LILLA VILLARE.

A WALDENSIAN SKETCH.

Four hundred years ago, the valleys of the Alps were the scene of some of the most horrid barbarities ever practised on humanity. There is scarcely a rock or ravine, scarcely a cave or a crag, of those mighty mountain barriers, that has not been the home of the exiled and persecuted saints of God, scarcely one of them all, that has not been consecrated by their suffering, and stained with their blood.

In the valleys of Pragela, of Argentiere, in the Loyse, in the Fraissiniere, throughout Dauphiny, Provence, and Piedmont, for more than four centuries, did Papal malice and tyranny glut themselves on the innocent Waldensian witnesses for the truth. There the Beast ravened and devoured the saints of the Most High. The blood of martyrs mingled with every stream, reddened every mountain top, and moistened every vale. In dark dens and caverns did the chosen people of God seek refuge from those who, though they were the symbols of the great Shepherd's love, followed his flock only for the slaughter. Oh, God of Mercy, what deeds of infamy, of horrid cruelty, of outrage and crime, have been perpetrated in thy sacred name!

On the Italian side of the Dauphine Alps is the valley of Pragela-one of the most inaccessible of all those where the Waldenses fled from the persecuting Papists, and found a home among wild beasts less cruel. Shut in by mountain ridges, and shaded by mighty forests, it was approached by few and difficult passes, while it was threaded by deep dark ravines into which the sun never shone. Pragela offered one of the most secure retreats for these hunted children of faith, when driven from the open country; here they took refuge, built them rustic cottages, and lived; and when followed even here by the insatiable hatred of their foes, they would retire far up the mountain, hide in the intricacies of its many caverns, and find a sanctuary amid its everlasting snows.

Here dwelt, about the middle of the fifteenth century, old Arnald Villare. Arnald was a godly old man. Angrogne was the home of his childhood, but driven from the place where his fathers dwelt by the

relentless spirit of religious intolerance, he, with others, had fled for their lives, and sought security in the sequestered vale of Pragela. Maggerie Villare was a kind and faithful wife to Arnald, and for forty years had shared his joys and sorrows. Two children only they had; Angelin, a bold and manly youth, now twenty-three; and Lilla, a fair and lovely daughter of eighteen. Such was the family of Arnald Villare, that daily bowed in thankfulness before their great Protector, in their rude but comfortable cottage in Pragela. Friends they had, and such as they dearly loved. Scattered throughout that and the neighbouring valley, were the Waldensian refugees, together with families that had for centuries inhabited those desert wilds.

For fifty years the inhabitants of Pragela had dwelt in peace. For half a century the sword of persecution had not reached the quiet dwellers in these mountain vales, though martyr-blood had flowed in torrents elsewhere. Lilla had never looked on carnage; but many an hour in childhood, and in later years, had good old Arnald beguiled the time with tales of what he had seen, and what he had suffered.

At length the fires broke out anew,-the bloodhounds of Romish vengeance were again let loose,-the sword of cruelty once more drunk the blood of slaughtered saints. In 1469, a new persecution burst upon these valleys, and raged with unparalleled violence till 1488. Thousands of soldiers overrun them, doing the cruel bidding of the Papal antichrist; and hundreds of the innocent Waldenses sacrificed their lives as witnesses for God. Angrogne, Lucerne, Perouse, Biolet, had been desolated, and now it was Pragela's turn to suffer. Long oppression had maddened the people, and they resolved to defend themselves. They guarded narrow passes, and shot down the foe; from towering crags they dashed rocks upon the troops below, and visited dreadful retribution on their enemies.

"Oh, father, dear father," exclaimed Lilla, rushing into the cottage, pale and trembling with alarm, "the soldiers are in the valley; we shall be slain." Around the dwelling of Arnald were scattered a number of others, some in sight and others hidden by jutting rocks and forest trees.

They occupied a romantic little vale in Pragela, called Glen Frae. Lilla had been out to gather wild flowers, that bloomed in rocky crevices, and sheltered by mountain crags. Poor child; a fairer flower

never bloomed in Glen Frae, than was Lilla Villare. But the rose on her cheek now was blanched with terror. Never had she known fear till this day. "Do not fear, my child," said Arnald, "but put your trust in God. Many a dark time have I seen in my youth. Well do I remember the day my father perished in Angrogne. Pray!"

By difficult defiles the troops were approaching Glen Frae. The alarm spread, and a half hour sufficed to bring out every cottager who could hurl a stone or draw a bow; while women and children betook themselves by intricate, yet familiar, paths up the mountains to the cavern retreats, and addressed themselves to prayer.

"Oh, God," cried Lilla, as she knelt on the rocky floor of a damp, dark cave, “Oh, God, protect thy people, shelter my father, spare Angelin"-her voice choked, and she sobbed in silence.

When the sun went down, the struggle was done, and Pragela's vale was stained with blood; but the Inquisitors were defeated. A score of soldiers who came for rapîne and booty, found only a grave. There was thanksgiving in Glen Frae. There was mourning, too; for some from Angelin that quiet glen had perished. Villare was among the dead. "Father, thy will be done," said the good Arnald, as he bowed that night in prayer. killest and thou makest alive; but thou livest for evermore. Blessed be thy holy name." Poor Angelin they buried beneath the crimsoned sod on which he fell, and mingled bitter tears where his life blood had flowed. They consigned the noble youthful form of him they so well loved to the dust of death, in the keeping of Him who is the Resurrection and the Life.

"Thou

Side by side with Angelin, when the battle was over, lay the body of Count De Costel, the commander of the troops; and not far distant, Friar Michel, the instigator and leader of the cruel expedition, his head crushed with a stone from some Waldensian hand. But life still lingered in the heart of De Costel, though abandoned by his comrades as one dead. A young man of noble family, of brave and generous nature, he had been bred to the profession of arms,

and was attached to the imperial army. Popish malice proclaimed a crusade against the mountain christians, and De Costel yielded his authority and influence to the shameful work.

They took him kindly up, and laid him beneath the humble roof of Arnald Villare, in the exercise of that pious virtue that does good to enemies.

Hours passed away before returning consciousness enabled him to realize his situation; and weeks before returning strength permitted him to leave his couch. Day after day he received the kind attentions of those whose hearts and homes he had made desolate, by the death of a son and a brother. Day after day he listened to the voice of prayer, bearing upward, in simple fervour, the burdens and wishes of contrite hearts; prayer for him, for all, even for enemies. Such prayer he had never heard before. He heard the bible read, whose words of spirit and of life he had never heard till then. He had learned that Christianity was clad in gorgeous robes, with splendid pomp and vindictive justice, moving amid racks, and gibbets, and dungeons,-binding, burning, and devouring victims. For the first time he saw simple, pure christianity, and he knew the divine form.

Months passed, and though De Costel's wounds were healed, he lingered still in Glen Frae. Was it strange? He loved his benefactors. And Lilla,-it may be Lilla had been kind to him; and when he heard her voice mingling with the songs of the wild birds, singing beneath the shade of the giant trees, he said it was the sweetest music he had ever heard. When she gave him wild flowers, he said he had never seen so fair before. They stood one day by Angelin's grave, and when Lilla wept over the dust of her brother, he said kindly, "Sweet Lilla, do not weep; let me be your brother."

At length he told them that honour called him away. He asked again the forgiveness of Arnald and Maggerie, that he had been the means of bereaving them of a son, and in the name of God, whom he had there learned to worship, did he bless them for their kindness, and bade them adieu. He took Lilla's hand and said, "Farewell," but his voice choked, and he turned away. Since she committed Angelin to the grave, had not Lilla seen so sad an hour as that when De Costel left Pragela.

Months passed away, and another scene was witnessed in Glen Frae. It was a calm, bright Sabbath day; and from every glen and hill side for miles around, they came to worship in Glen Frae. The place where they assembled was a short distance only from the cottage of Arnald Villare. It was a scene lovely and grand-a scene fitted to inspire devotion in spirits unused to worship. Delicate beauty in fragile form mingled with mountain grandeur, told the goodness and power of the great Maker. Here they worshipped God in the simple sincerity of pious hearts, unrestricted and untrammelled by rites or creeds. The bible was their service book, and the Holy Ghost their leader; and their songs of thanksgiving, and their supplications, ascended as incense before the Lord of Hosts.

This was a day of unusual interest, for the aged pastor, whose faithful and pious labours were distributed through the valley, sometimes in this place, sometimes in that, was now to be in Glen Frae, to preach the word and administer the communion and baptism.

It was noon-tide when they gathered for the baptism. A rivulet flowed through the glen, and just here, the channel choked by rough rocks, dammed up the stream and made a mimic lake. The quiet crystal waters, mirrored in their fair depth the glorious sun, the fleecy clouds, and the blue sky, as well as a noble elm that grew upon its margin. There stood the company of worshippers; men and women of mature years; the aged, leaning feebly on their staves, who with unsteady steps had travelled far that day, along difficult mountain footpaths, to mingle in the service of God. There were the joyous youth, young men and maidens, and laughing, innocent childhood. But they all stood reverently, or bowed in silence, when the pastor breathed forth a simple fervent prayer for the Divine blessing. Then the sweet strains of a beautiful hymn rose on the quiet air, as old and young united in a song of praise.

The candidates came forward. First was a young man, in the strength and pride of matured youth, consecrating himself to God. The pastor took his hand, and both together they walked down into the water, where he baptized him "in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost." "Buried with Him by baptism into death," said the old man, as he raised his form from

his liquid grave, 66 so we also should walk

in newness of life."

Next came a young female, clad in pure white, a fillet of the same binding up her dark hair. She seemed a bride: and such indeed she was, for she was now beneath the open heavens, and before that company, to dedicate her life to Him she loved, to whom she had long since given up her heart. It was Lilla Villare. There she stood, in all her loveliness, with pious meekness, obeying her Saviour's great command.

"I baptize thee," said the pastor, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and," "Stop," cried a stern, strange voice, breaking in on the service, and the stillness of the scene.

Old Arnald and Maggerie, who had stood at the water's brink with hands clasped in devout thankfulness, started as from a dream; and the company looked around to see what intruder should dare to interrupt God's minister in the performance of God's commands.

"The soldiers-the Inquisitors !" shrieked the terrified women and trembling men. On the hill above them stood a company of soldiers, and hastening towards them was their commander. Without stopping to regard the alarm of the worshippers, he pressed through their midst into the water where Lilla and the pastor were standing. It was De Costel.

"God be praised," he exclaimed, “that we meet thus. And now, pious father, permit me to share this privilege, and be baptized." "If thou believest, thou mayest."

"I believe," he said, "in the Lord Jesus Christ; and henceforth I build up the faith I once destroyed."

Both were baptized; and as they came up from the water, fervently did Arnald and Maggerie embrace them both.

"Now grant one blessing more," said De Costel. Arnald placed the trembling hand of Lilla in his, and the pious pastor lifted up his own in benediction. Bride indeed she was; and the human destinies of the noble Count and the humble mountain girl were united.

A more bold and faithful witness for the truth could not be found in all Pragela than De Costel; and when, years afterwards, the Papal bloodhounds worried and devoured the christians in these valleys, did his skill secure, and his courage protect, the humble dwellers of Glen Frae.

"CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS."

In 1845 I made a delightful tour in Switzerland. Besides my second son, I was accompanied by a very dear friend from Scotland, as well as a younger brother in the christian family, who was preparing for the ministry.

Our first Halt was on Saturday evening, at the town of B-, within view of a long range of the snowy Alps. Here we determined to spend our Sabbath, and not merely

"To look thro' nature up to nature's God," but rather to devote the sacred hours to communion with our covenanted Father, and christian intercourse with one another.

Without the public means of grace, we assembled after breakfast in our room, and read portions of scripture, and severally offered prayer; and good reason had we to believe that God was with us, and we could say, "Truly our fellowship was with the Father, and with His Son Jesus Christ."

But though we were in a foreign land, among a strange people, it was still my humble desire, as far as possible, to "sow beside all waters." While we were at dinner, I was struck with the attention as well as the activity of the youth who waited on us,-apparently about seventeen years of age. I said to my friend, "I wonder if this poor lad knows anything about his soul?" "I would ask him," was his reply; and on doing so, it was with regret 1 found him ignorant of the commonest notions of religion. He acknowledged he had heard of a God, but he did not know whether he believed in him. He never prayed to him. He never read the bible. He was not leading an immoral life, but he did not know why. He was not more addicted to swearing than other people. He did not know if he had a soul. He had heard of heaven and hell, but he did not know which way he was going, and it was evident he had never thought about the matter! He was a frank, open, amiable young man, and, I confess, my heart yearned towards him. "Meet me in my chamber in half an hour," said I. He assented, and then finished waiting, while we, in our own tongue, blessed God that we had not been brought up in such ignorance, or in a land where the bible is seldom found and seldom read.

The lad was true to his appointment. I had to lament that I was not a better French scholar; but I believe that as God gave me

the heart to feel, so he gave me the tongue to speak. I "began at the beginning,"man's sinfulness, and helplessness, and hopelessness; and then, in the best way I could, I read to him some passages of Scripture, shewing him what was the remedy-the only remedy for such a pitiful state. In short, without presumption, I hope I may say, "I preached unto him Jesus." I then proposed to join with him in prayer. It was a solemn and interesting moment, to lead such a young man for the first time to the throne of grace!

When we rose from our knees, the simple but heartfelt expressions of gratitude, together with the tears trickling down his cheeks, led me to hope and pray that our petitions had been heard and would be answered, and that "surely the Lord God had been in that place." I then urged upon him before we parted three things:

1. That he would pray day and night, through Christ, the one and only Mediator. 2. That he would read the Scriptures whenever he had opportunity.

3. That he would leave off swearing. When my companions and myself retired at night, and frequently in our journey afterwards, especial intercession was made before God for this interesting youth. In the following year I enjoyed much profitable intercourse with my friend in Scotland, and we frequently remembered in our conversations the happy Sabbath at B, and the waiter at the hotel.

In 1847, I proposed to myself another excursion to Switzerland, and looked forward with no small degree of pleasure to the time when I should again reach Band probably either see or hear something of the young waiter. But it was differently arranged, and I was persuaded, not without much hesitation, instead of going to Switzerland, rather to visit Bavaria, the Danube, Austria, the Tyrol, &c.

My eldest son and a young Cambridge student were my companions on this occasion. We proceeded up the Rhine in the early part of August, and, almost exhausted with the heat and fatigue of a long day's journey from to, we had made no arrangements as to the hotel to which we should go. We had heard of two, the "Hotel P," and the "Hotel R.' We gave preference to the former, as it would be close to the place where the diligence stops. But in passing through the streets I was so struck with the outside ap