfortune to
arise from this close intimacy between the Prince and her husband) could
not prevent herself from feeling well-disposed towards him: she was
compelled to own, that in his complaints against his unjust guardian the
Emperor, who withheld from him his paternal inheritance, he had justice
on his side; and she earnestly wished, that he might soon obtain the
redress of his crying injuries.

I told you, that Adelaide had from the first observed with uneasiness
her husband’s intimacy with the Duke of Swabia; in truth, when the
situation and characters of both were considered, it was impossible for
her to feel otherwise on the subject. Prince John was fiery and
impatient, an avowed lover of pleasure, and provided by his crafty uncle
with ample means for indulging in every excess. The Emperor Albert saw
his own advantage in leading the youth (whose happiness he sought to
undermine) into labyrinths, whence he would find it an hard task to
extricate himself. He thought, that the errors, which he furnished
Prince John with opportunities of committing, would excuse his own
unjust proceedings towards his nephew; and unfortunately to lead the
youth into the snare was a task but too easily effected.

With grief of heart must I confess it, in the principal features of his
character Rodolpho resembled his friend very closely. Adelaide’s
influence, it’s true, had for a time represt those inclinations to
libertinism, which he so early contracted in Count Donat’s school: still
had she not succeeded in extirpating them so completely, as to prevent
their obtaining their former mastery over his better judgment
occasionally, now that opportunities for their indulgence were
continually in his way. Rodolpho had a sufficient advantage over the
young Prince in point of years, to have entitled him to be his guide in
the paths of virtue; but instead of leading his friend to good, he too
often suffered himself to be seduced by him into actions, which were
very far from being the most respectable. You may conceive, how much
anxiety her husband’s want of steadiness must have excited in the mind
of our friend; and that anxiety was increased by the dark clouds, which
she could perceive rising in another quarter.

That the Lord of the Beacon-Tower was no partial admirer of the Emperor,
was a fact well known to every one. In unguarded moments his own tongue
had often avowed his real sentiments respecting the regicide Albert, and
the deceased Adolphus; the readiness with which he embraced the quarrel
of the young Margraves had proved, that he was not unwilling to shew his
resentment by actions as well as words; and it was not necessary for him
to connect himself so intimately with the young Duke of Swabia, in order
to make himself an object of hatred and suspicion at the imperial court.
Albert was silent, but his silence was menacing and terrible; and
Adelaide had already acquired sufficient knowledge of the manners of the
great to guess, that the anger (which regard for his own safety
restrained him from venting on the prince) would one day burst on the
heads of his unprotected friends; among whom the Lord of the
Beacon-Tower being the most distinguished, would not fail to receive the
largest share of vengeance.

—“Oh! let us fly, my beloved!” often exclaimed Adelaide in her moments
of apprehension; “let us away to the tranquil vale of Frutiger. Here we
breathe no air but such sultry parching blasts, as seem to warn us of an
approaching tempest. With every moment the gloom increases; the clouds
collect together; the lightning will soon break loose and destroy us!”——

Rodolpho’s answers to these remonstrances were seldom such as to give
her cause for satisfaction. He talked much of the future greatness of
his friend, never spoke of Albert without attaching the word “Regicide”
to his name, and frequently recalled to mind his father’s dying command
to revenge the murder of Adolphus. Adelaide’s anxiety grew daily more
acute: she redoubled her importunity, that her husband should quit the
court; and as she was now in such a situation as gave Rodolpho hopes of
an event, which he had long desired in vain, he trembled, lest the too
violent agitation of her mind should injure her health materially. He
therefore determined for the first time to conceal his sentiments from
the woman whom he adored, and to lead her into an error respecting the
real state of affairs, which became with every day more critical and
serious.

Among his dependents was a young man of noble birth but fallen fortunes,
by name Russeling; he had formerly been in the service of the Duke of
Swabia, and had been employed by him to effect Rodolpho’s deliverance
from the emperor’s chains. This circumstance had greatly endeared him to
his present patron, who did not perceive that he harboured in Russeling
a seducer, whose object was to guide him to the commission of a crime
the most atrocious. This man was one of those concealed enemies, who are
frequently more dangerous to princes, than those whose armies ravage
their dominions, and who openly threaten the subversion of their
thrones. Ancient animosity, which had descended from father to son
through a long line of ancestors undiminished, lived in his rancorous
heart against the emperor: he secretly fanned every spark of hatred,
which existed in other bosoms; his every word infused additional
bitterness towards his uncle into the heart of the Duke of Swabia, to
whose person he had still free access; and he kindled again in the heart
of my unfortunate brother that flame, which Adelaide with her soothing
had so anxiously laboured to extinguish.

The betrayer perceived, that no one crossed him in his evil designs more
than the wife of his patron; he therefore exerted his utmost skill to
effect her removal from the scene of action.

Rodolpho had frequently advised her to quit the turbulent court, and
pass the time of her approaching confinement in the retired Castle near
the Lake of Thun, which she had herself marked out as the future scene
of her domestic happiness. Hitherto his entreaties had been in vain: she
could not resolve to abandon her husband while exposed to all the
dangers, in which the Duke of Swabia’s intimacy had involved him. But
now that Rodolpho had prevailed on himself to use dissimulation with
her, who had never deceived him in the slightest trifle; and now that
Russeling with his serpent’s tongue had thrown out hints respecting the
views of the Duke of Swabia, which led her to suspect (perhaps unjustly)
that his marked attention to her proceeded from a passion disgraceful
both to her and to the prince; Adelaide however reluctantly was
compelled to give up her opinion. Flight, she now thought, would be the
only remaining means of destroying the duke’s presumptuous hopes,
without drawing down his resentment upon her husband. Besides, she
greatly needed some respite from the tumultuous and turbulent residence
of the court; and every anxiety respecting Rodolpho was removed by his
solemn assurance, that it should not be long, ere he rejoined her, never
again to quit the repose and security of rural life.

Yet bitter was the parting between these married lovers. Both were
tormented by forebodings of misfortune; both felt the pangs of an
affection, which made them wish never to be separated; and yet each was
still compelled to acknowledge, that to separate was necessary!

With difficulty did they tear themselves from each other’s arms. By his
patron’s desire, Russeling conducted the Lady of the Beacon-Tower to the
place appointed for her abode: but as soon as he had seen her
established there, he hastened back to the imperial residence, anxious
to lose no opportunity of advancing his projects. As unfortunately every
circumstance combined to favour them, his detestable schemes were but
too soon carried into execution.

In the mean while, Adelaide in the solitude of Ravenstein led the kind
of life best adapted to her melancholy situation. The present posture of
affairs rendered her heart doubly accessible to every sort of
inquietude: she had left her dear but unsteady husband entangled in a
chain of circumstances, which authorized her to see the future in the
most gloomy light; nor was it long before she discovered, that in fixing
her abode at the fortress of Ravenstein, she had by no means selected a
residence the best fitted for dissipating the melancholy ideas, which
perpetually obtruded themselves upon her imagination.

In the spring of her life this Castle had been long her prison; there
had she narrowly escaped perishing by famine and by the flames; there
too was the grave of her unfortunate mother. It was impossible, that
these sad recollections should not have considerable effect upon a mind,
which already was tortured by a thousand causes for anxiety. It is true,
the lords of Eschenbach had almost entirely rebuilt the ruined fortress
at considerable expence, and had made it so different from its former
self, that it was scarcely to be recognized; but Adelaide’s enthusiastic
imagination saw less what was before her eyes, than what sorrow had
engraved on her remembrance indelibly.

The time of her delivery was at hand; and the presence of some
sympathising friends enabled Adelaide to look forward to the moment of
danger with less fear. Indeed, the laws of our order did not permit
either you or myself to leave our convents, and hasten to the assistance
of our beloved Adelaide. The Countess Mellusina was no more; and even
had she been still in existence, her presence would have been but little
wished or expected by her sister-in-law. I doubt much too, whether (even
had we been able to come to her aid) with all our good intentions we
should have been able to afford so much real help and comfort, as she
received from the female inhabitants of the vale of Frutiger: during the
time which she past with Count Donat at Ravenstein, Adelaide by her
exertions to moderate the fury of her incensed brother had won their
hearts completely; and no sooner did the grateful women hear, that their
benevolent protectress stood in need of it, than they hastened to afford
her their friendly assistance. Walter Forest’s mother, and the wife of
Henric Melthal, (for Donat’s increasing tyranny had compelled the family
of Melthal to withdraw from his dominions) were among the first to
proffer their services; nor did Gertrude Bernsdorf neglect the daughter
of her former lord. It was from these good matrons, that I received the
account of the following transactions; alas! I was not permitted to hear
them from the lips of the dear Adelaide herself!

The Lady of the Beacon-Tower was safely delivered of a son; and the
sight of this little smiling innocent was sufficient to relieve his
anxious mother from more than half the weight of her melancholy.

—“Now then,” she exclaimed frequently, while she kissed her baby with
rapture, “now then I only need to see Rodolpho partaking my delight, and
every fear which now distracts my bosom will at once be destroyed for
ever.”——

Her wish was granted, sooner than she could have expected. Alas! it
brought not with it the joy, which (she fondly hoped) would accompany
her husband’s arrival.

Reports which agitate the great world, are slow in reaching the
dwellings of retirement; yet there are _some_ transactions, which fame
spreads about with the rapidity of lightning, because they are strange
and terrible enough to attract the attention of the universal globe.

Who trembles not at hearing the dreadful word, _Regicide_? the emperor
Albert was dead; he had fallen by the hands of the unfortunate John of
Swabia and his friends! this dreadful report had been long circulated in
whispers among the mountains, where Adelaide had fixed her residence; it
at first obtained little credit, but with every succeeding day it seemed
to assume more consistency. It had not yet reached the ears of Adelaide;
but her attendants saw, that it would be impossible to keep it from her
knowledge much longer; the prudent Gertrude therefore, as the person
among them to whom the others looked up with the greatest deference,
undertook to give the invalid some insight into these melancholy events;
observing every possible precaution, that might weaken their effect, and
carefully concealing the share, which the Lord of the Beacon-Tower was
reported to have taken in the business. Chance unfortunately prevented
her from executing her kind intentions.

One evening, Adelaide was sitting with her child at her bosom near a
window, which commanded the spacious court-yard. On a sudden a single
warrior rushed into the court on horseback. Adelaide sprang from her
seat with a cry of joy, and flew towards the portal.

—“Whither would you go, lady?” exclaimed Gertrude, and hastened to
follow her.

But Adelaide was already in the court, and before he had time to enter,
had placed her child on the bosom of his father.

Rodolpho kissed his baby and its mother, and then amidst the joyful
shouts of the domestics who crouded round their master, he followed
Adelaide into the great castle-hall: there was he received with renewed
embraces, with questions, blessings, wonderings, and all the delightful
confusion of unexpected and overflowing joy.

Rapture at clasping in her arms the man, whom she had so long sighed to
see, and at a moment so unlooked-for, prevented Adelaide from observing,
that the rapture was not mutual. The eager prattling of affection
concealed from her, that she was the only speaker; and many hours had
elapsed, before she was sufficiently recovered from the delirium of her
joy to ask the question—“Oh! Rodolpho, why thus silent? why thus pale?”—

It was not so long, before his attendants had remarked this alteration
in their Lord’s appearance; and the alarming consternation displayed in
his countenance seemed to confirm the reports to his disadvantage, which
for some time had been so prevalent. The pleasure, with which his
arrival had inspired them at first, soon vanished; and all drew back
with shuddering from the man, on whose hands they fancied that they
could discover the stains of royal blood.

—“What troubles you, my beloved?” Adelaide at length demanded of her
husband, who sat with his eyes fixed stedfastly on the earth, and seemed
not to hear her question; “answer me for pity’s sake! what troubles
you?”—

—“Oh! nothing, nothing!” he exclaimed, then sprang up suddenly, and
advanced towards the window—“all is as it should be; nothing has
happened but what _ought_ to have happened. It is only my foolish heart,
that cannot be persuaded to let me be at rest.”—

—“All has happened, that ought to have happened?” repeated Adelaide,
whose anxiety became more painful with every moment; “and what then
_has_ happened?”—

Rodolpho without answering her question, remarked that night was coming
on; he then desired a domestic to take good care, that all the gates
were well locked and barred, and ordered that the portcullis should be
let down to guard the narrow path, whose steps were hewn in the rock,
and which was the only avenue to the Castle.

—“Dearest Rodolpho,” said Adelaide, while she took his hand with mingled
tenderness and apprehension “what need of these precautions? are you not
safe in the arms of love? surely, we now have no enemies to dread.”—

—“Adelaide, while Albert lived, we had but _one_ enemy: now that he is
no more, his death has created a thousand avengers, who wait with
impatience for an opportunity to destroy us!”—

—“His death?” exclaimed Adelaide in a tone expressing the utmost horror,
and betraying that she already guest the misfortune, which she was soon
to hear confirmed; “is then the emperor dead? alas! and by whom?”—

Her husband gazed upon her with a gloomy frowning air, and without
replying prepared to quit the apartment.

Adelaide followed him, detained him, and in a voice scarcely audible
repeated her question.

Rodolpho bent himself towards her, and whispered somewhat in her ear;
yet not so gently, but that Gertrude (who was the only person then
present) could distinguish the emperor’s name, the Duke of Swabia’s, and
Rodolpho’s own.

—“Now then” said he, with a loud voice and terrible look; “Now then is
Adelaide aware, by what name she must henceforth greet her husband?”—

It is easy to guess, how violent an effect this dreadful explanation
must have made upon the criminal’s unfortunate wife! life is subject to
moments, in which a single word is sufficient to bring at once before
the mind the whole wide extent of our future fate; in which with a
single look and in a single feeling we embrace the whole; and (be they
of sorrow or be they of joy) in which man’s feeble nature is compelled
to sink beneath the gigantic strength of his sensations.

Adelaide lay at her husband’s feet deprived of animation. His caresses
and the care of her attendants only awakened her to the sense of
suffering. It is true, the total deprivation of her intellects for a
time preserved her mind from feeling the wretchedness of her situation;
but her health was cruelly affected by the violent attacks of a malady,
which soon brought her to the very brink of the grave.

Many months past before she was pronounced out of danger; it required no
less a period to elapse, before she was able to accustom her mind
sufficiently to seeing all her gloomy apprehensions justified, without
relapsing into that melancholy state from which she had just escaped
with so much difficulty.

While Rodolpho through his wife’s illness suffered both for himself and
for her, his situation had become more critical with every day. The
favourable hour for flight had been consumed by the side of Adelaide’s
sick-bed. With no kind friendly hand to pour balm into the wounds of his
conscience, their agony was become most acute; and he was now compelled
to see (what is seen by every criminal) the deed that was done with very
different eyes from those, with which he saw the deed while it was yet
to do. He was without comfort, without hope; and already did the
emperor’s avengers tread close upon his footsteps.

There was no longer any security for the unfortunate family of Rodolpho
at Ravenstein Castle: concealment was the only chance for preserving his
life from the many swords, that were in search of him. Adelaide’s first
care therefore on her recovery was to quit her abode; nor did her still
weak state of health deter her from immediately executing her
resolution. Rodolpho followed whither she thought proper to conduct him,
less from the hope of saving his wretched existence, than from feeling
it impossible to part any more from Adelaide. The horror, which had
taken possession of all her faculties on first hearing of this dreadful
act, had now given place to sorrow and compassion: she tortured herself
to find some apology for his crime; and when she felt that the excuses
of love avail nothing at any judgment-bar except its own, though she
found herself compelled to confess Rodolpho guilty, she still vowed,
that all guilty as he was she loved him still, and that all guilty as he
was she would perish with him.

Willingly did the grateful inhabitants of the Vale of Frutiger afford a
shelter to her, from whom they had formerly received such essential
services; but it was not without much secret murmuring, that they
granted the same favour to her blood-polluted husband. How indeed could
that innocent and open-hearted race of people willingly support the
presence of a murderer?

In the shelter of their huts Rodolpho ran no risque of being betrayed;
but it was clear to every one, and most so to himself, that the
sacrifice made by them in this instance to humanity, was a sacrifice
which cost them very dearly. His own afflicted conscience too prevented
him from long remaining quiet in the same place; and he at length
suddenly told his wife, that he was determined on hastening to Rome, and
on soliciting absolution for his crime at the feet of the holy father.
This, he believed, was the only balsam capable of calming the
inexpressible anguish, which preyed upon his heart.

Unwillingly did Adelaide suffer him to tear himself from her arms. She
would fain have accompanied him in his pilgrimage; but her weakness
which still continued, and the caution which it was necessary for a
proscribed man to observe upon his journey, compelled her to give up her
generous design. Rodolpho set forward in disguise for Rome; Adelaide
remained in the Vale of Frutiger with her little son, mingling the milk,
which she gave him, with many a tear of bitterness.

A considerable space of time elapsed, and yet no news arrived from the
unfortunate pilgrim: her friends the worthy matrons of Helvetia
endeavoured to give this delay, which so justly was the cause of much
anxiety to Adelaide, a favourable interpretation; and their husbands
solemnly promised, should Rodolpho return with the Holy Father’s pardon,
they would refuse him no service, which an honest man could require at
their hands.

Adelaide’s tranquillity began to return: absolution even from crimes,
whose mention makes humanity shudder, is no uncommon thing in our days;
this is a circumstance, which gives the laity opportunities of throwing
much reproach upon the church; but on which, as belonging to a religious
society, it becomes _me_ to remain silent—the hopes of our friend were
also greatly strengthened by an event, which (when Adelaide communicated
it in one of her letters) appeared even to myself as meriting no slight
attention; it was, that persons of inferior consequence having all
desisted from the pursuit, the only person, who still demanded
Rodolpho’s punishment, was Johanna, the reigning queen of Hungary, and
daughter of the murdered emperor. We trusted, that the gentle soul of a
woman would be easily awakened to compassion; and this flattering
persuasion received additional force, when Adelaide received an
assurance, that it was unnecessary for her to continue in concealment,
and that she might return to her abode at Ravenstein, in perfect
security from meeting with injury or insult.

Adelaide and her friends naturally considered, this permission as a
fore-runner of still greater favours—“It is clear then,” said she, “that
the place of my concealment was well known to my husband’s enemies. It
was in their power, had they thought fit to take the most severe
vengeance, to have punished Rodolpho’s crime on me and on his son; but
they molested us not, and I am now permitted to return to my former
residence. Besides, Rodolpho is in truth not so _very_ culpable; he was
seduced into guilt by the artifice of others. He drew not his sword to
revenge his own injuries, but to protect his friend against injustice
and oppression. Perhaps he was selected as an instrument of the Divine
Vengeance, and commissioned by Heaven to punish Albert’s crime, who was
himself his sovereign’s murderer.”—

Oh! Adelaide, how could your pure and generous heart persuade itself
even in a single thought or by a single word to palliate an offence, too
atrocious to admit of pardon? vainly did you strive to deceive yourself;
one serious glance falling on the veil, which affection would fain have
thrown over the crime of your beloved, was frequently enough to make you
tremble and blush at being employed in such an office.

For some time the Lady of the Beacon-Tower resided at Ravenstein in a
situation, whose apparent tranquillity was more artificial than real,
but which still was rendered supportable by the hope of better days. A
thunder-clap suddenly rouzed her from her pleasing dreams, and a tempest
hurried her towards the termination of her sorrows.

Every attempt to obtain intelligence of the guilty wanderer had hitherto
been unsuccessful. Adelaide’s messengers returned not; Rodolpho was
unable to dispatch messengers in return, for he had no sooner set his
foot within the precincts of the Vatican, than he was delivered into the
hands of avenging justice. What was his present fate, and what would be
that which was still reserved for him, was already well-known to every
one in the neighbourhood of Ravenstein. Concealed from her by the cruel
tenderness of her attendants, her husband’s situation was a secret to
Adelaide alone. Surely it was cruel to hide from her an event, which she
could not escape knowing in the end, till the whole consciousness of her
misfortunes burst upon her at once, and with the violence of the shock
crushed her.

The Lady of the Beacon-Tower entertained no apprehensions for herself;
happen what would, she believed her own person to be safe. The
inhabitants of the Helvetian mountains, in which she resided, had been
long dissatisfied with the government of princes, who only employed
their power to rob them of their liberty; and they had secretly resolved
to seize the first opportunity of breaking their chains. They were
prepared to run every hazard in defence of their adored Adelaide; and
they counted it unnecessary to warn her of the approach of dangers,
which they were firmly determined to prevent from ever reaching her. But
where are the mountains so inaccessible, the protection so powerful, and
the valour so impossible to be subdued, that calamity cannot overcome
all obstacles in pursuit of her destined victim!

Johanna, the Queen of Hungary, who with the fury of a tigress burned to
revenge her father’s death, demanded admission into these tranquil
vallies, whose inhabitants, from their having granted Rodolpho a
temporary asylum, she considered as adherents to the guilty Duke of
Swabia. One fortress after another fell into her power: she became
mistress by degrees of the whole country; and at length Adelaide heard
the sound of hostile trumpets, ere she had yet been made aware, that the
most revengeful of all women had penetrated into Helvetia.

Johanna’s mildness towards the murderer’s family had been only assumed,
in hopes of discovering where Rodolpho himself was concealed. His
seizure had rendered further artifice unnecessary, and she was now
permitted to show the violence of her resentment without disguise. She
led her troops in person against Ravenstein. Though lately repaired and
internally fitted up with elegance and splendour, the fortress no longer
possest those strong means of defence, which in its antient state had
enabled it to set the attacks of foes so often at defiance. Walter
Forest, however, had engaged to undertake the command of it; but at the
time when Johanna unexpectedly appeared before the Castle, this brave
man was detained by patriotic duties in a distant part of the country.
The garrison were capable of making but a sorry resistance; the gates
were thrown open; and Johanna made her triumphal entrance into
Ravenstein over the bleeding corses of those, who had fallen the
innocent victims of her thirst for vengeance.

Oh! Urania, I know well, that justice required the punishment of
Albert’s murderers; I know well, that it was the remembrance of her
father’s death, which transformed his daughter into a Feind; but still
... still I feel it impossible for me without horror and disgust to
unite a thirst for blood with the name of woman. Johanna, that
Saint-like princess, that builder of cloisters, that worker of miracles;
that young and beautiful Johanna who, as ’tis whispered, is secretly by
no means averse to the tender passions; even that very Johanna pursued
her way over heaps of mutilated corses, and said with a triumphant smile
to those who followed her,—“that it seemed, as if her path had been
strown with roses.”—

The doors of the Great Hall were thrown open; Adelaide lay senseless in
the arms of her attendants. She was half stretched across the cradle of
her sleeping child, as if even in the moment of swooning she had still
been aware, that enemies were approaching too pityless to spare even
slumbering innocence.

The pale countenance of the Lady of the Beacon-Tower, the beauty of
whose features even sorrow had not been able to destroy, and the
helplessness of whose present situation served only to render her more
interesting, would have touched even the hearts of dæmons with
compassion; but on the incensed Johanna this very beauty produced quite
a contrary effect. In the eyes of her who gladly would have seen all
other charms eclipsed by her own, to be as lovely as Adelaide in itself
was a crime of no inconsiderable magnitude: nor could the queen observe
without extreme displeasure, that among the warriors in her train, many
an eye (whose approbation she would gladly have engrossed entirely)
dwelt with looks of tenderness and admiration on the fair lifeless
statue, which lay extended in the dust, overthrown by fear and sorrow.

—“Who is this woman?” demanded the queen.

—“Adelaide, Lady of the Beacon-Tower.”—

—“Ha! say’st thou? the Regicide’s wife then?—and yonder brat in the
cradle?”—

—“It is Adelaide’s only son,” exclaimed Gertrude, at the same time
throwing herself at the feet of the Fury, whose arm was already extended
towards the slumbering infant, as it lay half-concealed by its mother’s
robe.—“Mercy, mercy for the poor babe; he has been guilty of no crime;
be satisfied with revenging yourself on his unfortunate father!”—

A scream uttered by the little Rodolpho rouzed his mother from her
insensibility; she looked up; she saw her baby in the arms of the
furious queen, who childless herself and unworthy to have children, knew
not and cared not, how such tender creatures should be handled.

Gertrude had quitted her kneeling attitude, to hasten to the assistance
of her awakening friend, who now took the place which she had left
unoccupied, and embraced in Gertrude’s stead the knees of the queen.

—“My child!” she exclaimed; “give me my child! what would you do with
it? why do you grasp it so rudely? oh! it is tender, and you will kill
it! you will kill it!”—

—“What would I do with it?” repeated the implacable Johanna; “I would
dash the little serpent against the ground, that it may not grow up to
be a regicide like its father!”—

—“Oh! mercy! mercy! what crime can the innocent babe have committed?”—

—“None, lady, none,” replied Johanna, while she cast upon the suppliant
a look of mingled anger and disdain; “’tis out of mere compassion, that
I use your infant thus. Had your husband the regicide been treated in
his cradle as I will soon treat this screaming worm, he had not been at
this moment on his road to the place of execution, where he must soon
end his guilty life upon the rack.”—

—“Say you?—my husband ... the place of execution ... the rack too ... my
child! oh! God, my poor child!”—thus shrieked Adelaide, who had now
sprang from the earth, and was endeavouring to force her infant from the
grasp of this female Dæmon; but her exertions were too feeble, and she
again sank insensible upon the pavement.

—“Lady,” exclaimed one of the warriors, who seemed to be of most
distinction among her attendants, “you forget your sex!”—at the same
time he forcibly rescued the crying baby from her hands, and placed it
on the bosom of Gertrude.

This bold protector of innocence must have possest no trifling influence
with Johanna, since she dared only punish his action by an angry frown,
and immediately commanded (probably through fear of his making still
further use of his power over her) that the still fainting Adelaide
should be removed from her presence.

The poor sufferer was conveyed to one of those dungeons, with which you,
unfortunate Urania, are but too well acquainted; Dungeons, whose massy
walls had rendered them impenetrable to the flames, which had laid all
above them in ruins. But what fortress is so strong, what abyss of the
earth is so deep, that its approach is inaccessible to the generous
activity of friendship? Gertrude had no sooner clasped in her arms the
poor ill-treated babe, than she lost not a moment before she quitted the
Castle, and fled with him to implore the honest inhabitants of the vale
to afford their assistance to his unfortunate mother.

As more than half the attendants of the barbarous Queen of Hungary
disapproved of her late treatment of the wretched and the helpless, and
were favourable to the cause of opprest innocence, Gertrude met with but
little difficulty (when she secretly returned to Ravenstein) in gaining
admission to the dungeon of her friend: but she found the unfortunate in
a situation, which made her escape almost impracticable—the Queen had
that morning condescended to enter her cell, possibly thinking that it
was right to fulfill one of the most sacred duties of her faith, the
visiting the prisoner: but what she brought with her was not, according
to the divine precept, hope and consolation. No; much rather was it her
business to heap on the head of her heart-broken captive an additional
weight of motives for affliction. An animated picture of the enormity of
Rodolpho’s crimes, and an horrible enumeration of the tortures to which
his sentence condemned him, nearly robbed the wretched Adelaide of her
senses; and she only retained recollection sufficient to feel the last
stab inflicted by her tormentor, when the unfeeling woman named the day,
on which Rodolpho was to suffer. Well did she hear that cruel word, and
that moment of horror inscribed itself on her bewildered brain in
characters of fire.

Gertrude, when she hastened to her friend’s bedside, could not help
fancying that she already embraced her corse: her feelings had been
strained beyond their utmost boundaries, and were followed by a total
cessation of her powers both of body and of mind.

Gertrude had received some plain hints, that the compassionate servants
of an inhuman mistress were disposed to shut their eyes to any thing,
which she might undertake in favour of the captive. Walter Forest’s
mother had accompanied her to Ravenstein; these two kind-hearted women
raised the unconscious Adelaide in their arms, and not without much
difficulty conveyed her from the dungeon. The guards appointed to watch
the door appeared to be buried in sleep, while the fugitives past them;
and they reached a narrow portal in the back part of the fortress
without meeting any impediment. The good porter turned the lock for them
in silence, and (conscious that the veil of darkness would conceal his
benevolent action from the queen, who would not easily have been
persuaded to pardon it), he assisted Gertrude to place her rescued
friend in the litter, which waited for them at a few paces from the
Castle-gate. Swiftly did they now descend the mountain-pass, and it was
not long, before the Castle of Ravenstein was left far behind them.

The good peasants, to whom Gertrude applied for shelter and concealment,
granted it without hesitation: but many days elapsed, before they
succeeded in snatching Adelaide from the shadows of the grave, towards
which her unbroken stupor appeared to be conducting her. On the fourth
day, she discovered the first symptoms of consciousness; she started up
suddenly, and asked several hurried questions, which were faithfully
answered.

Adelaide again sank back upon her couch, and remained for some time
silent, with her eyes staring wildly, and directed towards Heaven.

—“Then it was not a dream!” she said at length aloud; “it was not in a
vision, that I saw those dreadful scenes at Ravenstein! it was but
yesterday, that all this happened, and yet it seems to me, as if since
then there had past half a century!”—

—“Pardon me, noble Lady. It is now three days, since you have been in
safety: to-day is the first Monday after the Nativity, and....”—

—“Monday, say’st thou? the first Monday after ... Rodolpho! oh!
Rodolpho!”—

She attempted to quit her bed, but Gertrude prevented her.

—“Dear Lady,” said she, “recollect your weak condition: the sudden chill
or the morning-air would be enough to kill you.”—

—“Right, right! then it is only morning yet? oh! yes; I now see myself
that it is no more. Look, where the sun rises from behind yonder
mountain! ha! how red and how gloomy he burns, foreboding that it will
be a bloody day!”—

Gertrude comprehended not her meaning, and replied not. Adelaide
repeated her request that she might be permitted to rise, with such
earnestness that her attendants were compelled to obey her. She suddenly
drew her arm from Gertrude’s, and walked a few paces without assistance.

—“Yes, it will do well,” said she, after a pause with a look of
satisfaction. “Now then bring my child; let me once again embrace
him.—But alas! it must not be. My boy is very young, and needs much
attention; even in your hands, good Gertrude, he will not be taken
sufficient care of, and I must remain here. Oh! my poor husband, I am
forbid to follow you; but peace, peace to your tortured bones; repose
and pardon to your afflicted spirit!”——

Adelaide with folded hands had sunk on her knees before the
cottage-window, whose casement was illuminated by the beams of the
morning sun. She now rose up, and again demanded, that her baby should
be brought to her.

Her attendants delayed to obey the order. That delay alarmed her; she
insisted with increased earnestness on seeing her child, and they were
at last compelled to acknowledge, that on the evening before it had
expired.

—“Dead!” she exclaimed, and the tone in which she spoke it exprest by
that single word at once all the feelings of agony, which a mother’s
heart can suffer.—“Dead!” she again repeated, after some moments of
silence. Then as if she had suddenly discovered a ray of comfort, she
added—“that is right! quite right!—but still I must see it!—my child!
show me my child!”—

They conducted her to the cradle, in which the pallid infant lay, and
appeared to smile even in death. She kist it without shedding a single
tear, and desired to be conducted back to her couch, and to be left
alone.

Gertrude was too much on her guard to grant the sufferer more than the
first half of her request. She seated herself by her bedside, and for
some time watched unremittingly.—But wearied with her long vigils during
Adelaide’s insensibility, she at length found her powers inadequate to
fulfill her good intentions. About midnight sleep completely overcame
her; and now was an opportunity afforded to the wife of my unfortunate
brother, to execute that wild resolution whose consequences soon
re-united her to the husband whom she adored.

Adelaide rose silently from her bed, and left the house without being
observed. Through the shadows of night she wandered towards the place,
where her broken heart panted to arrive. Her weakness made her long in
accomplishing this painful journey. On the day before her arrival
Rodolpho had already undergone the torture of the rack; yet did Adelaide
reach the place of execution time enough to receive his last breath and
his last blessing. His breaking eyes recognized her well-known features,
before they closed for ever; he murmured her name, and she sank upon his
bleeding bosom[1].

Footnote 1:

  Some historians assert, that the sufferings of Rodolpho of the
  Beacon-Tower lasted for three whole days. During this time his wife
  could not be persuaded to quit the place of execution, and it was not
  till he had breathed his last, that she suffered herself to be
  conveyed to Basle, where she soon after expired.

They forcibly removed her from the scaffold; whether out of cruelty or
compassion I cannot pretend to say. Understanding how closely I was
connected with her, the new Emperor Henry of Luxemburg caused her to be
removed to my convent, that she might end her days in my arms. God be
thanked, they were ended soon! death and eternal rest were all, that it
was left us to wish the poor sufferer. Scarcely had she strength to
reach the place of my abode. The lay-sister informed me that a lady ill
and weary requested to see me. I hastened to the convent-gate; it was
Adelaide. Wearied in truth she was, alas! wearied even unto death! it
was on my bosom, that the angel breathed her last.

All-merciful Heaven, was not the burthen then imposed on me too great
for the strength of one like me, a poor weak helpless mortal? the bloody
death of my beloved though guilty brother was scarcely announced, when I
was doomed to weep over the grave of that innocent creature, whom I
called my sister not more with my lips, than with my whole full heart!

Adelaide was herself unable to explain to me the connection of those
terrible events, which cost her her existence: but it was easy to guess
those which had happened lately. Her poor wounded feet convinced me,
that she had performed some long and painful journey, and whither could
the wife have directed her steps but to the scaffold, on which her
husband was condemned to breathe his last? Poor, poor Adelaide! the
attempt to throw yourself into my arms was the last exertion of your
exhausted powers: words were denied you to explain your excess of
suffering to your sister; but your looks so expressive of anguish and
pious resignation spoke to my heart in a language most intelligible!

Adelaide’s attendants had mist her soon after her escape, and hastened
in pursuit of her: but ignorance of the way which she had taken for some
time led them astray. At length the report of Rodolpho’s death reached
them, and gave them a clue to trace the fugitive. From the place of
execution it was easy to follow her to my convent; where else could they
expect to find the unhappy Adelaide, but in the arms of sisterly
affection?

I learned such circumstances as were still unknown to me from these
afflicted women, who were almost distracted at hearing the loss of their
mistress, whose sudden death they attributed to their own carelessness
in suffering her to escape. Not long after these melancholy events, the
_gentle_ and pious Queen of Hungary sent to request that the body of the
noble sufferer might be delivered up to her messengers; it being (as
they informed me) her intention to deposit it in her newly-erected
church of Konigfeld, which she had built on the spot where her father
Albert had perished, and in which she had already ordered a sumptuous
monument to be prepared for the Lady of the Beacon-Tower.

Report was loud in praise of this generous act of the saint-like
Johanna, who thus offered an honourable grave to the wife of her
father’s murderer. As it appeared to me in a light by no means so
amiable, I scrupled not to give the Queen’s request a positive refusal.
My sister’s bones repose in the vaults beneath our convent-chapel; the
marble which covers them bears no inscription except the name of her who
is buried there, a name which will be sacred to the latest posterity, as
an example of undeserved affliction and of love and truth unequalled.

Come to this place of sorrow, dearest Urania; come, and bathe that
hallowed stone with your tears, on which my own still fall in my most
serious hours. At present suffer me to rest from the painful task of
describing scenes, the slightest recollection of which is almost
sufficient to break my heart in pieces. God grant that ere long it may
break for ever! Adelaide’s smiling form seems to beckon me away to the
regions of light.—Rodolpho’s shade I strive in vain to discern; it
appears not!—oh! thou my brother! my dear seduced unhappy brother! may
the Divine Providence grant me not to close my eyes, till my unceasing
fervent prayers shall have obtained the absolution of thy sins, and have
gained thy admission into the dwellings of the blessed!


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _PART THE FOURTH._


                            ═══════════════

                       _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 station, 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! you 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 well, 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 young 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
ought 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.


                    _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 been 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 harm. 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 and 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 tears 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, that 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
severe 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 first 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 considerably 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 assume 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,
that 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. This 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.


                _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 snares, 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 fetters.
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 in 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 of 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 and 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 countenances 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 society 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 to 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.

—“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 had 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, by 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.


                _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 me, 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 sufficiently 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 shaken. 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.

How 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 grave. 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 force 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
rescue 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 her 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 proper 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 and 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 enough,
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 was 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 Homburg
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.

Henric 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 I
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 closest 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 seldom 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.

Since 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, which 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 were 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 veil 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, was 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 probability 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 us 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, though 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 again, 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.”—

We 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 were 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 of 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 it 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 which 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 one 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 he 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.”—

Could 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; I
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 to
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 about 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 against 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! that
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 suffered 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 Count 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?

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.

The uneasiness, which my knowledge of these particulars (contained in
that letter which you privately conveyed to my hands) excited in my
bosom, was raised to the highest pitch by the discovery, that Abbot
Luprian was induced to influence my father to fix his choice on this
Convent for my future abode, because he had views respecting me the most
improper; views, which he thought could not fail of success, were I once
inclosed within the walls of St. Roswitha, where (let him dissemble as
he pleases) to my certain knowledge he is omnipotent.

Here was a discovery! oh! my Emmeline, how anxiously did I long to
communicate to you this information so important to us both! I wished,
that you should be made aware of everything, which could ever be in the
least detrimental to you; though from your having always been my
father’s favourite, I concluded, that he would not insist on your taking
the veil so peremptorily, as was the case with his rejected Amalberga!

You must have remarked, that whenever we were suffered to pass a few
moments together, a secret trembled upon my lips, which I was only
prevented from revealing by the vigilance of our jailors. I frequently
resolved to disclose everything to my father: I thought, that he could
not have been so unnatural, so inhuman, as consciously to drive his
daughter into the jaws of perdition; the Abbot and his accomplices would
have been unmasked, and myself rescued from the dreadful Convent. But
alas! whenever I attempted to address him, that dread of him, which we
both of us imbibed with our mother’s milk, overpowered me, and I sank at
his feet unable to pronounce a syllable.—Besides, I had no proof of the
guilt of the Nuns of St. Roswitha except the letter of my friend, who
had always been the object of his peculiar aversion, and whose
interference would have drawn down upon her his anger and revenge.

You know her well, that excellent courageous woman; yet while she ever
exprest before us the utmost abhorrence of the Convent of St. Roswitha,
never could she prevail on herself to sully her lips and our ears by
declaring the true grounds of her aversion. At length my extreme danger
made her resolve to sacrifice her delicacy, and she sent me that
intelligence in writing, which she had never dared to reveal in speech.
It was not the anger of my father, which she had alone to apprehend on
this occasion; it was also the Abbot’s power, who (if publicly accused)
she knew well, would be supported by the Pope and the whole monastic
community of Helvetia. You are not now to learn, how closely all Monks
unite, when one of their order is attacked by laymen.

I knew not what to do; the day drew near, which was to decide my fate;
the most painful distress preyed upon my mind, and slumber seldom
visited my pillow. It was in one of these uneasy sleepless nights, that
I heard a low murmuring sound at the wainscot of my chamber. I listened;
at intervals the sound was repeated; I thought, that it was but the
gnawing of vermin, and I again reposed my head on my pillow, when on a
sudden I heard a loud crash. The flames of the night-torches streamed
towards me, as if impelled by a strong current of air; I was struck by a
piercing chillness, which seemed to breathe from the habitations of the
dead, and before I had time to collect my thoughts, I felt myself
encircled by two arms.

In this situation, not to be in some degree alarmed was impossible; yet
I had of late been so much accustomed to terror, that this fresh trial
did not overpower my senses. I was aware, that the arms, which had
seized me, were those of a female; and I soon recovered resolution
sufficient to examine the person, by whom I was thus unexpectedly
visited. I beheld with rapture the dear friend, who had already warned
me; and with her was an old Monk in the habit of Cloister-Curwald, whose
appearance had something in it so extraordinary, that I doubt much if he
had approached me alone, whether I should have received him with as much
fortitude, as I now did, when I saw him accompanied by my excellent
protectress. It was indeed the consideration, what terror might have
been excited by his visiting me by himself, which had induced my friend
to become his companion.

Oh! how can I sufficiently express my gratitude to that dear woman for
the unwearied care, with which she watched over me. It was not enough to
have put me on my guard: she saw, that I needed more to be done, and she
hastened to do it.

Deep in the bosom of the hill which rises to the north-west of Sargans,
there exists a small society of pious Hermits. Their community is
indebted for its origin to a deposed Abbot of Curwald, who, accompanied
by five partners in the same calamity, found shelter and tranquillity in
this unknown solitude. The excellent Urania was their preserver. Two of
their companions who lost their way while following them through the
subterraneous caverns, which they traversed in their flight from
persecution either fell into the hands of their pursuers, or must have
perished accidentally by some miserable death; since no tidings of them
could ever be obtained. The rest reached the place of refuge in safety,
and commenced a tranquil and holy life in the wilderness, which their
industry soon converted into a terrestrial paradise. Here they long
existed unknown to any one. Some travellers, whom chance conducted to
their abode, were struck by the air of innocence and happiness which
prevailed around them, and consented to fill up the chasms left in their
society by the loss of their two unfortunate brethren, and by the death
of the eldest of the fugitives named Matthias, which shortly followed.
The three, who first offered themselves were accepted; but the founder’s
rules having restricted the number of Hermits to six, the others were
compelled to withdraw their request.

Yet ever as death gradually removed those, whom Urania had rescued, the
will of Heaven still conducted to them some new associate; so that it
almost seemed, as if the society was kept complete by a kind of miracle.
Of those who belonged to the original institution, only _one_ now
remained in existence.

Four years before her paying me this midnight visit, had my protectress
accidentally been bewildered among the mountains, and found her way to
these holy Hermits, who received her kindly, and made her acquainted
with the origin and constitution of their order. These circumstances
were already known in part to my friend, who had shared with Urania in
the good deed of saving the persecuted Monks from destruction. She
declared her name to them, and promised them eternal secrecy on the one
hand, as they did eternal friendship to her on the other. The banished
Abbot and two of his companions were at that time still alive; and
looking on the power of once more thanking one of their preservers on
this side of the grave as a signal and most unexpected blessing of
Providence, they earnestly entreated her to make frequent visits to
their solitude, and enjoy with them a fore-taste of that tranquil
happiness, which awaits the blessed in another world.

She gladly accepted the invitation, and (except to her husband, on whose
discretion she could depend) mentioned to no one the existence of that
Hermitage, whither friendship and reverence attracted her steps so
willingly and so often. The pious men became the confidants of her most
secret designs; and I was too dear to her, for her not to mention my
name to them and the difficulties in which I was involved. This proved
the means of my preservation. The principal Hermit, the only one of the
six fugitives now existing, remembered well the subterraneous passage,
by which he had fled from destruction; and it was resolved, that this
passage should now furnish me also with the means of escape; that Count
Ethelbert had walled up the entrance to the Castle was no obstacle to
this scheme: the three youngest of the Brotherhood provided themselves
with proper tools; and their labours were carried on with so much
effect, that I now saw myself under the protection of my friend, and the
road to escape open before me.

One only reflection embittered my flight: oh! my Emmeline, how gladly
would I have made _you_ the partner of it! surely, some indistinct
suspicion of what was to happen must have floated before your mind, and
made you entreat my father with such extreme earnestness to be permitted
to pass only that one night in my apartment.

Your prayer was refused, and my wish to rescue you rendered fruitless.
The day was breaking; expedition was necessary. My friend too comforted
me by the assurance, that your situation was not so immediately
dangerous as mine, and that at all events your escape could be effected
by the same passage, should such a measure be hereafter found
adviseable.

While we within the chamber were busily engaged in arranging my flight,
the assisting Monks had been employed on the outside in repairing the
broken wall and the wainscot, through which was the passage to my room;
and they had performed their task so dexterously, that though to enter
it from without was still easy, it was almost impossible for persons
unacquainted with the mechanism to discover from within any door leading
out of the apartment. Nothing however can be more simple than this
secret. On the south-west side of our chamber, there runs a sort of
frame of carved ornaments round a picture of the “Flight from
Egypt.”—Count the seventh pomegranate from the bottom, and using some
little strength to force it back, you will possess the key of the whole
mystery. A slight push will make the pannel recede; a broad staircase of
five-and-twenty steps will then present itself, and if you keep always
to the right, you cannot possibly miss your way. Yet the passage is
long, and fatigue or anxiety, lest you _should_ have mistaken the road,
may give you much disquietude, should you traverse the caverns without a
guide to comfort and sustain you. I advise you therefore only to escape
alone, should you be in some most urgent danger. The good Hermit has
promised also to watch over your safety; he will keep a spy continually
in the Castle, who can inform him of all that happens to you; and
(should he find it unavoidable for you to take so desperate a step as
the quitting your father’s protection) then lest his unexpected
appearance should seriously alarm you, he will prepare you for flight by
a written warning, and afterwards assist you to carry his warning into
effect.

Yet in spite of these assurances, I could not resolve on parting from
you, my beloved girl, without many a tear. I still loitered, wishing
that I could at least leave some token behind me to convince you, that I
was in safety, and thus spare you the anxiety, which doubtless my
disappearance must have cost you. But my deliverers insisted, that any
such measure was too pregnant with danger to be adopted, and at length I
was compelled to obey and follow them.

I will not describe to you what I suffered during my pilgrimage through
the long and gloomy passages, nor my satisfaction at finding myself at
length safe in the dwelling of the holy Anchorets. Oh! what can surpass
the sentiment of liberty, and the consciousness of being surrounded by
none but those, who are virtuous and humane! how different, my Emmeline,
from our feelings in the Castle of Sargans! there we met at every
turning with nothing but present sorrow and anxiety for the future; with
nothing but hypocrisy, perfidy, the cruel necessity of concealing our
real sentiments from every eye, and above all the terrific toil of
wandering along a slippery path, where we dreaded with every moment to
lose our footing, and to be plunged into the same gulph with those
abandoned creatures, whom we saw endeavouring to drag us down with them
to perdition.

When we quitted the Hermitage, Gertrude conducted me into these vallies.
She was well-known to the Nuns of Engelberg, and easily obtained a
refuge for me in their Convent; and so happy did I feel myself among
these pious women, that had it not been for _one_ consideration, I
should have become a member of their sisterhood.

Can you not guess that one?—Alas! that even impossibility should be
unable to vanquish the power of love. Could I but once accustom myself
to unite inseparably the name of Eginhart of Torrenburg with that of the
happy Helen, I should soon succeed in convincing myself, that to take
the veil was now the only option left me.

Gertrude wrote me word, that the Abbot of Curwald’s suspicions
respecting my flight having fallen upon her, his secret persecution had
compelled her to repair to Stein; where her husband was occupied in
constructing a house suited to the improved state of his income, and
which displayed the good taste imbibed by him in his youthful Italian
travels. I was delighted to have my friend so near me; and my joy was
increased, when I heard, that the great meeting of the Helvetians on the
borders of the Lake of Thun would not only furnish me with an
opportunity of seeing Gertrude and her husband, but of embracing our
mutually-beloved companion, Amabel Melthal.

Oh! what a blessed day was that of our reunion! as I lay before the
altar, the most fervent prayers of gratitude for my own escape, of
entreaty for yours, flowed from my heart, and left me no leisure for
observing the little incidents which occurred during the service. The
lively Amabel assures me, that the eyes of the most distinguished person
present, of no less a man than the Emperor’s Vice-gerent, were fixed
upon me from beginning to the end. It was her prejudice in my favour,
which made her imagine this: there was nothing, which could have led him
to distinguish me from the other village-maidens, not even my dress;
since not only prudence but my natural taste has induced me to adopt the
usual garments of the Helvetian country-lasses. Still Amabel asserts,
that there was a look of distinction and nobility about me, which
attracted the eyes of the Lord of Landenberg; and it is certain, that
during the whole of that evening he seldom suffered himself to be away
from me for a single moment. Unluckily, his attentions by no means
flattered me; and should I find Amabel’s suspicions likely to be
verified, I shall lose no time in regaining the Convent of Engelberg.

Any further explanation of what has happened to me I shall reserve for
our meeting, which I now look forward to with impatience. The search
after me seems to have been given up; and Gertrude has at length
permitted me to disclose the secret, by which you may join us at your
pleasure. In spite of the good Monk’s sermons, and of advice more
savouring of prudery than sound sense, I charge you, dear Emmeline,
_not_ to wait for things being carried to the greatest extremities,
before you make use of the secret disclosed in this letter—and yet to
fly from a father’s house without the most absolute necessity.... Alas!
I know not what to _advise_; I know only, what I _wish_.

Yes! earnestly, most earnestly do I wish to see you once more my
companion, not only for _your_ sake, but for my own. I dare not entirely
confide myself to our good Amabel: how is it possible with her talents,
that she should be so partial to persons so unworthy of her esteem; and
how can she be so blind as to repose such imprudent confidence in those,
whose intentions are (at the best) extremely to be suspected? yet ’tis
her own open guileless nature, which misguides her respecting others;
and unfortunately, those others know but too well, how to turn her
weakness to their own advantage.


                         _Amabel to Emmeline._

How long a period has elapsed, since a letter from your hand reached the
inhabitants of these vallies! is it not wrong to mingle so much anxiety
with the pleasures of your friend, or is Bloomberg’s wife less dear to
you, than the play-fellow of your childhood, Melthal’s daughter?

I really begin to suspect, that there is something in wedlock which
frightens all unmarried persons away from us sober matrons. Since my
wedding, Amalberga seems less at her ease with me, though I spare no
pains to make my house agreeable to her. Peregrine of Landenberg, the
good-hearted unassuming Landenberg, frequently honours me with his
visits; and it quite vexes me, that he should so seldom find my society
made delightful by the presence of the “lovely stranger,” for in our
valley Amalberga is known by no other name.

I confess the Lord-lieutenant (whose gentleness of manners prevents his
rank from being felt as a constraint) would be a more welcome guest to
me, did not his seneschal Wolfenrad follow him every where like his
shadow. Yet I know not why I should have taken such a dislike to this
man; he is sensible, and nothing can be more proper than his behaviour;
and yet somehow or other, I cannot endure his countenance. However, I
try to conquer this antipathy, since he is in high favour with my
husband, and Peregrine has commissioned him to settle with me the best
means of enforcing his suit with Amalberga: for you are to understand,
that he has avowed himself her suitor, and that in express terms.

For Heaven’s sake, dear Emmeline, persuade your sister not to throw away
her happiness. Eginhart of Torrenburg is now quite out of the question:
the whole country rings with the report of the splendid balls and
tournaments which are shortly to be given, in honour of his union with
the youthful Helen of Homburg.

                           _In Continuation._

Emmeline, what dreadful tidings have reached us! it is said, that Helen
has been carried off by your father, and compelled to espouse him; and
that you are already ordered to depart for the Convent of St. Roswitha!
Heavenly powers, should these tidings be true!—What can be done for you?
what can I do? And yet Amalberga assures me, that she informed you of a
means of escaping, that could not fail.——Could I but consult with your
sister, or with Gertrude Bernsdorf!—but even in these once tranquil
vallies there is but too much uproar and disturbance carrying on.
Disputes have arisen between the Governor and the elders of our people;
in consequence of which, the most distinguished of the south-western
deputies have hastily quitted these parts; Gertrude and her husband have
also left us unexpectedly; and neither Landenberg’s tears nor my
entreaties could prevent your sister from returning to her Convent.

In my anxiety to do something towards your rescue from this impending
danger, I have conquered my prejudices against Wolfenrad, and applied to
him for advice; for his patron the Lord of Landenberg is too much
occupied with public affairs to permit his listening to my difficulties,
and my husband declares himself incapable of advising my proceedings in
so delicate a business.

Wolfenrad’s counsel is, that Edmund should arm a body of his young
companions, hasten to Sargans, force you from the guards who will be
appointed to escort you to that abominable Convent, and then convey you
hither or else to Engelberg. I was in terror and anxiety; this must
plead for me, when I confess, that my fears got the better of my
prudence, and that I have made Landenberg and his Seneschal acquainted
with more respecting you and Amalberga, than was by any means necessary.
And yet what harm was there in making a confident of the man, who (I
sincerely hope) will one day conquer Amalberga’s unjustifiable
obstinacy, and give my dear Emmeline a brother’s protection and a
sister’s name?—oh! let but this one step be taken, and all your
difficulties will speedily be at end; Landenberg is powerful; let but
Landenberg once be Amalberga’s husband, and she and you will be both as
happy, as your Amabel would be now, did not anxiety upon your account
embitter her every moment.

                           _In Continuation._

Misfortunes follow each other so close, that grief bewilders me! I know
not how to collect my thoughts sufficiently to write down the number of
wounds, which have been inflicted on my heart within these few days.—And
for whom should I write them down? not for thee, sweet Emmeline, for it
is but too probable; that thou art in a better world! not for thee,
Amalberga, for thou art gone, gone no one knows whither! yet will I
commit to paper what has past, and what I feel, in hopes that should the
grave hide me without my ever again embracing my friends and sisters,
they may see how much I have suffered on their account, and may do
justice to the fond heart of their lamenting Amabel. And that the grave
_will_ hide me, and that soon.... Oh! is it not most probable? all
around me is confusion, is uproar! all are furious, though wherefore I
know not: yet surely the most pious and peaceable of all people, that
the earth holds, can never be so blind to its own interests, to its own
happiness, as to rise in rebellion against the Lieutenant of their
imperial patron, against the most gentle and benevolent of created
beings, against Peregrine of Landenberg!

What have we to do with the evil reports, which reach us from that
unhappy Province, where Gessler rules and rages? we are secure under
Landenberg’s protection; we can even expect from his generosity succour
and compassion for our less fortunate brethren. To all of them, but
above all to my venerable father and to my brother’s family, (who
consider themselves as no longer safe in the neighbourhood of Gessler’s
jurisdiction) has Landenberg voluntarily offered an asylum among our
mountains, which (I trust) will still long remain the abode of peace! I
must lay down my pen! my heart is too full at present to admit of my
writing intelligibly; besides, I see Wolfenrad approaching, who (now
that my husband has departed to see what can be effected towards your
preservation) is my only comforter, and who doubtless comes to tell me,
what has been done on your behalf, and whether anything remains for me
yet to do.

                           _In Continuation._

I am something more composed: there are hopes, that my Emmeline may have
escaped from this dreadful scene! Wolfenrad has promised to hasten in
person after my husband, and assist him in the researches, which are
making respecting you: he engages also, should you be found, to deliver
this and my former letters into your hands. Heavens! how one may be
deceived at first sight! there was a time, when I could not endure this
man, and now that all others have forsaken me, he proves the most active
of my friends!

There are many parts of my former letters, which will appear to you
mysterious; I will now explain them. I received on the same day your
written narrative of what had past in your father’s Castle, and further
tidings respecting you, which overpowered me with horror. Your letter,
which you left with Bertha, must have remained in wrong hands for whole
months together; and the condition, in which it at length reached me,
has left me no doubt, that its seal has been forced, and its contents
perused by more persons than myself.

Scarcely had I recovered from my alarm at finding, that you must have
set forward long since for St. Roswitha’s Convent; scarcely had I
received my good kind husband’s promise, that he would immediately set
out and make closer enquiries respecting you, when the dreadful report
reached me, that flames had consumed that very Convent; flames not
kindled by chance or the vengeance of offended Heaven, but by
sacrilegious cruel men! nor was the sword less active than the
conflagration; it is said, that few have escaped with life from this
horrible outrage, whose instigator’s name is still unknown to us. Much
too is said respecting the secrets of this Convent, by no means to the
credit of its inmates; we have even been assured, that the Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald, and the chief part of his brethren were involved in
the Convent’s destruction, though whether they came there on the news of
the danger, or were found with these wretched Nuns at the moment when
their habitation was attacked, I will not pretend to judge. Every
malicious speech, which relates to the Convent in which (according to
all accounts) you must necessarily have past two whole months, seems to
plant a fresh thorn in my bosom.

Bewildered by these dreadful tidings, I believe, that I must for a time
have lost my senses: for I suddenly found myself at the gate of
Amalberga’s sanctuary, without being conscious how I came there, or what
was my object in coming. Probably I wished to unburthen to her my full
heart, and indulge myself in bewailing with her our mutual misfortune;
but I could not hope to obtain either assistance or advice from her,
whom the tidings which I had to communicate must needs make, if
possible, still more wretched and more helpless than myself.

I rang the bell, and the Porteress appeared. Conceive what I felt at
hearing from her, that that very morning during matins a band of armed
men had rushed into the church, had seized Amalberga, and had forcibly
borne her away. By whom this atrocious outrage was committed, no one yet
knows: the people on hearing of it broke into universal uproar, and
raved against this violation of the Sanctuary! now, all voices but mine
unite in laying the blame upon Landenberg; and to prove the probability
of his being the offender in _this_ instance, innumerable deeds of
infamy, said to have been secretly committed by him, have been alledged
against him; some of them of a nature, that makes even Gessler’s most
infernal actions appear but trifles. Alas! is it possible, that I have
been so grossly deceived by the simplicity of my heart?—Even Wolfenrad,
the most faithful of his vassals, does not venture to assert positively,
that he is innocent: but let who may be guilty, that worthy man has
promised to assist us, and I hasten to finish this letter, that I may
commit it to his care. Oh! should he be so fortunate as to find you,
hesitate not to confide in him, and follow him to these vallies; alas! I
can no longer call them these _happy_ vallies, for peace is banished,
and discord and confusion have usurped her place. Its true, as yet open
hostilities have not taken place; but the cry against Landenberg is
loud, and the public voice scruples not to compare him to Gessler, the
inhuman governor of Uri.—“Freedom! freedom!”—is now the word in every
mouth; but it sounds no longer so melodious, as when it formed the
burthen of our Sunday-songs! it seems to me, as were it spoken in the
dying groans of those, who must purchase with their blood the small
portion still left of this treasure!

To complete my misery, my good old father and my brother are arrived at
my cottage in a condition, that makes my heart bleed. My father has been
cruelly mis-used by Gessler, and his lands are confiscated; Arnold has
been obliged to fly, on account of having committed the mighty crime of
striking the officer of justice, who seized our father’s oxen, and then
contemptuously bade the poor old man yoke _himself_ to the plough in
future, and do the office of the beasts which he had lost.—Oh! dear
Emmeline, I sink beneath the weight of griefs, which my Edmund’s absence
makes me feel doubly heavy.


                         _Amabel to Emmeline._

I hoped to derive some comfort from the presence of my relations, but my
hope has proved vain. My father lies ill and helpless on his bed from
the consequences of Gessler’s ill-usage; and Arnold.... You will
suppose, that I can receive but little augmentation of my tranquillity
from this impetuous young man, when you recollect, with how much
violence and passion he used to watch over me in former times. If he
surprised a youth gazing on me with rather too much earnestness though
but for a moment, that moment was sufficient to make him almost frantic
with resentment, and vow vengeance against the offender; nay, he even
dared to extend his vigilance to yourself and Amalberga. Do you
recollect a particular evening, when you had both privately stolen with
me to my father’s cottage in hopes of passing a few gay and pleasant
hours, which seldom occurred at the Castle of Sargans? it is as present
to my recollection, as had the scene past but yesterday!—it chanced,
that some stranger-knights, who were going to a tournament at the court
of the Bishop of Coira, had seen us on the road; as we were all three
arm in arm, they supposed us to be of the same rank; they delayed their
journey, got themselves introduced into our joyous circle, and proposed
to us to dance; but Arnold.... Ah! you cannot have forgotten, how
sharply he answered them; how bluntly he gave them to understand, that
their departure was desirable; and how (as he conducted us back to the
Castle) he made no scruple (without heeding your rank) of reading you
both a severe lecture upon the necessity of reserve towards strangers,
and the propriety of living retired under your paternal roof.

Well! the part which he then thought proper to play, he has now taken up
afresh, but with more warmth than ever. One would think, he might find
other things to do now, than to watch his sister’s conduct; but not the
most trifling of my actions passes unobserved by him, and very few of
them pass uncensured. He forgets, that it is solely on your account,
that I have any intercourse with Wolfenrad; and that it is absolutely
necessary for an intercourse to be kept up, as long as he journeys
backwards and forwards about your affairs, and brings me tidings
respecting you, which hitherto (Heaven be thanked!) have been
favourable. My brother insists upon it, that I ought never to exchange a
syllable with this man; although he is much too old and too ugly to be
an object of danger or suspicion, even were I not protected by such good
preservatives against the arts of a seducer, as an heart full of love
for Edmund, and veins full of that blood, whose every drop is true
Helvetian!

What Arnold may _think_, I cannot say; but I _know_, that love is never
mentioned in my conversations with Wolfenrad. He is married as well as
myself, and at all events it would be unwise to offend him just at
present, when he has the power of doing us so much harm; for during
Landenberg’s absence he can act exactly as he pleases.

However, I have given up the point. Arnold has taken a cottage near me,
and as my own is solitary and unsafe during Edmund’s absence, I have
removed to my brother’s, where I share with my sister-in-law the office
of nurse to my poor sick father. Here there is no chance of seeing
Wolfenrad, for there has lately been an open quarrel between him and
Arnold, whose threshold he has sworn never to cross again. Yet I am
impatient to find an opportunity of conversing with him; for I collect
from some hints (which he has occasionally thrown out, though there was
not time to explain himself) that he has not only proofs of your having
escaped from the conflagration, but that he has actually conveyed my
letters to your hands. As to Amalberga, he referred me to a Nun at
Engelberg, who is better informed than himself; but he said, that in
what regarded you, dear Emmeline, the intelligence, which he had to
communicate, could be given by no one but himself, and was of a nature
too delicate to be conveyed through a third person.

I have told every thing to my sister-in-law, who is my confidante: she
disapproves of her husband’s strictness, and agrees with me, that I
ought to take the earliest opportunity of going to Engelberg, and
learning some news of your sister. She cannot approve of my having any
intercourse with Wolfenrad in defiance of my brother’s positive
commands; but she has kindly consented to see him herself, and endeavour
to learn from him the good tidings respecting you, which I am too
anxious to hear, to permit my waiting for them with patience. Whatever
may be the consequence, I _must_ be informed, and that speedily, how and
where you are at present, and by what blessed means you escaped from the
hands of your persecutors, and from the fiery death which menaced you in
the Convent.


                       END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.




             Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-street, Soho.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).