SIXTH STATION.
Again in Switzerland—Railway Irregularities—Vintage at Montreux—Romantic Illusions—New Acquaintance—The First Prisoner of Uri—Winter Residence at Lausanne—War and Peace in Switzerland—Still Life—New Life and New Interests—Young Italy—Its Patriots and Poets—“Risorgimento d'Italia”—The Waldenses in Piedmont—New Plans for my Journey—I must see Italy—Spring Life at Lausanne—Educational Institute—A. Vinet.
I flew by express train from Paris, to the foot of the Jura, and there took the diligence, which conveys the traveler across the mountain into Switzerland. It was late in the evening and quite dark when the train reached the Jura. And in darkness and storm the passengers removed from the railway carriages to diligences drawn by horses; a small hand-lantern being all the light afforded for this purpose. I requested that I might be placed in the same vehicle which contained my baggage; and I was assured that it should be so.
I know not what the case might be for the other passengers, but my luggage traveled to Geneva, whilst I, towards morning, found myself on the way to Lausanne. At Lausanne, I was obliged immediately to take the steamboat, which was going to Geneva, to look after my belongings. I was told at the diligence office, here, that such disorderly proceedings were not of unfrequent occurrence on the other side of Jura, and that it was willful on the part of the officials there that they might make a petty gain by the payment which they demanded from travelers for the restoration of their effects.
Whether this be true or not, I cannot say. Certain it is, that I spared neither care nor inquiries to ascertain that my luggage and myself traveled in company. That I should ascertain that it was so, was impossible in the general darkness of the station.
I had great difficulty in finding my luggage at Geneva, and, when I had done so, in gaining possession of it. And I must remark, once for all, and that with regret, upon the want of order, the want even of common courtesy and humanity, which I often met with at the railway offices in Switzerland, and which I never found greater in any other country whatever. Many travelers have experienced it as well as myself and complained of it, and therefore I mention it here. On this occasion, at Geneva, I found this want in a more than ordinary degree. It is a very allowable thing that the gentlemen of the office should take their breakfast; but that they should go away for that purpose, at the very moment they had appointed for the traveler to find them at the office, in order to obtain his effects, and in the moment, also, in which he must continue his journey, seems to me unallowable, much less to be commended. In the present case, these gentlemen showed me my portmanteaux, at least, the locked door of the apartment which contained them, and—went their way. I waited some time: then asked a young man who alone remained behind the desk, why I could not have my property delivered to me?—that I was that morning to proceed, by steamboat, to Montreux, and heard already the signal given for its departure. I had been ordered to be at the office at eight o'clock that morning; it was now half-past eight; and—why would they not give me that which belonged to me?
The young man replied, with great indifference, that “the gentlemen were gone to breakfast: they would be back in time.”
I still waited, standing,—for a seat was not offered me—very tired, and very much astonished at this behavior. Still more distressed than myself was a poor Savoyard, whose knapsack was locked in the same apartment with my portmanteau. He had to return this morning to Savoy, where he had got work; the steamer by which he had to go had given signal of departure, but the knapsack of the poor artisan was locked up, and the gentlemen, who had locked it up, had gone to breakfast. The young man at the desk repeated this information with admirable coolness, and occupied himself by whistling, whilst the poor Savoyard, almost beside himself with uneasiness and anxiety, walked rapidly up and down the office, tore his curling, dark hair, and, with his beautiful Italian eyes full of tears, uttered words of despair. And the gentlemen were still taking breakfast!—
It was now nearly nine o'clock. At the last moment, they came bustling in, drew forth the luggage, and told me what I had to pay before I could obtain possession of mine. It appeared to me unreasonable, and the whole conduct of the gentlemen more than suspicious. But there was now no time to dispute their demands; the steamer was on the point of leaving. There was nothing left for me but to pay, and take my property, or leave it in these thievish hands, and go away without it. I chose the latter, because this conduct appeared to me unjustifiable. How the poor Savoyard managed, I know not. Probably he was obliged to pay what they demanded, and whether or not he reached his vessel in time, I was not able to ascertain, for I was scarcely on board of mine when it was set in motion.
The scene, of which I here witness, really annoyed me. I love Swiss freedom, and the Swiss people; and it grieves me when I see its free men not taking the pains to be honest and humane men, in its best significance, “gentlemen!” The rude block may become an Apollo-statue, but it must not imagine that it is equally good in its first condition.
At Montreux I wished to see the vintage which was now in progress. In the neighborhood where Rousseau laid the scene of his “Nouvelle Heloise,” at Montreux, just opposite the rocks of Meillerie, at Clarens, where people still wander in “bosquets de Julie,” there, I thought, the most beautiful rural festival of the year would have an especially romantic character. But I deceived myself. Nothing could be more prosaic than the vintage in this district. Both men and women went gravely and silently into the vineyards, gathered the clusters from the vinestocks, bruised them in churns in the fields, loaded them in carts, and drove them away to the wine-presses. There was nothing about it to distinguish it from any other labor. In this harvesting of that which God gives to make glad the heart of man, there was no enjoyment of life. And yet, this was the finest vintage that there had been for many years!
I experienced one agreeable impression—that produced by the kind manners and disposition of the country people towards strangers, to whom they most liberally presented the beautiful bunches, inviting them, also, to partake of the must which streamed from the wine-presses, and which is, indeed, the most delicious drink any one can imagine. And, in the evenings, you would meet on the roads, women returning home from the day's work, earning a part of its wages on their heads, in large baskets full of grapes, the clusters and leaves of which sometimes garlanded them so beautifully, that no artist could have done it better, if he had wished to represent a Pomona.
But the air was cold: so cold, that it penetrated me both body and soul; which, perhaps, made me insensible to the celebrated beauty of the Montreux district. Its vast mountain chain seemed coldly to weigh me down, and the lofty rock-wall of Meillerie, Dent du Midi, and Dent d'Orche, closed up my view, and deprived me too easily of the little sunshine which the autumn still permitted. I grew regularly ill-tempered on these lofty mountains, and felt myself shut up in Montreux, as if within the walls of a fortress. I could not but remember the expression of a Dutch gentleman, “that Switzerland is a very pretty country, only it is a pity that the lofty mountains prevent one from seeing it!”
At Montreux I was obliged to climb high among the mountains to obtain any thing of an open view, and this, when gained, was nothing but the lake and its Alpine heights. A wide horizon is not to be found, and without that I never feel myself happy.
The little town of Montreux lies like an eagle's nest upon its mountain summit, and a rich fringe of golden stonecrop shines along the ridge of the house-roofs. In the house, you not unfrequently find comfort; and the view from the windows is great in height and depth, but the streets are winding and dark. Heaps of manure meet one everywhere. “The country-people,” remarked an amiable Swiss lady, apologetically, “see in them the gold which makes the fields rich and the grapes juicy!”
I lamented that my eyes and my nose were too prosaic to take in this practical point of view.
The castle of Chillon rises out of the waves of Leman, on the shore of Montreux,—massive and gloomy, but infinitively picturesque. I visited it one gray, cold November day; visited its tower, its state-room, torture-chamber, oubliettes, and its deep, large dungeon-vault, resting upon the rock-foundations. Byron has inscribed his name at the foot of one of the massive pillars, his “Prisoner of Chillon” has inscribed it on the heart of mankind. But there is a more beautiful poem than that of Byron on the last political prisoner of Chillon, Bonivard; namely, the history of its first prisoner, the Count of Wala, which the Chronicler has preserved, and the noble historian, L. Vulleimin, has lately given to the reading world. Between the two prisoners lies the period of five hundred years.
One of the towers of Chillon elevates itself above all the others: large, massive, square, and of a much older date; it is called, to this day, “Wala's Tower.”
It stood solitary in the dreary region, an object of fear and horror, when, one day in the year 830, an armed troop approached the gloomy tower, and placed there a prisoner, with silence and deep mystery. But by degrees, it was whispered through the neighborhood who it was. It was the noble Count of Wala, the friend and general of Charlemagne, one of the chief men of the empire, lately Abbot of Corbie. Charlemagne's weak son, Louis, displeased by the severe censure which the honest Wala passed upon his mode of government, and the evil practices of Judith, his wife, caused him to be taken from his asylum of Corbie, and cast into the tower of Chillon.
“He continued a prisoner there for many years, without receiving any visitor,” says his biographer, Pascase Rudbert, “except the angels, which in every place know how to find their way to the heart of the upright.”
“Wala, like St. Augustine, believed in an eternal word, which continually communicates itself to the human soul; and his faith in God, the inexhaustible fountain of all consolation, preserved him from being cast down.”
One day the doors of the prison were opened to this Rudbertus, the friend of Wala. He conveyed to the captive a message of peace from the emperor. Liberty, favor, and honor, were offered to Wala, if he would recall his severe expressions and confess that he had erred. Wala steadfastly refused. “How,” said he, “would the Supreme Judge regard it, if I should pronounce on myself the sentence of a liar; if I should abandon the path of justice and truth? Believe me, my brother, that it is better that we continue on the way into which the grace of God has led us, and maintain our hearts firm in hope. We shall then at last enter into eternal life!”
“I was silent, I was abashed,” writes Rudbertus, “when I heard Wala speak thus. I saw clearly that he, untroubled about his own interests, only thought upon the objects of his earnest love, God, his native land, the church, and the good of the people.
“During our conversation, we heard the waves of Leman breaking against the walls of the prison. Wala directed his gaze upon the unquiet waters, and accustomed to listen for God's voice in nature, as well as his own heart, he heard the foaming waves speak to him of God. Their ebb and flow told him of the same in human affairs; the immovability of the rock against which they broke, was an image to him of the stability of the soul which has its life in God.
“ ‘Thus far may you come, and against these walls shall your proud waves be stayed!’ said Wala, with a calm brow and a bright glance over the excited waters. Like the exiled seer in Patmos, he rent asunder the vail of futurity, and nourished by the divine mysteries, he seemed to have entered already within the portals of the kingdom of Heaven.”
The doors of the dungeon opened some years afterwards to the noble captive, who was summoned to mediate between the sons of King Louis. He crossed the Alps between Switzerland and Italy, more than once upon the same errand. The last time, happy at the tidings of peace, of which he was the bearer to Tuscany, when he fell sick, and reaching the convent of Babbio—where he was elected abbot—he died amongst his brethren. His body was interred beside that of Columban.
Such was the first prisoner of Chillon. Chillon is a prison at the present time; but no longer for prisoners of state. It contains now many criminals, and amongst them a young murderer, of good family. There is a chapel within the castle, in which the prisoners attend divine service.
Several pleasant acquaintances, rendered the weeks spent at Montreux still more agreeable, and I enjoyed many beautiful and sunny hours in their handsome homes on the shore of Lake Leman. I frequently met in these circles, Professor Jules Bonnet, who has published excellent biographical sketches of Olympia Morata, the daughter of Curione, and who is now occupied with inquiries into the fate of the Protestants in Italy. He is young, and himself Provençal, he declaims the naïve songs of the Provençal poet, Jasmin, in the most charming manner.
But “la Vandaine” blew violently; the poplars before my windows became ever more scant of leaves; the waves hurled themselves, with heavy blows, against the shore. I seemed, in the night, to hear in them heavy sighs. The withered leaves fell in the beautiful groves, “bosquets de Julie” and the autumn wind whistled—as it did everywhere else. I longed for repose in good winter quarters, and, towards the end of November, I returned to Lausanne.
In Lausanne, through the kind invitation of Madame Vinet, I obtained a friendly home with a kind and noble-minded widow lady. Two pretty young girls beautified it. My room was light and spacious; it faced the mid-day sun, and afforded a fine view across the deep valley, through which le flou cuts its foaming way, to the beautiful terrace of Montbenon, and thence to the lake and the mountains of Savoy, which here, at a distance, please me better than at Montreux.
The days passed on calmly and pleasantly. I lived in profound quietness, with my books, and my silent thoughts, receiving visits, and visiting the churches. In the evening, the little family of pensioners assembled around the evening lamps, and took it by turns to read aloud. By this means, I made acquaintance with the latest and most celebrated writers of Switzerland,—Töpfer and Bitzins.
Töpfer belongs to French Switzerland, and has written a number of novels, in which he describes its peculiar life with sportive, good-tempered humor; especially as it exists in the more cultivated middle class. Of peculiar characters, there are few; of peculiar ideas, none; but details certain states of the soul, scenery, natural appearances, and human dispositions, are often excellently given. The reader perceives an amiable good-nature, shining through all, like a golden background to his pictures. He is a good genre painter. Occasionally, he combats a popular prejudice, as in the novel of Le Presbytère,—the belief so prevalent among the peasants, of the goodness or reprobation of certain races, in consequence of the child's unavertable inheritance of the parents' vices or virtues. This Töpfer has refuted, with much feeling and earnestness. He has, in most of his smaller novels, merely endeavored blamelessly to amuse himself and others; and in this he has succeeded. I would defy the most sullen disposition to read Le Col d'Anterne, and many others of this class, without being betrayed by them into hearty peals of laughter.
Bitzins is an author of higher pretension. Although he, also, is a genre painter, yet his figures are more peculiar and living; they are drawn from reality; his earnestness is deeper; his humor more keen, often even bitter. He belongs to German Switzerland, and has written, under the pseudonym of “Jeremias Gotthelf,” novels and romances in German, which wholly describe peasant life and manners, especially in the Canton Berne, where he holds a living. He is said not to be the best of spiritual shepherds; his descriptions, however, of popular life, are excellent. That which Fielding and Hogarth were in their own country, Bitzins is for Switzerland. He exhibits the low and laughable, rather than the good, in human nature; but when he does the latter, it takes a strong hold upon the heart. Besides, every one of his pictures is true to nature, naïve, living. He is a great artist, of the Flemish school.
Whilst we, in our little circle, were living on, in our quiet way, the whole of Switzerland was arming itself for war. The revolution of Neufchâtel, that “tempest in a glass of water,” had produced its serious consequences, and far greater than many people expected. Prussia appeared in arms against Switzerland; Switzerland was up to defend herself and her own against Prussia. All differences, all contentions, whether small or great, were now forgotten, between the Swiss Cantons. They rose up like one family, like one man, for the defense of the common fatherland. The forest Cantons, as well as the Pays de Vaud, and Geneva, Zürich, and Freyburg, the isolated Granbundten, the Italian-speaking Tessin, each emulated the others in sending men and means for the same object; all armed themselves for the Sworn-Confederacy; and not they alone. The same spirit moved in the Swiss out of Switzerland. The electric-telegraphs worked day and night, bringing messages from the Swiss in Turin, Milan, Vienna, Paris, London; from wealthy bankers, who forwarded large sums of money for the expenses of the war; from young artisans, who were ready to leave their workshops, and place themselves under the banners of their native land. Nor were even young men of affluence behind them.
“My mother is herself packing my knapsack at this moment, and I hasten to join the army,” wrote a wealthy young man from Vienna.
The enthusiasm was universal; it would even have seized upon me, if I had really believed that war would take place. But, I do not know how it was, I did not believe it, even when I saw mothers and wives weeping in the square, La Riporne, and taking leave of their sons and husbands, who were setting out to the camp; and from the moment when I knew that the Federal government had applied to the Emperor of France, requesting his mediation, I felt certain of the fortunate termination of the war for Switzerland, without a sword being drawn.
Louis Napoleon was a citizen of Switzerland; ever since his childhood, which was passed on the banks of Lake Constance, in the Castle of Arenaburg, has he been regarded as a son of the country. They had given him an asylum there at the time when his life and liberty were in danger; they had refused to surrender him to Louis Philippe, and now, in its hour of danger, Louis Napoleon could not disappoint the land which had been so faithful to him in his hour of need; and he, who was already in his childhood known for a kind of gentle self-willedness, by means of which he managed to carry out all his schemes, so that his mother Queen Hortense, used to call him mon doux têla,—would not he, now that he was a man, and seated on the throne of France, find or devise the means of accomplishing his will in so good a cause? Of this I was certain; and I therefore felt quite easy about Switzerland. It was, however, interesting to me, in the mean time, to see the general rising, the general spirit, in the Confederate States; the unity of feeling for the common native-land in these Cantons, most of which, however, knew very little of the rest, excepting that they were Sworn-Confederates.
“If this war should go forward,” I wrote in my diary, in the month of December, “it will lead to a more inward union of the Swiss Cantons, than would fifty years of peace!”
In the Free Church, special meetings and prayers were held, for the averting of the threatened danger.
Neither did the ladies remain inactive. They established unions all over the country; they made collections, purchased materials, and made up warm garments for the defenders of the fatherland, who must go out to fight in the present bitter cold winter. I, too, set myself to knit a pair of mittens; but they were not finished before peace was established. Louis Napoleon mediated to the advantage of Switzerland. Switzerland was to retain Neufchâtel, which Canton was to become, in a still more intimate manner than formerly, a portion of the Swiss Confederacy. Ultra patriots, it is true, still cried out against the too great concession to Prussia, but the quieter and more prudent party throughout the country, were unanimous that the Federal government had done the wisest and best which was possible. The Swiss army was recalled from the frontiers, and the festivals of war were changed into festivals of peace. Te Deum was sung in the churches.
Thus began the new year of 1857. The Swiss Cantons resumed their life of tranquillity, the work of their railways, their common improvements, and—their petty quarrels.
By visits to the churches of different sects, by
conversation with persons who were both in favor of and
opposed to the established church, I endeavored to
acquire an accurate knowledge of the relationship
between the established church and the free churches,
as well as of the relationship to the religious life in
the heart of a people; and I came to the conclusion
that both forms of ecclesiastical life are necessary in a
state, if that life will attain to a condition of normal development and full consciousness. The established
church, the old nursing mother, is the conservative
power, which, while it faithfully preserves the great
traditions and ancient forms, yet, with a liberal spirit,
opens its embrace to receive the many half-matured,
uncertain, or, as it were, still unsettled souls, which
desire, indeed, but yet cannot bring themselves to a
state of stability. She is not inquisitorial towards her
own; she is tolerate with regard to inner emotion; she
merely requires a certain obedience in the outward.
It is only in countries where sects are forbidden by
law, and the state-church alone rules, that she becomes
despotic and dangerous to young souls, who are not
seldom forcibly compelled, on the first occasion, to the
Holy Communion, or thrust forth out of the pale of
the church, which appears to them rather a
police-institution, than a pathway to the kingdom of God.
It is very different in countries where the Free Church
and Christian sects have equal civil rights. These
churches are exclusive, intolerant, but they are, at the
same time, honest, and they have the life of conviction.
They are frequently one-sided, but they require
a fixed creed; they close their spiritual doors to
those who will not accept it; they will neither recognize
things done by halves, nor any secret reservation;
they require decision and candor; they compel people
to become keen questioners of their own state;
they will not accept an acquaintance which is merely
outward. No youthful soul is compelled by them to
the Lord's table. If the young acknowledge
themselves not ready, not sufficiently faithful as yet, the
teachers defer the ecclesiastical ceremony, and advise the disciple to wait, and continue to learn and
consider, until he can, with a full conviction, acknowledge
himself as a Christian before the congregation.
Such, at least, is the case in the Free Church of the
Canton Vaud, that daughter of the spirit of Vinet.
The Free Church requires that the course of life shall
bear witness to the faith; she therefore becomes often
enough inquisitorial towards her members. The
pastor sometimes excludes from the Lord's table such
as he considers unworthy to be present at it. Thus,
for example, it has happened in the small church
congregations, which, in Lausanne, have gathered
themselves around certain preachers, remarkable for their
gifts, as well as personal character, and have split off
from the great ecclesiastical community. In these
small congregations, the individual character and
influence of the preacher is of great importance.
I sum up my statements thus: The state, or national church, is good, because it is the national nurse which preserves the old life, and nourishes the new, at the same time that it prevents its degenerating into licentiousness and individual fancies.
The Free Churches are good, because they incite and develop the spiritual life, the free thought, liberate the individual, compel him to self-decision, and they prevent “the mother” from falling to sleep; but both mother and child, both the old and the young, are needed for the people and for the state. They mutually incite each other, and work together, for the full development of the religious consciousness and life.
I now return to my own life in Switzerland. It was good, tranquil, agreeable, but—not inspiring. There was good preaching, and good work, and a sufficiency of good society; but I felt the want of large views, of breadth, of horizon. The church spoke merely of the salvation of the individual soul. It turned away from science, and from the largeness of general life, as it did not concern “our city.” Higher life and interests come to me from a distance; come from the country, on the other side of the Alps.
A Roman fugitive, who had lived in Lausanne since the unsuccessful revolution of 1848, and who was called Professor Arduini, commenced a course of lectures on the more modern Italian literature. He was an ardent patriot, had taken part in the Italian struggle for liberty, both in word and spirit. His lectures were, before every thing else, intended to exhibit the national party in the young, feeling, thinking, aspiring Italy.
In my far distant, northern land, I had, like many another, listened with sympathy to the exulting shout of Italy, on the ascension of Pio Nono to the Papal throne. Italy hailed him as her saviour from foreign oppression. The heart-rending biography of Silvio Pellico. “Le mie prigione,” imprisonment in Spielburg, had found its way to our home and taught us to detest the power of Austria over Italy. We contemplated with joy, the handsome, benevolent features of the new liberator, in the portraits which were sent to us, of him. They seemed to promise a bright future for the beautiful, long-subjected country. But the tune soon changed. Delirious festivities and great words, and, soon after, bloody oppression darkened the bright scene. The flames of freedom seemed to ascend in smoke, and from the Italy lately so loftily ostentatious, but so soon again subjected, we turned away—too readily mistrusting her, too easily grown cold towards her. Other European nations had done the same. In Switzerland, the nearest neighboring country to Italy, I had lived for several months without once having heard its name mentioned. People had no knowledge of its literature; they never inquired about its life. It was only when some new nocturnal attempt of Mazzini's was related in the newspapers, that the public attention was turned thither for a moment, and people shrugged their shoulders and thought no more of the subject. The name of Mazzini, and his sly, bloody outbreaks, had become in the eyes of the rest of Europe, representative of the efforts for freedom in Italy, and these seemed to resemble the fever paroxysms of a sick man. No wonder that it had fallen into discredit.
Piedmont alone, stood amongst the Italian states, as an object of esteem and hope for a constitutionally free people. But it stood alone, a small state, at the foot of the Alps, and all the rest of Italy lay enchained by despotic princes, and its own imbecility!
I now learned for the first time, that this Italy had a national party advocating liberty, but in a spirit very different from that of Mazzini, and in opposition to its red flag; one which, with the power of ideas, with the word and with the spirit, openly combated for the liberty of Italy, both the inward as well as the outward. Around this white flag, I saw assembled the noblest patriots, poets, and statesmen, of young Italy, from Alfieri to Uzo Foscolo, Gioberti, Guerazzi, Nicolino, Guiste, Lambruschini, Azeglio, and many others, who are living and laboring at this moment for the work of a peaceful liberation, the greater number in Piedmont, where alone, of all the Italian states, they can find shelter and safety. I learned that quite near to me, on the other side of the Alps, lived a noble people who were silently sighing after a freedom for which it fought and bled, but which did not possess strength enough to defend against powerful foes, both inward and outward; I learned that its heart beat and still burned, although silently, beneath the foot of the oppressor!
I sent for Signor Arduini to become my instructor; I read, with him, Dante, but soon laid him aside for the latest poets of Italy, Guist, so nobly bitter, so warm for his mother-land, (Povera Madre!) as he calls her; Nicolini, whose tragedy Arnoldi da Brescia advocates the rights of conscience in a style so noble, and beautiful; I became acquainted with the efforts of young Italy for a better education of her youth, for the freedom of thought, and the ennobling of life, and I heard the names of noble women mentioned as amongst the friends of the native land.
At the same time, I read the History of the Waldenses. I also now learned for the first time, that this little heroic flock of the oldest church, after centuries of persecutions, and of renewed combat for its faith and freedom, had, within a few years, won this liberty, and now lived happily in the valleys of Piedmont, protected by the King of Piedmont, and acknowledged by the laws, as a portion of its free people and participant of its rights. In my youth, I had read of the bloody persecutions of the Waldenses, those first protestants against the Romish Church. I supposed them to have been long since expelled, and to have vanished from the face of the earth; and behold, they lived, they flourished anew, flourished now as they have never done before, and that quite near to me! The little “light that shineth in darkness”—the device and type of the Waldenses,—had now come forth from the darkness and shone like the stars of the morning in the heaven of Italy.
Now all this affected and animated me! Italy, the celebrated museum of art; Italy, the home of beautiful ruins and palaces, of a singing, maccaroni-eating, far-niente-loving people, the admired land of the Pope, of artists, and tourists, had never so much interested me before.
But Italy—the Niobe of nations—defending with half-broken heart, the youngest child, hope, in her bosom; Italy, after long, dark centuries, awakened to new life, languishing after light, liberty, a higher humanity; longing to become herself, a pure harmonious note in the choir of free peoples—this Italy attracted me with irresistible power. I resolved to set out this very year to Italy, to search into its hidden life, to lay my hand testingly upon its heart.
“Spiranze d'Italia; Risorgimento d'Italia” were continually bright thoughts in my soul. These thoughts warmed me with an inner fire. There was need of it. The winter was very cold; I had never before suffered so much from the severity of the season. In Sweden, people have good rooms and fireplaces, and if they can purchase fuel for themselves they need not suffer from cold there. The mists and the snow-slush made heaven and earth so gloomy that Lake Leman seemed, as in the old times, a desert-lake, and the country around it “a region lost in cloud.” Sometimes the air was dry and gray-cold, bitter, and biting, extremely disagreeable during a whole week's continuance. Ladies sat with their feet upon chaufferettes both at church and at home, but still suffered from cold hands.
The severe winter was not, however, of long duration, and sometimes, even whilst it lasted, days intervened so enchantingly beautiful, so filled with spring-sun and spring-intimations, that I was, as it were, intoxicated by them, and forgot the cold weather that was passed; but it soon returned. During one interval of this agreeable weather, I paid a visit to Morges, where I spent some beautiful days with my friends, the Alexis Forels. The conversation with them and the little circle of interesting persons who met at their house; together with a visit to the superior school for young girls, which is one of the distinguishing characteristics of that little town, made these days rich. I heard lectures delivered here by excellent teachers; such indeed as I had never heard before; and how happy, I thought, were the young girls, to be thus educated into thinking, discriminating, human beings! I longed to have been once more young, to have sat, as a pupil, upon these benches. Oh! my lost youth!—yet thou wast not lost, thou season of longing and suffering; thou taughtest me much, though I did not then understand it. I have understood it since; and that my desert wandering had its hidden meaning and purpose, God be praised!
Towards the close of February, spring commenced in real earnest, and then with a power and beauty which surpassed all my imaginings of what it would be, and which attuned my soul to a perpetual thanksgiving song. The fields became all at once verdant and covered with flowers, (for during the short winter the grass has not time to become yellow and die, as it does in the north,) and an indescribably living murmur of rushing streams, and cheerful children's voices, of singing birds and insects, arose in the calm, sunlit air, from earth towards heaven. The snowy diadem melted from the lofty Dôle, on the Jura chain, and the crimson glow of morning and evening shone with inimitable clearness and splendor above it. Leman lay tranquil as a mirror, and in the evenings, the fiery column of the setting sun sank into its clear bosom, seeming to penetrate far down into its depths—add to this, the air was as fresh, as pure, as light, as the breath of a child.
It seemed to me, as if earth were preparing itself for the visit of a god; and even I stood as if in a state of expectant waiting, as for something unusual which was about to happen. Nothing happened, however; nothing except la bise is entered in my diary, but not altogether conformably with truth, because the north-wind came indeed, and put an end to the enchanting scene, but this spring, nevertheless, was blessed to me from the quiet growth of my own spiritual life; and from the acquaintance of several interesting persons whom I met in social life, to which I now devoted myself more than I had hitherto done.
Lausanne no longer possesses any of that life which riveted Voltaire there, together with many intellectual travelers, and caused its social circle to receive the name of société du printemps, but it is still rich in good, cultivated, and very amiable individuals. I became acquainted with many thinking and agreeable men belonging to the teachers of the university; and the young, noble-hearted, truth-loving Professor Hornung became my friend. But above all, it did me good to see and to hear Professor Vulleimin. I never conversed with him without feeling, my hope of the ultimate triumph of the good, more strong; without more clearly comprehending the development of human and political life into freedom and self-decision. Because the ideal of life is very clearly revealed to the mind of this thinker.
I found amongst the ladies also, many amiable characters; and I heard, many a time, words from their lips, worthy of remembrance for their depth and for the wisdom of life which they expressed. I saw the excellent Madame Vinet but seldom however, because she was confined to her home by the severe and incurable sickness of her only son; but every moment which I spent with her, remained as a point of light in my soul.
La société de la Rue de Bourg, is peculiarly that of the aristocracy of the city, and keeps itself tolerably exclusive to its own hill. It gives choice dinners, and is possessed of wit and worldly wisdom. Before all others, I bear in memory a young lady, with light blue eyes and golden hair; and an old lady, but so witty, so gay and good, that one became irresistibly animated, and, when with her, again young.
The other society of the place, which appeared to me to belong to the sphere of the University, was more grand, more genuine; a simple, unpretending family life. Very few social circles can boast of a female character like that of Clara Monneron, the daughter of Professor Monard, now in Bonn, so noble, so lovely, so gifted, and, at the same time, so perfectly modest. Our souls met one evening, when I was arguing with one of the most distinguished teachers of the Free Church, for the right of the truth-seeking heathen to an entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven: and when I found myself unexpectedly supported by young Mme. Monneron, who, with an expression of surprise in her gentle voice, said:
“What! Do you not believe that every soul which honestly seeks God will ultimately attain to him?”
I saw her but seldom, which I regretted. I went out in many directions; she seldom left home. But it was always a pleasure to me to converse with her. Her soul possessed the same ethereal beauty as her countenance. One recognized the author of the charming little book, “Augustin;” one seemed to hear an angel speak of earthly affairs.
I have also to thank a young lady in Lausanne for the following observation:
“What a number of important facts present themselves in life both with regard to soul and conscience, which are passed over by the historian. It belongs to us women to preserve and implant these sacred memories in the heart of childhood, and, so doing, to keep alive the sacred fire in the home!”
On Sunday afternoons, the population of Lausanne, of all classes, may be seen abroad, on the promenades around the lake, garlanded, as it is, with villas, grounds, and Alps. It is a tranquil life, but holiday-like and beautiful. Generally speaking, life is enjoyed here in a quiet manner, even by the artisan class of the population. Now and then there is an exception to this rule; but, then, it is owing to foreign influences.
One day in February was the fair. On one side of the square La Riporne, at the foot of La Cité, with its magnificent old cathedral, the country-people had set up their booths, and every thing was silent and and quiet. On the other side, however, of the square, stood the French traders in their carriages or their booths, keeping up an immense talking and merriment.
“Who'll have these handkerchiefs?” cried one. “I paid for them fifty francs a-piece; but I'll sell them to you for five-and-twenty—nay, for fifteen—twelve—seven—five—three—two—one franc and seventy-five centimes,—nay, for one and fifty, one and thirty,—one and twenty-five,—one and fifteen,—one and ten, one and five—one franc a-piece! Who has one franc in his pocket? What?—You have not even ninety centimes—not one? That is miserable!—you could never lay out your money better!” and so on.
Another cried, “See this trowsers-piece, direct from Paris. If you buy it you may be dressed like a prince, a captain, an advocate, a syndic! It cost me one hundred francs; but I'll sell it you for fifty—nay, for”—and then an abatement commenced on the same scale as before; “Now who will have it, lift up their hands! What?—Has nobody any money? Buy it all the same! That's nothing; there!”—and the trowser-piece flew into the embrace of a substantial old woman. “There, that is not merchandise which I sell you, but a present which I make you!”
A third commended a little flute, “an English flute, mounted with the purest silver.” It had cost fifteen francs, but he would sell it for five—abatement then followed, as before—“Ah, well, you have not any money with you!—But for these handkerchiefs, however!—Buy them!—It is handsome, look you, to go out on a Sunday, with a corner of one hanging from each pocket, to show that you have money to spend on both sides!”
Each dealer shouts, and fights, as it were, with both
arms, whilst he throws off, one after another,
neckkerchief, coat, waistcoat, and stands there in his
shirt-sleeves.
One, who appears to be more of a Monsieur than the others, because he wears a hat, and they only caps, stands in a cabriolet, and recommends, with pedantic loquacity, various razors, which he flourishes about and makes to glitter in the bright sunshine, before the eyes of the spectators.
Every shouting dealer collects around him a crowd of listeners; these, however, are circumspect purchasers, and don't permit themselves to be decoyed. Now and then, a handkerchief, a paper of buttons, a hank of thread, flies into the embrace of a peasant woman or girl, and whilst they thoughtfully examine the wares, and slowly reach for their small coin, the dealer has turned himself to other customers, in perfect security that he will be paid. He who shouts the loudest, and makes the most violent gesticulations, attracts the greatest number of people around him. Here descends one who is wearied with shouting, and another steps up to his place, with fresh vigor, earrings in his ears, moustache over his lip, and the look of a Merry Andrew. He takes a couple of belts in his hand, and begins—not to shout, but to roar and bellow, so that he can be heard over the whole market, and the voices of all the other dealers are overpowered. This produces great effect. The people leave all the others to gather around this stentorian shouter, and evidently expect an uncommonly curious spectacle. And amusing and uncommon was the scene, assuredly, and entertaining, also, beheld at the foot of buildings bearing the date of centuries, and of the snow-covered Alps, which stood around like a magnificent Colosseum, beneath the clearest dark-blue heaven! The sun shone warmly; the bells of the Cathedral rung. It was a scene of southern life!
One evening, I paid a visit to the Darbyite congregation. The Darbyites are a kind of modern Quakers. Their community is governed by its elders; priests they have none. Any person can speak in the church, according to the inspiration of the spirit. I believe that the founder of the sect, Mr. Darby, an Englishman, is still living. Of late, the sect has found numerous adherents at Lausanne, and in other parts of the Canton Vaud. The Lausanne congregation was, this evening, especially large. Its principal leader is said to be now absent. Three or four men spoke feebly, and without talent. All spoke of the certainty of acceptance in Christ for every one who would believe in him. The hymns took up again the same theme, and compared the believers to “sheep which grazed in rich pasture-meadows, in the perpetual sunshine of grace.”
I found the pasture-meadows, that is to say, within the congregation, very meagre of intelligence. I also became exceedingly sleepy, and many of the good sheep there were sleepy too.
The Darbyites are celebrated for the gravity and morality of their quiet life, as well as for the assistance which they mutually render each other.
The 13th of March was the election-day in the Canton
Vaud, indeed, in the whole of the Swiss Cantons.
I heard upright men, themselves electors, earnestly
deplore the want of honesty and candor which is
exhibited on these occasions, or which these occasions
bring forth. Intrigues and hypocrisy abound.
A noble-minded man gave it as his opinion, that an absolute monarchy was a better form of government for mankind.
I did not agree with him. We must purchase, I said, that which is good in freedom—that which is noble in freedom—with the dangers of freedom; and these we must overcome by taking a higher moral stand. The Christian commonwealth and life are not a level plain, on which mankind can easily wander, like sheep in rich pasture meadows, in the light of an earthly sun of grace. It is a Jacob's ladder to heaven, and every fresh step must be taken with labor and combat, until the crimson of its morning ascends. Civil liberty is, at the same time, an education for freedom; ought, at least, to be so. If the Canton Vaud, if the free life of Geneva, be still in its minority, it does not follow that they are always to remain so.
The aspiring life, in precisely these Cantons, is a pledge, that even here the good will overcome the evil; because, that which essentially grows, and is in the increase, especially in the Canton Vaud, is education, educational institutions of all kinds, and for all classes. Private schools and public lectures, especially calculated for the culture of the young, are continually on the increase. A great many excellent books are in circulation, whilst their low price renders them accessible to all parts of the country, and steamboats and railways make them so likewise.
I visited various of the higher schools for girls, and found everywhere much that was excellent in their arrangement, as well as in individual portions of the instruction given. That which, however, I lack in every case, and, indeed, which I have never yet found anywhere, is a clearly comprehended, and, for the pupils, a clearly expressed comprehension of the object of all education,—a view of life and instruction, which shows the latter as merely a means for the former, and which elevates life itself, from its local, circumscribed sphere, to a means towards the kingdom of God. That which I lack here, as everywhere, is a view of the individual relationship to society, which sanctifies every individual gift to its service, with a clear glance at the relationship of all gifts to the highest objects of society. Such a view ought to govern every educational institution,—to hover over it, like its good angel. If this be wanting in the education of young women, then the most essential is wanting.
Write above the cradle of every little girl: “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord!”
And inscribe the words in her heart, during the time of her education, and her life will then become good and noble, whatever her talents may be; and whatever her sphere of action may become, she will not live merely for a narrow and selfish aim.
And here let me say a few words about the man whom the education of young girls in the Canton Vaud, and for the whole of Switzerland, has to thank for its latest and highest development, which has caused young women in Switzerland to be sent for as teachers into all the countries of Europe, the man who has given a new, more inward direction to the life of the Protestant church, and which it is only needful for it to follow out fully, in order to arrive at its fundamental principle,—its original source. My own individual gratitude also admonishes me to the same, because beyond any other living, interesting individuals and good friends in Switzerland, has been, and still is to me, the dead—undying
ALEXANDRE VINET.
Already in his earliest youth he was affected by his deep feeling for every thing noble and beautiful. One day he was reading aloud Corneille's Cid, in the family circle, and suddenly stopping, he rose up and left the room. His sister followed, a minute or two afterwards, and found him in his room greatly affected and bathed in tears.
His father was a just, but a severe man; nevertheless his son loved him with his entire warm heart. Long after the father's death, the son treasured up as a sacred relic, the peeling of an orange, which his father on one occasion had thrown to him.
It is now about twenty-five years, since a religious revival passed from England through the whole of Switzerland. It awakened souls to a consciousness of their inner condition, and produced an open acknowledgment of the same, as well before men as before God. It was an arousing—as in the early days of Protestantism—an arousing of the conscience against all hypocrisy, all sham Christianity, all mere thoughtless formalism. It flew like wild-fire through the country; it kindled all minds of a deeper character. People held meetings at which they openly avowed their faith, and their conviction. Skeptics, deists, nay even atheists, declared theirs, as well as the believing Christian. Men desired above all things to be honest to themselves and their neighbor. They protested against the tyranny over the conscience practiced by the state-church, and against the hypocrisy or the indifference which was the consequence thereof.
A. Vinet, at this time Professor of Literature, attached himself to the new movement, and soon became its leader, from his great eloquence both as a writer and speaker, and by means of which he conducted it beyond the protest, to the higher ground of the protest itself, and directed the mind to its highest object. Whilst he, like the great Pascal, asserted the power of the conscience to recognize the highest truth, and, in consequence thereof, the human right of self-decision in those questions which most nearly concern its eternal weal or woe, he placed before his hearers the relationship of Christianity to the human soul and life, with the inspiration of an evangelical genius.
His glorious work, “De la Manifestation des Convictions Religieuses,” became, to the general reader, the result of his earliest position. It received the prize from Guizot, in the name of the French Academy. I do not know any thing more beautiful or more elevating than the first chapter of this book, or any thing more deeply affecting than its last pages.
The result of Vinet's second and highest position; the relationship of Christianity to the human heart and life was read in his Discours Evangeliques; which are still read with rapture in the educated circles of Christendom, in all the larger cities from Paris to Petersburg. New Discours Evangeliques poured forth afresh, as from an ever-welling fountain, presented in ever-new pictures the word of Christian revelation, to the inquiring, truth-seeking, suffering, combating, human being. But Christianity was to Vinet, above all things, Christ, the living Saviour. He laid humanity anew upon the Saviour's breast. He himself reposed there, like another St. John, and derived thence his inspiration. In character and disposition, Vinet resembled the Master's most beloved disciple.
Vinet, by his assertion of the right of conscience, and his profound criticism on the working of the state church, awoke innumerable minds. By his promulgation of the objective revelations of the Gospel to the human heart, and above all, of its divine leader, Vinet gave a new concentration to the Christian consciousness, which hitherto had too often understood Christianity as merely doctrine or morality whilst it overlooked its chief object—Jesus Christ, and God revealed in him.
The bringing of this livingly forward, was the aim of Vinet's later activity, both as a teacher and writer. His course of Litterature Français, so rich in noble metal, in beautiful flowers, and so instructive to the youthful mind—is an examination, from the Christian point of view, into the productions of French Literature during the last century. His University Lectures aimed at presenting, with an eloquence and ardor which, perhaps, never were surpassed, the relationship between the requirements of the human consciousness and the “glad tidings of revelation.”
From his chair, as lecturer, where he still spoke with dying voice on these subjects, to his numerous pupils, he was carried one day home, never to stand up before them more.
“If I had lived longer,” he was heard to say on his death-bed, “I might have been able—perhaps to accomplish something good!”
A more humble soul never existed.
Vinet died in the prime of life, but he had done more for humanity than most men.
Vinet has formed, as much by his own character as by his teaching, a school whence have already proceeded many of the young men who are at the present time, most full of promise for the future. Edmond de Presançe, Philippe Trottel, Penchaud, and many others, are amongst these. He was a true man; humble, and with bowed head, passing over the fields of earth, but his hand sowed fruit-bearing seed. Thousands of hearts have blessed it.
Mine is amongst these. For I stood solitary and depressed under many anxieties in my northern home, when a volume of Vinet's Discours Evangeliques was sent to me by his widow.
These strengthened and consoled me. A. Vinet became my friend, in certain questions my teacher. His spirit attracted me to Switzerland, and here have I, above all things, learned to love him still more. Seldom has a man been so universally beloved. And if I were tempted—and I am sometimes—to call for the assistance of some saint in my inner combat, I should lift beseeching eyes and hands to Alexandre Vinet.
When now about to leave Lausanne, and the Canton
Vaud, it is very pleasant to me to place this humble
thank-offering upon the grave-stone of its noblest
teacher, the prophet of the New Church!
And now to Geneva, to the City of Calvin, to the
Rome of Protestantism!