Feudal tyrants; or, The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans, volume 2 (of 4)

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.

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.

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.

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!