THJi SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS In that part of the Alps, amidst tho high mountains of Savoy, very near the road that leads from Briancon to Modena, is a lonely valley, whose solitary aspect instils into the minds of all who travel through it a sort of pleasing melancholy. Three hiUs in the form of an amphitheatre, on which some shepherds' huts are scat- tered at several distances, interspersed with clumps of lofty trees, streams tumbling down the mountains in cascades, and pastures ever green, compose the beautifux landscape of this natural scene. Count Fonroso and his Lady were returning from France to Italy, when their coach broke down as they were passing through the valley ; and as the day was on tho decline, they were obliged to look for some place of cover, where to pass the night. Whilst they ad- vanced towards one of the huts, they perceived a flock of sheep drove by a shepherdess, whose walk and air filled them with astonishment, and their hearts with the sweet accent of her melodious voice, which the echoes repeated in plaintive sounds. How bcautiful's the setting sun ; It6 daily course now almost run, We can behold its charms ; More pleasing are its fainter rays, Than when in full meridan blaze. Thus it wiH prove, said she, when, after a painful race, the weary soul arrives at the wished-for gaol, and 4 The Shepfarclcss of the Alps. calmly drops into eternity, to renew its vigour in the pure source of immortality. But alas ! how distant is the prospect ! how slowly it passes away ! In saying these words, the shepherdess moved on ; her head de- clined ; with a supinencss in her attitude, which gave easo and dignity to her gait and mein. Struck with amaze- ment at what they saw, and more at what they heard, the Count and Countess redoubled their steps to overtake her. But what was their surprise, when, under tho coarse straw hat and mean apparel, they met with every beauty, every grace. Pray, child, said the Countess, (finding she endeavoured to shun them,) be not alarmed, we are travellers, and an accident obliges us to ask for shelter till morning in one of your cabins ; be so kind as be our guide. I am very sorry, madam, answered the shepherdess, blushing and casting down her eyes, that you will be but ill accommodated, as these huts belong to very poor people. You live here, I suppose, said the Countess, and surely I may put up with the inconve- niences for one night, when you undergo them continually. There is a wide difference, said the modest shepherdess, I am brought up to it. I cannot believe that, interrupted Count Fonrose, not able any longer to hide his emotion ; no — you were not formed for such hardships.. Fortune is unjust, or how is it possible that so lovely a person should be reduced to live obscurely in so low and ordi- nary a dress. Fortune, replied Adelaide, (so was the shepherdess named,) is not to be blamed, but when she deprives us of what she has given us before. My con- dition has its sweets for one that knows no other state in life. Custom and example create wants for the wealthy, which the poor are ignorant of. It may be so with those that are bora in this solitude, said tho Count ; but for you, charming unknown, you are not what you seem to be : your air, your voice, your language, all betray your disguise. These few words you have said, discover a noble soul, and a cultivated education. ! tell us, lovely creature, what cruol turn of fate lias brought you to this condition ? A man under misfortune, replied Adelaide, The Shepherdess of the Alps. 5 has a thousand means to extricate himself; but a worn any in such cases, has no resource but in the honest servitude; and in the choice of one's master, mothinks it is best to prefer the good and virtuous. You are going to see mine, and you will be delighted with the innocence of their lives, and the candour and simplicity of their manners. As she was still speaking, they arrived at the hut: it was divided by a partition from the shecpfold, into which the shepherdess turned her flock, counting them over with the most serious attention, heedless of the strangers, who beheld her with admiration. The old folks, such as presented Baucis and Philemon, received their guests with the honest, simple courtesy which recalled the golden age. Wo have nothing to offer you, said the good woman, but clean straw for your bed, and a hearty welcome to such provisions as heaven affords us, milk, fruit, and oaten bread. On entering the cabin, they wero amazed to sec the order and neatness that appeared every where in so poor a habitation. Their table was walnut plank, finely polished by frequent rubbing; their carthern dishes and dairy pans shone with the nicest cleanness ; every thing presented the image of contented poverty, happy to have wherewith to support the real wants of nature. It is our dear daughter, said the old woman, that manages all our little affairs. At break of day, before she lends her flocks to the hills and dales, whilst they are nipping about our hut the sweet grass surcharged with the morning dew, she employs that time in putting every thing in the neat order and manner you see them placed. What! said the Countess, inter- rupting her, is the shepherdess indeed your daughter? Would to heaven she was, replied the good creature ; she is the daughter of my heart, and I havo a mother's fondness for her ; but I am not so happy as to havo brought such perfections into the world, nor aro wo worthy of such honour. Who is she, then? Whence came she? What misfortune has reduced her to so low a station? All that is a secret to us. Three yoars ago 6 The Shepherdess of the Alps. she came here in the habit of a villager, and offered to tend our flock. She would have been welcome to share our little, without taking upon her that painful task ; so much the sweetness of her person and behaviour engages our hearts. We could not believe she was bred in a cottage. Our questions made her uneasy. We desisted from farther enquiry, as they seemed to disturb her. As our knowledge of her good qualities increased, so did our respect ; but the more we strove to shew her that respect, the more she humbled herself before us. No, never had any child for its parents a more tender regard, a more constant care. She cannot obey, because it is impossible for us to command ; but she dives into our hearts, and prevents our wishes when they are scarcely formed. She is an angel descended from heaven, to be the comfort of our age. What is she doing now in the sheepfold? asked the Countess. She milks the ewes and she-goats, fosters the young kids and lambs, and gives them fresh litter. The cheese she makes is thought delicious : no doubt- for having been pressed with her neat hands. I carry it to the market, and have not near enough to supply all those that Would be my customers. When the dear child is tending the sheep in the pasture, she employs herself in making works of plaited straw, which are admired by every body. I wish you were to see with what dexterity she weaves the osier plain twigs, and mats the tender flexible rushes. There is nothing, let it appear ever so perfect, but what she can improve upon. You see, madam, continued the good old dame, in all about you is the image of an easy, contented life ; it was she that procured it, it was she, this angolic creature, whose only study is to make us happy. But is she happy ? said the Countess. She does all she can to make us believe so, said the old pastor : but I have made my dame observe, that she ofttimcs returns from the pasture with a dejected look, her eyes still moist with tears ; but as soon as she sees us she affects a smile. It is easy to pcrceivo there is some gnawing grief that preys upon her heart, tho cause of which wo The Shepherdess of the Alps, 7 dare not ask. And then, said the old dame, what con- cern does she not give me, when, in spite of all our en- treaties, the dear creature will, in the severest weather, lead abroad her bleating care. A thousand times have I requested her, in the most earnest manner, to let mo now and then relievo her ; but my requests have never been complied with. She rises with the sun, conducts the flock, and does not return till it sets, often shivering with cold. How is it possible, my dear parents, she would say, with all the tenderness of a loving child, how is it possible that I should consent to let you leave your fireside, to be exposed, at your age, to the inclemency of the season, which I, young as I am, can scarce support? At the same time she comes loaded with fagots, which she gathers in the wood ; and when she sees I am troubled at the fatigue she must undergo, Don't be uneasy, says she, my dear mother, exercise keeps me warm, and labour is fit for my age. In short, my dear lady, she is as good as she is beautiful. My husband and I never speak of her but with tears of affection. What if you were deprived of her? said the Countess. Why, answered the old shepherd, we should be deprived of all that is dear to us in the world ; but if she is to be happier for it, we should die content, and our misfortune would be our comfort. Oh ! may kind heaven heap blessings on her head! There are none so great but what she deserves. I was in hopes her dear hands would have closed my eyes, for I love her much more than I do my life. Adelaide's coming in put an end to the conversation. In one hand she carried a pan of milk, and in the other a basket of fruit ; and after courtseying with a grace peculiar to herself, she set about the little household affairs, as if she was not tho least taken notice of. My dear child, said the Countess, you give yourself a deal of trouble. Not at all, madam : I endeavour to fulfil the intentions of the best of people, whose servant I am, to treat you in the best manner, with what their little can produce ; but I am afraid, continued she, whilst she was spreading on a coarso 8 The Shepherdess of the Alps, table-cloth as white as snow, that you will but make a sorry meal. The bread is brown, but very savoury ; the eggs are new laid, the milk fresh drawn, and tho fruit fresh gathered, such as the season affords. Diligence, attention, and modest deportment, in every minute duty of hospitality, were conspicious in this wonderful shepherdess. After the frugal repast, Count Fonrose and his amiable lady retired to rest on the bed, though but of straw, which Adelaide had prepared for them. Is not our adventure surprising ? Let us en- deavour, said they, to unravel the mystery of this pre- tended shepherdess, invite her to accompany us, and make her happy if we can. At break of day one of tho Count's servants came to let his master know he might proceed on his journey as soon as his honour pleased/for the coach was securely repaired. It was ordered up immediately ; but before they left these honest folks, tho Countess desired a moment's conversation with the young person who styled herself their servant. Adelaide came to receive her commands. Without desiring to penetrate into the secret of your birth, said the Countess, or into whatever is the cause of your distress, I feel that I am sensibly interested in all that concerns your welfare. It is evident that your courage raises you above your misfortunes, and that you conform your behaviour suitably to your present circumstances. It is true, your charms and your virtues render your condition designed for you. It is in my power, amiablo unknown, to alter it, as the Count's intentions are quite agreeblo to mine. I want a bosom friend : and from what I have seen in you, I shall think myself possessed of an inestimable treasure, if you consent to be my friend and companion. Drivo from your thoughts the least shadow of dependance. You were not formed for servitude, and should my fond prejudice deceive me, I would rather lift you above your birth than leave you below it. In short, I seek a real friend, one that I can confide in. Be not under any concern about thcbe good people : I shall mako U p for their loss ; at least so far as to The Shepherdess of the Alps. 9 cnablo them to pass the remainder of their days in peaco and plenty ; and from your hands they shall receive my constant bounty. The poor old folks, who were present, fell on their kness and kissed the Countess' hand, then turning to Adelaide, they conjured her, in the most pressing terms, to accept the lady's generous proposal. We cannot, at our time of day, be far from the grave, and as it has been your constant study to make our lives happy, so must our death leave you comfortless in this solitary place. The shepherdess embracing them, and mixing her tears with theirs, returned a thousand thanks to their noble guests, with a sweetness that increased her charms. I cannot, said she, accept of your favour ; heaven has marked my destined lot, and I submit to it: but I shall always with the most grateful heart acknow- ledge your goodness ; and the name of Fonrose will never be absent from my memory. The only thing I request of you is to bury this adventure in eternal silence, and never to reveal the fate of an unknown person, who is determined to live and die in oblivion. The Count and Countess redoubled their solicitations, but all in vain — she was immoveable. The travellers parted from their charming shepherdess, to retirement. During their journey, their conversation was taken up with this strange adventure, which appeared to them like a romance. They arrived at Turin, their imagination full of it ; and you may be sure their desired silence could not be observed. The charms and virtues of this unknown shepherdess was an inexhaustible source of reflection and conjectures. Young Fonrose, their only son, was often present at their conversation, and never let a single circumstance escape his memory. He was of that age when imagination is most lively, and the heart most susceptible of receiving tender impressions ; but was of the character of those who keep the feelings of their sensibility within themselves, and which are so much more violently agitated when they burst from their con- finement, as they have never been weakened by any dissipation. All tho wonders ho hoard related of tlw 10 Tlie JSJiepherdess of the Alps. valley of Savoy, raised in his soul the most passionate desire of serving her. The object which his imagination . has formed, is ever in his mind. He compares it to all he sees, and all he sees is lost in the comparison. The more his impatience increased, the more he took care to disguise it. Turin became insupportable : the valley where the inestimable jewel was hid, was the loadstone that attracted his heart ; there he placed all his happi- ness ; but knew not how to get at it. If his designs are found out, what difficulties to surmount ! His parents will never consent to the journey he intends : it will not bo looked upon as the mere effects of curiosity, but be deemed a youthful folly, that may have bad con- sequences ; and the shepherdess may be alarmed at his presence, and shun his addresses ; if it is discovered, he loses her for ever. After three months' struggle, he determined to quit all for her alone ; and, under the disguise of a shepherd, find her out in the lonely valley, and there remain till death, if he could not prevail on her to leave it. He disappeared. His father and mother missed him with great consternation, and waited his return with the greatest impatience. Their appre- hensions increased more and more ; and his absence continuing, the whole family was plunged into desola- tion. Their fruitless search and enquiries completed their distress ; till at last these unfortunate parents are reduced to lament the loss of their only child. Whilst the afflicted family of Fonrose was in this dejection, the youth arrived in the valley which had been described, and, in the habit of a peasant, presented himself to some of the neighbouring cottagers, and offered his services. His ambition is satisfied. He is accepted of, and a flock is committed to his care. At first he only followed the sheep wherever they chose to feed, in hopes that chance would direct him to the same pastures where the solitary shepherdess fed her flock. The unhappy, at some times, thought he, may listen to the voice of comfort. It is an aversion to tho world, and the desire of a retired, quiet life, that TJic Shepherdess of the Alps. ] - \ detains her here. She will experience some tedious hours, when she will not be displeased to meet with a friendly intercourse, nor avoid a virtuous conversation. If I prove so happy as to make mine agreeable, I shall have great hopes of something more. If I gain her confidence, friendship will follow, of course ; and friend- ship in different sexes, is nearly allied to love. Whilst he indulged himself with these pleasing re- flections, his eyes wandering on the beautiful scenes of the valley, ho heard at some distance, the very voice whose melody ho had been so often told of, which raised an emotion in his heart as great as if it had been an accident unexpected. She sung the following words : — Sweet Solitude ! to which I fly, Of every bliss bereft ; There affliction's cup enjoy, The only boou that's left. These melancholy complaints pierced Fonrose's ten dcr heart. Ah ! whence the grief that consumes her ! what pleasure to afford her comfort ! He durst not as yet raise his hopes any higher. It might perhaps alarm her, if he yielded to his impatient longing to behold her ; it was sufficient for the first time to" have heard the sweetness of her voice. Next morning Fonrose went to the pastures, and having observed which way the lovely shepherdess directed her flock, he sat himself at the foot of the rock, which the day before had echoed with her moving sounds. Fonrose, with all the grace of outward form, possessed every talent, every endowment that the nobility study to attain. He played upon the hautboy as well as Beluzzi, of whom he had learned, and who was at that time the delight of the courts of Europe. Adelaide, absorbed in melancholy, had not yet begun her melodious strains. The echoes were silent ; when on a sudden that silenco was interrupted by the sweet notes of Fonrose's hautboy. A harmony sc uncommon filled her with amazement, mixed with some emotion. 12 The Shepherdess of the AJps. Her cars had never there been struck before but with the shrill squeak and buzzing hum of the rustic bagpipe. Motionless, with deep attention, she cast her eyes around, ».o find out from whence proceeded such divine music. She perceived at some distance, a young shepherd sitting in the cavity of a rock, at the foot of which his sheep were feeding. She drew somewhat nearer, that she might hear him play more distinctly. Behold, said'she, tho effects of instinct! The ear alone has given this shepherd all the imcness of that charming art ! what purity in the notes ! variety in the modulations! what fire and neatness in tho execution ! who then shall say, that taste is not the gift of nature ? Adelaide, for the first time since her retirement, felt her grief in some measure suspended. Fonrose, who saw her approach nearer, and sit down under a willow, to listen moro conveniently, had given her no room to think he had perceived her : he took the opportunity, as soon as' she retired, to calculate the place of her flock, so as to meet her without affectation, at the bottom of the hill, where the road that led to their different huts crossed each other. He gave her a look in a seemingly careless manner, as if he was wholly taken up with the guidance of the sheep : but ah ! what beauties were gazed on in that look! what eyes! what a mouth! what divine features! so moving in their languor! how ravishing would they appear in one animated with love ! Affliction had added, paleness, and freed, in some degree, the blooming carnation of her cheeks. But of all charms, none struck him with so much admiration, as her elegant j-diape and air. Her easy motion was that of a young ■i dar, whoso straight and plain stem yielded to the soft impulse of the zephyrs. The charming image which love engraves in his heart, takes up his thoughts, and fills his soul with irresistable passion. How faintly, said he, was she described: the lovely beauty is unknown to the world, whose admiration she deserves. She that would grace a throne, lives under the thatch of a cottage, em- ployed in tho low occupation of tending the flocks ! — in The Shepherdess of the Alps. 13 what poor garments docs she appear ! But she em- bellishes every thing, and nothing can commend her. ♦What ! so delicate a frame made for such a laborious life! homely food! straw her bed! heavens! she has the thorns, for whom do you preserve the roses! Sleep put a stop to those flattering ideas, but did not banish from him her lovely image. Adelaide felt herself somewhat touched with Fonrose 's youth and comeliness, nor could she help reflecting on the capricious turns of fortune. For what end, thought she, has nature endowed this young shepherd with such graces! Alas! those gifts, haply useless in his station of life, might prove a source of misery in a higher station. What is outward form ! what is beauty ! wretched as I am, is it for me to fix their value? This reflection im- bittered the little rising pleasure she had indulged. She reproached herself for having yielded to it, and resolved never to give way to it again. Next day, Fonrose imagined that she affected to avoid his coming near her. He was cast down at the very thought. Does she suspect my disghise ? Have I dis- covered myself? These uncertainties perplexed his mind. His hautboy was neglected. Adelaide was not far distant, but could have heard the sounds, had ho played upon it. She could not guess the meaning of its silence, and began to sing, in her old melodious strains, — Ye pretty birds, whoso pensive notes My lamentations join ; Ah! what avails your warbling throats, Qnn they soothe woes like mine ! All seem around to share my grief, As if to assuage my pain ; But mine admits of no relief, And comfort speaks in vain. Fonrose, moved to his inmost soul with her complain- ing, so melodiously expressed, could not refrain from taking up his hautboy. She continued, and he accom- panied her sweet voice. * 4 The Shepherdess of the Alps. Never was a unison more harmonious. Is this an enchantment I said Adelaide. May I believe my seines ' it is no mean shepherd ! it is some supernatural bein- that I have been listening to ! Nature may give a vent but great masters and constant practice alone can roach to such perfections. As she was thus musino-, the valley resounded with a rural or rather divine symphony • Ade- laide imagined she saw realized those prodigies which poetry attributes to music, her brilliant sister. Asto- nished and confused, she could not determine whether to approach or retire. Meanwhile the young shepherd was collecting Ids flock, to lcad'it back to the cottage He is not conscious., said she, of the pleasure he commu- nicates around : he is not the least vain of his perfection • he docs not expect the praises I owe, which are so justh' his due. Such are the sweets of music! it is the only talent that finds enjoyment in itself: all others must have witnesses, or else partakers. Music was a gift from heaven, bestowed upon man in his state of innocence - it is the purest of all pleasures, and the only one that I can yield to. I look upon this as an echo, that comes to re- peat my grief. Fonrose, in his turn, affected to avoid her. Adelaide was concerned at it. Alas ! said she, I give myself up too easily to the little comfort I felt : I am deprived of it for my punishment. One day they met as if by chance, Shepherd, said she, do you lead your flocks to any great distance? These words uttered from her sweet lips, caused in Fonrose 's heart such an emotion as almost deprived him of his voice. I cannot tell, replied he, with hesitation, it is not I that lead my sheep, it is my sheep that lead me ; they are better acquainted than 1 am with these pastures, and I let them range wherever they please to go. From whence came you ? said Ade- laide. I was born on the other side the Alps. And mm you brought up to a shepherd's life? No doubt, since I am one, I was destined for it. That is what I can scarce believe, she replied, gazing on him with fixed attention : your talents, your language, your air, all con- The Shepherdess of the Alps. 15 vince mo to the contrary. You are very good, answered Fonrose ; does it become you to tax nature for bestowing her favours with a sparing hand on those of your condi- tion — you, whom she has formed more for a queen than a shepherdess. Adelaide blushed and waved the dis- course. The other day, said she, your hautboy accom- panied my voice with such a masterly art, as must seem a prodigy in one brought up to feed the flocks. It is to your singing, replied Fonrose, that is so rare in a simple shepherdess. What! were you never instructed ? Like you, I have no other guide than my heart and my ear. You sung — I was moved — what my heart feels, my in- strument expresses — I breathe it in my very soul. That is all my secret — nothing is more natural. It is incre- dible, said Adelaide. . I thought so too, replied he, whilst listening to your voice, and now I am convinced of it : though sometimes nature and love will frolicsomely be- stow their choicest favours on the meanest objects, to shew there is no condition, be it ever so low, but what they can ennoble. Whilst they thus discoursed, advancing in the valley, Fonrose, animated by a small ray of hope, began to make it resound with rapturous notes that pleasure inspires. — Ah ! cease, cried Adelaide, spare me the image of a sentiment I never more shall taste. This solitude is con- secrated to grief ; all hero join with my lamentations. I am not without woes, said the young shepherd, fetching a deep sigh, which was followed by a pause of silence. What has caused your afflictions ? of what do you com- plain ? is it of mankind ? is it of fate ? I really cannot tell. All that I know is, that I am far from being hap- py — pray inquire no farther into my situation. II»ar mo, said Adelaide : Heaven has made us acquainted to be a mutual support to each other's woes ; mine are a burden, under which my heart sinks down even to de- spondency. Whoever you be, if you are unhappy you are compassionate, — I believe you are worthy the con- fidence I shall repose in you ; but you must promise mo that the confidence shall bo reciprocal. Alas! said Foil- 1G The Shepherdess of the Alps. rose, my woes are of a nature perhaps never to bo relieved. Meet me to-morrow, said Adelaide, at the foot of the bill, under the spreading oak where you heard mo moan. I will there reveal what will excite your pity. They parted. Fonrose passed the night with great inquietude ; his fate depended on what he was to hear ; he dreaded the discovery of a tender unhappy passion. If she loves, I am undone. Ho set out to the rendezvous, and the fair shepherdess arrivod soon after. The morn was overcast With clouds, as if nature had presaged their sorrowful conversation. — They seated themselves under the oak ; when, after a profound sigh, Adelaide thus began THE STORY OF HER WOES. " Beneath those stones you see there, almost covered with the creeping grass, lie the remains of a most faith- ful and virtuous man, whom my lovo and imprudence brought to the grave. I was born in France, of a weal- thy family, and of high distinction ; too wealthy, to my misfortune. Count Oreston conceived for me the most passionate, tender love, to which my heart corresponded with equal warmth. My parents objected to our union, and refused their consent. Hurried on by my passion, I agreed to private marriage, sacred to virtuous souls, but disapproved by laws. Italy then was the scat of war. My husband was ordered to join tho corps he was to command ; and 1 went with him as far as Briancon. There my foolish fondness prevailed on him to stay with me three days, which he passed with extreme reluctance. I sacrifice, said he, my duty for you. But what had I not sacrificed for him ! " He afterwards set out with a foreboding that terri- fied me. I accompanied him to this valley, where we took leave of each other, and I returned to Briancon. In a few days a report of a battlo was spread about. I was sure my dear Oreston was there. I wished it for bis honour ; I feared it for my love. When 1 received The Shepherdess of the Alps. 17 a letter from him, (which afforded me great comfort,) it informed me, that on such a day, such an hour, I should find him in the valley, under the same oak where I had bid him farewell ; that he should be alone, and desired to meet me unaccompanied, adding, that he only lived for me. I saw nothing in his letter but his impatience to see me ; and that impatience was to me very flattering. I was exact to the appointment. Mr Oreston received me in the most tender manner. Ah ! my dear Adelaide, said he, you would have it so. I have failed in my duty at the most important crisis of my life. What I feared is come to pass. The battle was given, my regiment charged, and performed wonders of valour, and I was not at its head. I am dishonoured for ever — lost without risk — I have but one sacrifice more to make you, which I am come to consummate. At these words I pressed my dear husband in my arms. I felt my blood congeal in my shivering heart. I fainted dead away. He took that opportunity to perpetrate his design ; and I was called to life again by the report of the fatal pistol that gave him his death. How can I paint the cruel situation in which I was left ! it cannot be described. These tears, that must for ever flow ; the sighs give but a faint idea of my distress. I passed the night over the bloody corpse, quite stupificd with grief. _ My first thoughts were, as soon as I was able, to bury it and my shame together. These hands dug his grave! I do not mean to move your compassionate heart — But the mo- ment in which the earth was to separate me from that dear remains, was a thousand times more dreadful than can bo that which divides the body from the soul. De- pressed with grief, deprived of food, my feeble hands were two days employed in performing this last sad duty ; and I then formed a determined resolution, to remain in solitude till death unite us. Gnawing hunger preyed upon my vitals, and I thought myself criminal in pre- venting nature from supporting a life more msupportablo to me than death. I changed my dress for that of a simplo shepherdess, and I look upon this valley as my 1® The Sheplierdess of the Alps. only asylum. Ever since I have had no other comfort, but that of seeping over this grave, which I hope will soon be my own, " You see with what sincerity I open to you my in- most soul. — Henceforth I may weep in your presence without restraint— a relief my overburdened heart stands much m need of-*I expect you will put the same confi- dence in me, as that I have reposed in you. Don't im- agine that I am imposed upon. I am certain that you are no more a shepherd, than I am a shepherdess. You are young, perhaps in love ; for if I guess aright, our mis- fortunes flow from the same source. The similitude of our conditions will make us feel the more for each other. I look upon you as one whom heaven, moved with my afflictions, has sent into this solitude to save me from de- spair. I look upon you as a sincere friend, capable of giving, if not satisfactory advice, at least a firm exam- ple of true resignation to the Divine will." Ah I madam, said Fonrose, overwhelmed with what lie heard, whatever tender sensibility my heart is prone to feel, you are far from imagining with what deep con- cern the recital of your woes has affected me— the im- pression will remain as long as life. What! must 1 have a secret, nay, even a thought reserved from you from you, who have a right, after what you have en- trusted me with, to scrutinize my very soul ? But as I told you before, and as my foreboding heart apprehended, such is the nature of my woes, that I am doomed to conceal them in eternal silence. Be not offended, charming friend, at a silence which is my greatest tor- ment. You are very unhappy: but I am more unhappy still. I'll be your constant companion : I'll endeavour to mitigate your sorrows, and help to case you in an em- ployment too laborious for your delicate frame. Let me bo a partaker of your grief; and when I behold you weeping over the tomb, I shall mix my tears with yours. You never will have cause to repent having deposited your secret in an unfortunate heart, that feels all the value of its trust. I do repent it already, said Adelaide, The Shepherdess of the Alps. 19 with some confusion, and retired without further dis- course. In her abrupt departure, she saw in Fonrose's countenance all the marks of an affected mind. Alas ! said she, I have renewed his sufferings. what sufferings they must be that can give him grounds to think himself more unhappy than I am ? No more music, no more conversation. They neither seemed to seek nor shun each other. Looks that spoke their thoughts were all their language — it was very ex- pressive. When he found her weeping over her husbands grave, he beheld her in mute attention, full of jealousy, grief, and pity, till her groans were echoed by his. A few days were past in this painful conflict, when Ade- laide took notice how the young man wasted awaj T , like a blooming flower just blasted by some malignant planet. The grief that consumed him gave her much concern, as not being entrusted Avith what occasioned his trouble, it was out of her power to administer any comfort. She little knew that she was the cause of his distress. It is an observation founded on nature, that when the soul admits of two passions, they will of course weaken each other. Adelaide's regret for the love of Oreston grew less in proportion as her pity increased for the young shepherd. She was sure that her pity proceeded from no motive, but what the most innocent friendship suggested ; nor did ever it occur not to give way to it ; for seeing the youth plunged in so settled a melancholy, she thought it incumbent on her, after what she had professed for him, not to leave him any longer to himself. Unhappy youth ! snul she, tho first time they met after her resolve, you perish daily, and give me the fruitless concern of beholding you con- sume away, and not be able to afford you any comfort. If the recital of my imprudent conduct lias not altered your opinion of me ; if the most sincere friendship is dear unto you ; in short, if it will not make me more unhappy than I was before our acquaintance, tell me, I conjure you, the cause of your afflictions. Was your 20 The Shepherdess of the Alps, secret yet more important than mine ? You need not apprehend that I will ever divulge it. Oreston's death is an eternal barrier betwixt the world and me. i The secret of your woe, which I desired to be acquainted with, and for your sake, not for mine, would have been deposited in my husband's tomb, with his faithful widow, and your sincere friend. I hope, said Fonrose, it will be my fate to die first. Ah ! madam, let me end my deplorable life, without leaving you to reproach yourself with having shortened it. heavens ! she cried, what, 1 ? Can I have con- tributed to increase the woes under which you perish. Ease my tortured heart, and tell me what i have said, what I have done to aggravate your affliction ! .Speak, I say, you have revealed too much to hide yourself any longer — I do insist upon knowing who you arc. Since you will force from me so peremptorily the fatal secret, know that I am— that I am Fonrose, the son of those you lately filled with admiration and respect. All that I have heard them relate of your virtue and your charms, inspired me with the rash design of seeing you under this disguise. I have seen you, and my late is fixed. I have left my family in the deepest distress. They think that I am for ever lost : they lament my death. I know what is your attachment here ; and I have no other hope but to die adoring you. • Forbear to give me any useless advice : my resolution is as immoveable as your own. If by betraying my confidence you divulgo my secret, you will only disturb tho last ebbings of my declining life, and will have to impute my death to yourself. Astonished at what she had heard, Adelaide endeavoured to soothe young Fonrose's despair. I will restore him, said she, to his afflicted parents, and save their only hope from death. Heaven has procured me this opportunity to acknowledge their goodness: where- fore she diligently employed every means tho most insinuating friend could suggest to calm and comfort him. Sweet angel ! cried Fonrose, I see with what re- luctance you are forced to make any one wretched ; your The Shepherdess of the Alps. 21 hoart is devoted to him that lies in that tomb, no power on earth can draw it awav ; I see with what condo- scension your virtue attempts to veil your unhappiness ; 1 feel your goodness in full extent; I sink under it, and I forgive you. Your duty is never to love me, and mino is to adore you for ever. Adelaide, impatient to put in execution the design she had formed, arrived, at the hut. Father, said she, to tho old Pastor, do you think yourself able to undertake a journey to Turin ? I want a person that I can rely on, to carry tho Count and Countess Fonroso intelligence of what concerns their whole happiness. My zeal, said tho old man, to servo them, will give me strength equal to my inclination. Go, then, continued she, you will find them at present lamenting the death of their only child. Inform them that he is living ; and that it is the poor Adelaide that will restore him to their arms. But at the same time tell them, there is an indispensible necessity of their coming in person to fetch him. He set out immediately, and arrived at tho Count's house in Turin. He sent in word, that the old man of the valley of Savoy was come to wait on them. Ah ! cried the Countess, perhaps some misfortune has befallen our lovely shepherdess! Bid the old man enter, said the Count ; who knows but Adelaide consents to come and live with us ! It would be, replied the Countess, the only comfort I can taste after the loss of my son. The old man is introduced, he embraced their knees — they raise him to their arms. You weep, said he, for tho death of your sou, and I am coma to inform you, that he is alive. It is our clear child that has discovered him in the valley, and dispatched me to communicate to you this interesting news ; but she says that yourselves, and only you, can bring him back. Whilst ho was speaking, tho Countess fainted away, overcome with surprise and joy. The Count calls for assistance. Sho revives. They embraco the old shepherd by turns, and acquaint tho whole family with the subject of their transport. How shall wo show our 22 The Shepherdess of the Alps. gTatitude ? said the Countess. How can we requite a benefaction that restores us to life ? They set out immediately on their journey, and arrived with the greatest expedition. They left their equipage at some distance, and walked to the hut through the valley that contained all that was dear to them Adelaide was tending the flock, as usual, The old dame conducted them to the place where she was. How great was their surprise, when they beheld their beloved son with the shepherdess, under the habit of a simple pastor ! Their hearts discovered him more than their eyes. All ! cruel child, cried Fonrose's mother, throwing her arms about his neck, what trouble you have given us. What could induce you to leave your affectionate parents ? What is your business here ? To adore what you yourself so much admired, said Fonrose. Madam, said Adelaide, whilst Fonrose embraced his father's knees, you would not so long have been a prey to grief, had I discovered sooner your dear son. After the first effusions of nature were over, Fonrose relapsed into his former melancholy. Come, said the Countess, let us go and repose ourselves in the cabin, and forget the woes this young madman has plunged us in. It is very true, said Fonrose, to his father, who led him by the hand ; what else but the de- privation of my reason could suspend the emotions of nature, and make mo forget the most sacred duties ? What but madness ? You innocently gave rise to it, and I am sincerely punished, for I am in love with the most amiable and accomplished person in the world. You have seen but little of her ; you know but little of this incomparable lady. Honour, virtue, and sensibility! she unites all that is great and good. I dote upon her to idolatry. I cannot be happy without her, and sho novcr can be mine, lias she trusted you, said the Count, with the secret of her birtli ? 1 have learned enough, replied Fonrose, to assure you it is not inferior to mine. She has renounced a considerable fortune in the world, to remain in this solitude. Do you know what motive has induced her to it? I do ; but it is a secret which The Shepherdess of the Alps. 23 she alone can reveal. Is she married ? No ; she is a widow ; but her heart is not the less engaged, nay, it is rather bound with stronger chains. Madam, said the Count to Adelaide, as they had entered the cabin, you see how you turn the heads, as well as captivate all that bear the name of Fonrose. Nothing could have justified my son's extravagant passion, but so virtuous, so loving an object. My wife's utmost wishes were to have you for a friend ; my son cannot live without you for a wife ; and it would be my greatest happiness to have you for a daughter. Oh! consider how many that love you would be wretched, if you refuse your consent. Ah ! sir, replied Adelaide, your goodness perplexes me: lend m awhile your attention, and judge my situation, fehe then in the presence of the old folks, related her sad story, adding the name of the family, winch the Count was well acquainted with; and she finished her narration by taking him for a witness of the in- violable fidelity she owed her husband. At these words a consternation appeared in their looks. Young Fon- rose, bursting with grief, threw himself into a corner ol the hut, to give vent to his sorrows. His afflicted father laid himself down by him, casting his eyes on Adelaide. Madam, said he, behold the effect of your resolution. The Countess pressing her in her bosom, Ah ! will you, then said she, give us cause to lament a second time the death of our dear child ! Why did you restore him to us' The good old people, penetrated with what they saw and heard, their eyes fixed on Adelaide, waited for her determination. Heaven knows, says she, 1 would willino-ly give up my life to acknowledge all this un- bounded generosity. I own it would be the height of misery, if I bad to upbraid myself of having been the cause of yours. I leave the decision of our fate to your son— let me have a few minutes' conversation with him. Then retiring by themselves, Fonrose, said she, you know what sacred rites bind me here. If I could cease to lament the loss of him who loved and doted on me even Mymd discretion, I should be deservedly despised. McGILL LIBRARY 24 , Tlie Shepherdess of the Alps. Friendship, gratitude, and esteem, are all I have left to give ; and is that a compensation tor love ? The moro you have conceived for me, the more right you have to expect a suitable return, and what return can I make ? The impossibility of performing that duty is the object that prevents my making myself liable to it ; neverthe- less, I behold you all in a situation that would soften the most obdurato heart. Mine, alas ! is but too sensible, I cannot bear the shocking thought of being the causo of your distress. How can I hear your generous, worthy parents, reproach mo with their loss. I will, therefore, forget for a while what I am, and leave you to be tho arbitrator of my destiny. It is yours to decide, and choose which is most agreeable to you, either to conquer your passion, and strive to forget me, or take the hand of one whoso heart is possessed by another object ; has nothing to bestow but friendship and esteem — and what are they to satisfy a lover's ardent expectations ? It is enough, replied he, tenderly, such exalted friend- ship equals love. I may, perhaps, be jealous of the tears I shall see you shed for a former husband, but the cause of my jealousy will only make you more estimable in my eyes, and dearer to my soul. She is mine ! cried JFonroso, precipitating himself into his fond parents' arms. It is to the respect and gratitude she has for you that I owe my happiness, and it is owing to a superior Being. Adelaide could not appeal from the sentence. Did she consent merely through pity and gratitude ? I believe she did — she believed it herself, and I will not cease to admire her. Before she left the valley, she would revisit the tomb, which she quitted with regret. my dear Oreston, she cried, if from the mansions of the dead thou canst have seen my struggles, and read the bottom of my heart, thy shade will not murmur at the sacrifice I make to comfort a virtuous family. TUB END,