LETTER XLII.
From the Same to the Same.
Turin.
My dearest Julia,
Though it is not above a fortnight since I closed my last letter, my life has latterly become so full, that days, happily as they glide away, seem to occupy years in their passage, when I count the measure of their duration by the variety of scene, the stimulus of movement, and the excitement of mind, which I have to remember.
We left Paris on Thursday, and did not enter the Forest of Fontainebleau till its majestic shades were involved in twilight. No, never while I have life, can I forget the emotions which this scene, so noble in its solitude—so melancholy—yet so romantic, excited in my soul! The pensive drapery which approaching night cast over the venerable woods before us! the magnificence of the single trees, which stood out every now and then from the masses of mingled rock and foliage, as if to exhibit all the pride of individuality! the fantastic shapes of hill and crag—the silence only broken by a stream which murmured to the right of us as we moved slowly forwards: and all this, contrasted with the din of that noisy, vicious, and idle multitude that we had left behind, struck upon my heart an impression which, while “memory holds her seat,” can never be obliterated.
I could have lingered for ever in the dreary, yet beautiful Forest of Fontainebleau, regardless of the present and future, so wrapped was I in contemplation of the past. Henry the Great rose upon my vision, and the horns seemed to sound in my ear, that summoned him and his brilliant cortege to the royal sports, of which this splendid forest was the favourite scene. The ghost of Bayard, dear to France, and adored by all whose breasts own a sympathetic spark of those glowing fires kindled by the spirit of chivalry, glided across my imagination; but the images of grandeur, and the phantoms of romance, soon vanished from my mind, and left it fixed in the concluding act of that astonishing drama, over which the curtain dropped at Fontainebleau, when Napoleon, fallen from his high estate, resigned the sovereignty of Europe, and sealed the death-warrant of that power which had subdued the world, and drawn the nations captive at his chariot wheels. Forgive me, I have broken my resolution, and am wandering from my purpose; but I promised more than I find it possible to perform, a lesson you will say, to my presumption. No, to pass through such scenes as these, as if one were travelling over a turnpike-road in the west of England, would argue something either above or below human nature; and, as I profess to be a very mortal of earth, I feel that I may claim your pardon for my digression. I could tell you of the softest, stillest, most heavenly moon that ever lent its silver beams to heighten a prospect and inspire the genius of meditation. I could dilate in raptures on the landscape round Nemours; I could break from every restraining bond to expatiate on the transports with which, on arriving at the brow of the prodigious steep which overhangs Briare, I first beheld the Loire, rolling through a perfect Elysium: but I will hasten onwards. You shall not be detained at Moulins, though we staid there two days. You shall not halt in the lovely Nivernois, though we broke down, and had thence the happiness of remaining for several hours in one of the sweetest cottages imaginable, admiring the groups of peasants at their daily toil, so cheerful—so picturesque.
At Lyons, too, we rested; visited “Les Etroits,” though not for the sake of that bad man, Rousseau; and thence pursued our way. That odious Charles Emanuel, the tyrant of this region, haunted me as we passed through Savoy. It is true that I would fain stand still with you for a moment on Mont Cenis, and make you partake of my enthusiasm as I gazed from the plain of St. Nicholas; but it must not be; “Hark forward!” must be our motto. There! I have brought you safely into Turin, and you have not yawned over a single syllable of controversy respecting the station from which Hannibal encouraged his army by a sight of the Italian plains, nor gone to sleep over a single calculation upon the impossibility of traversing the Alps with a numerous host of elephants. My business is not with the truth or falsehood of Livy’s descriptions at present, though he was one of our travelling companions; but as I said before, you have stepped out of your traineau, and are with whole bones deposited in a large commodious dwelling in one of the finest streets of the capital of Piémont.
Thank Heaven, my beloved mother, and her precious charge, have surmounted the difficulties of our journey with far less of inconvenience than I could have anticipated. My uncle suffers no pain, but his languor increases with increasing weakness. The wonderful blessings of the Almighty warm my heart to unspeakable gratitude; and when I consider the chain of circumstances attending on the return of this once dreaded relation to his own country, I cannot call them less than providential. I told you not long ago, how happy he is in the removal of those doubts which harassed his mind; and no sooner have Mr. Otway and mamma finished this work, and arrived at a “consummation so devoutly to have been wished for,” than the saint-like voice and countenance of Alfred Stanley “take up the wondrous tale,” and truth that comes “mended from his tongue,” by the holy sincerity in which it is uttered, pours oil and honey over the wounds so newly cicatrized, and, with a sacred unction, prepares our dear invalid for his celestial rest. Of Falkland, like the Alps, I must not speak, lest I should say too much. His society is the best consolation which could be offered in the bereavement of Arthur, and we literally devour this magic scenery together, with our eyes and hearts. The beauties of nature are not like those of art, addressed only to the outward sense. They captivate the affections, and I always find that they point my mind to Heaven, there to glorify that creative wisdom and beneficence, which saw it good thus to adorn the earth. We are engaged in planning various schemes for seeing the surrounding country, and only wait to hear from Arthur, and learn whether we have a chance of his returning, and accompanying us in the excursion, to make arrangements for our darling project of visiting the vallies of the Waldenses. Adieu, dearest Julia,
Your ever after,
Emily Douglas.