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,