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.