Life in the Old World/Station 09

by Fredrika Bremer

 

NINTH STATION.

Journey over the Simplon—Domo d'Ossola—Bad Weather—La Tosa—Unexpected Meeting—Lago Maggiore—“Stock-Fish”—Isola Bella and Isola Madre—The Valleys of the Waldenses; their People, History, Latest Deliverance, and Present Life—Rambles and New Friends—Turin—The Po and Monte Viso—Carlo Alberto—Victor Emanuel—Count de Cavour—Gioberti-Cesare Balbo—Primato d'Italia—Speranze d'Italia—What are the Wishes of Italy?

Domo d'Ossola, September 10th.—Switzerland, its mountains and valleys are now, for me, on the other side of the Alps, and I am in Italy, the much-sung-about, the greatly-praised Italy! But the heaven of Italy looks cloudily down upon me, and it rains. Whilst I rest here a day, at the foot of Simplon, I will say a few words about the journey across the mountain.

I waited at Viege for the diligence, which passes through that place in the night from Lausanne. It arrived at three o'clock, but quite full. They gave me, however, a little carriage with one horse; a brisk, active young woman at the public house, helped me in, together with my luggage, in the dark, and away we went up the hill. My carriage, very rickety from the beginning, grew more out of condition with every jolt. But the peculiar and grand character of the journey occupied my attention. From Birisal to the heights of the Simplon, I went on foot. The scenery was wild, and of an imposing grandeur. The sun shone upon the mass of cloud, and wind chased the misty shadows amongst the mountains. All around, in an immense circle, glaciers and snow-covered mountain peaks gleamed forth from amongst the clouds. Before me rose a lofty mountain, shaped like a cupola, the top of which was covered with black cloud, whilst the lower part was lighted up by bright sunshine. It was the peak of the Simplon. Troops of misty shapes were chased round it by the wind, as in a wild sweep, while they strove to reach the top, which seemed, in its turn, to reject them. The black cloud lay threateningly above, and the white misty spectres careered around, like the unhappy and unsettled souls in the hell of Dante. Still increasing in number, they ascended from the depths below; still more and more wildly were they chased round the ice-clad mountain—clad as in tatters of ice—into the dazzling sunshine beneath the black, forbidding cloud. Masses of water were hurled down from the neighboring glaciers with thundering din. There is danger here from avalanches during spring and autumn, and for that reason strong stone galleries are built on many parts of road, to serve as a shelter for people and for carriages. Avalanches and torrents are hurled down over the arched roofs, and down into the abyss on the other side. Even now, masses of ice hang threatningly upon the heights to the left, along the road, but these will dissolve in foaming rivers which will find their outlet in deep clefts of the mountain, over which the road is carried, or they are conveyed away by means of strongly conducted gutters over the roofs of the stone galleries. One of these streams is hurled down with a force and a din which is deafening. The whole of this scene was so wild and so magnificent that it thrilled me at once with terror and joy. The sun gleamed through all as with lightning flashes, and as if in combat with the demons of nature.

I wandered along the Napoleonic road in security nevertheless, between precipices and the raging sport of waters. Many maisons de refuge are erected at short distances along this part of the road, to afford asylums to the traveler in case of misfortunes or snowstorms.

The wind became still colder, and the sky still more cloudy as we began to descend through the dark mountain pass. The road along its whole extent, is laid down, or rather constructed with most admirable skill. Napoleon had it calculated for heavy artillery. “But can cannon pass the Simplon?” inquired he, impatiently, from General Dessaix, whilst this titanic work was in progress. Peaceful diligences, laden with peaceable tourists, now pass along it daily. Of the beauties of the descent, I shall not say much. I saw deep, wooded mountain clefts, and beautiful waterfalls, but I had seen so many ravines and waterfalls, latterly, that I could scarcely distinguish between them. Besides, the weather was rainy, and I was sleepy, both from being awake all night, and from the cold. I enjoyed the consciousness of a warmer atmosphere and of no longer being perished with cold, as on the heights.

My traveling companion in my little carriage, was a young Englishman of the verdant species. He was continually asking me, “What is this?” “Where are we coming to, now?” and so on; although I assured him that I knew no more than he did, and that I was here for the first time, myself. It was of no use; and in five minutes I heard again, “What is the name of this place?” “Where are we now?” At the place where we changed our horse and equipage, a very small carriage was given us, so small indeed that there seemed to be no space between us and the horse.

“Now where is our driver to sit?” inquired my young traveling companion from me.

“On our knees,” I replied calmly.

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed he, horror-stricken, “I shall sit behind!”

And so he did, spite of the pouring rain. Our driver, in the mean time, actually found room for himself on the foot-board at my feet.

The heights had now begun to clothe themselves with rich verdure and beautiful trees, when a stone pillar near the road showed itself, with these words:

ITALIA.
STATO SARDO.

And anon, the beautiful valley of Domo d'Ossola, revealed itself with immense chestnut-forests, laden with fruit, and amidst which gleamed forth white houses, chapels, and churches. Cheerful colors, bright yellow, and red, shone upon the houses, gates, and towers, and produced a pleasant effect.

At Isella, we undergo a visitation from the custom-house officers, but without much trouble or annoyance. The countenances, expression, language, are here, all Italian. There is an agreeable, smiling expression in their dark eyes, and in their expressive mouths.

Amidst pouring rain we entered into beautiful Italy, driving along the fields of Piedmont, between wooded heights, and over the sandy plain, where the river La Tosa rolls its turbid waters. Thus we arrived at Domo d'Ossola. Here every thing has an Italian character, and looks gay and beautiful, spite of the rain. Broad streets; fresco-painted houses; young men, who go along singing, arm-in-arm, with garlands of vine-leaves round their heads, in the midst of the rain. It produces a sunny effect.

It rained so hard at the time of our arrival, that I was glad to get under the shelter of a roof, as soon as possible, which I did at the post-house, where we stopped. I was conducted into two or three large, naked rooms, the floors of which looked as if they were rubbed with tobacco-saliva. But I was assured that it is un bello nero, and the place very clean; I endeavored to believe so, though I could not see it. Neither have I ever seen it yet. The hotel is full of empty, cold, rooms, with doors which will not shut, bells which will not ring, and every thing at sixes and sevens—not as in Switzerland! But the bed is good; the table very good; the attendants obliging; and in the morning I hope to reach Lago Maggiore, and the Borromean Islands.

Palanza, on Lago Maggiore, Sept. 12th.—When did any one ever think of Italy, Lago Maggiore, Isola Bella, otherwise than in connection with a clear sky, brilliant sun, and every thing under the most bright and agreeable aspect? But I had the experience that when it is bad weather in beautiful Italy, it is so with a vengeance, and when it rains here, it does not soon leave off.

At Domo d'Ossola, I found only a moment to go out, to look round me a little, and read over the door of a church, the great words:—“Indulgenza quotidiana, perpetua et plenaria;” the full meaning of which I leave to another time. In the evening, all the elements were in convulsion, and there was a thunderstorm, such as I never heard before; flash upon flash, peal upon peal, and such flashes of lightning! They lit up the whole heaven and earth, which looked black as the grave! and so on till midnight. Nevertheless, the tempest was magnificent, and I enjoyed the wild spectacle, in my desolate hotel.

Next day, I was seated in a kind of omnibus with a dozen other persons. Three horses trotted on heavily with us along the drenched roads. The rain had now ceased, but the sky was cloudy.

At the station, the conductor came round to the carriage, and, laughing heartily, announced to the travelers that they would not be able to proceed further that day than Vogogna!

Voices from the omnibus.—“What? What? Vogogna? Why? Why not forward to Palanza?”

Reply.—“The Tosa is flooded; it cannot be crossed!”

Long faces in the omnibus, and gloomy silence.

We again trot forward, and it begins again to rain, with low thunder.

Towards noon we arrived at Vogogna, a small and not an ugly town, picturesque in situation, and without any fault, it seems to me, except that of not being the place at which we thought of passing the night.

In the middle of the road stands, with a very melancholy look, as it has stood since last night, the great diligence from Simplon, without horses, waiting till “La Tosa” permits it to cross.

Now arrives a large private post-carriage; draws up, and the people begin to ask what it means?

“Halte là! It is not possible to cross!” says La Tosa. The horses are taken out. Now comes a large, handsome landau. The same question; the same answer, and the same fate. Now come three large carriages in train, Grand-Seigneur-like; and so are the gentlemen who are seated within them, all in gray over-coats. They are the King of the Belgians and his suite.

“Nobody can go any further!” says La Tosa, who has no respect to persons. King Leopold looks around him for a moment on Vogogna, with disparaging glances, and returns to Domo d'Ossola.

A portion of his suite and we others console ourselves by dining. I ask for a chicken and a cup of boulli; both are remarkably good, but I have so dreadful a headache from the thunderous state of the atmosphere, that I am quite reconciled to the thought of passing the night at Vogogna. In the mean time, the clouds clear off, the sun shines, and I set out on a little ramble of discovery along the ravines by the side of a little mountain stream.

In the mean time, some of the gentlemen of our traveling party set about to ascertain the state of La Tosa. The river is somewhat above an hour's distance from Vogogna. They find that the ferry is now passable, and returning with these tidings, require that the conductor should put to his horses, and continue the journey. But one lady, who has a place in the coupée, does not appear to the general summons. She has, on the assurance of the conductor that the journey will not be continued that day, gone up into the hills. The omnibus-gentlemen send a couple of persons to bid her return, and, at the same time, compel the conductor to begin his journey. The foreign lady may come after when and how she can. The foreign lady has little idea of the fate that awaits her, when she hears voices shouting after her among the hills, and sees people beckoning her back to the inn.

Arrived there, she finds the omnibus gone, within “un quarto d'ora,” as she is assured. But a traveling party, who have a private carriage, wait kindly to take the lost one with them as far as the ferry on La Tosa.

The lady pays at once her bill at the hotel, gives la buona mano to all who desire it, and takes her place, with thanks, in the four-seated open carriage. Here she finds herself opposite an elderly gentleman, evidently an Englishman, who is very much absorbed in the pages of a thick book, and a much younger lady of remarkably lovely and attractive exterior, with lady-like manners; on the back seat sits a young person with the appearance of a lady's maid, and the stranger takes the seat beside her. The lovely lady accepts very graciously her apologies and thanks, and unites warmly with her in astonishment over the behavior of the omnibus. For the rest not many words are exchanged on the road to La Tosa; the gentleman merely remarking, with humorous gravity, as he just glanced up from his book:

“The diligences shall first cross, and if they are drowned, we will not go after them; that's all. We are on the safe side of the affair!”

And again be was absorbed in his book.

We now approached La Tosa, and heard its dull roar; and see! Here, upon this side of the river, stand the diligence and omnibus, and all the other carriages waiting, because there is yet a large procession of carriages and carts, which have first to be brought over, and the ferry is actively employed for this purpose. This is what my omnibus companions have got with all their manœuvring.

On alighting from the stranger's carriage, the guest whom they had taken in, said to the polite proprietor:

“If ever you should come to Sweden, to Stockholm, I beg you will inquire for Miss Bremer, who will be glad to thank you in her own home for your kindness to her!”

“Miss Bremer!” exclaimed the lady—“what a singular meeting! Miss Bremer, allow me to introduce my husband to you, Sir Thomas Lyell, of whom you must have heard during your travels in America!”

“Sir Thomas Lyell! Oh, certainly!”

And now we are deep in an infinity of topics, of people, and occurrences in America. Immediately we must part. The carriages are in motion for crossing the river. Sir Thomas himself carries my little traveling-bag to the omnibus, to which we struggle through deep sand and miry clay, talking the while on slavery. The handsome lady waves me a friendly farewell—we have agreed to meet again in Rome—and now I am on the ferry-boat, where the carriages and passengers stand in order, the carriages in one place, and the passengers in another, because the passage looks dangerous. La Tosa rolls along rapidly and broad, with its dark, agitated waters; it has again retreated to its banks, but it has left evident traces on the shore how high it was only a few hours since.

The deep mud of these shores, the number of carriages and carts, asses and other animals, which had to be conveyed across; the screaming and shouting of the drivers, and the merciless flogging of the poor beasts, which are ready to sink in the clay and sand, make the passage across in the highest degree difficult and noisy—and La Tosa the while rolls along so heavily and dark! But the broad ferry-boat glides safely by its strong rope, across the swollen river, and carriages, animals, and men arrive happily on the other side. The omnibus passengers creep up again into their places, I in mine, in the coupée, between the two gentleman, who do not seem to have easy consciences in the presence of the traveling lady, who has been so unexpectedly conveyed hither by an English baronet. She felt somewhat inclined to pray them for the future to bear in mind the command, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,” but she did not, satisfying herself merely by a reproach to the conductor. He threw the blame on the gentlemen; “You should have heard how they went on with me!”

The gentlemen said nothing, but looked a little ashamed of themselves; and again we trotted on.

But the clouds cleared off; then the stars shone out, and in their light we caught glimpses of Lago Maggiore, along the banks of which we drove for a full hour before we arrived at the “Hotel de l'Univers,” at Palanza.

The whole traveling world seems to have streamed this evening into the Hotel de l'Univers, which is full to overflowing, and the waiters have so many calling voices to attend upon, that the traveler who is bashful must wait to the last. That is my lot; but what does it matter? I have, after all, obtained some refreshment, and towards midnight a little chamber also, in a house or magazine out of the hotel. It is true, the chamber is like a prison cell, with cobwebs in every corner and at all heights; iron bars before the dirty window, and so on; but it contains, nevertheless, a bed, a chair, and a table. A little active “Nina” assists me to prepare my bed, and then I rest deliciously, whilst I listen, at intervals, to the loud claps of thunder, and the torrents of rain which again pour down through the livelong night.

In the morning the sun shines, and the sky is bright to the south, over Lago Maggiore, but above the heights of Simplon and Monte Rosa it looks—as it must have looked at the time of the deluge. Violet-black cloud envelops the Alpine region. After breakfast I go out on the road by the lake, and am there witness to a great fishing for wood.

The lake is covered with drift-timber, which the rivers Tosa, Ticino, and others, swollen by the violent rains, have carried hither from the mountain valleys. There is timber of all sizes, large trees and small—mostly beech, as it seems to me—branches and twigs, portions of trees, planks innumerable; and boys and girls, old men and women, young men and women, are busy along the shores fishing up the timber and the branches that are borne thither by the force of the waves. The young ones leap exultingly with their bare legs into the water; the old people drag the more precious waifs and strays towards them with rakes. A great number of larger and smaller boats are out on the lake, which are catching the same kind of fish with hooks and lines.

“This is actually buona fortuna,” said a poor working-man to me, as he sat resting on a piece of timber on the bank, “because all wood which is not marked, belongs to him who fishes it up; and now every poor family round the lake can lay up enough for his winter-supply. Look what I have caught!” and he pointed, with beaming eyes, to a little pile of wood and boughs, which he had laid together on the shore.

The timber-fishing continued the whole day, spite of the rain, which again began. As the day wore on, the Piedmontese soldiery appeared on the shore, to defend the property of the great timber-owners. The soldiers behaved extremely well, and did not prevent the fishing. Boys and girls ran into the water, snatching at the large fish; they are all bare legged, and all are gay, and chatter and shout and laugh; the girls are even handsome, with a sunny light in their dark eyes; but there is a sunny light in the whole of this scene, as if it were some kind of folk's festival. Even the little children have their part in it. The fathers take up their little ones, who are sitting on the banks, and kiss and caress them, as I never before saw fathers caress their infants, and as if they would say, “Now we shall have fire under the pot to boil the potatoes, thou jewel!” And the bambinos are charming little things, as they sit or lie there, half-naked and merry. I did not see a single one crying. In the mean time a violent quarrel arises amongst the fishing men about a piece of timber, and they scream, and threaten, and gesticulate, as if they were ready to murder one another, but they do not come to blows, the quarrel evaporates in fierce words and gestures.

On one large pile of wood, three women are standing, of a handsome, Italian type, and with classical forms—evidently grandmother, mother and daughter, for all have the same features,—and down below the pile stands a meagre, little, ugly fellow, like a dried skin, in a yellow-gray nankeen spencer with flaps, and pantaloons of no color, who shrieks and gesticulates, and with a violent torrent of words, accuses the women of something—I don't rightly understand what—probably of having taken some of the wood which he had collected. A well-dressed, elderly man, with the appearance of a gentleman, seemed to be the judge between the two parties. The women on the pile of wood, contented themselves with few words and great gesticulations, extending their arms and hands, as if accusing the little fellow, who seemed out of his senses, and darted about them like a bat. Spite of their proud bearing and handsome persons, and the extremely ridiculous figure he cut, it appeared to me that the right was not on their side. The peacemaker ended the quarrel, by taking the little yellow-gray man away with him, probably to draw up for him a formal accusation against the women. The youngest of these, a handsome, dark girl, with long, hanging plaits of hair, sent a contemptuous gesture after the two, as they retired from the scene.

Twilight came down, and one and all prepared to turn homeward with a part of their booty. The men dragged beams and boughs after them; the old women carried the smaller pieces which they had collected in baskets on their backs. Every body had something.

“Life is heavy for poor folks here in Piedmont,” said one of the old wood-fishermen to me. “It is not here as it is in France, where every body can get about as much as he needs for himself and his family. In Piedmont there are some very rich, and many very poor!”

“I must hear more about that before I believe you, my little old man!” thought I.

I have now obtained a better room, in the great world's hotel, with a free view over the lake, and I shall not depart hence until I have seen it and its islands, in full sunshine.

Monday Evening, September 14th.—I have now done so! Yesterday was a most lovely day; the calm lake reflected the bright blue heaven.

At nine o'clock in the morning the steamboat from Lucmagno conveyed me to Isola Bella.

The Borromean palace and its gardens occupy nearly the whole of the little island, upon which they are raised high above the lake on the terraces. It is a kind of fairy-palace, where art has done every thing and has even constrained nature. Every thing is symmetrical, even in the gardens; trees, flowers, statues, every thing stands in state. There are many magnificent, large rooms in the palace, and pictures which I believe are valuable, but of these, it was not possible to form any just idea, from the haste with which strangers are hurried through. Magnificent furniture, mosaic tables, and a number of curiosities abound. I observed amongst these curiosities, a marble bust of Carlo Borromeo, with the inscription Humilitas, above which hovered a golden crown.

The lower story of the palace, which almost entirely consists of mosaic halls, seemed to me to be the most original portion. In the upper marble halls, I caught a glimpse of some figures which excited my curiosity more than their articles of luxury. These were a tall, elderly gentleman, with a bald head; a young ditto, with a handsome, dark Italian countenance, and two quite young girls, with white aprons, dark eyes, and dark, long plaits of hair. The young girls seemed a little curious to see the crowd of strangers, who were conducted by a servant in livery, through the state apartments, but were prevented doing so by the gentlemen, and consoled themselves instead, by waltzing over the marble floor, and every time they passed the open doors, casting merry, inquiring glances into the gallery where the strangers were standing. I saw also, through a half-open door, a table spread for a few persons as simply as in any well-to-do country clergyman's family; but this side of the palace was forbidden to the curious, and in these few moments, I could only obtain a glimpse of the present Borromean family, the proprietor of these celebrated islands. The old Count, his son, and these two daughters, reside for present on Isola Bella.

It is said that the palace and grounds of Isola Bella cost annually thirty thousand francs to keep them up. The family which owns them, is still, as formerly, immensely rich. Nothing in these costly designs astonishes me so much, as that any body will go to such a vast expense and so much trouble for a great child's play. For in reality this little, great piece of work is nothing more. It seems infinitely small amidst its grand surroundings of lake and mountains. There is not a single view from the highest terrace which is grand, because the island lies too near the mountainous shore on the one side, and the eye sees all round nothing except the lake,—which does not appear large,—and its garland of mountains.

On the part of the island which is not occupied by the grounds of the palace, stands an hotel for travelers, with wretched outbuildings.

I met at the hotel an American family, which I had seen some years before on the western shore of the Mississippi. Now, as then, we met with friendly sentiments. All parts of the world are coming nearer and nearer to each other. Human beings also; thanks to steam, and to the influence of mind!

I wished to take hence a little boat to Isola Madre—a half-hour's rowing from Isola Bella—and for this purpose went down to the shore where a number of gondolas lay side by side. A gentleman with black whiskers and mustache, rushed forward, saying that he would assist me in making a bargain with the boatman. He assisted me so far, that the little trip would cost me seven francs, and two vigorous rowers prepared themselves, with great importance, to receive me on board their gondola.

“Seven francs is the tariff-price,” asserted they and the dark-complexioned man.

“Very well!” said I, “take your pleasure with them then. For my part, I prefer returning by steamer to Palanza and taking a boat thence!” And I very quietly turned back towards the palace.

But now came first one and then another from the boats, running after me. “Signora, will you have a boatman?” “A boatman, Signora? Here is one! There is one!—Take that, Signora. He will row you for four francs—nay, for two francs and a half. Take him; I will answer for him!” “Take me, Signora! I will row you as far as you like for three francs!” This last speaker was an elderly boatman, with a remarkably frank, and good countenance, of the strong Italian stamp. I nodded assent, and stepped into his boat, a large, good gondola, not without being followed by the angry glances of the dark-complexioned, helpful gentleman and his men; but we were soon out on the calm lake.

It was a warm, sunny day; the lake lay like a mirror, and the passage across was calm and smooth as it.

“Are you married, Francisco?” inquired I, from my boatman,—who propelled the boat with the oars, standing, bending himself forward the while.

“No, unmarried, Signora.”

“Indeed! But it is now time for you to be thinking about it, Francisco!”

“The time is past, Signora; it is now too late. But though I have never been married, yet I have been and still am the father of a family.”

“How so?”

“When my mother died, she left me four little girls to provide for. The bringing up of these four “povere ragazzi” and the marrying of them, has given me something to do in my life, and as you may believe, not so easy either. And now I have the youngest still left,—and thus the time has gone, and I have not had leisure to think about getting married myself—and now I am too old!”

Honest Francisco evidently did not think how beautiful was this short unpretending autobiography; he looked pious, and full of peace, and seemed quite satisfied with his four ragazzi.

As we approached the steps which ascend to Isola Madre, I saw that the stone girdle which surrounds the green island was fastened by a door; but scarcely had we touched the land at the foot of the steps, before the door was opened by a young man, who welcomed the solitary stranger with evident pleasure. He was the young warder of this little earthly paradise,—for Isola Madre is an actual little paradise, where a number of beautiful and rare plants have been collected from many countries of the world, and grouped here with such beautiful art, that you merely seem conscious of the loveliness of nature. Aloes, which blossom every century, grow here with the pine trees of the north. One wanders through the most charming groves of laurels and camelias; cedars stretch forth their shadowy branches over the soft, flowery turf; tea-trees grow amongst roses; along the stone wall shines out the bright amaranthus; lemon and orange blossoms diffuse their fragrance from lofty espaliers, and outside the wall, upon the rocks, grow colossal cacti, which give a tropical character to the scene. I recognized many plants which I had seen in America and Cuba. Doves cooed, and golden pheasants marched along the shadowy alleys of verdant growths, with their splendid blossoms and berries. Whichever way I looked, there was something beautiful and uncommon, and every thing as perfectly well-kept, and as fresh, as if in an eternal spring. My young attendant seemed amused by my delight over the plants, and my knowledge of many of them. He made me a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers.

But the young son of Adam found it, however, wearisome in this paradise, because he dwelt there alone, without Eve, and without visitors. When I asked him whether the time did not sometimes seem long in this solitude, the whole year round,

“Ah securo!” replied he. “Nobody comes here; all the strangers go to Isola Bella. If one were married, however, one could live here very pleasantly; but il Conte will only have unmarried servants!” And he sighed.

Nightingales, by numbers, sing here in the spring, whilst the carnelias are in blossom, and the roses fill the air with their perfume. What a residence this for the honeymoon! I wonder that no rich Englishman has thought of it for his bridal tour.

The castle, or residence, on Isola Madre, is uninhabited, and does not seem intended for a place of abode; yet it has some large and handsome rooms, which afford far more extensive and more beautiful views, than can be had from Isola Bella.

The island lies nearly in the centre of the lake, and has been the largest cultivated, as it is also the largest of the Borromean islands, whence its name,—Isola Madre. The island of St. Giovanni is merely grass-ground and some vineyards. Isola dei Piscatori is wholly covered with small and ugly fishermen's huts.

It is a current saying, that when one has seen Isola Bella, one has also seen Isola Madre. A great mistake, this! Isola Bella is an earthly work of art, which leaves the heart cold. Isola Madre is an earthly Eden, like that which all happy, loving hearts, possess within themselves,—a miniature image of the first paradise, where all was beautiful, and all was good.

My respectable Francesco rowed me back to Palanza, and, after we had parted with mutual cordiality, I went out to visit the grand promenade—for even Palanza has such a one—along the shore of the lake.

The evening was lovely and tranquil. I took my seat on a stone bench, under a shady beech, a little way apart from the road. Just opposite, on the other side of the road, a poor blind man was also seated, under a tree. When he heard the approaching steps of promenaders, he stretched forth his hat, repeating the while a monotonous prayer, in which I could only hear distinctly the name of Maria. And now one crowd of evening promenaders went by after another,—ladies in crinoline, as stately as ostriches, and gentlemen with cigars in their mouths,—but all passed the blind man; not one of them listened to his prayer. There now comes up a smartly-dressed servant-girl, following her young mistress, who has a mantilla over her pretty head, and a little boy by the hand. They reach the spot where the blind man sits; he puts forth his hat, and mutters his prayer; the servant-girl puts her hand into her pocket—now he will assuredly have an alms! No, the girl lets her hand remain in her pockets, and they pass by. Now the loud trotting of horses is heard, and three handsome equipages drive along in succession. On the high-driving box of the foremost, are seated a young man and a handsome, more elderly lady; she it is who holds the reins, and drives the grandly-trotting horses,—a proud sight; they also drive past without taking any notice of the beggar. And hundreds pass by, but not a single one of them all gives a look at the blind man. It is really distressing to see, in a country where, according to the religious avowal, alms-giving belongs to the first duty of the Christian. It is true that the beggar's voice and form of prayer are not very attractive, but he is old and feeble, and he is blind; he cannot behold the sun, and the unspeakable beauty of evening! It is now already late, the shadows are descending, and the gay promenaders become ever fewer and fewer. Now occurs a pause; the road is empty,—no, there now comes along a lad of about twelve, in a leathern apron,—evidently a poor man's child; he is whistling carelessly, and has already passed the blind man, when he hastily checks himself, stops, looks around him, and pulls out his little purse; it seems very meagre and light, but it contains, nevertheless, a farthing for the blind man! Thanks, good lad! say I, in petto, and the blind man and I go, each consoled, homeward, on our own side of the road.

I have, to-day, made an excursion by steamboat to Tessin—the Italian Switzerland, the southern shore of which is washed by the waters of Lago Maggiore—to see its capital,—Lucarno,—and the banks of the lake on this side.

Lucarno lies on the shore of the lake, with a background of verdant wooded heights, directly exposed to the midday sun,—a beautiful place of sojourn for the winter, but fearfully hot in summer. The green mountains, with their white houses and churches, in particular the church of Sta. Maria del Sasso,—the ascent to which, in zig-zags up the mountain, is marked by fourteen little chapels or stations,—affords a beautiful view. Plane-trees, lemons, and oranges, grow around the city. The people have an Italian look, speak Italian, and are said to be separated into very strongly dissimilar classes, or, more properly speaking, castes. No one would observe here that Tessin is one of the states of the Swiss confederation. Its people have not the best reputation.

Lago Maggiore reminds me somewhat of the lake of Lucerne, although that has more variety and grandeur. Yet here one sees the snowy heads of Simplon, Cima di Jazi, and the Strelhorn, now and then glance forth from above the lower Alpine chain around the northwestern side of the lake. The day was warm and sunny, and the air seemed to me oppressive.

As far as the so-much-praised Italian sky is concerned, I cannot, as yet, see that it is more beautiful than that of Switzerland; or even that of Sweden on fine days. But perhaps I am not now in a proper state to understand Italian beauty. The journey to Monte Rosa and across the Simplon, have left behind an affection of the chest and a fatigue which somewhat depress me. And now—it is evening and dark out of doors, and I write in the endeavor to dispel certain feelings which, like birds of twilight, are very apt to appear at this time of day—especially in the autumn—and make me, as it were, afraid of the life and the labor of my solitary journey! I will not listen to the rustling of their nocturnal wings; I know indeed, after all, that in the morning I shall feel my courage returned. And such needs especially to be the case in the morning when I have before me a probably laborious day's journey to Turin. I shall not, however, remain any length of time there; but, on the present occasion, proceed to the valleys of the Waldenses, and, somewhat later, pay my visit to the Capital of Piedmont.

I take my leave of Lago Maggiore without regret, although I see all its beauty. But the beauty of lakes, their fresh-water life, have something empty and circumscribed, which is not sufficient for me. I require a view over a vast extent, across which mists and clouds speed in their wild career, and cast down their wandering shadows, or—over the vast, free, briny ocean, where ships come and go; that—Good night!

La Torre, September 20th.—I am in the valleys of the Waldenses, in the oldest home and hearth of evangelical Protestantism on the earth! How entirely it agrees with me! It seems to me now, as if I had slept ever since my arrival in Italy, had slept on Lago Maggiore, on Isola Bella, in Turin, and had first awoke here, where the hills and the woods talk, where the rivers sing about the life of spiritual freedom—mine, thine, all of ours who come to freedom and to light in the Redeemer, Jesus Christ!

Besides, it is here so infinitely beautiful; one lovely day, intoxicated as if with sunshine, succeeds another, gladdening the well-watered earth. The situation, too, of these valleys and their scenery, is glorious!

Extending from the southern ranges of the Cottian Alps, these valleys expand like a fan towards the plain of Piedmont, upon which they lie, between their mountain ridges, as upon a high terrace. The fertile heights and plains along the mountain ridges are covered with chestnut woods, which are just now laden with fruit, “the manna of the valleys,” as it is called, because it furnishes food to the inhabitants of the valleys the whole year through, from the one harvest to the other. Lower down grows the mulberry-tree in great luxuriance, the maize, the vine, &c., intermixed with beautiful pasture-land, while through all these valleys rivers dance, and becks leap along, clearer and purer, it seems to me, than I have ever before seen elsewhere. Such are the rivers of Lucerne and Angrogna, and the wild Germanasco in the valley of San Martino. All proceed from sources in the Alps, and all contribute to swell, with their pure waters, the mighty Po, which leads them through Italy into the great ocean.

The valleys run out in rays from the mountains towards the plains, and as they open themselves into it, a view expands as grand almost as if over the sea, especially in the morning, when mists cover the plain, and the sun rises above this misty sea, over an extent of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred miles, and shines upon the blue mountain-chain of the Apennines, which bound the distant horizon in the States of Tuscany.

A mountain, by the name of Cavour, rises, like a rock-island, solitarily from this misty ocean in the midst of the plain. The beautiful, wooded valleys resemble a peaceful haven, from which one gazes forth upon the ocean, whose storms do not disturb its repose. Ah! but it has frequently been otherwise: these valleys were frequently, instead of calm havens, homes for bloody persecutions and strifes, yet were they at the same time glorious witnesses of the strength of faith and patience, of the victory of the light—of the light which shines in darkness. Lux lucet in Tenebris, has been, from the most ancient times, the motto in the church of the Waldenses; it surrounds the candlestick which is engraved on its seal.

How much have I liked and enjoyed since my arrival here, during my rambles in these lonely valleys, and in my intercourse with their inhabitants, as well peasants as of the more educated classes! Foremost amongst the latter, I must mention the evangelical preacher, M. Meille, minister of the new Waldenses church of Turin, but who, with his family, have their summer home in the valleys; a man of Italian grace, both in language and manner, who has the warmest affection for the dales-people and their doctrines, and the most beautiful gifts, both as a teacher and preacher; and Louise Appia, the superintendent of the girl-schools in the valleys, a noble, amiable woman, and a remarkable teacher. Upon the benches of her crowded schools, one sees the peasant's daughter and the descendant of the doges of Venice, sitting side by side, participant of the same learning, and the same affectionately earnest, maternal care. Through these estimable persons, I became acquainted with the latest history of the Waldenses and their present life.

Allow me, my R——, to sketch for thee here a few traits of this history, in the hope of creating in thy heart a desire to know more; because, whilst it affords an episode in the history of a Christian people, which ought to be known by all and repeated from father to child, from one generation to another, in evidence of God's providence over a faithful and heroic people, it embraces that of “the Israel of the Valleys,” as the Waldenses deserve to be called.

But little, and that indefinite, is known of the first commencement of the Waldenses church, and the learned disagree at the present time about the origin of their name. That which is certain is, that from the earliest period, when the light of history begins to fall upon the region between Mont Cenis and Monte Viso, by the sources of the Po, it is spoken of as being inhabited by Christians, “who in many respects are separated in faith, ecclesiastical customs, and government,” from that, which, under the power of the Pope, became dominant in the rest of Italy. The evangelical apostles extended their travels, very early, across the Cottian Alps, to convey the glad tidings of the Saviour to the shores of the Rhone and the Rhine.

Historians relate, that Christians of the Theban legion fled from persecutions on account of their faith, during the second century, to the foot of Monte Viso to the sources of the Po. In the fourth century, mention is made of a man, by name Vigilanti, who, after having vehemently protested against the worshiping of images and relics, with other abuses of the Romish church, was obliged to flee from Rome, and who found a place of refuge and friends, in a district between the Cottian Alps and the Adriatic sea. In the eighth century, the congregation of the valleys advanced into a clearer light, when Claudius, bishop of Turin, was said to blow upon the smouldering coals of Vigilanti's heresies, and he came forward in a written treatise against the abuses and usurpations of Rome, encouraging, at the same time, the congregations of Piedmont in their protest against them. He supports himself by the words of Origen, in his Commentary on the Gospel of St. Matthew: “If we even say, with Peter, ‘Thou art Christ, the son of the living God!’ not through our own flesh and blood, but through the light of God in our heart, then will each one of us become a rock. Every one of Christ's disciples, who drinks the water which flows from that spiritual rock, may bear its name. These words, ‘the gates of hell shall not prevail against this rock,’ are applicable to the whole of the Apostles. All the followers of Christ derive their name from that spiritual rock,” &c.

In the twelfth century, the people of the valleys are spoken of, in many Roman Catholic writings, as a disbelieving people, who deny the right of Popes and Cardinals, translate and circulate the Holy Scriptures, and send out apostles to preach the gospel in opposition to the doctrine of the Roman Church. The Waldenses were said to be a people of shepherds and husbandmen; but against their morals no charges whatever were made. The most highly esteemed writers bear the fullest testimony to the innocence and sobriety of their life.

Their priests were called Barbes,^[1] from the word Barba, which, in their language, is used to indicate an elderly, venerable man, and which is used at the present day for the oldest person in the congregations, and principally for elderly and esteemed men. “Bou soir Barba,” said Louise Appia, when, during our rambles in the valley, we met an elderly peasant.

The oldest translation existing of the New Testament, is in the language of the Waldenses, called Romaunt, or Lingua Rustica Romana.

These Barbes were educated for some years in solitude, amidst earnest studies, at a place called Pra del Tor, in the depth of the mountains in the valley of Angrogna. There they studied the Bible, the human heart, and nature; because they were to become physicians for the body as well as for the soul. At the close of this course of study, they passed a couple of years in still deeper solitude, and tradition says that pious women also lived in a similar solitude, rigidly separated from the world.

Thus prepared, these young men went out, two and two, an elder and a younger man, to convey the Gospel to various parts of the world. Sometimes they traveled in the guise of hawkers—there still exist in the old language näive songs on this subject—and, as such, often gained access to high-born ladies, to whom they sold pearls and other ornaments. “But when, by means of these, they had awakened their attention,”—relates one author accusingly, “they then say that they have a still more costly pearl; a yet far more precious ornament in their store, and when any one desired to see it, they would bring forth the Holy Scriptures, and speak of that which they contain, according to their faith, so as to inspire a desire to purchase the book—and in this way they attract souls from us to their apostatized sect.”

The Waldenses lived for a long time untroubled, amidst the defense of their mountains, their remote situation, and their pure, simple manners. They cultivated their fields, practiced a pure Christianity, and received the Holy Communion of bread and wine, conformably with the usage of the most ancient church. An author favorable to them says: “There is scarcely a woman to be found amongst them who cannot, as well as any man, read the whole text of the Scripture in their everyday tongue. They teach the pure doctrine, and exhort to a holy life.”

In the eleventh century, a kind of poetical prose poem, called “La Noble Leçon,” testifies to the moral life and doctrines of the Waldenses. The church of the Waldenses had at that time founded flourishing colonies in Apulia and Calabria. They had connections with Dauphine and Provence, and are brethren in faith with the Albigenses, afterwards so cruelly persecuted.

But the little light which shone in darkness, began now to spread abroad too strong a brightness. The popedom, terrified at this, threatened the congregations with the excommunication if they did not conform to the customs and statutes of the Romish church. To which, they replied, “Death rather than the mass!” On this a bloody persecution commenced against them. “Wherefore?” inquired the Waldenses; “we merely follow the usages and laws which we have inherited from our fathers since the time of the Apostles!” The reply to this was imprisonment, and the most cruel executions. These were carried on with such fury in Calabria, that the flourishing congregation there was soon extirpated.

They who were saved from the massacre, fled to the mountains of the Waldenses, within which the whole church of the Waldenses was soon confined. But in nearly every succeeding century, they were visited even here by the persecutions of the Roman Catholic church, and by its hired servants, soldiers athirst for blood and plunder. History has no scenes more cruel, neither has it any more heroic than those which occurred, and which again and again were repeated in these valleys. There is not here a single rock or river which has not been dyed with the blood of martyrs. But they suffered cheerfully, heroically; they encouraged each other to die rather than to swerve from their own and their fathers' faith. I will give, from many individual traits, merely the following:

One man, during the fifteenth century, was offered either within three days to accept the Romish doctrine, or to be burned alive. He was in prison when that sentence was passed, and his wife then desired to speak with him “as she had something of importance to his best interests to say to him.” They, not doubting but that she would endeavor to persuade him to abjure his faith, admitted her into the prison. Great then became the anger and astonishment of the attendants when they heard her encourage her husband “to continue firm to the end.” “Do not be uneasy about any thing which belongs to this world,” continued the heroic woman; “do not think about leaving me a deserted widow, because, by God's mercy, I will accompany thee to death. Do not think about the sufferings of death—for they are soon over!” And she prayed so earnestly to be permitted to die at the same pile with her husband, that they finally granted her prayer.

During the cruel progress of the Marquis Pianezza through the valleys, the wife and daughters of the brave Janavel fell into his power. The Marquis sent word to him that if he would not renounce his heresy, his wife and daughters should be burned alive. Janavel replied that he “would endure the most cruel torture rather than abjure his religion; that if the Marquis burned his wife and daughters, the flames could, after all, merely destroy their bodies, but that he commended their souls to the hand of God, even as his own.”

A young girl having fled with her old grandfather from a troop of murderous soldiers which roamed about the valleys, found refuge in one of the caves high amongst the mountains, of which many such are to be found in these valleys. One night, when, as was her custom, she stole forth to collect chestnuts for herself and the old man, she was discovered by the soldiers, and tracked to her retreat. They killed the old man, and were about to seize upon the young girl, when she, seeing no escape between dishonor and death, boldly chose the latter, and breaking loose from the hands of the soldiers, threw herself head foremost from the rock down into the stream which flowed below—“and was killed,” says simply the old historian Gilly. Tradition adds that she sung her favorite hymn as she was carried down the stream.

Similar scenes were repeated, century after century, in one valley after another. But the violence of persecution converted by degrees the peaceful people into warriors. They rose up against their oppressors; they fought with them, and the victories of the little band were often remarkable, over an enemy far superior to them in numbers. These victories, and the weariness of fruitless persecution, obtained for the Waldenses at length a long period of rest, during which they again were able to cultivate their desolated fields, and to maintain their divine service. For although some of their priests permitted themselves to be seduced into apostasy—at least outwardly, by being present at the Catholic mass—yet a considerable number of the people never swerved from their faith. God had intrusted to them “the light which shines in darkness,” and they knew that they must maintain and defend it to the last drop of their blood. The consciousness of this appears with extraordinary clearness in the expressions which are presented of their leaders and Barbes.

Thus, till the time when the great Protestant movement took place in Germany and Switzerland. The Waldenses in the depths of their valleys heard mention made by their returning Barbes, of Zwingli, of Luther, of Martin Bucer, and Œcolampadius. And full of joy they sent to the latter, as being the nearest to them this greeting:—

“The Christians of Provence^[2] to Œcolampadius, health!

“As we have understood that the Almighty God has filled you with His Holy Spirit, therefore, we turn to you, assured that God's spirit will enlighten us through your council in many things, which are concealed from us by our ignorance and weakness. You may know that we, poor shepherds of this little flock, have during more than four hundred years suffered the cruelest persecutions, neither at the same time without evident signs of Christ's mercy. In all important points we hold with you, and ever since the time of the Apostles, has our faith been the same. But through our fault, or through the weakness of our souls, we do not understand the Scriptures so well as you, and therefore, we come to you for guidance and edification.”

The reformers replied with encouraging and strengthening words. The Barbes of the Waldenses convened a synod in the valleys, on the 12th of September, and beheld with joy various representatives of the Reformation present there.^[3]

Shortly afterwards, in the year 1559, the most bloody persecution broke out against the Waldenses which had yet taken place, in their valleys. The French government had left the valleys under the dominion of Savoy; and the young regent of Savoy, Emanuel Philibert, sent Count Della Trinita, and the Inquisitor-Greneral Jacoma, to convert the people, or to baptize them in blood. In consequence of this, Auto da fes took place, and atrocities which make the blood run cold. One honest man, named Corbis, a member of the commission, who had been sent to the valleys on this business, gave up his post because he could no longer be the witness of these horrors.

Whilst the Waldenses fought against their oppressors, or were bleeding under their hands, they continued to present incessantly the most deeply submissive prayers to their Duke, whom they could not believe, desired that they should be so treated, because they had always been obedient subjects, and had always worshiped God according to the teaching of their fathers and of the most ancient church.

During these wars, two men especially distinguished themselves amongst the Waldenses, “Jahel and Janavel,” who often performed miracles of bravery. At length they two fell before the sword. Just above the now peaceful town of La Torre, lay a fortified tower, whence issued troops to devastate the valleys, and carry the inhabitants to prison. It seemed as if the little flock could not long stand against these desolating persecutions.

Holland, England, and the whole of Protestant Europe, raised a protest against the treatment which the Waldenses received. Then came the year 1655, which brought with it the foulest misdeeds against the people of the valleys. On promise of perfect amnesty and freedom of faith, signed by the Duke of Savoy, the people laid down their arms. On which followed a perfect raid and plundering, by the banditti of the Popedom. Great numbers of the poor people were killed, and the rest cast into many of the prisons of Piedmont. It was computed that fourteen thousand, both of men and women, were imprisoned. Many of the clergy were led to death, and met it with the courage of martyrs.

On the fame of the Waldenses, martyrdom being noised abroad, the powers of Protestant Europe again raised their voices, and that with such effect, that the prisons of the Waldenses were opened, but only with the sentence of perpetual banishment.

It was in the winter of the year 1656, when they were obliged to fly across the Alps into a foreign land. They had been miserably fed in prison, most of them were ill or insufficiently clothed. Hundreds of them died of fatigue, hunger, and cold, in the snow, on their journey across the Alps. Those, however, who reached Switzerland, were received with open arms by their brethren in the faith, in Geneva, Zürich, Basle, Neufchâtel. They were fed, clothed, and well-cared for. They received gifts of habitations and fields, as well in Wurtemburg as in Switzerland. The Catholics took possession of the valleys of the Waldenses; dwelt in their homes, sowed and reaped the harvests of their fields.

The people of the valleys now lived in foreign countries, amongst their friends, who did all to make them comfortable, and forget the past and the old native land.

But that people could not forget. In Switzerland and in Germany, the Waldenses lived by the labor of their hands, leading exemplary lives amongst their foreign brethren, but listening with indifference to their offer of substantial dwellings, answering little, but silently longing for their valleys, their chestnut woods, their clear mountain streams. The little light which shone there so brightly amidst the bloody night of persecution, burned feebly in peaceful but foreign abodes. Their longings grew into action. Whether it was a secret feeling, that they were called to testify of the most ancient faith and doctrine, in the place where they built their earliest temple, or whether it was something of that instinct which leads the eagle and the bird of passage back to their former nest, certain it is, that troops of the exiled people, attempted again and again to force their way into their former habitations.

The year 1687 saw four hundred people, secretly assembled on the shore at Lausanne, ready to betake themselves across the lake to Savoy. But the Bernese government—at that time powerful in discovered their intentions and drove them back. The following year, a troop of from six to seven hundred, assembled on the valley of the Rhone, in order thence to endeavor to force their way to their mountains. It was now evident that a more mature plan was in operation. They had sent messengers before hand, to spy out the way to their valleys, and to prepare the brethren who still lingered there, for their arrival, and they had already received from them encouraging answers.

But the plan of the poor, home-sick exiles, was again discovered, and the French commandant at Aigle, in the Rhone valley, counseled them—yet with great humanity and good will—to abandon their undertaking. He consoled them at the same time by a discourse on the text, “Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's pleasure to give you the kingdom.” And whilst the dejected wanderers went to pitch again their tents in a foreign land, Providence was preparing the man and the means which should carry out their attempt to victory.

This man was Henri Arnaud. He was born in Dauphine, and was early destined, by his parents, for the priest's office. He studied for this purpose, but the spirit and the necessity of the times caused him to abandon this career for that of the soldier. He took service under the Prince of Orange, afterwards king of England; distinguished himself especially in military tactics, was appointed captain, and received many proofs of the princely favor. He afterwards abandoned, likewise, the service of war, resumed his clerical studies, and was consecrated as priest in the still remaining little congregation at La Torre. For by means of certain concessions to the Catholic requirements, such as being present at the Catholic mass, a small number of Waldenses remained quietly there in the valleys. Thus Henri Arnaud became closely united with the people of the valleys, and prepared to be their deliverer.

His name is found already amongst the leaders in the unfortunate attempt of the six hundred, just mentioned, in the valley of the Rhone. Two years later, we meet with him as the principal person in a new attempt, but this time with greater means. Arnaud had secretly turned to the Prince of Orange, and even to other Protestant Princes, with entreaties for support. This was granted, and Arnaud obtained means for the accomplishment of an attempt, which, nevertheless, according to human reasoning, was wild, even to insanity, and could not succeed. But Henri Arnaud was illumined by “the inner light;” this alone, and the power of his faith and spirit, put him in a condition to carry out that heroic undertaking which afterwards was designated as La glorieuse rentré.

Arnaud was forty-six years old when he became the leader of the Waldenses flock, which gathered around for the reconquering of the valleys. His portrait, taken at this time, presents a handsome, manly countenance, with an aquiline nose, a piercing glance, and a mouth, the lines of which show the firmness of an inflexible will. Beneath the priest's gown and band, gleams forth the costume of the warrior.

Such a man alone could accomplish such a work. Well might it be sung of the little Waldenses flock, who, under the leadership of Henri Arnaud, went forth, in August, 1689, to reconquer their valleys, as it was of Gustavus Adolphus and the Swedes in Germany. “Be not dismayed, thou little flock!”—for it consisted but of nine hundred men, little acquainted with military tactics, whilst there lay, in the Piedmontese valleys, of French and Savoyan troops, twenty-two thousand men.

At nine o'clock at night, the little band was assembled on the shore of Lake Leman, at Nyon, in order to cross for the shore of Savoy. Here they fell on their knees, whilst Arnaud invoked aloud the blessing of God on their undertaking. The passage of the lake was made happily. During the whole night, and the first day, they proceeded through the mountain pass, in heavy rain; but nevertheless, in the evening, they returned thanks to God who had permitted their advance to be made so far successfully. Henri Arnaud has himself kept a diary of his march through the most inaccessible and dangerous pass, which they chose in order to escape observation. We cannot follow them through it.

Twelve days after their landing on the shore of Savoy, they again beheld their valleys. The troop had now diminished to seven hundred; but they were possessed of a firm confidence, and an unwavering courage. In the beautiful valley of Lucerne, after having put to flight two hundred soldiers of Savoy, they were able, upon a hill by the clear waters of the river Pelice, to listen to a sermon from Pastor Montoux; after which, they bound themselves to each other, by a solemn oath, which Arnaud read aloud. Its opening words are as follows: “When God, by his divine grace, leads us again into the hereditary land of our fathers, in order that we may there again establish the pure worship of God according to our holy religion, we promise the pastors, leaders, and other men, in the presence of the living God, and as truly as we desire our own souls' salvation, not to separate one from another as long as God gives us life, even though our numbers should diminish to three or four.”

Amongst various other items in the oath, we find one against plundering, and particularly against plundering the wounded or dead of the enemy. The leaders also bind themselves to punish every one severely who shall swear or take God's holy name in vain. The leaders swear fidelity to the soldiers, and the soldiers to their leaders. And all vow, before our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, if possible to liberate the brethren, and, together with them, establish his kingdom, and live for it until death.

Such is the oath which was afterwards called “The oath of Sibaud.”

Soon after this, the little troop had to commence an uninterrupted fight with an enemy tenfold their own force. Arnaud, with his company, was driven, still fighting, from height to height, and finally from the valley of Lucerne, to the still wilder valley, and the bare rocks, of San Martino. Many men were lost in this march; the French soldiers in their company deserted, and the confidence even of the Waldenses began to waver. But Henri Arnaud wavered not. “Let us take counsel from above!” said he, and strengthened his little band both by his courage and his prayers.

In the depth of the valley of San Martino, lies a rock, which is called “La Basiglia.” It is a peaked rock, which terminates two mountain chains, running in diverse directions, but which meet at this point. Two rivers, flowing from the two valleys which they form, flow into each other at the foot of this peaked rock, and thence, united, form the rapid river Germanasco. The rock rears itself, with wood-covered terraces, as it were, three or four stories high, decreasing in size upwards, and terminating in the form of a cone. Here Arnaud led his little band, now diminished to four hundred men, and here he intrenched himself, and built barracks and fortifications.

Some days later, he saw himself surrounded by French battalions. But when they attacked the people of Basiglia, they suffered such great loss, that this circumstance in connection with the severity of the season, for it was now the end of October, compelled the French commander to turn back and place his troops in winter quarters.

“Expect us again at Easter!” exclaimed the Frenchmen to the Waldenses in Basiglia, as they departed from the valley of San Martino.

Arnaud was now left in peace with his little band in his eyrie on the rock. But how were they to find food during the winter for four hundred men. Providence has cared for this. The Catholic population had, on the entrance of the Waldenses, fled from the valley, and a great portion of their harvest still remained buried under the fallen snow. The Waldenses found chestnuts, potatoes, and maize, in great quantities, and wine, butter, and other necessaries, were daily brought in by their foraging bands.

Every morning, and every evening, the warrior-priest, Arnaud, assembled his soldiers around him for prayer; every Sunday and Thursday, he preached to them, and they received from his hands the Holy Communion of bread and wine. At the same time he was endeavoring by all possible means, to fortify the rocky terraces of Basiglia, so as to be prepared for the tempest of the spring.

The enemy sent many embassies with the white flag of truce to negotiate. But the terms which were still offered to the Waldenses, were again—exile. They might as well have spoken to the rock of Basiglia, as offer such terms. Thus the winter passed on; the snow melted and Easter came. And with it, came again the host of the enemy into the valley of San Martino. A host of twenty thousand men—and at their head the French Marshal, Catinat—encamped themselves in the valley at the foot of La Basiglia.

A May day was decided upon for the storming of the rock stronghold. A troop of five hundred picked veterans under the conduct of the brave De Parat, were intrusted with the main attack, supported by the fire of seven thousand muskets. Catinat beheld, in the watch-fires around the camp at night, the feux de joie over the certain victory. But the Lord of Hosts willed it otherwise. The little troop of picked veterans were cut down by the brave garrison of Basiglia, its leader taken prisoner, and the enemy suffered so great a loss that the army withdrew as if struck with a panic terror. For every shot from the Basiglia had hit its man, whilst not a ball from the camp of the enemy touched a soldier behind the defenses of the rock. In the evening, Arnaud addressed his people, and those countenances, lately fierce and stern with the lust of war, were now bathed in tears.

Ten days afterwards, again the white flag showed itself before the Basiglia. Marshal Catinat admonished the Waldenses to surrender; he had commanded cannon to be placed upon the rocks on the other side of the valley, just opposite Basiglia, and they would be directed against its fastnesses. The Waldenses replied, “We will defend the soil of our fathers! Let your cannon thunder; our rocks will not tremble, and we—we will listen to the firing!”

But after some hours' firing, a breach was opened in the lower fortifications, and although twilight compelled the enemy to discontinue the attack, yet it was evident that it was only to be renewed the following morning, and that neither the stronghold of the Basiglia nor its people could long hold out. The French commander was also aware of the same fact, and sent word to the town of Pignirol, “that any who wished to see the Waldenses hanged two and two must make haste before the following morning to the valley of San Martino.” He collected his troops and ordered watchfires to be lighted still closer around the rock-fastnesses of Basiglia, and their flames mingled through the night with the wild cries of derision, of fiendish joy, from the camp.

In the stronghold of Basiglia, all was hushed and silent. The sun had set, but hundreds of fires on the cliffs, and in the valley, had changed the night into a dreary day, in the light of which the Waldenses could plainly read their own doom. They must either die, or save themselves by flight. But how fly? Sentinels and fires surrounded them, and watched every step.

“Let us pray!” said Arnaud. “For what shall we pray?” asked a mistrusting voice. “That the tempest may destroy our enemies!” exclaimed another. Arnaud represented to both that they evinced but little Christian disposition. “Let us,” said he, “pray God to save us—in what way soever he may please!”

All lifted up their hands and voices in fervent prayer.

In the twilight of the evening a thick fog gathered on the mountains, and rolled down into the valley in such dense, impenetrable masses, as soon to conceal the enemy's watch-fires from the sight of the Waldenses, and to vail La Basiglia from that of the enemy. The Waldenses could now make their escape unobserved. Captain Poulat, a native of San Martino, on this offered himself as their guide by paths which were known to him, although difficult and dangerous, on the edge of the cliffs, along the precipice. The Waldenses took off their shoes, bound on their backs every thing which they could carry away with them, and amid deep silence, creeping upon hands and feet along the edge of the cliffs, followed their bold leader. A little incident had, however, very nearly betrayed their enterprise at the commencement. An iron kettle, which one of the fugitives was taking with him, slipped and rolled down the rocks. A French sentinel cried Qui vive? “But the kettle, luckily,” writes Arnaud, speaking of it, “not being one of the talking kettles of Dodona, made no reply, and the sentinel did not repeat his question.”

The paths were dangerous by which the Waldenses accomplished their nocturnal flight,—but, they succeeded in it.

When daylight again appeared, and the mists rose from the valleys, the enemy turned their blood-thirsty glances toward the eyrie of the Basiglia; but behold! the eagles had flown, and the fortress was empty. Not a trace remained of the warrior troop, and the thick mists which continued through the whole day to linger over the mountains, favored their flight through the rocky wilderness. “When we,” relates Arnaud, “reached Majère, after having long sought for water in vain, the Lord took compassion on us, and sent us abundant rain.”

In the mean time, the change in political relationships had all at once altered the condition of the Waldenses.

Victor Amadeus, of Savoy, entered into a confederacy with England and Germany against France, and sent messages of peace, and perfect amnesty, to the little warrior band of Waldenses, on condition that they should aid him in a war with France.

“You have,” thus said the regent, “only one God and one Prince. Serve both faithfully. Hitherto we have been enemies; but henceforth we shall be friends. Others have been the occasion of your misfortunes. But if you risk your lives for me then I will risk mine for you.”

Nothing could be more cordial than this reconciliation between the Prince and the Waldenses in the commencement. The Waldenses gave the assurance of entire fidelity, as did also their friends in the faith of Provence and Dauphine. Their valleys were restored to them; the prisoners were set free, the exiles recalled. And from all quarters were seen Waldenses returning to their valleys, “like doves to the dovecote.” The heroic Arnaud was raised to the rank of Colonel, and to the brave men of his troop were offered posts of honor in the Duke's army.

“The light which shines in darkness,” shone again brightly in the valleys; the churches were re-established and attended with renewed zeal by the crowds of the now thanksgiving “Israel of the Valleys.”

But a long time passed without the fair promise which had been made to the Waldenses being fulfilled; and still, to within a few years, they might ask themselves, “What will be the future of us and our children?” The Waldenses, it is true, had peace within their own valleys, but, out of them, they had no right of citizenship. Not one of them could hold office, or purchase houses or land in Piedmont, excepting in the valleys. The clergy and the aristocracy opposed every attempt to obtain civil freedom, and the Bishop of Pignirol, Monsignore Charvaz, declared openly, not many years since, “that he would give all he had to root them out.”

But a powerful movement, as it were of a new spring, passed through the heart of Italy between the years of 1840 and 1848. Awakened by the noble Piedmontese, Gioberti, in his Primato d'Italia, it entered with new life into millions of souls. “A united and free Italy! A fraternal, free, and humanly-noble people!” was the cry which was heard from the Cottian Alps to the foot of Etna. In Piedmont, a very distinguished and liberal-minded man had already given the State an impulse towards independence and constitutional freedom. Carlo Alberto, at that time king, and Duke of Savoy, had early shown sympathy with this freedom. As king, he gave to his States Il Statuto, which secured this to them. During this time of general excitement, the Advocate Audifredi exclaimed one day, at a great public entertainment at Turin: “Twenty thousand of our brethren are now shut up in their valleys, deprived of their rights as fellow-citizens. They are industrious, moral, sensible, vigorous; they inspire their children with noble thoughts; they have sacrificed and suffered much and long for their freedom and their faith. Let us, in the common father-land, restore to them a mother; and, as brothers, give to them their share in the common social life. Long live the emancipation of the Waldenses!”

Vehement applause from the assembled guests replied to this exhortation.

Soon after this, the Marquis Roberto d'Azeglio headed a petition, the purport of which was, that the Waldenses should have the same rights as all other citizens of the State of Piedmont. And this petition, when represented to Carlo Alberto, was signed by six hundred citizens of note of all classes; amongst whom were several priests, but not a single bishop.

Shortly before this, Carlo Alberto had visited the valleys for the first time. The ostensible motive for this visit was the consecration of the Catholic church, which Monsignore Charvaz had built for the brethren of the Oblati order, very near the town of La Torre, at the entrance of the valleys of Lucerne and Angrogna, and on which occasion the presence of the king was desired. The Bishop of Pignerol, who had been the tutor of Carlo Alberto, hoped, by this means, to prepare a triumph for the Catholic church in the valleys. But it was quite otherwise.

The members of the government wished that the monarch should be accompanied, on this occasion, by a strong guard. But the king said, “I am in the valleys, amongst my people, and I will have no other guard but they.” When the Waldenses heard these words, they at once hastened to prepare a guard of four thousand men who should meet and accompany the king.

On the appointed day, this guard presented a rather extraordinary and sometimes laughable aspect. A portion of them had arms, but a great number also had only sticks or umbrellas. And on more than one occasion, they were seen to put their weapons under their arms to take their hats off when the king rode by. But that which every one saw, and for which Carlo Alberto had both eyes to see, and a heart to appreciate, was the cordiality and the devotion with which the hearts of these honest men met him. This guard, which received him with such unanimous enthusiasm, and which remained standing quietly at a distance, when the king with bare head and a candle in his hand, entered with the procession into the church, and there performed his devotions, received him again with warmest cries of welcome when he returned from the church, and conveyed him thence as in triumph to the city of Lucerne, where he was to be entertained.

A great victory was won this day, and that was the heart of the king for the Waldenses. A beautiful stone fountain, near the Catholic church, testified of this, by the following inscription:

“Carlo Alberto al popolo che l'accogliava con tanto affetto.”

It was the 24th of September, 1844.

That which I have above related, and shall still relate, was told me by an eye-witness of both occurrences, M. Meille.

In 1847, Carlo Alberto gave to his States Il Statuto, the constitution, and in this transaction the Waldenses were also remembered and freed from much oppressive injustice. Still they had not, after all, obtained as yet perfect rights as fellow-citizens, and their position still remained uncertain and undefined. Nevertheless they were grateful, and hoped for the rest. It was on Friday, the 25th of February, 1848, when the news spread through the market of Lucerne, derived from the Gazetta Piedmontese, that Carlo Alberto granted to the Waldenses full emancipation, with the rights and immunities of all other subjects of the State.

It was market-day, and the market was crowded; but now all business was forgotten; people shouted aloud for joy; they pressed one another's hands, embraced, wept for joy. Old and young hastened away, to convey the glad tidings; each to his own valley and home. When night came the little town of La Torre was illuminated; even the Catholic convent lighted lamps in token of their sympathy in the joy of their brethren. And at all distances, upon the snow-covered mountains, even up to their very summits, bonfires played, changing the night into day. Many houses were also illuminated in Turin, the residences of the English and Prussian ambassadors amongst these. A movement of joy passed through the whole of Piedmont. On the 27th of February, deputations from all the provinces and communes of the realm, assembled on the Champs de Mars, outside Turin, to thank the king for the gift of the constitution, and also, by a general festival, to celebrate the new form of government. Six hundred Waldenses stood there, headed by ten of their pastors, as representatives of the population of the valleys.

The order in which the deputations should march into the city, was to be decided, it was said, by chance. But the noble Marquis d'Azeglio had arranged it otherwise. He himself, at the head of a small division of the central commission, approached the Waldenses, to whom he said:

“Waldenses! You have hitherto often been the last amongst us; to-day you shall be the first. Enter foremost of the corporations from the provinces, into Turin!”

The Waldenses bore a banner, upon the blue silk ground of which, might be read these words, worked in silver; “Al Re Carlo Alberto, gli Waldensi recognoscenti!” When they, with this banner, at the head of numerous corporations, marched across the Champs de Mars, and through the gates of Turin, a noble enthusiasm took possession of the assembled population. On all sides was heard the exclamation; “Long live the Waldenses, our brothers!” Handkerchiefs waved from every window, flags floated, flowers were thrown; people seized and shook their hands amidst congratulations and tears of joy. Catholic priests were even seen to hasten forth from the crowd, and embrace various of the new brethren. During the hours which followed, and until the corporations separated, were the Waldenses the object of the affectionate regard and homage of all. It was a festival of brethren, in which the youngest, long under-valued brother was now become the most beloved, the Benjamin of all. M. Meille retained a memory of this day, which even now overpowered his heart.

From this time, the Waldenses have not had the slightest occasion to complain of the government of Piedmont. Quite the reverse. Carlo Alberto's son, Victor Emanuel, steadfastly upholds the Constitution, the maintenance of which was his father's legacy to him; and his distinguished and, in all ways, progressive ministry, under the guidance of Cavour and Azeglio, interprets to the advantage of the Waldenses, every doubtful question of the Constitution. Cavour desires freedom of conscience on the ground of principle, and knows how to defend it with a steady hand. Hence he has, not long since, defended the Waldenses' project of building churches for their congregation in Turin and Genoa. In vain the Bishop of Pignerol, Monsignore Charvaz, fell on his knees before the king, beseeching of him not to permit it. The king replied, “What can I do? I must maintain the Constitution. The Waldenses are acting according to their rights.” And Monsignore Charvaz, the most violent opponent of the Waldenses, resigned his office.

From the time of their Glorieuse rentré into their valleys, the Waldenses experienced manifold sympathy and support from foreign brethren of their faith. Above twenty schools have been established, a college built for the studies of the young, and a fund provided for the payment of teachers. The noble Scottish veteran, Colonel Beckwith, whose portrait I have seen in many houses, deserves, for his active interest in their behalf, and his rich gifts, especially to be designated the benefactor of the valleys. By these means, the Waldenses have been able, in many respects, to keep pace, in intelligence and humane institutions, with the development of the evangelical community. They are now able, in peace, to carry out the work which God confided to them,—that of testifying of the light and the gospel of truth amongst a people yet dwelling in darkness.

Monday, September 28th.—After five days of incessantly pouring rain, which I spent very agreeably at my good hotel, The Bear, in La Torre, in reading various works relative to the history of the valleys, and writing the foregoing little sketch, the sky cleared up yesterday afternoon, and I went out upon the handsome stone bridge over the Angrogna river, where I, with some other curious people, noticed how the little mountain-stream, which, a few days since, leaped in clear, silvery cascades,, over rocks and stones, with water scarcely sufficient to drown a cat, now rolled along its waves like the very Rhone, pouring itself down, turbid and broad, from the hills, with a force which dashed huge stones together, and occasioned a noise as of dull thunder. I went down into the valley of Lucerne, enjoying the soft, fragrant air, gladdening myself with the fruitful earth, which was odorous as as a violet or a babe, still wet after a fragrant bath!

Whilst I have it in my memory, I will note down some peculiar marriage customs, which are universal in these valleys.

On the evening before the wedding-day, the bride invites all her young friends to visit her, and celebrates with them a kind of parting feast, not, however, like that of Jephthah's daughter, but a little merrier, and also accompanied with every kind of entertainment. On the wedding-day itself, the bridegroom comes to the bride's house, accompanied by his father and godfather,—the latter being his spokesman,—together with several others of his friends. The spokesman knocks at the closed door of the house. It is opened by the father of the family, who seems much astonished, and inquires, “what they may please to want?” The spokesman replies, that he wishes to beg for one of the daughters of the house as a wife for his godson, whom he presents. The father replies that the request is very flattering to him, and that this wish shall be gratified, hoping at the same time that it may be a cause of happiness to the two young people. He then goes in to his daughters, and brings out one of them, but not the right one. “Is this the one which your godson wishes for,” inquires the father, as, with his daughter by the hand, he comes forth into the parlor. “This one,” replied the spokesman, politely, “would certainly make my godson very happy, but—it is not she who is the object of his choice.” The young girl, who, having been offered, is thus refused, then goes out with her father, who returns with another young maiden by the hand, and says, “This one is perhaps she who has taken your godson's fancy?” “This," replies the godfather, “will make some other man happy; but neither is it she whose hand we desire.” The father retires, and comes in again, with a fresh one, who is complimented out of the room in the same way. If the father does not happen to have more than one daughter of his own, he will borrow some daughters for the occasion. “I myself,” said the lively lady, laughing, who related this custom to me, “have many a time been offered and refused in the same way.” Sometimes the father, if he be fond of a joke, will offer a young girl who is already betrothed, and whose lover is amongst the company present. He then steps forth with a protest against this attempt, or “mistake.” At length, however, the right bride is brought forth, who is dressed, however, in her girlish attire. The father then asks, “Is this the right one?” “Yes,” replies the godfather, “that is right!” On which the father answers, “Very good! I give her to you with honor and good repute, and I beseech of you, that you will maintain her with the same; and in particular that you will preserve her from evil" (que vous la preservez de tort,) a strong emphasis being given to the last word. The godfather receives her hand, and lays it in that of the bridegroom. He leads her to his father, who is the first to embrace and welcome her. The bride then goes out to dress herself in her bridal attire,—a black dress, with a light violet-gray apron. The more wealthy wear a white one. And upon her white Waldenses head dress, she places a garland of fresh flowers. During this time, the rest take their breakfast.

When the bride comes out again, she gives to every one present, a red and white rosette, which is fastened upon the breast; after which they all go to church. It is not until after the marriage ceremony, and in the church porch, as they come out of church, that the bridegroom places the wedding ring upon the bride's finger. The bridal procession then takes its way homeward. But at the first farm they come to on the way, the farmer's wife stands at the gate and prays the bridal company to enter her house and rest for a moment. “It will not take up much of your time,” she says, “and it will give me great pleasure.” It is impossible to say nay. The bridal company enter and find a table spread with every kind of dish and dainty. They eat and they drink, and they fill their handkerchiefs, and their pockets, with bread or pastry; return thanks, and compliments, take their leave, and again set out on their way home. But at the next farm house, comes a new invitation and a new entertainment. These invitations, which are called des barrieres, are renewed three or four times on the way. At length, however, they reach the bridal-house; where the mother meets the bride and hangs round her waist a little silver spoon, in token that her life as mistress of a family is now beginning. At the bride's house they dine, that is, if they can, and it is asserted that they always can do so on such days—what their digestive powers are, I cannot conceive! During dinner a pretty silver salver is sent round upon which gifts are laid for the young housekeeper. Healths are drunk, and speeches made. At these weddings there is a great deal of weeping. The bride meets again mother, father, sister, brother, and they think about parting, and they burst into tears.

“Ever since my fifteenth year,” said the lively Mademoiselle Monastier, the daughter of the excellent historian of the Waldenses, in describing these things to me, “have I been at our weddings, and every time my eyes have wept out of sympathy with the weeping around me. One gets into the way of it.”

Just now, whilst I am writing this, I hear a noise, and the talking of cheerful voices in the inn court. I go out into the gallery and see a wedding procession. But the marriage itself, the barrieres, and the weeping, are already over, and the bride, a very proper and rosy maiden, is just setting off with her young bridegroom, to Turin, where he is a manufacturer. The wedding party has breakfasted at the inn, and are about to step into their cabriolet. The bridal pair are surrounded by congratulating, hand-shaking, and kissing friends. Now they are in their carriage. The driver has a red and white rosette on his breast. Forette Cocher! cries an elderly gentleman, and all present join in a jubilant Eviva la Sposa! A right cheerful scene.

La Torre; October 10th.—“Salut!”—“Bonjour!”—“Buon giorno!”—“Buon Viaggio!”—“Bon voyage!”—“Ceria!”—“Jagro!”^[4] were the salutations, which met me on all sides from the kindly people, as accompanied by Barba Legrain, I went to the hills of La Vacchiera, and Pra del Tor. They were addressed to me by people who came from the dwellings amongst the hills, with mules laden with sacks of chestnuts, apples, and such like, which they bartered for corn, and other articles, at the market of La Torre, which was not thronged with people. The third hay harvest was going forward in the valleys, and the people seemed cheerful; the day was sunny and warm.

I left the region of the chestnut groves and came to the birch woods, where also the beech and the hazel grow. By degrees, bushes took the place of trees; then bushes ceased, and on the heights of La Vacchiera, nothing grew but grass and ling. Arrived here, after four hours of gradual ascent, I obtained a full view of the wavy, gray, mountain chain's, which separate in long rays, the valleys Pragela, San Martino, Angrogna, Lucerna, and Rora, even from the Alps of Dauphine to the Piedrnontese plain. I saw in the north, the river Angrogna, which has its source in Mont Roux, and in the northwest the snow-covered heads of Monte Viso, and Pragela, rising above the gray mountain walls. On the south, lay the immense Piedmontese and Lombardic plains, cultivated like a garden, extending to the Apennines which bounded the horizon. Down in the valleys at my feet, I saw the rivers rushing along; further off, I saw the river Pelice unite itself to the Cluson, and the two united carry the waters of the valleys to the Po. The mist which rested upon the Po, marked out its course. High above this shone “La Superga,” with the Kings' graves upon its proud height; and to the west, close by the river, I could discern Turin. That was a view! The most complete which I had yet had of mountain and plain in this region. The Waldenses dwell in a perfect fastness of granite. It is redoubt after redoubt, with ditches and towers—but not the petty work of human hands!

With various kind and educated inhabitants of the valleys, I have now visited all such as are inhabited by an evangelical population. One portion, or the valleys of Fenestrille and Pragela, have a Catholic population established there from the time of the latest persecutions, which in part rooted out the original inhabitants, partly induced them, apparently at least, to adopt the usages of the Catholic church. That this is more apparent than real, is shown from the fact, that a few years back the Bishop of Pignerol established a severe search in these valleys after Bibles and New Testaments which the people had secretly preserved. He collected and burned—as trustworthy persons have informed me—many such.

The most beautiful and most fertile of the valleys is that of Angrogna. The cultivated heights ascend in terraces, carefully laid out, wherever the smallest turf is to be met with; fruit trees surround the farm houses. The valley of Lucerna is also beautiful and fertile, but is narrower than that of Angrogna. The valley of Bora derives its principal revenues from its stone-quarries. That which is most worthy of notice in the valley of San Martino, seems to me to be the rock of La Basiglia, as well as the large white and red block of marble over which rush the rapid water of the Germanasco. A very fragrant lavender grows wild upon the steep side of the valley, and is used by the inhabitants for the distillation of perfumed water.

The inhabitants of these valleys are, in a high degree, both, a moral and a good-tempered people. The spirit of mutual helpfulness is one of their chief virtues. No one is sick, no woman gives birth to a child, without being visited by their female neighbors, who on such occasions always carry with them wheaten bread or flour for polenta, or oil for the night-lamp. Mlle. M. told me that she, more than once, has seen a housewife deprive herself of her portion of soup, in order that she might take it to a neighbor in want.

“I have myself done so,” she said; “I know how it feels!”

The people are poor; the population, at the present time, amounts to about twenty-five thousand souls, but their great frugality prevents the existence of any bitter sense of poverty. Polenta and chestnuts arc the principal food, and both are very palatable. Polenta is a kind of porridge made from maize, eaten with milk, and even in coffee and milk. Chestnuts are dried and smoked, and thus keep good the whole year round. Flesh meat is eaten very seldom. In the winter evenings several families will unite around one lamp, which, in order to save wood, they place in the cow-house. Here the women sit, and spin, or knit, and the men, tired with the day's work—felling and cutting wood—lie to rest on the straw, or talk. Occasionally some one reads aloud. Young men at these times go from house to house, and sit for a little while in the spinning-room, where they make acquaintance with the young girls. One troop sometimes chases out another, but for the most part in good fellowship.

As, in former times, this little people is governed by their pastors and elders. A moderator and his council keep watch over the pastor's economic stewardship of their congregations. Crimes very rarely occur which demand the interference of the judication. Marriages are frequent, and as the land and the means of sustenance have not increased in proportion to the increase of the population, a portion of the people have begun to emigrate, especially out of the community of San Giovanni. Near Santa Fe, in the Argentine republic of South America, a little community of Waldenses has established itself, and is beginning to flourish, and only a short time since requested from the mother-community that a pastor might be sent to them. The affection for, and the confidence which the people have in their pastors is often affecting.

During my residence here I have been the witness of three marriages. The first was one of that class which, as it seems to me, would have been better done. A young ragged worker in the silk-factory^[5] married a young slatternly girl, also a worker in the same factory. “Hunger who had married thirst!” said Mrs. Fierze, speaking of them. The second marriage was that of a wealthy young man, with a girl whom he had loved for seven years. She was not however in the least pretty; rather the contrary, but celebrated as being good and capable. He looked a very excellent fellow. In marrying, the bride is commanded, in two several passages, to be submissive to her husband. In Switzerland I believe this exhortation is repeated three times. I wonder whether it does any good. Of the third marriage I have already spoken.

As far as the creed of the Waldenses is concerned, it has, since the time when a great visitation of the plague carried away nearly all the pastors, been strongly influenced by the Swiss Reformed Church, from which the Waldenses community after that time received the greater number of their new pastors. Some customs in the church service of this community have appeared to me peculiar, and I have been told that they have existed from time immemorial. Thus, for example, divine worship begins by the reading aloud of the ten commandments. The pastor then adds: “In the presence of this picture of what we ought to be, let us acknowledge what we are!” The confession of sin then follows, and is such that one can with one's whole heart repeat it after the minister.

The form of baptism is here one of the most rational which I am yet acquainted with. The child is given up, as it were, to Christ. The church receives it in the place of Christ, and asks the father and the god-parents whether they will promise to watch over the child, so that it shall become instructed in and brought up conformably with the doctrines of Christ. The father and the god-parents answer “Yes,” on which the priest says, “God give you grace to fulfill your vows!” After which he baptizes the child in the name of the “Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” On the confirmation of children the priest says: “These young Christiains now come to confirm openly, and with full knowledge, the vows which were made for them in their baptism, in order that they may henceforth enjoy,” and so on. One custom, also peculiar in this church, is the religious ceremony by which her elders are consecrated to their office, partly as justices of the peace, partly as religious instructors. Every pastor of a congregation, has around him a council of five or six elders or barbes. These are chosen for their life, and continue in their office so long as they are not unworthy of it, otherwise they can be displaced.

Near the high road through the valley of Lucerna, not far from La Torre, a handsome, newly-built church may be seen, with its two towers, around which thousands of swallows skim joyously. Over the door of this church, stands written in golden letters; “This is life eternal, to know the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent.” This is the latest built church in the valleys of the Waldenses. It will contain about one thousand persons.

I have mostly seen it filled on the Sunday; and the number of men on such occasions is greater than that of the women, which I have never before seen in any church. The people are well, but simply clad; all the women in white caps, with starched and crimped, projecting borders, which are becoming to the aged, but which make the young look old. The countenances are well-formed, the features refined, but with more of the French than the Italian character; eyes dark and deep, the expression mild, but grave. This congregation presents in exterior and manners, a strong contrast to the Catholics, at whose services I have this day been present. Here were mantillas, and flowers; some were ragged and few serious. The preacher, in a fine parti-colored costume, preached on the sixth commandment. I did not understand much of his Italian patois, but yet sufficiently for me to hear that he was studious about picturesque effects, and that le donne should begin earnestly to make confession. The audience were evidently more amused than edified. They burst out more than once into involuntary laughter. The understanding between the Catholics and Waldenses, is no longer that of enemies; amongst some of the pastors of both parties it is friendly. The latest conspiracy against the Evangelicals, by a portion of the Catholic population, was put an end to by a Catholic priest. At La Torre the Catholic party is small, and confines its demonstrations to occasionally promenading around the market some image or other of a saint. The Waldenses look on without contempt, but with perfect indifference.

During my rambles in the valleys, and even often at night, I have heard sung a kind of pleasing melancholy ballad, with long concluding cadences, like those in our northern folk-songs. I have been told that these songs are called “Complaints,” and that they have been sung in these valleys ever since the times of the persecutions. More than once have I heard these songs ascending out of the depths of the valleys with a most touching power and expression. To-day, while on a visit, which I paid to the descendants of Henri Arnaud—who now reside on a beautiful estate on the height, where formerly stood the tower of the enemy—I was able to hear two of these songs sung by two young women, servants of the house, who were called in for that purpose.

“On winter evenings, when we are alone,” said Madame Peijrot, the daughter of Henri Arnaud's grandson, “I frequently let my maid, Margrete, sing to me some of these ‘Complaints,’ because she knows many of them; they have all their distinctive names.” But Margrete was now shy, and would not sing unless the dairy-maid, Susanne, came and sung with her. Susanne, a stout and very handsome young woman, was called in, and after she had consulted some little time with Margrete, they sang, with remarkably pure and beautiful voices, a ballad of a prisoner, doomed to die for his faith. He was imprisoned in the tower. The spring came; the trees put forth their leaves; he perceived the scent of the violets; he heard the song of the nightingale, but “he must go to die!” Each verse began by a charming description of the life and beauty of the spring, and ended with the words, et moi je vais mourir!

Another ballad described the desolations caused by the persecution in the valleys. The husbandman sees his fields trampled down; “his walnut and chestnut trees burned down,—with what can he pay his taxes?” This lamentable ballad was full of power, simple and deeply bitter, and had long and dying cadences which resembled those in our northern folk-visor, yet have these a something still more melancholy in them. It amazes me that nobody has as yet noted down the words and music of these lamenting songs of the Waldenses. Les Complaints are an affecting memory of the tragical history of the valleys.

Arnaud's young descendants showed me the relics, which the family preserved with holy reverence; the silver-cup of the great ancestor, in which he dealt forth the wine when he administered the Holy Communion; his portrait, seal, &c. The eldest of the young girls bore in her handsome features a likeness to him. Mme. Peijrot's father, the old Arnaud, and last male descendant of his name, is a handsome old man, with snow-white hair, and it is beautiful to see him amongst the flock of blooming grand-children. The hill from which, in the old times, the peaceful valleys were fired upon and desolated, is now garlanded round with vines and fig-trees. Sleek, well-fed cattle, come home to the yard from labor, or from feeding in the valley.

After a month's residence in these valleys I am now about to leave them. I have had great enjoyment here, both from nature and from the people. The families Pelligrini, Mallan, and Peijrot, Mrs. Fierze, (Cobden's amiable sister,) have given beauty to my visit. M. Meille, and Mlle. Appia have made it rich and instructive. How many lovely evenings have I not spent with this gifted young woman, and her little select troop of young girls! I have also to thank her for the acquaintance of two remarkable men, two elders of the valleys, Barbe David and Barbe Odin Barthelemi. We visited these Barbes in their homes. Both of them belong to the so-called Pietists of the valley, because they have had religious meetings among themselves, ever since two French evangelical pastors Neff and Blanc, preached here a recueil. But they have not separated themselves from the church of the Waldenses. Barbe David's wife was confined to her bed from a long, consuming sickness, and Louise Appia allowed three of her young girls, who were with us, to sing spiritual hymns to her. The sick woman joined in with a peaceful but beaming expression. The house was orderly and remarkably clean, but all the window panes were of paper, which whilst it admitted sufficient light excluded all view. Glass windows are a luxury rare in the valleys. The table was spread, and we were entertained with chestnuts and cider.

Several poor boys were brought up in the house of Barbe David, of whom his daughter was the teacher, and these children were maintained there by means provided by young M. Appia.

Both Barbes accompanied me back to my house at La Torre. Barbe David could not sufficiently admire and praise the ways of God, who caused that two persons from such far different lands and people, as he and I, should yet be able to recognize each other on our first meeting as brother and sister, and rejoice in the same truth and the same hope. This man's heart seemed to me to overflow with gratitude to God, and from the necessity to praise him. Barbe Odin was also a clear-headed thinker. On my inquiry “whether they, as Waldenses, would rather call themselves Evangelical-Catholics, than Protestants?” he replied, “Yes, Evangelical-Catholic! Protestant, what does it matter? Not much—one ought to be Evangelical!”

Barbe David mentioned that, some years before, an Italian youth of the Catholic faith came to the valleys, and excited attention, not merely on account of his unusually handsome person, but still more for the fervor and eloquence with which he poured forth himself in prayer and blessings over the people. Not a word of contention, or of a polemical character, came from the lips of the young preacher; words only of prayer to God and of love to man. Thus he appeared at some of the Waldenses congregations, and thus he vanished, nobody knowing whence he came or whither he went; neither was his name known to any one. His person and his voice were like those of an angel. “And yet he was a Catholic!” added Barbe David, thoughtfully, and as if wondering within himself, when he had with emotion related to us the account of the young man's appearance amongst them.

How entirely I could agree with Louise Appia, when she said, “We talk about converting Italy to the gospel, but do we indeed yet know what power Italy contains within herself to convert us to a right evangelical disposition?”

Convert Italy to the gospel! Ah! Before that, the Protestant church, including that of the Waldenses, must become itself more evangelical. The bitter contentions which have long existed between some of the teachers of the valleys, the representatives on the one side of staunch orthodoxy, and on the other of too latitudinarian a rationalism—contentions, which every fully vitalized church must, to a certain degree, pass through—very clearly shows the necessity which exists of another new form of creed or formula of doctrine, than that which was drawn up more than three hundred years ago, shows,—before every thing else, the necessity of a deeper consciousness even of the signification and purport of a creed.

It also pleases me, that whilst most of the thinking people of the valleys take part either for or against the combatants—the latest cause of strife being the exclusion by the Synod of a young candidate from the priest's office, because he could not in every particular swear to the accepted formulary of faith,—Louise Appia, her brother, and some of the Barbes, withdrew themselves from the contest, do not even talk about it, but continue alone, by word and deed, to labor for God's kingdom. With these laborers it is that M. Meille joins himself in his beautiful, evangelical preaching, in his instruction of children, and in the religious periodical La Buona Novella, of which he is the editor, and which has now taken the place of the former newspaper, L'Echo des Vallées. I know more than one Catholic, who has been brought over to the Evangelical church, by La Buona Novella. The Waldenses church does infinitely much for Italy, as an evidence of the light which it possesses through the diffusion of the Holy Scriptures, and which is continually increasing, as in Piedmont so in Tuscany, and that above all from its really evangelical Christianity. The evidence of the life and the character is above every other. The gospel doctrine of grace has none higher, and the intellect requires it at which to kindle its light.

Turin, October 19th.—I left the valleys amidst rain and cold; in rain and cold I came hither, and in rain and cold I am now sitting here. But I have good quarters in the Pension Suisse, and the best of all is, that, spite of a fatiguing journey through a country very little visited, lying between the valley of San Martino and Turin, I find myself perfectly well.

Traveling for hours on foot in pouring rain, arriving at night in cold quarters, in little miserable towns, where the filthiness exceeds all description; and where, instead of tea, you are presented with a sort of poisonous decoction from the apothecary, and are besides preyed upon by every kind of sharper;—that is the fate of the traveler every now and then, and he must take it in the bargain for all the good and beautiful which his life of travel affords him in other respects. One must be thankful, if one keeps one's life, health, and one's luggage; and so I am!

My first ramble in Turin—when the weather would allow me to ramble at all—was to the banks of the Po. The great river poured along its turbulent waters, broad, and of a dirty-brown, in long sweeps between green banks. Swollen with the rains and the floods of the smaller rivers, it is at this moment dangerous. The father of a family, who was going this morning in a little boat to his country-house, was drowned by the upsetting of his boat, which was driven by the violence of the stream against the bridge.

From this bridge, which extends, with its seven arches, between the city proper and its suburban portion, which is called La Collina, the view is really splendid. Far away, to the northwest, rises the pointed cupola of Monte Viso—very like a gigantic artichoke—from a chain of snow-covered Alps, at the feet of which lies Piedmont, as its proper name Piedmonte shows, and which separate Italy from the rest of Europe. The river Po, which has its source in the bosom of Monte Viso, now looks like a dark and hideous tyrant, but its banks are lovely! On the green heights of La Collina, white palaces, country-houses, and churches shine out, and foremost amongst these, the Pantheon-like church Gran' Madre di Dio, built by Carlo Alberto. Wooded grounds surround the white buildings. Further south, rises La Superga, with a convent, and the family mausoleum of the Princes of Savoy, 2,500 feet above the sea, the largest building, it is said, which has ever been erected at this elevation, a colossal Ex Voto, raised to the Lord of Hosts, in the year 1706, by the King of Sardinia, Victor Amadeus, in memory of the victory which he obtained in that year, over a French army. Carlo Alberto rests there—he died 1849—after his unquiet life. At a greater distance below the height of Superga, may be seen the union of the river Dorariparia, with the Po, which now, with majestic force, speeds along over the plains of Piedmont and Lombardy. The Po has the dignity and the aspect of the great river. This point—that of the large bridge over the river—is the most beautiful I have yet discovered in Turin, which, for the rest, seems to me to be a city of but little architectural interest, and which has something of the American city's wearisome regularity. Streets cross one another in all directions, at right angles. One sees on all hands, handsome houses and outward prosperity. Beggars slink away ashamed into the twilight. Gens-d'armes march proudly along the streets, which are broad and stiff, multitudinous and long.

I have been told that Turin is not a perfectly Italian city, and that it does not possess a perfectly Italian life. Yet one sees bare-headed and bare-footed monks wandering along the streets, also great numbers of priests with broad hats and small legs. Here and there one sees a little girl with castanettes dancing cachuca to a circle of spectators, and another circle gathered round a comic female singer who is very bold in her behavior to the bystanders. Life exhibits itself in forms of bright contrast, and is not afraid of so exhibiting itself. This is the manner of the southern people. But without regarding the question of how much or how little of the theatrical life of Italy is possessed by Turin, I will speak of that which Turin, of that which Piedmont possesses at the present time of distinctive peculiar life, and which the rest of Italy has—not that life, by means of which, the state at the foot of the Alps has become the head of Italy, lawgiver, prophet, perhaps its Joshua. I will speak of Piedmont's young life of freedom, and of the men who have called it forth, and of those who are now leading it forward to development.

Already on my arrival in Turin, I met with an expression of this life in a folk's almanac, which was to be seen in the window of every bookseller, and on the title-page of which one read, under the banner of Sardinia and Savoy, the words: La legge e equale per tutti—the law is alike for all. The words referred to the last victory which had been won by the constitutional liberal party, by the abolition of a separate tribunal of justice for the priesthood, whereby the priests, like all other citizens were rendered amenable to the same civil law. That is a great victory in Piedmont, which is an entirely priestly-catholic country, and the liberal party of Turin have raised in commemoration thereof, a handsome obelisk upon one of the principal market-places of the city.

How, and whence comes the vernal wind, which at certain periods of time awakens the hearts of mankind and of nations to a consciousness of new power, for the acquisition of new objects and of a new future? Does it come like the spring-time to the earth, from an inner divine order and necessity? Or does it come in consequence of the use which free spirits have made of the divinely-conferred gifts of light and will, in unison with the summoning voice of God? I believe the latter. Because the spring-time of the earth always awakens the same flowers and the same birds' songs, which again die and return in the same succession. The spring-time of humanity, on the contrary, always comes with something new; something beautiful or good, which no former occasion possessed; and we see—if we take a survey of the ages and of nations—that cultivation ascends, as it were, spirally. This is a very satisfactory position to recognize. It gives a desire both to live and to labor.

But what is human culture? That is the question. Is it a growth in splendor, such as many of the oriental states, Greece, and some of the later Italian republics, have presented it? Nay, then, we have not much to hope for in our future. Because we cannot expect to produce more brilliant events, greater men, warriors, statesmen, artists; actions more noble, or more beautiful works of art; and the people, and the states which have brought these forth, have nevertheless, after having flourished for a short time, passed in confusion and madness, or have sunk into spiritual inanity. What are we? What have we? What do we desire more than they? We who glance up admiringly at those works of art, which we could not equal, the Pyramids, the Parthenon, the Odyssey, the Pantheon, the Column of Trajan, La Divina Comedia, and the creations of Raphael, and Michael Angelo!—Let us speak it with humble joy—because the merit is only in a small degree ours—we love, however, we desire, however, something higher, something more! What? I will let Piedmont and the genius of young Italy, answer.

The whole of educated Europe, and also of America, knows Il Prighione, of Silvio Pelico, and also the heart-rending biographies of the prisoners in Spielberg. The very gentlest heart cannot, on reading these, prevent itself from feeling an emotion of hatred and vengeance against Austria. When the prisons of the Italian captives at length opened, their confessions testified before the world, of the sacred fire which burned and long had burned,—but as if under the earth,—in the heart of the Italian youth, for Italy's freedom and independence. They testified of that which secret societies and unions have labored for in Italy since the conclusion of the last century. They testified of this also,—that what the young patriots desired, was not alone the liberation of Italy from foreign domination. They dreamed of the unity of Italy, and of an ideal of its life, which they were not yet able clearly to comprehend, nor yet to give form or name to, but which caused their hearts to throb with noble desire. It was the attempt at revolution in Piedmont and Lombardy, in the year 1821, which first revealed the secret, holy fire. Austria soon quelled the outbreak. Its originators were executed, exiled, or confined in dark prisons. Amongst these last, was the gentle, laurel-crowned young poet of Francesça di Rimini,—Silvio Pelico.

Two young men were participators in this revolutionary attempt, who were later, with very dissimilar gifts and means, in very dissimilar ways, to co-operate in the continuation of the then unsuccessful and little-understood work of liberation. These were the priest Vincinzo Gioberti, and the Prince of Savoy-Carignan, Carlo Alberto. Both were Piedmontese. I shall here mention particularly these two, because, of all their cotemporaries, they have had the greatest influence upon the later fate of Piedmont and Italy,—the former by his writings,—the latter by his deeds,—and both by their character and disposition.

I will first speak of Carlo Alberto, because I have inquired much, and carefully examined into the life and disposition of this prince. I believe myself to have found in these the key to Piedmont's happy issue from the ill-starred Italian struggle for freedom, in the years 1848 and 1849. I have also heard much regarding him, both here and in Switzerland, from persons who knew him intimately. But the explanation which I sought, I found less in him, than in the circumstances and the persons whose work-tool he became.

His sympathies were, in the year 1821, entirely sincere, but indistinct, obscure, rather the inspirations of a warm and not ungenerous heart, than the result of insight and conviction. He had passed the greater part of his youth in Paris, Geneva, and many of the larger European cities: the rallying places of liberal opinions, and of their most gifted representatives. He loved the society of artists and literary men. When he returned to Turin, he attached himself to the young men who were enthusiastic for liberal opinions. He was himself young, ambitious, vain, open to influence. The prospect of his succeeding to the throne of Sardinia was at that time uncertain. He allowed himself to be easily persuaded to endeavor to become the prince of a large realm, of freedom, and Italy. The attempt was quashed in the beginning, and Carlo Alberto saved himself, by abandoning and renouncing his friends, and attaching himself to Carlo Felice, at that time King of Piedmont, and to his despotic system of government.

When, in 1831, he ascended the throne of Piedmont, he first showed a trace, as it were, of his former sympathies, in some small reforms, but he soon stood forth as the most determined opponent of freedom, and united himself to the most reactionary party of the Jesuits, and the aristocracy. He persecuted the friends of reform,—imprisoned or banished them; even the noble Gioberti was compelled to become an exile. After this gloomy tendency had culminated in Carlo Alberto, in the year 1833, another phase of character presents itself, resembling that of his earlier youthful years, but now more matured, and from this he never again wholly swerved, although his inner life seemed to have remained a continual struggle between the Jesuits and the friends of freedom, or between Jesuitism and conscience.

Whether it were a reaction of his conscience, of his better self, or whether it were the pressure of the ever-increasing liberalism of the public spirit of Piedmont, united to his inborn vanity, which made him wish to be the first in any movement, certain it is, that Carlo Alberto, after the dark events of 1833, began to enter upon the path of these liberal reformers. He amended the laws, regulated the administration, encouraged arts and sciences, gave to his people various desired enfranchisements, and surrounded himself with a ministry of liberal-minded and distinguished men; amongst whom were the brothers D'Azeglio.

A dispute about imposts, insignificant in itself, brought Piedmont at this time into opposition with its old enemy, Austria, and the dispute growing every year more bitter, assumed, at length, large proportions. Carlo Alberto took, in this quarrel, still more and more openly, the part of Piedmont and Italy. This made him in a high degree popular. People began to talk about war with Austria, and a private letter of the king was made public in what he wrote: “If Providence send us a war of liberation, I shall mount, with both my sons, and place myself at the head of it.”

But at this moment, Italy demanded, above all things, internal reforms, free constitutions, and many and various were the claimants. But there was one voice which raised itself, which gathered all into one chorus, because that voice expressed the unconscious wishes of all, and gave the word which many sought to spell. It was the exiled Gioberti who gave this word, in his work on the moral and civil primates of Italy—Primato morale e civile d'Italia. This new primate should not be a military dominion, like the old Roman; it should not be one of the fine arts, like that of medieval Italy,—no, it should be, above all, a supremacy of human morality, beauty, and order, in which Italy, as a union of free states, should stand forth as an example amongst the people of the earth, and under a spiritual primate (the Pope), represent the kingdom of God upon earth. The means for this new formation were devised with a tact and practical insight, rare in Italy,—if still not free from error,—and with clearness and moderation. The style and composition of the work were those of the most perfect master, often of the inspired seer. The purest heart, the most fervent love of the native-land; breathed from every page.

The work, two thick volumes, was interdicted in every state of Italy, excepting Piedmont. Carlo Alberto received it with joy, and allowed its free circulation in his realm. Thence it spread—spite of the interdict—to all parts of Italy. The enthusiasm which it awakened, exceeds all description. Now, for the first time, the young, upward-striving Italy, perceived what she wished for, what she ought to be, and might be. For she believed fully and firmly that she could realize this beautiful vision of the future. L'Italia fara da se! (Italy will help herself!) became the favorite expression of the young Italy.

“Christian nations may sink, but they cannot die!” had Gioberti said. Young Italy felt herself full of vigorous, new-awakened life. She hailed Gioberti as her spiritual awakener, and when he, recalled from exile, set foot on his native soil, he was carried as in triumph from city to city, from province to province, by a unanimous, enthusiastic people. The old Roman soil had never seen a nobler triumph. It was that of the spirit and the word.

The spirit and the word continue now, in Italy herself, his work. Innumerable writings, large and small, presented variations of Gioberti's theme. Amongst these, the most important and influential, was the work of Count Cesare Balbo, ’Speranze d'Italia. This thick volume, first printed at Paris, was afterwards reprinted at Florence, Turin, and Naples, and in a few years passed through five editions. Cesare Balbo, also a Piedmontese, of an old and aristocratic family, the friend of constitutional freedom, and the friend of Gioberti, but a perfectly independent thinker, dedicated to him his book, and taught the public first rightly to understand how Gioberti, in his work, separated himself from the blind Italian lovers and flatterers, who, “contented with proclaiming Italy as the renovator of all culture and civilization, the discoverer of Eastern Asia, and of America, mother of the great Romans, as well as Gregory VII., Marco Polo, Dante, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Columbus, Vico, Galileo, and Volta, exhume every day some unknown great man, and praise the shores, fields, cultivation, princes, priests, people, and governments, tutti quanti, besides the air, climate, situation—a very paradise!—before all men, so that it is evident that all is good, and people have nothing else to do, and ought to undertake nothing else than to enjoy life.”

Balbo cannot condemn with sufficient severity these false prophets, who pour out comfort for the lazy, encouragment to the vices, to the “beato far niente” and to that still far worse far male. Very different is Gioberti! If he be not always as full of masculine strength, as Dante and Alfiere, still it is his great merit, to have spoken with admirable wisdom and eloquence, on the future of the fatherland, of which so much has been said in other countries, and there has been so much silence in our own; to have spoken of this in so frank and large a manner, and with more moderation than any of his predecessors; and that, although priest and philosopher, to have spoken thereof in a more practical manner, than the few practical men and historians, who have touched the dangerous subject with doubtful hands. This made his book more than a book; it is an act which cannot do otherwise than serve the fatherland. The subject is now open. Others will follow, criticising, correcting, completing. I am merely one of those—God grant there be many!—who tread in Gioberti's footsteps.”

Balbo, agreeing with Gioberti in the moral ideal, and also in the question of an Italian confederation of states, such as are determined by nature and history,^[6] yet separates from him in other questions. Although sincerely devoted to the Catholic Church, he will not have the Pope as President of the New Italy, and lays an exclusive weight upon Italy's independence of all foreign powers, as the condition on which the renewal of her inward independence is to be accomplished.

New works of Gioberti and Balbo, all eagerly received by the Italian public, developed both their points of view. The former was that of the priest, the latter that of the layman. But both were alike sincere lovers of Italian liberty and development. Gioberti, though a Catholic priest, was opposed to the Jesuits.

An extensive literary movement arose in the northern portion of Italy, which produced a literature, which I will call the politico-patriotic. This might be said to have commenced with the Piedmontese Alfiere, who infused into his tragedies the magnanimous hatred which his powerful mind cherished against all oppression, especially foreign, and the love that he bore to republican virtues. Cotemporary with Alfiere—that is to say, at the close of the last and the beginning of the present century—was Betta, also a Piedmontese, who wrote his Storia d'Italia, and awoke through it, a new love for the country, and new interest in its destiny The lucid and fervent manner in which he presented his facts, has made his work, in the best sense, popular.

After Gioberti's Primato and Balbo's Speranze d'Italia, a legion of young writers arose, as combatants for the freedom of their country. Tragedies and novels emulated each other in calling forth the great memories and virtues of the fatherland. Azeglio, Nicolini, Guerazzi, stand high amongst the authors of the present time in this respect. (Manzoni's Promessi Sposi is a charming novel, but it cannot be said to belong to the fatherland's literature of liberty, of which I am now speaking.) A number of poets and prose-writers united themselves to them, and the Princess Belgiogioso,—who, by her personal influence and wealth supported, unquestionably, the patriotic movement,—had their works printed in Paris, in a paper devoted to this purpose; for the censorship did not allow of their publication in the Italian States.

The hour came when this blossoming in the realm of word and spirit should produce its fruit. A circumstance now occurred which made it hastily ripen—alas, ripen too soon!

It was in 1843 that Gioberti's Primato d'Italia came out and made its round of Italy. In the year 1847 died Pope Gregory XVI., and the electoral-conclave came together to choose a new primate over the Catholic World.

“If the devils inspire the Cardinals,”—it is related that Cardinal Micara said to Abbé Lambruscini—“then one of us will be elected; but if the Holy Spirit rules the choice, good Mastai Feretti will be the Pope!”

When, shortly afterwards, Cardinal Mastai Feretti ascended the Papal throne as Pio Nono, and began his government by purely liberal acts of generosity—a magnanimous amnesty, together with the gifts of various rights and immunities which the people had wished for, then of a truth people believed that the Holy Spirit had ruled the new election. Italy saw in Pio Nono that spiritual primate and liberator whom Gioberti had beheld in his enraptured vision. All Italy sang the praise of Pio Nono. Foreigners and princes sent greetings to him. There was a universal jubilee, a universal complimenting and festivity.

Pio Nono had given the firstlings of popular freedom, and of free constitution in his States. The temporal sovereigns of Italy could not do less if their people asked it from them. They did so, and now follows that which history and the world knows. The conceded rights were celebrated with great festivities; then came new demands, new concessions, and new festivities; then again demands for the fulfillment of promises, or for new concessions; then procrastination or denial from the princes, clamor on the part of the people, and by degrees, ever more and more uneasy relationships. The liberal party divided itself into two camps, and in these there were many sections. The moderates desired reform and freedom, but gradually, and with the maintenance of the religion of the church. Of the ultra-liberals there were also many shades of color, but they increased more and more under the banner of Mazzini, which—whether rightly or not—was called that of the red republicans. Both parties were united in demanding constitutional liberty for the people of Italy. And they demanded it by fair means or by foul. Constitutions were granted by the rulers, with good will by some, by compulsion from the greater number. Delirious rejoicings succeeded. On the 11th of February, 1848, was granted, or rather forced from the government, the Neapolitan constitution. That of Turin was given on the 4th of March; of Rome on the 14th of March; of Florence on the 17th of March. On the 18th of March began the insurrection in Milan; and on the 19th, Carlo Alberto ordered the Piedmontese army to assemble at Ticino. On the 23d, the King of little Piedmont, with its four and a half millions of souls, declared war, alone and without allies, against the powerful Emperor of Austria, sovereign over thirty-six millions.

Thus stood affairs in Italy in the spring of the year 1848.

I now return to Carlo Alberto. It was the insurrection in Lombardy, and the cry of the whole of Italy which caused him to open the war—the war of liberation. Piedmont possessed a brave and well-armed military force. This was known to all. The whole of Italy called upon Piedmont to place itself at the head in the war for the liberation of Italy from Austria. Piedmont did so chivalrously.

Carlo Alberto who at the prophetic exhortations of Gioberti and Balbo, and at the flaming up of all Italy for freedom in every form, had readily given to his people Il Statuto—a constitution—placed himself of his own accord at the head of the Piedmontese army, which, united to auxiliary troops from all the States of Italy, should achieve its freedom from foreign domination. But although personally brave, Carlo Alberto was no military genius, and that he himself knew. But hope and joy were supreme at that moment. The king and people were one. The people believed in their king, were enthusiastic for the cause of liberty, and had a high degree of military spirit. Gray-headed men took up arms; boys escaped from their homes to fight against the Austrians; whole families of brothers were seen to leave their peaceful occupations to muster under the banner of Piedmont.

With this brave army Carlo Alberto burst into Lombardy and went forward, for some time, from victory to victory. Austria however sent against him Radetzky, and the eighty-six-years-old commander soon cut short the career of victory. Then again the peculiar defects showed themselves, which lay in the depth of Carlo Alberto's character, and which had shown themselves during his whole life. His action became hesitating and undecided; now and then he made a brilliant military movement, but he did not carry it out, or he did it merely by halves; he delayed when he ought to have been active, perhaps he might be also, as the Piedmontese assert,—ill-supported by the troops of the other States which seemed to be willing that Piedmont should fight for them all, in short, spite of the bravery of the king and the Piedmontese army, and the many fine actions of the honest allies, the campaign soon became a retreat, sometimes a flight.

In August, 1848, Carlo Alberto saw himself necessitated to conclude a truce with Austria, which was nothing less than honorable to Piedmont.

But nevertheless, the prospects of the other Italian States were far worse. After an actual Bacchanalian of joy and freedom, in which these people forgot all moderation and sense, a time of blood-stained sorrow succeeded. The Pope and the Monarchs, driven back by the people's intoxication of freedom, relapsed into the old state, under shelter of the cannon of France and Austria. Naples, Rome, Florence, Milan, Venice, were all compelled within a few months to lay down their arms and submit themselves to their former rulers, mercy or no mercy. Nearly all the rights and immunities, which had been promised to the people, or which they had obtained for themselves, they were now compelled to resign. The free constitutions were withdrawn, or no more spoken of; “the people could not govern themselves; they had just proved it; they must be ruled and governed as formerly!”

The supporters of freedom and the patriots bled, were imprisoned, or they dispersed on all sides.

In one only of the Italian States, in Piedmont alone, the liberal movement did not go backwards. Carlo Alberto had given a constitution to his people; he alone, of all the Italian princes, did not retake that which he had given. Amidst raging war—amidst the bitterest opposition, he continued to allow its statutes to be carried out and to take effect. Piedmont obtained freedom of the press; freedom of election, &c., and every constitutional question was explained in a liberal spirit by the liberal-minded minister. It is true that the noble Gioberti was obliged to withdraw into voluntary exile, where he shortly afterwards died; and it is true also, that the council of reactionary men operated not unfrequently upon the acts of the king; but, upon the whole, he continued faithful to the course he had taken, and in which the most thoughtful and distinguished men of Piedmont kept him steadily by their counsel and activity.

A pleiad of such men had grown up around his throne, as is always the case at certain periods in the nations which Providence has destined for some important work. Cavour, though then quite young, had already drawn upon himself the attention of the thoughtful friends of the country, by his conduct as deputy, his keen insight and his unusual talents; and more than one had predicted that this young man would sometime play an important part in the fortunes of Piedmont.

But I will now speak of Carlo Alberto.

He had made fiasco before the whole world, in the war with Austria. That was bitter to his self-love and to his love of his country. Ambition, thirst of revenge, the hope of recovering his lost laurels, from an enemy which was now disturbed in another quarter—by the insurrection in Hungary—and the warlike spirit existing in Piedmont, especially in its army, which, lately beaten by Austria, now again stood ready for battle with the old foe—all this drove Carlo Alberto to break suddenly the ignominious truce, and to burst in upon Lombardy, with an army of eighty thousand men. It was in March, 1849. But Radetzky, " “the admirable old man,” l'amirable vecchio, as Cesare Balbo and some of his enemies in Italy called him, was not long in making his appearance, and by a bold and hasty movement, opposed himself to Carlo Alberto, and drove him back to Novara. With death in his heart, Carlo Alberto prepared here for the fight, the unfortunate result of which he foresaw.

In three days, the new campaign was here ended between Radetzky and Carlo Alberto. The latter sought for death, through ten long hours on the battle field—but in vain. Not a ball hit him. In vain he and his two brave young sons performed miracles of personal bravery—the battle was lost. Radetzky won the victory wholly, perfectly. When twilight came, and put an end to the slaughter, Carlo Alberto collected around him his faithful followers, surrendered the crown of Piedmont to his eldest son, Victor Emanuel, commanded him faithfully to defend and carry out the constitution, Il Statuto, which he, Carlo Alberto, had given to Piedmont; and after this last testament, delivered on the field of battle, the king departed, under the shadow of night, accompanied by merely two persons, to voluntary exile, in order, far from the scene of his ruined honor, and of his humiliation, to hide his weary head, pray, and die.

A memory from the days of his youth attracted him to the laurel-groves of Oporto. The government and people of Portugal, met him with honor and festivity. But the star of his life was set; he knew it, and wished only to die. He was ill when he arrived at Oporto, lived there a few months, amidst prayers and severe penitential exercises, and died—within the year after his abdication.

But the star which was extinguished above his earthly career, was now first kindled into its highest glory over his memory, and he stands, at this moment, before his grateful people, in the splendor of a saint, whilst his struggle for liberty, and his last chivalric action, caused him to appear before Europe as a tragically heroic form. He was, however, as little like a saint as a hero or a great character. He was a man of noble impulses, but unequal, weak, and full of contradictions. Once having entered upon the path of liberty and reform, and being upheld there by the exulting shout of friends and of Europe, he could and would not again turn from it. But his inward struggle was often great between the Jesuits and the demands of freedom. Sincere piety—especially during the later years of his life—kept him from despair, and his chivalric sympathies, from the ignominy of a miserable position. But the struggle was more than he could bear; it undermined his health, both of body and soul; he became old before his time: he knew that he was not equal to the part, which the necessities of the time assigned to him. He wished to do that which was right, he loved that which was good, but he was governed by circumstances. He did not rule his age, but was ruled by it. The contradictions, the disharmony in his inward being, were also mirrored in his exterior. He was a tall man, of handsome proportions, but his demeanor wanted firmness and dignity. This is perceptible, even in the excellent picture of him in the Museum at Turin, painted by the French artist Vernet, and which represents him on horseback at a review. The eyes are large and beautiful, but have a fanatical melancholy glance; the lower part of the countenance is projecting, and not handsome; the chin retreats. It is, nevertheless, an exterior which is not insignificant; it is what we call “taking.” His conversation, voice, and friendly manners, are said to have had an irresistible fascination. But the same man whom he to-day fascinated by his friendship, might the day afterwards receive a Uriah letter. The same king who showed himself so engaging to foreigners, was in his family often gloomy and strict, even to severity towards his children. He was devotedly loved by a wife, whom he yet deceived. His piety, nevertheless, was sincere, and during his latter years, assumed a still deeper character. He prayed much, fasted often, and his bed was like that of a capuchin monk. I know not if it were so, but it seems to me, that the prince, with his soul corroded by anguish, might yet amidst the laurel-groves of Oporto, have been refreshed by one grand peace-giving memory—the memory of that moment when he was wholly loyal to his better self, the moment of his abdication, when he gave himself as a sacrifice, to preserve the freedom and independence of his people. For it was this act which saved them.

The young, new king demanded peace from the old general and conqueror, Radetzky, and he obtained it, as well as his kingdom, for the sum of fifteen millions of francs. Radetzky esteemed, in the young prince and his people, the bravery of which he had seen proofs during the campaign. He was afraid of driving them to extremity; besides which, he was obliged to turn his forces towards Venice, where now the heroic Manin had excited the people to fight for freedom. Radetzky's moderation and mildness prevented, also, here, affairs coming to extremes; and by this means, Venice was preserved to Austria for the present.

And thus Italy had again peace,—a peace which gave life to Piedmont; to all the rest death!—But no! “Christian nations may sink, but not die!” Italy is not dead, it only sleeps the sleep of the trance, of weariness, and becomes more mature, the while, for a new awakening. It is impossible to doubt this, especially here, and in this time, when, in Piedmont, every thing breathes the life of the new day, and every thing is prepared to impart it, but in a manner different to its former one, and with a higher consciousness of freedom and right.

The noblest citizens and friends of Italy are united in this,—to attribute to the Italians themselves, rather than to foreign arms, the unfortunate results which followed the struggle for freedom in 1848. Want of unity, contentions between the states about trifles, about rank, about the capital, language, and so on, when they ought to have united themselves against the common enemy. The endeavors of foolish tribunes of the people to inflame the passions; weakness and fickleness in many leaders; treachery in some;—these opened Italy to the troops of the enemy, Many of Italy's noblest sons died for grief over the issue of the war; but many also bowed their heads to chastisement, whilst they kept their faith in a future better day.

“It will—it must come!” say they, “but Italy must ripen for it,—and she does spiritually ripen every day! The national, the Italian party, becomes stronger every day, under the pressure of the foreign power, and the hatred which it inspires; it ripens through the memory of the past error, of the bitter conflict, and from the taste which it has of freedom. This has been baptized in blood, but it must be so baptized that we may learn rightly to understand it and ourselves.”

No one is more acute than the noble Count C. Balbo. in the detection of the errors of Italy and her blind flatterers, no one more hopeful for her future. In his excellent Summario della Storia d'Italia, a book which has already passed through ten editions, he considers that, from the struggle for freedom in the year 1848, a new period in the history of Italy, and a new development of her higher life, have begun, if Italy will only listen to the teachings of her misfortunes, and gather from her humiliations the fruit of self-knowledge. And it must be so. Her higher consciousness has awakened, and it cannot again die. The hour, the hour of resurrection must come, sooner or later. Thus speaks this noble friend of his country, who, a short time since, wrote the history of this latest struggle, although, with dimming eyes, he saw, spiritually, the future of Italy bright.

A great deal, it is evident, depends upon the conduct and progress of Piedmont. Its secure course along the path of law-restricted freedom has, in a great measure, annihilated the bandit freedom of the Mazzini party; and the inward and outward power of Piedmont increases daily, from the number of distinguished men who fly hither from the subjected states of Italy, and here find shelter, and a sphere of operation, and are thus able to labor for Italian freedom, whilst they themselves are maturing for it. The rôle of Piedmont at this moment, is that of the hero in the play—a great and hazardous mission; but God defends it, and wills its progress; and therefore he gives it a king, honest and brave, like Victor Emanuel; and a statesman such as M. de Cavour. Both allowed the banner of Italy to shine in unison with those of the allies, on the field of the Crimea, before the walls of Sebastopol. Piedmont did not raise that banner in vain.

October 21st.—Professor Melegari, one of Piedmont's exiled, but lately recalled and universally honored patriots, and who is an invaluable acquaintance of mine here, introduced me to-day to Count de Cavour, for I was unwilling to leave Turin without seeing the man who has awakened the lively sympathies of myself and many others in Sweden, by what the newspapers have taught us of his words and works.

We, Melegari and I, drove to the ministerial palace in pouring rain—it has poured with rain incessantly ever since I have been here. We passed through several large, handsome apartments furnished with silk, before we came to the cabinet of the minister. A couple of foreign ambassadors had just left as we entered. Cavour was seated at his writing-table, with his face turned towards the door.

I had been told that his exterior presented nothing very remarkable, and a young English lady had assured me that he looked very much as one might imagine Mr. Pickwick, in Dickens' Pickwick Papers; and I confess that, at the first glance, he reminded me more of an English red-complexioned country squire, who rides and hunts, eats good dinners, and takes life easily and gayly, than of a deep-minded statesman, who, with a secure glance and hand steers the vessel of the state towards its destined object, over the stormy political sea. But very soon was that countenance lit up for me; and the more I studied it, during my tolerably long conversation with Cavour, the more significant and agreeable it seemed to me. They who have painted Cavour's portrait, have not understood this countenance, nor the character of this head. It has a something almost square in it, but at the same time refined. The complexion is fresh and delicate, the forehead magnificent, open, with room in it for both lofty and broad ideas; the glance of the light blue eyes is clear, lively, and penetrative; the nose and the mouth remind me of those of Napoleon the Great, as does also the form of the countenance. They have the firmness and delicacy of outline. In the play of the muscles about the nose, there is something arch, and the smile has the graciousness of the south. The figure is not tall, but strong and well-built, and has something particularly solid and robust about it. The manners are calm, easy, very agreeable, and evince natural self-government.

It seemed to give Cavour pleasure to learn that even in Sweden, the affairs of Piedmont were a subject of interest; and that therefore his own words and actions were regarded with attention. From his expression, I perceived that he was perfectly acquainted with our form of government, and our mode of representation, which seemed to him to be “heavy machinery.”

To my inquiries regarding Piedmont, and his views of its future, he replied so simply, so candidly and kindly, that it gave me great pleasure. It seemed to me, that with entire clearness and security he will conduct Piedmont upon a path from whence it cannot turn back; and, that he is not afraid of making pecuniary sacrifices for this cause.

“Piedmont,” said he, “has long been like a vessel which, having run too close to the rocks, is prevented by that means from having the wind in her sails, and this impediment must be removed.”

One of the means, therefore, which Cavour mentioned for this purpose, was the gigantic work now commenced; the tunnelling of Mont Cenis, which will open a speedy communication between Piedmont and the social culture and social life of the most developed cities of Europe. He presented me with a work on this undertaking. When I expressed my anticipations for the rest of Italy, from Piedmont's advance on the path of freedom, he assented thereto, but he expressed himself as a wary general and did not say much.

I asked him what would be the consequence in Piedmont of the chamber's rejection of the measures of the ministry?

“Then,” replied he, “it must go out.” “But,” added he, as if half in thought, placing at the same time a letter-case straight on the table,—“even if the ministry should be compelled to resign from one cause or another—still it is my conviction that the present system would stand firm, and that the new ministry could not avoid carrying it out.”

The manner and the tone in which these words were spoken, convinced me that in them Cavour expressed his innermost thought. The principle for which he labored was the important thing, not his own position.

When I told him that I had not seen any statesman who appeared so easily to bear the burden of state life, he smiled, as he replied:

“Oh, it only appears so; but behind in the depth are many cares, and it is not easy to preserve alight the sacred fire (le feu sacré).”

And yet the appearance is not here deceptive. Cavour, according to what I heard from more than one of his friends, bears comparatively easily his post, important and difficult as it is at this time, as President of the Council of Piedmont, and as the foremost leader of its destiny. The fact is, that he is possessed of a statesman nature, and executes his business as Mozart executed his symphonies or fugues, Raphael his pictures, without racking his brains or with much difficulty of any kind. He is in his realm a genius, and an artist, as they. But I will now bring my conversation with him to a close, or rather my recollection of it.

At parting, I laid upon his heart to bring about more just laws for the women of Piedmont, who, as regards the right of inheritance now stand a long way behind the men. M. de Cavour laughed, half waggishly as at an expression called forth by a certain esprit de corps, but he spoke afterwards seriously of the difficulties which, in particular amongst an agricultural population, stood in the way of an equal right of inheritance—difficulties, which it rather surprised me to hear uttered by a great statesman. It pleased me likewise when he added, with the accent of conviction: “In any case equal right of inheritance will become law, sooner or later, amongst us. It exists in the spirit and the tendency of all our legislation, and besides—it is right.”

Those were words which it did me good to hear from a statesman and legislator. I left Cavour, with an extremely refreshing sense of his words and whole character.

“Quelle jolie physionomie!” exclaimed I involuntarily to M. Melegari, as I left the minister's apartment, whilst I recalled my own preconceptions before I entered it.

“N'est ce pas?” replied he, and we added as in emulation, “que de finesse! que de clarté, que de fraicheur, que de fermeté!”

I have heard, from persons who know M. de Cavour more intimately, that his happy temperament both of body and soul cannot however, save him from an annual attack of inflammation on the chest—probably at the close of the session of the chambers. He is then obliged to be repeatedly bled, and his friends are often in great anxiety about him. But his athletic nature soon overcomes the occasional disease, and his natural good-heartedness prevents him from entertaining bitterness towards political enemies.

“You make enemies in the chambers by your ironical smile!” said one of his friends to him one day, “one can see that you look down upon your opponents.”

“What would you have?” replied Cavour. “It is stronger than I am;—and why do people say such stupid things to me?”

On one occasion he fought a duel, but it was with a man who had attacked his honor, and would not recall the charge before bullets were exchanged.

Cavour had great difficulty, as the son of a most highly unpopular man, in obtaining the public confidence, and many persons considering it purely impossible that he could do so, said of him, “If this young man were not laboring under an insurmountable burden of unpopularity, he would be the man which Piedmont requires.” It was in the periodical Il Resorgimento, by means of which Count Balbo, and other patriots, led onward Piedmont into the right understanding of legitimate reform, that Cavour first exhibited his unusual qualities, especially in questions of political and national economy—his clear glance, and his logical mode of thought and power of representation. Afterwards he raised his voice in the chamber of deputies for the discontinuance of a separate judicial court for the clergy, as well as for several other constitutional reforms, with a power, which soon dispersed the mist of unpopularity from the young statesman, and caused it to be acknowledged what kind of man he was. Political advancement sought him; not he, it.

The Marquis d'Azeglio was President of the Council—an office which in Piedmont, unites two portfolios, that of foreign affairs, and finance—when he resolved to resign this post in favor of Cavour, whom he regarded as more suitable than himself for its important duties. He went up to the chamber and himself spoke for Cavour, and when his aim was accomplished and he returned home, he sent his carriage to fetch Cavour to his house for breakfast, in order to be the first who should announce to him his elevation to the post from which Azeglio had retired. This was in the year 1851.

From this time Cavour has continued to be the leader of the Piedmontese Cabinet, and is said to have made himself indispensable to his office. He steadily advances on the path of liberal reform, and it is a peculiarity which deserves to be remarked, that Cavour, from the very commencement of his political career, has remained ever faithful to the same principles. Those political views, both domestic and foreign, which he advocated as a young author, he still pursues and acts up to at the present time as the Prime Minister of Piedmont. When he was insisting that the constitution should be given without any delay to Piedmont, one of his friends said to him:

“You spoke some time ago of giving it in ten years, when Piedmont should have become ready for it.”

“It must be done now,” replied Cavour, “if not the revolution will get beforehand with us.”

The chivalric course which Piedmont commenced when, in order to support the revolution in Lombardy, it declared war against Austria, Cavour has ever since maintained with intrepid mind and steady glance, although frequently without the certainty of victory. When peace was again broken with Austria, in the spring of 1849, Cavour said to some one who represented to him his imprudence and danger:

“We must risk the game if we would maintain our self-respect. If we remain quiet with our miserable truce, we shall perish in our own mud; if we fall on the field of battle it will be in the blood of our enemies, and with the maintenance of honor.”

Austria and other European powers opposed the right of Italy to have a national flag. But Piedmont had adopted the tricolor, which Italy raised in the insurrectionary year of 1848, and as this flag participated in the victories of the allied powers in the war against Russia, no one has ventured to oppose the right of the Italian flag to be raised amongst those of the independent nations. When later, at the Congress in Paris, Cavour appeared as the representative of the state of Sardinia, it appeared probable that he might be refused the same rank and suffrage as the representatives of the larger states. Cavour on this let it be understood that he should, in that case, leave the Congress and depart from Paris. This was not desired; and the worthy representative of brave little Sardinia sat and voted on equal terms with the rest.

The same heroic course of politics had led Cavour to carry through the opening of the subterranean-railway-communication of Mont Cenis, and to undertake the work in the name of the state, in order to have the power over its execution, and to apply for that purpose all the means which science and art are able to afford.

“We say,” remarked he to a friend, with a fine smile, “that it will be ready in eight or ten years, but it may be twelve years or more, so that the thing be but done, and this great artery formed between Italy and the remainder of Europe!”

This magnificent undertaking—both of war and peace—has occasioned to Piedmont a very considerable national debt—“and,” said lately a great banker of Geneva, M. Delarue, when speaking on the subject, “it would certainly be better to bear its own national debt and to advance, whilst means are prepared for its liquidation.”

The railway through Mont Cenis is one of these means, a grand bond, but which will assuredly be honored in a grand manner.

Of late, several persons have said to Cavour, “Ought you not to pause, or to go on more slowly?" To which he has replied, “I have to guide a carriage with four horses down hill. When we have reached the level and begin to go up hill again, then I will drive slowly!”

Cavour has continually met with many enemies, and much enmity during this progressive advance. They bring against him occasionally, in the chambers, the worst accusations. But they trouble him very little. He listens to them calmly, sometimes with a sardonic smile, sometimes with such a good-humored expression, as ought to disarm the opponents, if any thing be able to disarm party bitterness, especially in Italy. But it may be disarmed or not; Cavour is alike calm. He may be seen wandering along the promenades, whistling carelessly and playing with his cane, kindly greeting his acquaintances, and with an appearance as if he had nothing else in the world to do, but to go out and look about him. Such ought a statesman to be—if he can. Work, it is said, has always been his pleasure, and at this time it is his only love. Not even slander has been able to attack his morals or his character. His friends speak warmly of the goodness of his heart. His enemies have never experienced his hatred.

October 23d.—I had, last Sunday, the pleasure of hearing the gospel proclaimed to great and small, in the beautiful, newly-erected Waldenses church of this place. It was, in the morning, to the Sunday-school children; in the afternoon, to the public; and both times by M. Meille, and in the Italian language, which seems made on purpose to be the interpreter of that which is the most beautiful and inward in life. The service was somewhat disturbed by the Catholics, who went about staring and wondering at what was going forward in the church. One old man walked round the pulpit, examining it and the preacher, as if he were gazing at a strange animal. It is not long since the most absurd stories about the Waldenses were current amongst the lower Catholic population in Piedmont, and it was believed that their faith had no connection at all with Christianity. It was not until after the emancipation of 1848, and since the Waldenses pastors have been able to preach freely, and to baptize, and to bury their dead openly amongst the Catholics, that these have begun to perceive with astonishment, that the Waldenses, as well as themselves, believe in God, in the Saviour, and the Holy Spirit. And the prejudiced daily diminish. The Holy Scriptures, especially the gospels and the epistles—which are therefore printed separately—are circulated more and more in Piedmont and the neighboring states. In most of the towns of Piedmont and also of Tuscany, small societies have been formed, which meet for general reading, meditation, and the singing of hymns. I was told this to-day by an Italian, Signor E., a member of the Waldenses church, who, during the time of the persecution, was confined several months in prison for his religious faith. An Italian nobleman, M. de Santis, formerly a Catholic priest, now ordained in the Waldenses church, is at the head of a separate branch of this church, which gives to laymen some of the duties of the priest's office.

It has rained so incessantly during my stay in this city that I have been compelled to give up many drives, and many acquaintances also, which would otherwise have been valuable to me. The two last days have, however, been tolerably fine, and I have, during them, looked about me in the city, in company with two young Norwegians who have been to me as young brothers and friends. The museum, with many good pictures, both .ancient and modern, as well as L'Armeria Reale, has given me pleasure. It would be difficult to find a more picturesque and better arranged collection of ancient weapons and knight's armor, both on horse and foot, than that in the arsenal of Turin.

One institution, which I regret not to have seen, is that which a poor young girl, Rosa Govona, founded, with her young friends, poor like herself, by their united savings, for the education of indigent girls. The “Asylum delle Rosine,” as this institution is called, now receives and gives a good education to 400 girls. Another excellent institution, L'Albergo reale di virtu, founded in 1851, by Victor Emanuel, receives pupils for all trades. The benevolent institutions of Turin, are said to have undergone great improvements of late years, and are now extremely well managed.

More than once during my rambles through the streets of Turin I have paused before the print-seller's windows to contemplate a countenance which has a maternal, almost heavenly, gentleness in its expression. It is the portrait of the lately deceased young Queen of Piedmont, the wife of Victor Emanuel, and the mother of his five children. She was, I have been assured, as affectionate and as good as the portrait indicates, gazing gently on the earth, in the pleasures of which her delicate health prevented her taking part. The King loved her tenderly, and likewise feared her, it is said, as lofty purity and virtue are sometimes feared by the less perfect. She was an angel of mercy, and her early removal has been regarded in Piedmont as a public misfortune. The former winter, when she sickened and died in Turin, the people would not indulge in any pleasure. The sorrow of the royal family was the sorrow of all.

Victor Emanuel is at this time one of the most popular and beloved of the European monarchs. He is faithful to his word, brave, good-humored, beloved by his people, and is inviolably faithful to the statutes of the constitution. His portrait represents him as a bon-vivant, and perhaps it does not do him injustice. It is said that he expresses his surprise at his father having so long delayed to give Piedmont its constitution. For his part, he finds it in the highest degree comfortable and convenient to be a constitutional monarch. He need not hold himself responsible for that which goes forward in the state, as it all belongs to the ministers.

It is said, that of the King's three sons, the eldest is a remarkably gifted and promising youth. The eldest of the daughters, the Princess Clotilde, now thirteen, is said to resemble her heavenly mother.

There is, in a park-like grove in Turin, a beautiful white marble statue, representing an elderly man, sitting as in calm conversation. The countenance is noble and regular, and the lofty forehead denotes a thinker. It is the figure of Count Cesare Balbo, the noble Piedmontese aristocrat, and friend of liberty, of whom I have already spoken. He liked to assemble around him in his house the promising young men of Piedmont, and many of these have to thank his conversation, as well as his writings, for their insight into the nature of true, constitutional liberty, and also for the acquirement of higher views regarding the means by which a noble, self-conscious, popular life, is to be obtained. It is only two years since he was living and teaching in Turin, surrounded by numerous friends and pupils.

One notability of another kind—I beg pardon for the great leap!—I am in duty bound to mention before I take my leave of Turin, because I have derived great pleasure from this member of the state—Grizzinis, as it is called. It is a kind of bread, long and slender, like willow-twigs, which is consumed in great quantities all over Piedmont. Although this extremely delicate bread consists, it is asserted, of nothing but the common dough of wheaten bread, of flour and water, which is drawn out into yard-long lengths, yet the making of it succeeds nowhere but in Piedmont. It has been attempted in all quarters, but in vain. Napoleon the Great, who took great delight in this bread, had bakers fetched from Piedmont to Paris, flour, and also water, but the self-willed grizzinis, would not bow itself to the ruler of France and Italy, and he was obliged to give up the attempt. It stays in Piedmont, and will not succeed anywhere else. People say that it exists in the air. In the mean time I will take some grizzinis with me to Sweden.

The 23d.—A bright day at last, and as bright, as beautiful, as sunny, as if there were not a cloud to be found in the world!

In the afternoon, I ascended the Capuchin hill, on the other side of the Po, in company with M. Meille, and my two young countrymen. The view from the top is of the most beautiful description. In the north the great Alpine ridge, with Monte Viso as the principal figure, and further off, Monte Rosa, Mont Blanc, and Simplon, which glance forth with snow-white crowns, a guard of ice-giants around the verdant, fertile plains of Piedmont, where the silk is spun and the orange ripens. Midway between north and west, the romantic and historically-celebrated valley of Susa, opens itself between hills; and directly through the middle of the plain, winds the Po, eastward towards the Adriatic Sea, receiving on its course, a number of rivers and streams. An elderly monk was sitting in the Capuchin convent, by an open window, reading; the sun shone upon the handsome white-haired head, producing a peaceful picture.

“I sometimes look upon these monks with a feeling akin to envy,” said M. Meille, with his melodious Italian voice, and melancholy expression—“What an enjoyment to be able thus to devote themselves at ease to quiet studies!”

But the life of the Christian preacher of the gospel is not a peaceful sinecure; it is a constant preaching with life and doctrine, an actual following in the footsteps of Christ!

It was beautiful to see how a little cloud which concealed the summit of Monte Viso, raised itself by degrees, and became more and more transparent until it entirely vanished, and the beautifully formed cupola of Viso stood free against the bright evening sky. When we had seen the sunset from the Capuchin hill, we walked backwards and forwards on the great bridge whilst the after-glow ascended step by step, and spread a clear splendor over the heights we had just left.

The after-glow, “the second brightness,” or rather the new crimson of morning, does it not now ascend over Piedmont? What does the young Italy desire? What are the ideas which exist in the minds of the noblest thinkers, and which Piedmont is endeavoring each day to bring into actual reality? Are they not those which lead the way in the highest moral development of all nobler nations, and which constitute the conditions of it; the equality of every individual in the eye of the law; the right of all to be trained to a free, self-conscious existence; the right of all to become co-operative in the constitution, and in the laws by which they are to be governed.

But beyond, or more properly speaking before, this consciousness of the claims of all, stands the duty of all to carry out the right, the just, and the good, on the life of the state, to be co-workers in the construction of the community—to build thereof a city of God, a Holy Priesthood, as the Apostle says: “in one word a kingdom of God upon earth.” Thus have I understood the striving towards liberty in Italy at this moment. Is there any higher? The Pyramids, the Acropolis, the Pantheon, and the states which produced these by the labor of slaves do they not sink down to mere pieces of art in comparison with this highest work of art of a free community, in which the smallest, as well as the greatest, is called to the same freedom, goodness and happiness; where every one lives for all, and all for every one!

I do not desire from thee, my R——, that thou shouldst take part in each cry for freedom, in each national movement, which is not sustained by the knowledge of the true purport of freedom. But when we see a people seeking freedom, and the right to establish itself upon the basis of the purest and highest human interests, then it is clear to me, that this people is prepared to pass from the period of its minority, and to become free as men who have attained to years of discretion, and it would grieve me if thou wast not of the same mind, if thou wouldst not give thy voice for the highest sacred right of this people!

Piedmont is at this moment a witness before the world, that what Italy desires it can also attain. Piedmont has taken the first step out of the realm of the ideal into that of reality, yet still adhering to the ideal. Can this path be pursued without Italy coming into conflict with the sole governing principle of the Roman Catholic church, that of a right over the human conscience and belief? I think not. No: Catholicism must be born again, must be regenerated in the source of the gospel, if it is to become a religious creed for an independent people possessed of political and civil liberty. This is evident to me, and—perhaps may arise more than one bloody recompense upon the people who persecuted with fire and sword the faithful professors of the gospel during centuries. Piedmont has liberated, has adopted its first witness, the Waldenses; Piedmont has perhaps, in so doing, obtained for herself full amnesty from the Supreme Judge. Be it so!

I can now leave Turin with a good conscience. I have seen Monte Viso and M. de Cavour; but how am I to leave it? That is the question. Tidings arrive daily of the devastation occasioned by the floods; bridges are washed away; railways broken up; nearly all communication is uncertain; the road from Turin to Genoa is said to be impassable, and it was to Genoa that I now intended to proceed. They speak of the possibility of reaching that place by going round by Novara, and this I shall attempt. My young country-woman, and my companion for the winter, in Rome, Jenny Lind has been waiting for me too long in Genoa already.

END OF VOL. I.

1. They were governed by these, as by their elders.—Author's Note.
2. This expression, as well as the language of the Waldenses, shows us a near relationship, and perhaps, also, union with the French Albigenses. Because now, and already in La Noble Leçcon, is the language of the Waldenses, a French dialect.—Author's Note.
3. On this occasion it was determined that the whole of the Bible should be translated into French from the original tongues. A Swiss, by name, Olivetan, who was acquainted with Hebrew and Greek, accomplished the work in two years and a half. The poor Waldenses contributed two hundred crowns in gold towards the cost of printing this work. This translation of the Bible became an evangelical bond between them and their brethren in the faith in Switzerland. Calvin said, on this subject, “The French Reformation is now in its stronghold, and will not more be driven thence!”—Author's Note.
4. Jagro is a salutation in the Piedmontese patois which signifies the same as “Allegro,” Be merry! or, Mirth be to you! “Ceria!” is a similar salutation, but no one knows the origin of the word.—Author's Note.
5. The cultivation of silk is one of the pursuits of these villages. An Englishman, Mr. Fierze, married to a sister of Mr. Cobden, has established a large silk-factory in the valley of Lucerna.—Author's Note.
6. These states, according to Gioberti, are “Magna Grecia,” or the Neapolitan kingdom; “Latien,” or Rome; “Etrurien,” or Tuscany; “Ligurien,” or Piedmont; “Insubrien,” or Lombardy. The lesser states or powers of Italy to be collected or incorporated in these five larger ones.—Author's Note.