# Shepherdess of the Alps

THE
SHEPHERDESS
OF THE
ALPS,
A VERY
INTERESTING, PATHETIC,
AND
MORAL HISTORY.
GLASGOW: PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
THE
SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS
In that part of the Alps, amidst the 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 hills in the form of an amphitheatre, on which some shepherds’ huts are scattered at several distances, interspersed with clumps of lofty trees, streams tumbling down the mountains in cascades, and pastures ever green, compose the beautifu 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 the decline, they wero obliged to look for some place of cover, where to pass the night. Whilst they advanced towards ono of the huts, they perceived a flock of shcep drove by a shepherdess, whoso 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 beautiful’s the setting sun; Its daily course now almost run, We can behold its charms; More pleasing are its fainter rays, Than when in full meridan blaze.
Thus it will prove, said she, when, after a painful ⟨race⟩, the weary soul arrivos at the wished-for gaol, and ​calmly drops into eternity, to renew its vigour in the puro 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 declined with a supineness in her attitude, which gave ease and dignity to her gait and mein. Struck with amazement at what they saw, and moro at what thoy heard, the Count and Countess redoubled their steps to overtake her. But what was their surprise, when, under the coarso straw hat and mean apparel, they met with every beauty, every grace. Pray, child, said the Countess, (finding sho endeavourod to shun them,) be not alarmed, we aro travellers, and an accident obliges us to ask for shelter till morning in ono of your cabins; be so kind as bo our guido. I am very sorry, madam, answered tho 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 inconveniences for one night, when you undergo them continually. Thore is a wido difference, said the modest shepherdess, I am brought up to it. I cannot believe that, interrupted Count Fonrose, not able any longer to hido his emotion; no—you wore not formed for such hardships. Fortune is unjust, or how is it possible that so lovely a person should bo reduced to live obscurely in so low and ordinary 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 beforo. My condition has its sweets for one that knows no other state in life. Custom and example create wants for the wealthy, which the poor aro ignorant of. It may be so with those that are born in this solitude, said the Count; but for you, charming unknown, you are not what you seem to bo: your air, your voice, your language, all betray your disguise. Theso few words you have said, discover a noble soul, and a cultivated education. O! tell us, lovely creature, what cruel turn of fato has brought you to this coudition? A man under misfortune, replied Adelaide, ​has a thousand means to extricate himself; but a woman in such cases, has no resource but in the honest servitude: and in the choice of ⟨ono’s⟩ master, methinks it is best to prefer the good and virtuous. You are going to see mine, and you will bo 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 sheepfold, into which the shephordess 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. We 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, thoy were amazed to see the order and neatness that appeared every where in so poor a habitation. Their tablo was walnut plank, finely polished by frequent rubbing; their earthorn dishes and dairy pans shone with the nicest cleanness; every thing presented the image of contented poverty, happy to havo wherewith to snpport the real wants of nature. It is our dear daughter, said tho old woman, that manages all our little affairs. At break of day, bofore she leads her flocks to the hills and dalos, 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, interrupting her, is the shepherdess indeed your daughter? Would to heaven she was, replied the good croature: she is the daughter of my heart, and I have a mother’s fondness for her; but I am not so happy as to have brought such perfections into the world, nor are we worthy of such honour. Who is she, then ? Whenco came she? What misfortune has reduced her to so low a station? All that is a secret to us. Three years ago ​she came here in tho 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 knowledgo of her good qualities increased, so did our respect; but the more we strove to show her that respect, the more she humbled herself bofore us. No, never had any child for its parents a more tender regard, a moro 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 tho good old damo, in all about you is tho image of an easy, contented life; it was she that procured it, it was she, this angolie creature, whoso only study is to make us happy. But is she happy? said the Countess. She does all she can to mako us believe so, said the old paster: but I havo made my damo observe, that she ofttimes returns from the pasture with a dejected look, her eyes still moist with tears; but as soon as sho sees us sho affects a smilo. It is easy to perceive there is somo gnawing grief that preys upon her heart, the causo of which we ​dare not ask. And then, said the old dame, what concern does she not give me, when, in spite of all our entreaties, the dear creature will, in the severest weather, lead abroad her bleating eare. A thousand times have I requested her, in the most earnest manner, to let me now and then relieve 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 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 bo uneasy, says she, my dear mother, exereise 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 graco peculiar to herself, she set about the little household affairs, as if she was not the least taken notice of. My dear child, said tho 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 ean produce; but I am afraid, continued she, whilst she was spreading on a coarse ​table-cloth as white as snow, that you will but make a sorry meal. Tho bread is brown, but very savoury; the eggs are new laid, the milk fresh drawn, and the 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 endeavour, said they, to unravel the mystery of this pretended shepherdess, invite her to accompany us, and make her happy if we can. At break of day one of the 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, the 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, amiable unknown, to alter it, as the Count’s intentions are quite agreeble 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. Drive 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 these good people: I shall make up for their loss; at least so far as to ​enable them to pass the remainder of their days in peace and plenty; and from your hands they shall receive my constant bounty. Tho poor old folks, who were present, fell on their kness and kissed the Countess’ hand, then turning to Adelaide, they conjured her, in tho most pressing terms, to accept the lady’s generous proposal. Wo cannot, at our time of day, be far from tho 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 inereased 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 tho most grateful heart acknowledge your goodness; and the name of Fonrose will nevor be absent from my memory. Tho only thing I request of you is to bury this adventuro in eternal silonce, and never to reveal tho fato 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. Tho travellers parted from their charming shepherdess, to retirement.
During their journey, their conversation was taken up with this strange adventure, which appeared to thom 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 lot a single circumstance escape his memory. Ho 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 aro so much more violently agitated when they burst from their confinement, as they have never been weakened by any dissipation. All the wonders he heard related of the ​valley of Savoy, raisod 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 ho sees, and all he soes 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 leadstone that attracted his heart; there he placed all his happiness; 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 intonds: it will not bo lookod upon as the mere effects of curiosity, but be deemed a youthful folly, that may havo bad consequences; 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 aud mother missed him with great constornation, and waited his return with the greatest impatience. Their apprehensions increased more and more; and his absence continuing, the whole family was plunged into desolation. 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 Fouroso 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 the world, and the desire of a retired, quiet life, that ​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 friendship in different sexes, is nearly allied to love.
Whilst he indulged himself with these pleasing reflections, his eyes wandering on the beautiful scenes of the valley, he heard at some distance, the very voice whose melody he 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 Solitudo! to which I fly, Of every bliss bereft; There affliction’s cup enjoy, The only boon that’s left.
These melancholy complaints pierced Fonrose’s tender 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 tho 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 silence was interrupted by tho sweet notes of Fonrose’s hautboy. A harmony so uncommon filled her with amazemont, mixed with some emotion. ​Her ears 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, to 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 somowhat nearer, that she night hear him play more distinctly. Behold, said she, the effects of instinct! The ear alone has given this shepherd all the fineness of that charming art! what purity in the notes! variety in the modulations! what firo and neatness in the execution! who then shall say, that taste is not the gift of nature?
Adelaide, for the first time since her retirement, felt her grief iu 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 shape and air. Her easy motion was that of a young cedar, whose 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 irresistible 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, employed in the low occupation of tending the flocks!—in ​what poor garments does she appear! But sho embellishes every thing, and nothing can commend her. What! so delicate a frame mado for such a laborious life! homely food! straw her bod! O 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 levely image.
Adelaide felt herself somewhat touched with Fonrose’s youth and comeliness, nor could she help reflecting on tho capricious turns of fortuno. 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 imbittered the little rising pleasure she had indulged. Sho reproached herself for having yielded to it, and resolved never to give way te 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 disguise? Have I discovered myself? These uncertainties perplexed his mind. His hautboy was neglected. Adelaide was not far distant, but could have heard the sounds, had he played upon it. She could not guess the meaning of its silence, and began to sing, in her old melodious strains,—
Ye pretty birds, whose pensive notes My lamentations join; Ah! what avails your warbling throats, Can they soothe woes like mine!
All seem around to share my grief, As it to assuage my pain; But mine admits of no relief, And comfort speaks in vain.
Fonrose, moved to his inmost soul with her complaining, so melodieusly expressed, could not refrain from taking up his hautboy. She continued, and he accompanied her sweet voice. ​Never was a unison more harmonious. Is this an enchantment! said Adelaide. May I believe my senses it is no mean shepherd! it is some supernatural being that I have been listening to! Nature may give a vent but great masters and constant practice alone can reach to such perfections. As she was thus musing, the valley resounded with a rural or rather divine symphony; Adelaide imagined she saw realized those prodigies which poetry attributes to music, her brilliant sister. Astonished and confused, she could not determine whether to approach or retire. Meanwhilo the young shepherd was collecting his flock, to lead it back to the cottage. He is not conscious, said she, of the pleasure he communicates around: ho is not the least vain of his perfection; he does not expect the praises I owe, which are so justly 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 purest of all pleasures, and the only one that I can yield to. I look upon this as an echo, that comes to repeat 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 any 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 I am with these pastures, and I let them range wherever they please to go. From whence came you? said Adelaide. I was born on the other side the Alps. And were 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 ​convince me 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 condition— you, whom she has formed more for a queen than a shepherdess. Adelaide blushed and waved the discourse. The other day, said she, your hautboy accompanied 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 instrument expresses— I breathe it in my very soul. That is all my secret— nothing is more natural. It is incredible, 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, bestow 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 consecrated to grief; all here 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 complain? is it of mankind? is it of fate? I really cannot tell. All that I know is, that I am far from being happy— pray inquire no farther into my situation. Hear me, 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 despondency. Whoever you be, if you are unhappy you are compassionate— I believe you are worthy the confidence I shall repose in you; but you must promiso me that the confidence shall be reciprocal. Alas! said ​rose, my woes are of a nature perhaps never to be relieved. Meet me to-morrow, said Adelaide, at the foot of the hill, under the spreading oak where you heard me 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.
He set out to the rendezvous, and the fair shepherdess arrived 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 faithful and virtuous man, whom my love and imprudence brought to the grave. I was born in France, of a wealthy 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 seat of war. My husband was ordered to join the corps he was to command; and I 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 terrified 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 battle was spread about. I was sure my dear Oreston was there. I wished it for his honour; I feared it for my love. When I received ​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 ho only lived for me. I saw nothing in his letter but his impatience to seo 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 tho most important crisis of my life. What I fearod 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 saerifice 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. Ho took that opportunity to perpetrato 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 bo deseribed. Theso tears, that must for ever flow; tho sighs which suffocate my voice, give but a faint idea of my distress. I passed the night over the bloody corpse, quite stupefied 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 compassionato heart - But the moment in which the earth was to separate me from that dear remains, was a thousand times moro dreadful than can be that which divides the body from the soul. Depressed 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 preventing nature from supporting a life moro insupportable to me than death. I changed my dress for that of a simplo shepherdess, and I look upon this valley as my ​only asylum. Ever since I have had no other comfort, but that of weeping over this grave, which I hope will soon be my own.
“You see with what sincerity I open to you my inmost soul.— Henceforth I may weep in your presence without restraint— a relief my overburdened heart stands much in need of— I expect you will put the same confidenco in me, as that I have reposed in you.— Don’t imagine that I am imposed upon. I am certain that you are no moro a shepherd, than I am a shepherdess. You are young, perhaps in love; for if I guess aright, our misfortunes flow from the samo 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 despair. I look upon you as a sincere friend, capable of giving, if not satisfactory advice, at least a firm example of true resignation to the Divine will.”
Ah! madam, said Fonrose, overwhelmed with what he heard, whatever tender sensibility my heart is prone to feel, you are far from imagining with what deep concern the recital of your woes has affected me— the impression will remain as long as life. What! must I have a secret, nay, even a thought reserved from you— from you, who have a right, after what you have entrusted me with, to scrutinize my very soul? But as I told you before, and as my foreboding heart apprehended; such is the naturo 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 torment. 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 ease you in an employment too laborious for your delicate frame. Let me be 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, ​with some confusion, and retired without further discourse. 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. O what sufferings they must be that can givo 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 expressive.
When he found her weeping over her husband’s 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 Adelaide took notice how the young man wasted away, like a blooming flower just blasted by some malignant planet. The grief that consumed him gave her much concern, as not being entrusted with 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! said she, the first time they met after her resolve, you perish daily, and give me the fruitless coneern of beholding you consume away, and not be able to afford you any comfort. If the recital of my imprudent conduet has 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 bofore our aequaintance, tell me, I conjure you, the cause of your afflictions. Was your ​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. 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 yon to reproach yourself with having shortened it. O heavens! she cried, what, I? Can I have contributed 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 yon are. Sinco you will force from me so peremptorily tho 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 fate 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 the 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: wherefore she diligently employed every means the most insinuating friend could suggest to calm and most him. Sweet angel! cried Fonrose, I see with what reluctance you are forced to make any one wretched; your ​heart is devoted to him that lies in that tomb, no power on earth can draw it away; I see with what condescension your virtue attempts to veil your unhappiness; I feel your goodness in full extent; I sink under it, and I forgive you. Your duty is never to love me, and mine 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 the old Pastor, do you think yourself able to undertake a journey to Turin? I want a person that I can rely on, to carry the Count and Countess Fonrose intelligence of what concerns their whole happiness. My zeal, said the old man, to serve 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 the Count’s house in Turin. He sent in word, that the old man of the valley of Savoy was eomo 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 the death of your son, and I am come to inform you, that he is alive. It is our dear 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 he was speaking, the Countess fainted away, overcome with surprise and joy. The Count calls for assistance. She revives. They embrace the old shepherd by turns, and acquaint the whole family with the subject of their transport. Now shall we show our ​gratitude? 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, wheu they beheld their beloved son with the shepherdess, under the habit of a simple pastor! Their hearts discovered him more than their eyes. Ah! 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 deprivation of my reason could suspend the emotions of nature, and make me 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 she never can be mine. Has she trusted you, said the Count, with the secret of her birth? I have learnod 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 ​⟨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 tho heads, as well as captivato all that hear 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 ⟨me⟩ awhile your attention, and judge my situation. She ⟨then⟩, in the presence of the old folks, related her ⟨sad⟩ story, adding the name of the family, which the ⟨Count⟩, was well acquainted with; and she finished ⟨her⟩ narration by taking him for a witness of the ⟨inviolable⟩ fidelity she owed her husband. At these words ⟨a⟩ consternation appeared in their looks. Young ⟨Fonrose⟩, bursting with grief, threw himself into a corner of 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 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, I would ⟨willingly⟩ give up my life to acknowledge all this, ⟨unbounded⟩ generosity. I own it would be the height of ⟨misery⟩, if I had 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⟩ beyond discretion, I should be deservedly despised. ​Friendship, gratitude, and esteem, are all I have left to give; and is that a compensation for love? The more 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; nevertheless, I behold you all in a situation that would soften the most obdurate heart. Mine, alas! is but too sensible, I cannot bear the shocking thought of being the cause of your distress. How can I hear your generous, worthy parents, reproach me with their loss. I will, therefore forget for a while what I am, and leave you to be the 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 tako the hand of one whose 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 friendship equals love. I may, perhaps, be jealous of the tears I shall see you shod 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 Fonrose, 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 sho quitted with regret. O 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.
THE END.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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