I fell to talking with this
gentleman, and found he was on his way to La Torre Pellice, the
headquarters of indigenous Italian evangelicism. He told me there
were about 25,000 inhabitants of these valleys, and that they were
without exception Protestant, or rather that they had never
accepted Catholicism, but had retained the primitive Apostolic
faith in its original purity. He hinted to me that they were
descendants of some one or more of the lost ten tribes of Israel.
The English, he told me (meaning, I gather, the English of the
England that affects Exeter Hall), had done great things for the
inhabitants of La Torre at different times, and there were streets
called the Via Williams and Via Beckwith. They were, he said, a
very growing sect, and had missionaries and establishments in all
the principal cities in North Italy; in fact, so far as I could
gather, they were as aggressive as malcontents generally are, and,
Italians though they were, would give away tracts just as readily
as we do. I did not, therefore, go to La Torre.
Sometimes priests say things, as a matter of course, which would
make any English clergyman's hair stand on end. At one town there
is a remarkable fourteenth-century bridge, commonly known as "The
Devil's Bridge." I was sketching near this when a jolly old priest
with a red nose came up and began a conversation with me. He was
evidently a popular character, for every one who passed greeted
him. He told me that the devil did not really build the bridge. I
said I presumed not, for he was not in the habit of spending his
time so well.
"I wish he had built it," said my friend; "for then perhaps he
would build us some more."
"Or we might even get a church out of him," said I, a little slyly.
"Ha, ha, ha! we will convert him, and make a good Christian of him
in the end."
When will our Protestantism, or Rationalism, or whatever it may be,
sit as lightly upon ourselves?
CHAPTER X - S. Ambrogio and Neighbourhood
Since the opening of the railway, the old inn where the diligences
and private carriages used to stop has been closed; but I was made,
in a homely way, extremely comfortable at the Scudo di Francia,
kept by Signor Bonaudo and his wife. I stayed here over a
fortnight, during which I made several excursions.
One day I went to San Giorio, as it is always written though San
Giorgio is evidently intended. Here there is a ruined castle,
beautifully placed upon a hill; this castle shows well from the
railway shortly after leaving Bussoleno station, on the right hand
going towards Turin. Having been struck with it, I went by train
to Bussoleno (where there is much that I was unwillingly compelled
to neglect), and walked back to San Giorio. On my way, however, I
saw a patch of Cima-da-Conegliano-looking meadow-land on a hill
some way above me, and on this there rose from among the chestnuts
what looked like a castellated mansion. I thought it well to make
a digression to this, and when I got there, after a lovely walk,
knocked at the door, having been told by peasants that there would
be no difficulty about my taking a look round. The place is called
the Castel Burrello, and is tenanted by an old priest who has
retired hither to end his days. I sent in my card and business by
his servant, and by-and-by he came out to me himself.
"Vous etes Anglais, monsieur?" said he in French.
"Oui, monsieur."
"Vous etes Catholique?"
"Monsieur, je suis de la religion de mes peres."
"Pardon, monsieur, vos ancetres etaient Catholiques jusqu'au temps
de Henri VIII."
"Mais il y a trois cent ans depuis le temps de Henri VIII."
"Eh bien! chacun a ses convictions; vous ne parlez pas contre la
religion?"
"Jamais, jamais, monsieur; j'ai un respect enorme pour l'Eglise
Catholique."
"Monsieur, faites comme chez vous; allez ou vous voulez; vous
trouverez toutes les portes ouvertes. Amusez-vous bien."
He then explained to me that the castle had never been a properly
fortified place, being intended only as a summer residence for the
barons of Bussoleno, who used to resort hither during the extreme
heat, if times were tolerably quiet. After this he left me.
Taking him at his word, I walked all round, but there was only a
shell remaining; the rest of the building had evidently been burnt,
even the wing in which the present proprietor resides being, if I
remember rightly, modernised. The site, however, and the sloping
meadows which the castle crowns, are of extreme beauty.
I now walked down to San Giorio, and found a small inn where I
could get bread, butter, eggs, and good wine. I was waited upon by
a good-natured boy, the son of the landlord, who was accompanied by
a hawk that sat always either upon his hand or shoulder. As I
looked at the pair I thought they were very much alike, and
certainly they were very much in love with one another. After
dinner I sketched the castle. While I was doing so, a gentleman
told me that a large breach in the wall was made a few years ago,
and a part of the wall found to be hollow, the bottom of the hollow
part being unwittingly removed, there fell through a skeleton in a
full suit of armour. Others, whom I asked, had heard nothing of
this.
Talking of hawks, I saw a good many boys with tame young hawks in
the villages round about.
