Chapter III

In vain the little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence — alas! Nor wife nor children, more shall he behold, Nor friends nor sacred home! On ev’ry nerve The deadly whiter seizes — shuts up sense, And o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold, Lays him along the snows — a stiffen’d corse Stretch’d out and bleaching in the northern blast!

THOMSON’S SEASONS.

SCARCE an hour had elapsed, since parting with their kind conductor, when our young fugitives had arrived at the western gate of Geneva. They crossed by a draw-bridge the deep moat which surrounds the city, and which is fed by the waters of the Rhone; and the sentinel who paced in front of the massive archway contented himself with bestowing a passing glance on the strangers, and permitted them to enter unchallenged.

Had it been at any other time, the novel sight of a bustling town, and particularly one ennobled by so many hallowed associations, would not have been thrown away, on such minds as those of Herbert and his sister. They had often listened with delight to the noble struggles which Geneva had made for civil and religious liberty, recounted at the fireside of their father’s dwelling. And their young and ardent imaginations would have rejoiced to linger in a place consecrated by so many illustrious dead. But other and gloomier thoughts, now occupied their bosoms. They were exiled wanderers — in a land of strangers — torn from the embrace of their dearest friends — severed from the land of their birth, with a dreary world and a dark futurity before them. With dejected hearts, they wound their way through the streets — a solemn stillness reigned around — and they rejoiced to find, that there were other spots, besides their own valleys, where the God of the Sabbath received the homage due to him, on that day of sacred rest, which he had peculiarly set apart as his own.

The dress and appearance of the young orphans — unlike that of their unhappy fellow exiles, who had been subjected, in the course of their journey, to the endurance of evils from which, by a kind providence, they had been happily exempted — did not reveal them to be fellow-sufferers, else a hundred arms would have been out-stretched to welcome them, the moment they entered the city. The compassion manifested by the Genevese to these wretched wanderers, affords a pleasing relief to the mind, in the midst of the contemplation of their aggravated sufferings. Crowds of the inhabitants flocked daily to the bridge of the Arve, to conduct the fugitives to the comfort and shelter of a home. And hard indeed must that heart have been, which could refuse to be melted at the spectacle of wretchedness which was there disclosed. Some arrived at the gates of this” city of refuge11 only to expire! Some sunk exhausted in the arms of their protectors — the tongues of others were benumbed with cold, so that they were unable to speak — not a few were half naked and covered with disease — the hands fell paralysed, which were stretched out to receive proffered charity; and what was more dreaded still — few there were who had not left behind them beloved relatives to perish in the snow, and be the food of wild beasts! Eighty-six in a single company, were engulphed by a tempest on Mont Cenis, in one living tomb; and it is recorded of some merchants, who afterwards crossed the mountain, that they saw the bodies of the unhappy mothers, preserved by the intense cold, still clasping their babes in their arms!

But to return. The young fugitives, in obedience to the directions of the monk, bent their steps towards the cathedral, within whose walls they deemed it more than probable they should find some of their countrymen, holding communion with the God of their fathers. As they wound their way up a steep lane, over-arched by the projecting houses, the ear of Alice caught the faint melody of a number of voices above. The sounds seemed familiar to her — and yet, from the change of scene, and the many conflicting emotions that were then agitating her bosom, it was many minutes before she recognized a hymn of her native valleys, and one which had often cheered her suffering forefathers in the hour of persecution. With hearts overflowing with joy and gratitude towards that God who had proved himself once more, as in all their past afflictions, to be “a present help in trouble,” they eagerly mounted the narrow stair, which conducted them to this conventicle. In an instant they reached the door. Herbert had his hand on the lock, ready to throw himself in the embrace of his friends, but he thought it advisable to repress his feelings for a little, and continue a listener, until the worshippers had concluded their devotions.

It is only those, who know, from experience, what it is for the orphaned — friendless — exiled — to be welcomed once more to the embrace of long-lost relatives, who can appreciate the feelings with which the fatherless children of E-odolph Viion listened to the voices of their exiled brethren, as in sweet concert they sung the following verses: —

From our homes and altars driven,

Doom’d to roam, an exiled race,
Still we lift our eyes to Heaven,

Lord, be thou our dwelling place!

What though earthly joys forsake us,

Sever’d from the friends we love,
The hour is nigh, that shall awake us,

To the endless joys above!

Martyr’d spirits! gone before us,

Noblest of the heavenly throng,
Soon we hope to join your chorus,

Share your crown, and swell your song!

Then” all sorrow and all sighing,

Shall for ever flee away,”
Tears exchang’d for bliss undying,

Darkness, for eternal day!

When the hymn was concluded, Herbert could no longer forbear. He opened the door of the humble apartment. In a moment the orphans were in the embraces of their beloved friends, unable for a time to utter a word, amid the mingled tears of joy and sorrow. The “small upper room,” in which, like the apostles of old, this persecuted remnant had met for secret communion, contained about a dozen individuals, varying in age, but all possessing the common characteristic of being the children of suffering and sorrow, — on whom famine and disease had left the trace of their ravages, and were hurrying not a few to the grave. Herbert and Alice rejoiced to find that many of the dearest and most valued friends of their childhood, had been spared to be the comforters and companions of their exile.

There was one of their number, however, whose presence kindled, in the hearts of our young fugitives, a glow of intense delight, — one, who had been their father’s unwearied friend in his adversity as well as prosperity, in his sorrows as well as his joys. — on whom the venerable patriarch had leaned as a counsellor in his declining years, and who, by his affectionate kindness and exalted piety, had contributed much in binding up the wounds of a spirit that bled under deeper and more poignant sorrows, than often fall to the lot of humanity to experience. He was a man who had reached the prime of life, whose muscular frame, manly countenance, and dark penetrating eye, under the disadvantages of a poor and humble attire, bespoke something far above the average of human character. The same cloud of sorrow, which was seated on the faces of his companions, mantled his lofty brow, — and yet, withal, there was a bland resignation in his countenance, which told at once whence he looked for an antidote to his afflictions, and a permanent resting place from the troubles and the trials of an agitated world.

Such was Henri Arnaud, — the peasant hero of a hundred battles, — one of those champions that appear from time to time on the theatre of the church, — appointed by its Great Head for the vindication of his own cause, and the delivery of his oppressed people, — and who was destined shortly to be the leader of an achievement, to which the muse of history, though she has almost left it unrecorded, can adduce no parallel.

Close at his side, there sat a young man, with a younger sister, bearing a striking resemblance to him we have described. Ferdinand and Julia Arnaud were the orphan children of his deceased brother, who had been deprived of maternal as well as paternal care in their infancy, and had been consigned to the guardianship of the future deliverer of his race. They had been the intimate companions of Herbert and Alice from their earliest childhood, — they had sat together in the same village school, — they had shared its hours of innocent recreation, — and the happiest moments of their lives had been spent in climbing together the sylvan heights of Villar or Angrogna, — in gathering the wild fruits or flowers of the mountain, — or in following the goats in their rocky paths. It may be imagined, therefore, what the feelings of both must have been, when they found themselves once more, united in adversity, as they had formerly been in prosperity, — mutual soothers and comforters of each other’s sorrows, — as they had formerly been helpers together of each others joys.

“Welcome, welcome, my beloved children,” said Arnaud, as, with a gush of parental tenderness, he locked by turns the wanderers in his arms, and pressed their cheeks with his lips. “A gracious God has heard our prayers, and disappointed our fears. But — but — •” continued he, his tongue faltering as he struggled to ascertain the melancholy truth, which his deep emotion shewed he fully anticipated, — “where — where is.”

“I know, I know,” replied Herbert, the tears rolling profusely down his cheek: — -” He is safe, though in no earthly tenement; the Alpine snows are the home of his body, — heaven that of his spirit! His sufferings are now at an end, and his sepulchre, though one of rude stones, is not in a land of exile, but within sight of his native valleys, almost within hearing of his own Sabbath-bell!”

“Eodolph Vhi9on in a cold grave!” exclaimed Arnaud, fetching a sigh from the lowest depths of his bosom, — his lips quivering as he spoke. “Had the ruthless foe no pity on his grey locks and furrowed brow? Did the serene and heavenly lustre of his eye not kindle a glow of sympathy in the iron-hearted oppressors? But God’s will be done. His way and his will are always the best. ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed for ever be the name of the Lord f Be comforted, be comforted, my beloved child,” said he, turning to Alice, whose wounded heart was now bleeding afresh; “dry up these tears of unavailing sorrow. ‘Weep not; he is not dead, but sleepeth.’ Yea, weep not; he is not dead, but liveth! God’s way often seems to be ’ in the sea, and his path in the deep waters, and his judgments unsearchable;’ but we know that all his dealings are dictated by unerring wisdom and unchangeable love; and where we cannot trace, let us trust! ‘Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning;’* that blessed morning, when the unfolding of the roll of providence will put to silence every murmur, explain every mystery, and bring every tongue to confess, that the 4 Lord was righteous in all his ways, and holy in all his works!”’

“Yes,” said Herbert, taking up the pious strain of his affectionate friend, “we are in the hands of a ‘God of love,1 who has a ’ need be“* in every chastisement; nay, whose afflictions are blessings in disguise, and who has pledged his own word, that he ’ afflicts not willingly.’ The sad bereavement we now deplore, is doubtless one of the ’ all things’ that work together for good to them that love Him, designed to lead our hearts up from the creature to the Creator, — from earth to Heaven, — from time to eternity!”

“Dearest boy,” said Arnaud, “thou hast hetaken thyself to the only refuge that can avail thee in such an hour as this; and thou wilt find resignation to the divine will, the softest pillow upon which thou canst repose. Full well do I know, how hard it is, for the rebellious spirit, meekly to acquiesce in the rectitude of Jehovah’s dealings, to kiss the rod that smites, and adore the hand which lays low! But ‘He that spared not his own Son, but freely gave him up to the death for us all; how shall he not with him also freely give us all things?’ Yes, my children, lift your eyes to the cross of Christ, and every doubt must be removed, — every repining silenced, — every murmur overborne; for, one glance there, will read to you the utter impossibility of God’s withholding any requisite blessing within the compass of Omnipotence to bestow, or sending one trial that is unneeded, — one affliction that might be spared! You are bereaved of the kindest and most affectionate of earthly parents; but, remember the parting promise of Him who said, 4/ will not leave you orphans — I will come unto you.’”

“And our heavenly Father,” said Herbert,” has shewn us, that ’ he is not slack concerning his promises.’ In the very depth of our extremity, He made himself known as the ’ shield of the stranger, and the stay of the orphans;’ and gave us to experience the truth of the Psalmist’s declaration, ‘When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me upfr

Here Herbert minutely detailed the wonderful interposition of an overruling Providence, in providing for them, in the bitterest hour of their sorrow, a friend and protector, who had guided them in safety through perils and dangers which they themselves could not possibly have surmounted.

The little group listened with intense interest to the touching narrative; lifting up at intervals their hearts in devout thankfulness to Him, whose hand was so strikingly visible in the rescue of the orphans.

Arnaud, in his turn, recounted the fearful combination of dangers and cruelties which he and his fellow-exiles had encountered on their Alpine journey; willing to endure every thing, rather than submit to purchase immunity from suffering, by doing homage at the altars of their antichristian oppressors. Many of his surviving companions, had, two days before, proceeded to the interior of Switzerland, while he and the little remnant, who continued at Geneva, had purposely delayed, in hopes of hearing some tidings of their venerated friend.

He was desirous, if possible, of prosecuting his route on the morrow, in expectation of finding a permanent residence for the winter among the Protestant valleys of Berne; or if not, that they might proceed, before the rigours of the season increased, to the duchy of Brandenburg or some other part of Germany, where a safe asylum had been thrown open to the persecuted Protestants.

Besides, he was unwilling to widen the distance between the place of his exile and his native valleys; as, even at that dark moment, there slumbered in the bosom of this brave man, the embryo of the enterprise, which he was one day destined so gloriously to achieve. When they had each concluded the narrative of their sufferings, and once more united together in offering the thanksgiving of grateful hearts to their common Father, the little band dispersed to their respective residences, to permit their two young friends to enjoy some refreshment after the fatigues of the preceding night, and that they might all be in readiness, at the appointed hour in the morning, for again setting out on their wanderings.

The dawn of day found the remnant of the Waldensian exiles gliding along the deep blue waters of lake Leman. The facilities of travelling were not then equal to those of the nineteenth century. The miracles of Watt had not yet brought Geneva within a few hours distance of the other end of the lake; nor had Napoleon, the “imperial road-maker,“” left the trophies of his power on the Alpine barriers of Switzerland. The whole of the first day was occupied in traversing the lake. But the time was not allowed by Arnaud to pass unprofitably away — every object of inanimate nature, from the countless combinations around, seemed to minister to his reflecting mind motives of resignation, and grounds of consolation and hope. If he saw his desponding companions sinking under gloomy anticipations of the future, he would point to the loveliness of the landscape around, — the smiling plains and crowning vintage, — the verdant pastures and varied enamel

O” JT

of the mountain sides, as pledges and assurances, that “if God so clothe the grass of the field,” much more will he throw the arm of protection over his defenceless children. Or, again, he would point to the everlasting mountains, as the emblems, which He himself has selected, of the perpetuity of his love, when he assures his disconsolate people, that sooner shall “the mountains depart and the hills be removed, than his kindness be taken from them, or the covenant of his peace removed!” As they passed the solitary towers of Chillon, he reminded them of those who had been immured for the cause of truth within its dark dungeons, and from their endurance of suffering, which issued in the ultimate triumph of their cause, he read to his companions the lesson of patience under their present tribulations, and inspired them with the hope that God would yet, in his own good time and way, “turn again their captivity.”

“See,“” said he, as they reached the termination of the lake, and beheld the Rhone rolling his rapid flood into its calm bosom, “how dark! how turgid these sullen waters! how different from those we this morning beheld, emerging from the lake, in which there was not one foul spot to bedim their transparent loveliness! and yet they are the waters of one and the same stream. They enter muddy and polluted, — they come forth pure as crystal! Is it not even so with God’s dealings with his people? He afflicts, only to purify! he causes ‘his waves and his billows to roll over us,1 only that we may be freed from our pollutions, washed of our defilements, and come out purer and holier than before. We enter, soiled and darkened with the ingredients of earth; we emerge, reflecting the image of heaven! Oh, yes!” continued he, “let us acknowledge the rectitude of Jehovah’s dealings in the midst of our present trials: ‘Many waters may have come into our souls;” the floods may have lifted up their voice, the floods may have lifted up their waves f ’ but the Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, For years to come, we may be doomed to sit in sackcloth, and pine in captivity. But it will not be always so, — ‘God will yet arise and have mercy upon our Zion;’ and cause us, like yonder river, to emerge from the billows of persecution, with purer hearts and more ardent love, to uprear the altars of truth in the land of our fathers!”

We shall not attempt to follow the little band through their tedious journey, or enumerate the difficulties they had to encounter in a land in which they were strangers. To facilitate their chance of obtaining a permanent dwelling, they thought it prudent to divide into separate companies; — the greater number proceeding in the direction of Thun, and the neighbouring villages; while Arnaud, Ferdinand, and Julia, along with our two young orphans, directed their steps by a nearer road to the village of Lauterbrunnen.

It was on the evening of the sixth day, from their leaving Geneva, that the five pilgrim wanderers were wending their way along one of those peaceful and secluded valleys in the Bernese Oberlands, which are surrounded by the snow-white summits of the Wengern, the Jungfrau, and the

Schreckhorn. By an attempt to shorten the leagues which intervened between them and the place of their intended lodgment for the night, they had missed their path, and the shadows of evening were beginning to fall before they had time to retrace their steps. Arnaud looked around, in vain, to discover some habitation in this desolate spot; but he resolved once more, in the midst of his perplexity, to cast himself on the kind Providence that had so wonderfully sustained them in the past; and it was not long before the experience of the Psalmist was made their own: “They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way, — they found no habitation to dwell in; hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted within them; then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them out of their distresses!” They had proceeded only a few steps, when, on the slope of the opposite hill, at the bottom of a thick forest of pines, the eye of Arnaud was attracted by a glimmering light in a lonely chalet; thither he resolved, at once, to bend his steps, and throw himself and his friends for the night on the hospitality of its inmates.

This humble abode, whose wicket-gate they speedily reached, appeared to be the solitary occupant of the valley. Even in their exhausted state, and with the twilight glimpse they obtained, the young people could not help admiring the simple beauty of its architecture, — its wooden walls, composed of small blocks of fir transversely cut, — its rustic windows, almost hid from view with honeysuckle, ivy, and jasmine, — its projecting roof, supported by pillars of native pine, — and the tasteful garden, with its perennial fountain, which bubbled up at the foot of an aged tree, and murmured down into the valley below. It is not unusual, in the Swiss cottages, to have a sentiment or inscription carved above the entrance or doorway; and from these external mottos, the character of the inmates may frequently be inferred. If Arnaud approached this humble chalet with a tremulous heart, apprehensive lest his request might be met with a negative; it may be imagined how emboldened he was, in demanding admittance, when he cast his eyes on the rude letters which surmounted the portico, and read the invitation of the pious Syrian:” Come in, thou blessed of the Lord; wherefore standest thou without f

His first knock was answered by the bark of a dog, followed by a voice, apparently that of a female, who demanded, from within, the errand of the strangers. “A few unhappy exiles,” was the reply, “from the Protestant valleys of Piedmont, who have been driven from their native hearths for their attachment to the faith of their fathers, and who having deviated from their path, seek to claim for a single night the Christian hospitality of those within; or, if that be impossible, to obtain direction in recovering their lost road.”

The door was immediately opened, and a woman, past the middle of life, welcomed the strangers. The interior of the cottage was such as was to be expected from its external aspect; — the furniture was of the simplest description, — the walls were decorated with some trophies of the chase, — a few books were scattered on the shelves of a rustic cupboard, the largest of which had found its way into the hands of the only other tenant of the cot, who was seated by the side of a blazing fire, and drinking in, from the well-worn pages of the volume, those eternal truths which time cannot impair. He was arrayed in a shepherd’s garb, and, from the grey hairs that mingled with the auburn locks which fell over his shoulders, appeared to have passed considerably the prime of manhood. He had just finished his frugal meal, and its remains had been consigned to the faithful companion of his mountain toils, who was too intensely occupied with this well-earned recompense of his day’s labours, to signify his acquiescence in the kind welcome which had been bestowed on the travellers.

Arnaud did not require to be long in the company of this frugal pair, before he was able to discover, that though to him entire strangers, they were related by a nobler and more enduring than any earthly bond.

Albert and Mariette Peyrani, were two of the many Christian peasants who are still to be found among the lonely mountains and valleys of Switzerland, who, uncontaminated by the fashions of the world, spend their simple lives between their flocks and their God; and to whom the want of the society of earth, is more than compensated by a nearer and more intimate communion with Heaven.

Such refreshment as they possessed, was spread by the kind shepherdess before her exhausted guests. Her husband listened with devout interest to the affecting story of Arnaud regarding his persecuted race, — the more so, as, from a reference to the genealogical leaf of his Bible, he shewed his own descent from a Waldensian ancestry; — their deeds of heroism had often been recounted to him in his childhood, from the lips of his father, — often had they formed the subject of his lonely meditations, while tending his flock on the mountain side; and one of the few objects of ambition which dwelt in the heart of the shepherd of Lauterbrunnen, was the desire of making a pilgrimage to these secluded valleys, and of beholding, with his own eyes, the spots which had been watered with the blood of his sires.

Not many days had been spent at the little cottage, before the hearts of the strangers became so knit to one another, that, at the earnest solicitation of their pious hosts, the fugitives resolved to make the chalet of Lauterbrunnen their home. The adjoining forest contributed some of its noblest treasures to add to its accommodation; and the exiles seemed, for a while at least, to forget their misfortunes and the gloomy themes which had haunted them for weeks past, as they busied themselves in preparation for their winter dwelling. Month after month rolled away, and time only served to increase the gratitude of the wanderers to an overruling Providence, for having directed their steps to so tranquil an abode. Morning and evening, the hymn of praise rose from its walls; and had Arnaud been animated by no higher principle than his own comfort and that of his family, Villar and Angrogna would probably have been forgotten amid the loveliness of this little paradise, and the Christian sympathies of its primitive inhabitants. But his own noble nature, no less than his religion, taught him to look beyond self, and the narrow sphere of personal interests. He could not forget that there were hundreds still pining in the dungeons of Sardinia, — many fellow exiles still wandering without a home, — and what was more galling still, the light of truth, which had burned with unsullied lustre, through a past rnillenium, on their native altars, was now quenched and extinguished by the horrors of papal darkness! His patriotic spirit could not brook the thought of remaining in selfish unconcern, a passive spectator of the aggravated wrongs of his race, without making a single effort to vindicate their cause, and rescue them from their unjust and cruel oppression.

Accordingly, in the spring of the following year, Arnaud absented himself for a little from the peace of his mountain home, and, in company with Captain Besson of La Tour, a brother in exile, visited the fugitives who were scattered in Germany and Holland, and provided for those who were still in destitution. After having completed their benevolent pilgrimage, they resolved, before returning to the valleys of Switzerland, to lay the subject of their grievances at the feet of the king of Holland.

William, Prince of Orange, was at that time residing at his palace at the Hague. If he did not stand alone among the monarchs of Europe, as the defender of the oppressed Protestants, he at least proved himself, since the death of the Protector of England, to be their most sincere and zealous, as well as their most powerful intercessor. His compassion for the sufferers was increased, by his hatred of the perfidy of him who was the author of their wrongs; and to humble the haughty spirit, and curb the intolerant ambition of Louis of France, formed his reigning passion. That his sympathy for the persecuted, however, and his hostility to the persecutor, were dictated by a nobler and purer motive than the desire of humbling a rival, is evident from his faithful and unflinching adherence to their cause, when prosperity had placed him beyond the intrigues of those of whom he was formerly jealous, by adding to his hereditary dominions the royal sceptre of England. Seldom did he listen to the tale of suffering with such deep emotion, as to that of Arnaud and his companion regarding their countrymen. Often had he desired to learn more of the history of the extraordinary race, which, for a succession of ages, had braved undaunted the storms of persecution; and as the humble mountaineer recounted, in his hearing, the merciless cruelties and sanguinary horrors that had attended their late exile, chords of sympathy were touched in the royal bosom, which never vibrated before. He exhorted them to a patient endurance of their present wrongs, and encouraged them in the hope of being restored ere long to their ancient possessions.

A portion of his own territories was appropriated to those of the fugitives who were still without a home; and Arnaud was liberally furnished with money for the supply of the more urgent necessities of his brethren. William took an accurate memorandum of his interview with the representatives of the innocent race-; and, on his subsequent exaltation to the throne of Britain, shewed the sincerity of his repeated assurances of favour, by renewing the munificent benefaction originally granted by Cromwell from the national treasury, “for the assistance and relief of the suffering Protestants of Piedmont.”*

But we must now pass over the events of several succeeding months, and present our readers with a change of scene.

* See Appendix, Note C.