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Savoy, requiring all the Protestant people of the valleys to quit their homes within three days, under pain of death, unless they were prepared to reconcile themselves to the Romish Church.

This brutal edict, it is to be observed, fell upon the inoffensive and helpless inhabitants of the valleys in the depth of winter. With only three days of preparation, they were required, with their aged, their children, their delicate women and their sick, to wander abroad, outcasts from home, in the midst of all the terrors of an Alpine January, and along defiles and mountain-sides difficult to traverse under the most favorable circumstances.

The terrors of this flight, it is vain to attempt describing. Many perished from cold and exposure. Many fell down the slippery rocks, and were dashed to pieces; some suffered the lingering agonies of starvation; and upon the more wretched families who were unable within the required time to begin their flight, there broke in a horde of French, Piedmontese, and Irish savages, compared with whose deeds the fury of the elements was gentleness. The miserable survivors, from their place of refuge, made their appeal for sympathy and aid to the Protestant Christians of Europe. Our tears, they said, are no longer of water, but of blood. Those who were once the richest among us, are reduced to beg their bread. Our beautiful and flourishing churches are scattered and in ruins. O, have pity upon the desolations of Jerusalem, and be grieved for the afflictions of Joseph! Compassionate the thousands of poor souls who have suffered things worse than death for the testimony of Jesus!

This touching appeal met with such a response in England as must gladden the heart of every Christian reader of history. The great Protector, in the language of one of the writers of the time, "rose up like a lion out of his place." He was not the man to look on idly when truth lay bleeding under the iron hand of Bigotry. His first and immediate act was to issue an order for a day of fasting and prayer, in view of the distressed condition of the Protestants of the valleys. The next was to direct that contributions be taken up in all the churches for their relief; and so deeply were the sympathies of British Christians stirred, that in a short time, near forty thousand pounds were contributed to this object; a sum fully equal, considering the higher value of money at that time, to two hundred thousand dollars of our currency. Of this amount, two thousand pounds came from the Protector's own purse.

But Oliver did not stop with this. He undertook the work of forcible remonstrance with the

authors of the persecution. And with these steps opened that noble chapter in English diplomacy referred to in the beginning of this article. The heart that felt the atrocity of the massacre, and the insult it implied to every Protestant state, and the strong will that rose indignantly to rebuke it, did not lack the aid of the ready pen to convey its emotions. There was at the head of English affairs at that time, not only the mighty man and the man of war, but the counselor, the cunning artificer, and the eloquent orator. The head of Moses was not left without the utterance of Aaron. In the office of Secretary for Foreign Correspondence to Cromwell, was that great mas ter of language and of song, John Milton; and from his pen, in May of the year sixteen hundred and fifty-five, proceeded that series of letters signed OLIVER P., which sounded through the states of Europe, both Catholic and Protestant, a note that made both the ears of them that heard it to tingle. With all the decorum and courtesy of official correspondence, it made known to the "Most Serene Princes" who were dipping their hands in Protestant blood, that the work of proscription must cease forthwith. "When intelligence was first brought us (was the language addressed to the court of Savoy) that a calamity so awful had befallen those most miserable peo ple, it was impossible for us not to feel the deepest sorrow and compassion. For as we are not only by the ties of humanity, but also by religious fellowship and fraternal relation, united to them, we conceived we could neither satisfy our own minds, nor discharge our duty to God, not the obligations of brotherly kindness and charity, as professors of the same faith, if, while deeply sympathizing with our afflicted brethren, we should fail to use every endeavor that was within our reach to succor them under so many unexpected miseries."

This firm and intelligible state paper lan guage was enforced by the address of the British envoy, Sir Samuel Moreland, on presenting it at the Court of Turin. This brave and honest gentleman took no pains to conceal his disgust at the proceedings of the court, nor to soften the tone of indignant expostulation in which he set the crime before the eyes of the perpetrators. "Were all the tyrants of past ages alive again," said he, in the presence of the royalty and court of Savoy, "they would own, contemplating these atrocities, that they had been but tyros in the work of persecution. Angels are horror-struck at the spectacle Heaven is astonished with the cries of dying men, and the earth blushes with the stain of innocent blood."

The French king, Louis XIV., had lent his

troops to aid in the expulsion and slaughter of the Vaudois. To him Cromwell wrote, by the hand of Milton, in the same firm and energetic tone. Louis replied with apology and denial; alleging that he had given no orders to his troops to engage in any such business; and that the high value he put upon his own Protestant subjects would forbid his engaging in any attempt against the Reformed elsewhere. "So much in answer to your letter. But I cannot conclude without requesting you to be assured that upon every occasion you shall find how much I esteem your person, and that from the bottom of my heart I pray the Divine Majesty that He would have you in His holy keeping."-Louis.

It was, in terms, the great future absolutist of Europe addressing the representative of popular sovereignty. In fact, it was the doing of Cardinal Mazarin, who still held the reins of government; and the anxiously civil tone of the reply may lend some confirmation to the story, that the Cardinal was accustomed to change color at the very mention of the name of Cromwell.

To the Protestant Princes of Europe, Oliver wrote, inviting their co-operation in his remonstrances; and plainly intimating that if remonstrance failed, he was ready to join them in going any length necessary to arrest the persecution. As a specimen of this truly singular, because truly magnanimous and Christian style of diplomatic correspondence, we give (in an abbreviated form) one of the shortest letters, that addressed to the King of Sweden.

MOST SERENE KING,-The report has no doubt ere this reached your dominions, of that most cruel edict which has been issued by the Duke of Savoy, by means of which he has utterly ruined his subjects of the Alps professing the Reformed religion; having given orders that they should be driven out of the places of their inheritance, unless they consented to embrace the Roman faith. The consequence has been, that many have been slain; the remnant, plundered and exposed to certain destruction, are at this moment wandering up and down with their wives and little ones, through desolate mountains of never wasting snow, ready to perish through hunger and cold. Nor can we doubt that your Majesty is greatly troubled at these things. For though in lesser matters they differ among themselves, yet the hatred of our adversaries, which is common to us all, sufficiently demonstrates that the Protestant name and cause is one.

We have therefore thought it necessary to state to your Majesty what has come to our knowledge of the wretched and forlorn condition

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of these poor innocent people; and to give you to understand that we have already conveyed our sentiments in the strongest manner we could to the Duke of Savoy in their behalf. We are also persuaded that your Majesty, detesting such inhuman and barbarous massacres, has already, or immediately will, interpose your mediation with the Duke in favor of the little remnant of those poor men that are yet left unbutchered And if, instead of yielding to these remonstrances, he chooses rather to persist in his purpose, we declare that, assisted by your Majesty, and the rest of our allies of the Reformed religion, we are prepared to have recourse to such measures ag may, to the utmost of our power, relieve the distress and provide for the safety of so many poor and afflicted people. In the mean time we hear tily recommend your Majesty unto God Almighty. Your Majesty's good friend,

Given at our palace at
Westminster, May 25, 1655.

OLIVER P.

This correspondence was unquestionably a labor of love to Milton. His strong passion for freedom of worship, and his hatred of bigotry, poured themselves in the sonorous Latin periods of these letters. But this did not furnish vent enough for his indignant emotions. He seized his lyre and struck forth those sublime strains, too familiar here to quote, which have done more than anything else extant to relieve the ignominy of the sonnet.

This great episode in English affairs has been thought unworthy of any but the most casual notice of secular history. Hume barely refers, in passing, to the "mediation" of Cromwell with the French monarch; and intimates that through his influence a degree of regard was paid to the Protestant remonstrance, which the Protector himself had no direct means of commanding. But this is far from being true. The mediation of France was solicited as a courteous and customary means of obtaining what might be enforced, if necessary, by sterner methods. The English navy, under Cromwell, became as much more effective than before, as all the other parts of the public service. That great admiral whose name English song loves to associate with the name of "mighty Nelson," was displaying the meteor flag of England along the coasts of the Mediterranean, and striking a terror wherever his sails were seen. Turin was not so far from the sea that an army landed at Genoa might not easily reach its walls; and the plan of invasion by the allied Protestants was not only thought feasible, but was actually contemplated, should the persecution be persisted in. But it was better, if possible, to make per

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suasion do the work of fear; and though the

aldenses could not be wholly withdrawn from the scope of Romish malice, yet that outward concession was promptly paid to diplomacy which might otherwise have been extorted by arms. And never did diplomacy engage in a nobler mission. It was pleading the cause of helpless innocence. It was the defence of down-trod. den truth-the championing of those sacred rights so dear to the hearts of men, compared with which the ordinary objects of diplomacy are as the small dust of the balance.

The publication of Cromwell's private correspondence has given its quietus to the stereotyped lang which has so long rung all the changes on

the Protector's "hypocrisy." It sets him forth through the record of his most intimate commun ings, as a man acting under a controlling, ever present sense of divine things. This public cor. respondence exhibits him as a great Christian statesman; one with whom the interests of humanity and religion had a weight which your | legitimate red-tapist considers due to nothing but flags, boundaries, and trade. Between diplomacy rising up, like incarnate Deity, to relieve the oppressed, to judge the fatherless, and plead for the widow, and diplomacy wrangling about cotton and tobacco, who does not feel the difference to be as wide as from the equator thrice to the utmost pole?

BY WILLIAM

HOPKINS, ESQ.

POWER Mysterious!

Whether in lightning, light, or heat you sleep;
Or in the needle true and tremulous,
Guiding the vessel o'er the desert deep,
Dreaded by all the ancients as portentous,
The moderns put you to each common use,
As o'er the fiend his spell the sorcerer throws.
Old Vulcan forged thee out,
Ready for Jupiter's revengeful hand,

Who hurled thee on the Titans in their rout,
That vainly would withstand his high command.
Then he piled on them Etna's mountain height :
There, while they writhe and twist their prison
bars,

Release but sulphurous sighs and molten tears.
Art thou enchained to earth?

Joined like the soul unto an earthly prison ?
The way thou comest, how thou goest forth,
Exceeds the little span of human reason.
And yet men cork thee up and handle thee,
Like Genii bottled in Arabian tales.
We lay our hand upon Leviathan's scales,
And bind him for our children in their play.

A dweller in the cloud

From every mountain-top and hidden glen;
From stars, that shed their rays like melody
And crystal waters, echoing stars again.
The music of the heavens men will not hear-
Beauty falls coldly on the eye and ear.

Rounding the frozen Horn,

The sailor climbs the swaying, slippery stay; On the malignant darkness of the storm, You leap, like some wild spirit on its prey; Rending to atoms its fierce shadowy form; Releasing its hid light like red heart's blood, The vessel, bathing in its fiery flood.

The sailor's friend

Illumining each rope, and point, and spar;

While toward the boiling lee the tall masts bend,
You hiss around him, in the heavy air;
And o'er the concave, sheets of radiance send;
And leaden mountains round the ship that rise,
Are tipped with burnished gold beneath thy blaze.
Amid Pacific Isles,

Kale's wild sulphurous waves are flashing high,
Devouring rocks, as snow, the melting rills,
When April suns are northward mounting high:
Beneath the waters deep Stromboli boils;
Like a tall beacon Cotopoxi burns,
And like a mighty piston Hecla charms.

The vine-dresser

Vesuvius upward tempts from steep to steep; Holding in ambush back their mighty power, In Etna's caverns deep the earthquakes keepWaiting the call of retribution's hour;

Then cities on earth-waves will toss like spray, And over sunken lands roll the deep sea.

Cities cast down

Are not the proudest trophies of thy might;
Nor Staffa's pillar'd arches high upthrown
Above the tall cathedral's loftiest height;
Nor granite needles pointing to the sun:
For earth, though rolling on for endless years,
Will ever in her visage wear thy scars.

Is thine a link

Enchaining the invisible to man?

Lifting the veil above time's awful brink—
Calling the buried back to earth again,

Vampire and Dramon; all from which men shrink.

In the thick darkness of the night in sleep,
A spirit past the creeping flesh doth sweep.

Know you the vampire man?

That sleeps by day beneath the coffin-lid?
And walks by night upon the earth again
With blood from out his living victims fed;
(His dread recruits from out the tribes of men
The victim votaries of his awful trade
The living cannibals among the dead.)

Hast thou a tone

Known but to few and faintly echoed there?
A dim intelligence just felt and gone
As sparkles flash along the Electric wire,
Or bullets skip and dance the waters o'er,
Communing with the statues of the slain,
That shadowy watch o'er their own graves
maintain.

Hast thou antennæ long?

Fibres invisible, though vast of reach, Stretching the people of the dead among; Telling some mutterings of their awful speech; Bringing a dim light to some eyeballs strong

Which only the initiate may see, Flashes from wavelets of eternity,

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Are yours, dim mountains shown?
Above the shadowy mists that round thee close
There summits seem (so faint the light is thrown)
Half cloud, half true in undisturbed repose;
Or e'en their shadows still lakes resting on
Their forms so seldom seen; beyond the ken
Of the earth-gazing crowd of common men.
Darkness may reign!

But in the fashion of a man One comes

Who from our hell-bound limbs has struck the

chain;

He called the wanderer from among the tombs,
And brought back reason to the fevered brain.
From Hades he the latest messenger-
Angels and spirits walk on earth no more.
Let there be light!

The awful accents chaos trembling hears,
And on the mental eye as on the sight,
The light increases with increasing years.
The earth is rolling in a path-way bright,
And brighter beams are beaconing it on
To the full glory of the eternal morn.

From off the earth

Since first the morning stars together sung,
Like the sun-painted plates, has picture truth
In myriad plates of light each instant sprung,
And still the endless chain is rolling on
Across the waves of vast eternity,
Carrying the pages of our history.
An Angel goes

Toward the far border of unending space,
And of earth's first beginning present knows
The tale; as light toils onward in its race,
To some far rolling star the Deluge shows
Nearer the Crucifixion, still more near
The papal deeds of Cruelty appear.

Light toils on

To reach the outside of eternity.
There's not an instant lost! all we have done,
In light eternally embalmed will be;
And when our bones to nothingness have gone,
The pantomime of all our actions flying,
Will onward roll in endless wave undying.

The hour will come

When they who to earth-chambers have gone down,

The gathered trophies of the hungry tomb
Will hear the awful trumpet's gathering tone.
May angels watch us in our silent home,
And tongues of fire above our sleeping dust
Mark us! as of the Pentecostal host.

THE bells of Ghent were ringing a merry peal, flags and banners hung from steeple and tower, and the streets were overflowing with the ci izens dressed in their holiday attire. It was the birthday of the mighty emperor who had first seen the light within its walls, and though to-day was not even the hundredth time of its celebration, yet it was evident that it could not pass without extraordinary festivity.

Our attention, however, is not to be called to a scene of mirth or rejoicing, nor have we to chronicle the fate of one whose name threw a lustre over the place of her birth. But whatever were her failings, and they were not few nor light, who will say that they were not atoned for by the severity of her destiny? Whilst, then, the sounds of rejoicing were at the loudest, we must notice a heavy traveling carriage drawn by four horses, which came slowly lumbering along as it entered the gates of Ghent. It was an equipage which evidently belonged to some one of rank, for the mouldings were richly gilded, and the windows were of Venetian glass, in those days a great luxury. But it had seen its best days. The coats of arms, which nearly covered its panels, were scarcely any longer legible, the gildings were tarnished, and the horses, by their want of condition, showed that they were not fed by a pampering hand. Two ladies occupied the inside, one of whom, despite of her fifty years, might still have been called handsome. Her face and complexion betrayed her southerly extraction, and though her features were clouded with grief, there flashed forth every now and then from her eyes a glance of pride and self-consciousness. Her companion was a younger person, and altogether more feminine in appearance, but still the expression of her face was of high spirit, struggling with dreadful exhaustion. Eight days only before the time we write of, her fair head had fallen in effigy by the hands of the headsman; outside the carriage sat two female attendants, with a young page, and one who seemed to show to the full the wretchedness which was depicted upon the faces of his mistresses. It was an old man, whose hair was

already white, whilst the velvet-laced coat which he wore accorded well by its threadbare look with the faded splendor of the equipage. The time had been when the travelers might have expected similar sounds of rejoicing to greet their ears, a concourse of people and the ringing of bells, and all in honor of themselves. Alas! those days were past. Just once the elder lady had allowed the noise to attract her attention to

the street, but her look was speedily withdrawn. The memory of other times came over her, especially of the day on which she had made a public entry into this very town, attended by all that was fair and brilliant. Treachery and ingratitude had done much, and had yet their worst to do. The carriage at length stopped, and the page descended to the window to ask the direction the carriage was to take.

"To an hotel, Paulo, it matters not which." Soon after, however, as the carriage was again rumbling on, a sign caught the eye of the elder lady, and the check-string was hastily pulled. It was of a second-rate inn, and her companion asked with surprise, "What!

here?"

"And why not?" said the lady, slowly. "It is the sign of the 'Helpful Mother of God.' We are deserted by all: perchance the blessed Virgin will shield me from the eyes of the world, and offer me a retreat where I may close my eyes in peace."

We resume the history after a lapse of seven months.

In the window of a small house in the street de la Crucé a light might have been noticed burning deep into the night; within the small scantily furnished apartment whence it issued, were four people standing mournfully around a bed, on which lay a someone sick unto death. The elderly lady whom we have seen before, and an old attendant whom we recognize by his faded velvet coat and white hair, were two of these; the others were a sister of a religious order, and a celebrated physician of Ghent. The patient we have also seen before: she was a lady whose