caverns and the south-western mountains, where the fugitive Monks
established their hermitage: but hitherto all attempts to discover the
outlet have been unsuccessful. The old Gertrude is no more; the Countess
Urania’s age and infirmity forbids her visiting the Castle; and the
directions, which her memory could furnish, are rendered of no avail,
the vaults being completely altered in appearance by the falling-in of
the roof. Researches made on the outside of the mountain have been
equally fruitless, nor has even the Hermitage itself been discovered.
Probably the holy Society has been dissolved by death: Fame will not
hand down their good works to the admiration of after-ages, but that is
of but little consequence; they stand inscribed in letters of flame in
the book of the Everlasting!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG
[CONTINUED.]
_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March._
By this, my dear brother, you must be as well informed of the history of
the Ladies of Sargans, as myself; I am impatient to know your opinion of
these papers, and whether the effect which they have produced upon
_your_ mind is as strong, as that which during their perusal I
experienced upon my own.—Yet that is impossible; my peculiar situation
makes these annals inexpressibly interesting to me; and did not the
parchments, from which I have copied them, bear unequivocal marks of
their antiquity, I should suspect their having been written for the
purpose of being laid before me. While I read, I was half tempted to
believe, that the good old Abbot, who recommended them to my notice, had
inserted all those passages, which apply so well to my own situation, in
order to lead me unconsciously to the point, where he has been labouring
to place me; and if this were the fact, how would he triumph in the
success of his design! But the circumstances of these memoirs are alas!
but too authentic; as to their antiquity I have such proofs of it, that
I would boldly match them against the title-deeds of my domains, and
other old documents of that period, at which these annals are stated to
have been composed.
Nevertheless, feeling it to be of no slight importance to me to know,
whether what I had read was authentic or a mere fabrication, I spared no
pains to ascertain the fact. You are aware, that I became possest of
these writings by little better than a piece of theft; and in truth
there may be good reasons for not communicating to one of the laity
these papers, which contain such frightful memorials of ecclesiastical
guilt.—I could not therefore attack the Abbess on the subject directly;
but as in hopes of pacifying me for my disappointment she had proposed
to relate such particulars respecting the Ladies of Sargans, as were
most worthy of my attention, (an offer, which I at first rejected out of
obstinacy, and through vexation at the denial of my request) I now
summoned her to perform her promise, for the purpose of comparing what I
should hear from her with the particulars contained in the stolen
parchments.
The Abbess bestowed upon me a few hours every day in that closet, where
the portraits of the Ladies of Sargans had first attracted my attention
to those models of virtue and patient suffering: her account of them did
not greatly vary from that, which I had already obtained. I confess,
that where-ever a clerical person would have appeared in rather an
odious light, whether it was a Monk or a Nun, a Bishop or an Abbess, the
good lady never failed to soften matters and wrap the transgressors up
carefully in the veil of mystery; but those examples of misfortune and
heroic self-command, which appeared so peculiarly applicable to myself,
she confirmed most fully, and exactly as I had read them: nor can I
decide, whether they made most impression on me while reading them alone
and for the first time by the glimmerings of a midnight lamp, or when
they were pronounced by the lips of this holy woman, this earthly saint,
whose head within a few short years (too soon alas! for those who like
me know her worth) will be crowned with wreaths of celestial glory.
Though scarcely in the autumn of her life, the excellent Abbess already
stands upon the brink of her grave. A slow consumption insensibly
destroys her noble powers, and the repetition of these adventures was a
real sacrifice which she made to friendship. Her present state adds
weight to her testimony. Think you, Oswald, that so near the transit
from time to eternity, she would waste away her hours in relating tales,
which she knew to be mere fabrications?—Impossible!
No! oh, no! What I have read, is true! The venerable Urania, on whose
image my eye rests with such soft melancholy, and thou too, poor
Adelaide, whose bitter fate beguiled me so often of my tears! you both
once lived and suffered, you both once thought and acted, exactly as I
have read and believed; and these examples of heroic patience, under
afflictions far heavier than mine, shall serve _me_ as guides in the
conduct, which it now becomes me to pursue.
But for thee, generous Helen! for thee whose fortune so thoroughly
resembles my own, from this moment thou shalt be the model, after which
I will form my whole heart and character; and when my resolution
staggers under the weight of human weakness, to thy portrait will I turn
my eyes for comfort and support.
My brother, I am convinced beyond the power of doubting, that Helen
herself, and no other, was the authoress of the concluding manuscript.
Every page of it betrays marks of an interest, which none but an actor
in the tale could be capable of feeling; and oh! how much has this
persuasion increased in my eyes the value of the writing!
At my request the Abbess pointed out to me Helen’s picture; and such was
my enthusiastic partiality, that I was weak enough to fancy a striking
likeness between her features, and those which my mirror shows me. I
made the observation to my venerable friend; she assented to it with a
smile, and added, “that it was not in person alone, that I resembled
Helen of Homburg.”—I started, and requested an explanation as to the
parts of Helen’s history, which were so like my own. Again the idea of
an imposition flitted across my mind; I believed, what had passed
between myself and Ida to be a total secret in the Convent; and if the
Abbess was acquainted with my story, it was still possible, that all
which I had heard from her had been dictated by Abbot Conrad. Her
answer, however, soon removed this suspicion.
—“Helen,” said she, “was not only fair, illustrious, benevolent, and
pious, like Elizabeth, but she was also learned like Her. I understand,
that the exercise of your pen is your favourite amusement; and there
still exist writings of Helen, which are well-deserving your attention,
and which I would willingly communicate to you, my dear Lady, had I not
been positively enjoined to the contrary by superior orders.”—
The recollection of my treachery forced the colour into my cheeks. To
prevent my confusion being remarked, I hastened to enquire—“why I was
prohibited this pleasure, and who was my secret enemy?”—The Abbess shook
her head, and confest, that the writings of ecclesiastical persons
frequently contained circumstances improper to be made known to the
laity, for fear of giving a shock to their orthodox opinions.
—“But only resolve,” she added smiling, “to become one of our
Sisterhood, and when I die, I will bequeath you my station, and full
permission to peruse all the manuscripts deposited in the spacious
archives of this Convent.”—
Ah! my dear brother, were Montfort a Torrenburg and Ida an Amalberga,
how easy would it be for me to take such a step! But the ill opinion
which I entertain both of Henry and his mistress, and my still lively
sense of the perfidy and injustice with which they repaid my affection,
will perhaps make me yet longer hesitate to act, as would best become
me, and to follow the glorious example of self-denial, set forth in
Helen’s conduct.—Farewell, dear Oswald; my heart is sad, but loves you
tenderly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald._
I have confided my secret history to the Abbess. In whom can I more
properly confide, than in her who will soon stand before the Almighty’s
throne, and before whose eyes all concealed things will soon be made
manifest? To whom can I better apply for advice, than to a soul so near
the boundaries of earthly being, that a ray of celestial light already
illumines it, and enables her mental vision to see the things of this
world in their proper likeness?
She is now informed of every thing; and I must acknowledge, I was
frequently embarrassed by some questions, with which she every now and
then interrupted my narrative.
—“Then you are certain, _quite_ certain of having been the first object
of Montfort’s affection?”—
—“I am to understand then, that the attachment between you was equally
strong, and that his whole soul was as much devoted to you, as yours was
to him?”—
“What? and could he really be so base as to desert you at the very foot
of the altar, merely because at that moment he happened to be struck by
the charms of one of your bridemaids? This seems to me very strange, my
daughter; and me-thinks, it does not well harmonize with the
acknowledged probity of Montfort’s former conduct.—If he had not loved
you, to be sure he would not have persuaded you to fly with him from
your brother’s Castle—and yet, if I recollect right, you mentioned, that
his carrying you off prevented your being compelled to espouse the aged
Count of Torrenburg, who was then as much the object of your aversion,
as (when his virtues became, known to you) he was afterwards the object
of your esteem?—You were young, amiable, in distress, partial to
Montfort ... it is very possible, that love induced him to advise your
flight; but then again it is also possible, that mere sympathy and
compassion _might_ have led him to give the very same counsel, and to
take the very same step.”—
Such was the vexatious mode of arguing and of seeing things adopted by
the Abbess. I recapitulated the strong reasons which I had to believe,
that in offering me his hand Montfort was prompted by affection.——The
Abbess acknowledged their force; but she added—“that it was very easy
for that, which was at _first_ nothing more than compassionate interest
for the beautiful Elizabeth, to be in time _converted_ into love.”—
This compliment so ill-timed put me more out of patience, than her
humiliating questions and remarks. It was with difficulty, that I
concealed my ill-humour, and hastily endeavoured to change the subject
of our discourse.
Alas! my dear brother, everyone seems to be in Montfort’s interests, and
averse to mine. The decision of my venerable counsellor Albert Reding
has just been communicated to me, and I find.... But I will not repeat
to you, what he says: what do wealth and power, what do vassals and
domains concern me now?—My peace is fled, my heart is broken!—
The Abbess was not easily persuaded to quit the subject: and at length
she put some enquiries, which cut me to the very heart.—They regarded
the friend and companion of my earliest youth, the worthy Richard of
Ulmenhorst, whose love I had rejected, solely influenced by my
partiality for Montfort. I was thrown into such confusion by this
unexpected home-attack, that ... I set all politeness fairly at
defiance, and without replying, abruptly spoke upon another subject.
We were sitting in the Abbess’s private closet; and I now compelled
those portraits, which had at first excited my curiosity respecting the
secrets of this Convent, to furnish me with an excuse (good or bad) for
eluding questions, which I felt but little inclination to answer.
—“Holy Mother,” said I, “among all the histories respecting the Ladies
of Sargans which you have related, there is one still unknown to me. You
have always past over the picture, which represents two female pilgrims,
bewildered among the barren wilds of a snow-covered mountain; a picture,
which when I first entered this room, drew more of my attention, than
any of its companions. I at first believed them to represent the
unfortunate sisters, Emmeline and Amalberga; but I do not recollect to
have heard (I had nearly said “to have _read_”) any circumstances in
their history according with the scene before me. How anxiously they
seem to be looking for the right path!—Good Mother, inform me, whether
they found it, and what untoward accident brought them into their
present distress? You really must make me better acquainted with their
adventures, for my whole heart already speaks in their favour.”—
—“Does it in truth?” said the Abbess, smiling at my eagerness. “Oh! that
good heart!—But look at the picture nearer; see whether you can find in
the countenances nothing to justify your partiality, except the
expression of distress?”—
I drew near, and examined the picture carefully; but I soon turned away
again, and felt, that my cheeks were burning; in truth something till
then unobserved struck me in the features, but the effect produced was
by no means pleasing.
—“Well!” enquired the Abbess; “have you discovered any thing?”—
—“That general family-likeness,” I replied carelessly, “which is
peculiar to the House of Sargans. But I entreat you, Mother, inform me,
who do those figures represent?”—
—“Two innocent and unfortunate sisters,” was the Abbess’s answer,
“driven from their proper station, and compelled even to conceal their
very names by a succession of untoward circumstances, not by any fault
of their own committing. I could tell you much respecting them, that
perhaps would not appear to you uninteresting; but I am too weak to
undertake the task at present. However, not to leave your curiosity
quite unsatisfied, such an account of them as exists in our archives
shall be looked out, and delivered to you in the course of this evening.
Probably, you will find this narrative more instructive, and in every
respect better worth your inspection, than those which I am compelled to
withhold from you, since the latter were written by Females but little
skilled in literature; while the history, of which I speak, was
transmitted to posterity by the learned pen of an Abbot of
Cloister-Curwald.”—
—“Of Curwald?” I repeated, with a smile of contempt and incredulity.
—“Nay, nay, good Countess,” said the Abbess with some warmth; “no
prejudices, I implore you! The author of that manuscript, a copy of
which I propose entrusting to you, was no Guiderius, no Luprian, believe
me! No, daughter, he was one of the wisest and holiest men of the age,
in which he lived; a man in short, whose virtues conferred honour on the
rank of a prelate, and who was in fact, as well as in name, a true
dignitary of the church.”—
I am now waiting in momentary expectation of receiving the promised
manuscript. The situation, in which I exist at present, is such, as
makes it necessary for me to seize every means of diverting the natural
current of my thoughts into a different channel: it is to this
necessity, that a great portion must be ascribed of the impatience, with
which I look forward to the arrival of this narrative.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald._
I have received the manuscript; I have read it, and have read it more
than once.—I send it to _you_, my brother; read it, as _I_ have done;
feel, what _I_ have felt; then will nothing surprise you which you may
hear, respecting the actions of your sister
ELIZABETH.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PART THE SIXTH._
THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.
_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._
Above a century has passed away, since the last heroines of that family,
to whose annals I am preparing to add, quitted the scene of human
action. I say, the _last_, because no accounts exist of their
successors; but during that long and vacant period, who knows, but that
many excellent persons may have acted in a manner which did credit to
their ancestors, though no written or traditional memorial remains to
communicate to posterity their virtues and their woes, their trials and
their victories? My heart delights in the tale, which records examples
of heroic excellence; and I have frequently censured the indolence of
cotemporary writers, for suffering this period to remain a blank. Lest I
should deserve that censure myself, which I have not scrupled to inflict
upon others, I now take up my pen, and proceed to execute a task, which
(should I live to finish it) will, I trust, rescue from oblivion some
circumstances well-deserving to be remembered. What I shall set down
will be truth, pure unadorned truth. A just cause demands not the aid of
ornament; and should these leaves ever meet the eye of persons, who may
think themselves more nearly interested in their contents than others,
let them not for an instant suspect, that one syllable is either
inserted or retrenched upon _their_ account, or with a view to produce
any other sentiment in their bosoms, than a conviction of the truth. It
is not before _their_ tribunal, that I plead the cause of two
unfortunates, but before that of the whole world: I write not for them,
whose prejudices may perhaps make them refuse to peruse more than a few
pages of this narrative, and who may close their eyes obstinately
against the light, which shews them that, which they are unwilling to
see. No; I write for impartial judges, and will state my case with as
pure and rigid fidelity, as were I stating it to the ear of Heaven.
In the tranquil vales, which border the lakes of Thun and of the Four
Cantons, those lakes where Helvetian Liberty first threw her fetters
away, still do the families exist of those best friends of their native
country, the Melthals, the Forests, the Bernsdorfs, and the Tells. Their
different branches have spread themselves on all sides, and almost form
a little nation of their own; whose sons and daughters, even in a land
where honour, bravery, and truth are so universal, still distinguish
themselves from their compatriots by the superiority of their virtues.
It were an easy task for me to point out many Williams, Walters, and
Henrics, many Gertrudes and Amabels in this amiable community, so
perfectly have the good qualities of their fore-fathers been inherited
by their children: but at present I shall only mention the inhabitants
of one particular house, which sheltered the infancy of the heroines of
my tale.
’Twas the peaceful cottage of a younger William and a younger Amabel,
the descendants of that Tell, who offered up the tyrant Gessler as a
sacrifice to the insulted liberties of Helvetia: here among a crowd of
blooming sons and daughters two lovely girls were remarked, whose
appearance made it evident, that their origin was not the same with that
of their play-mates. It is true, that they called themselves their
sisters, and were persuaded, that in fact they were so; but yet the
truth was quite otherwise. The real children of the family were healthy
and strong like the generality of their kindred; but these two girls
were fair and delicate, and rather resembled beautiful exotic plants
surrounded by meadow flowers, to which they condescended to allow the
honour of a common origin: and however they might themselves esteem the
merits of these simple children of nature, to all other eyes it was
plain, that their own perfections were far superior.
I have entitled this narrative “the Sisters without a Name,” for it was
long before they knew the family, from which they sprung; and when it
was at length revealed to them, they found, that their rights were in
the possession of strangers. Nay, at the moment that I am writing, they
are still denied the privilege of calling themselves by the name of an
illustrious House, whose dignity would be disgraced by the inferior
station, in which they are at present compelled to exist.
In the early and happiest period of their lives, the Sisters were
totally unconscious of the magnitude of their claims, and their minds
encouraged no wish to be greater than they were. Happy in the humble
sphere for which they believed themselves ordained, happy in the shades
of their mountains, in the tranquillity of their flowery vallies and
glassy lakes, they considered the scenes which surrounded them, and
which appeared to them so enchanting, as a beautiful specimen of the
whole world; nor did they ever trouble their heads with a thought,
whether beyond those mountains, and on the outside of those vallies,
there existed objects which were deserving of a wish to be acquainted
with. This fortunate unconsciousness was assiduously preserved in their
minds by those, to whose care they were confided; and on
winter-evenings, when William Tell had collected all his children around
him (among whom the Sisters were still reckoned) the stories, with which
he entertained them, always respected some hero or heroine of ancient
Helvetia; so that nothing was made known to them except the country
which gave them birth, and they were led to consider nothing as of
importance but what related to that country, because of that country
alone had they ever been told any thing important. In the same manner
were they instructed respecting the concerns of human life: every
illustration was selected from the lower or middling classes of society
and the manners and customs of the great would have been totally unknown
to them, had it not been for an old man, over whose head near a century
had past, and who was a member of the happy family, in which the Sisters
resided. This good father would often take the two girls apart from
their playmates, and recount to them particulars of the ancient Houses
of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and Homburg. Mary and Rosanna (so were the
Sisters called, while under Tell’s roof) listened to him with the
greatest interest, and each selected a heroine from among the Helens,
Emmelines, and Uranias, as the object of her peculiar admiration.
But such ladies of those illustrious families, as had finished their
lives in a cloister, were sure of obtaining the favour of the gentle
serious Mary. She was not fourteen, when she made a pilgrimage to the
Convent of Engelberg for the purpose of kissing the stone, on which
Amalberga was kneeling, when surprised by Landenberg’s emissaries; and
she frequently expressed a wish, that she might one day be permitted to
take the veil in that Convent, which had so long given shelter to the
heiress of Sargans.
The laughing Rosanna often added to this wish an assertion, that her
sister hoped like Amalberga to exchange in due time the cloister for a
bridal garland; but Mary’s conduct sufficiently proved, that her
religious vocation was at that time no affectation. She was just
sixteen, when William Tell was obliged to comply with her entreaties,
and suffer her to reside at Engelberg. He seemed to consent to this step
unwillingly: but he comforted himself with the reflection, that the
rules of this House permitted no one to pronounce the irrevocable vow,
who had not completed her twenty-fifth year; a period, before whose
arrival a thousand accidents must necessarily have taken place, capable
of shaking the most determined resolutions and the most ardent zeal.
Rosanna accompanied her sister to the Convent, and for a few days forced
herself to be pleased and satisfied with the religious tranquillity of
her new abode. But at length she could no longer conceal from herself,
that nothing save Mary’s society could have made the manners of a
convent endurable; and that in fact she was much better calculated for
singing and dancing with her young companions on the village green, than
for attending the Abbess and her Nuns to the midnight mass. She
therefore endeavoured to give her occupations some variety by taking an
active part in the internal arrangements of the Convent.