Chapter V: Part 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Amabel to Emmeline._

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

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

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

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

_In Continuation._

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

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

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

_In Continuation._

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

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

_In Continuation._

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Amabel to Emmeline._

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

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

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

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

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

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

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

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