certainly come round again.--Now it was strange enough, that a
pious society had already long since arisen in Dauphine. An aged man
lived there upon a high mountain in the middle of a wood. He had a
glass-manufactory in that solitude. Now we have all experienced that
mountain and valley, the air that one breathes there, the murmurings,
the singular voices, the cry and the echo, make a man bolder, fresher,
and also more imaginative; he no longer fears his brethren in the
cities, he prizes not so highly the stone-houses and the smooth
streets, and all the singing of bells. The man Du Serre had visions and
revelations. He did not, however, go about preaching. He, as well as
myself, was wanting in that gift, but he was endowed with that of
foresight. Can one learn that from another? we must believe it, and our
times confirm it. But how? there lies the riddle! Should it be called
an art? by no means! The enemies call it imposture, that is impious.
Well, this glass-manufacturer kept fifteen young men in his house, and
his wife as many young girls, they almost all experienced the
enlightening, and the greater part of them the gift of preaching. Thus
then did they go out into the world. The fame of beautiful Isabelle was
soon spread abroad. She seduced every-body to apostacy, as the others
termed it. Still more efficaciously did a youth, named Gabriel Astier,
teach and convert. A part of Dauphine and our neighbourhood of Vivares
soon became one flame of religion. The children then already began to
prophecy. But the poor creatures, without weapons of defence in their
too zealous faith, were surprised by the soldiers, and the greatest
number massacred. Our Basville and his son-in-law, the Marshal Broglio,
bore the fame of having massacred them all. Gabriel also, who had
become a soldier in Montpellier, was recognized and executed, and the
lovely Isabelle from fear, in the dungeon of Grenoble, retracted from
her faith, and thus all had the appearance of tranquillity. Sparks of
the faith, however, and of the force of miracles had been scattered and
lost in the Cevennes. For the spirit possesses the property of fire,
which, out of a little spark, by which a small beetle cannot warm
itself, grows, in a few hours, into a brand that lays woods in ashes,
and mocks all human efforts to extinguish it. What may not lie in one
single word? Oh thou mournful sound, like the twittering of the
swallow, thou appearest to die away in the wilderness