[] THE SHEPHERDESS OF THE ALPS.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Guillot, nephew Guillot, thou ſtandeſt as idle, why do'ſt not take away the huſks of the old grapes, and bring a freſh baſket to put in the preſs? we ſhan't get done. Thou forgetteſt, I ſuppoſe, that to-morrow is to be our wine-harveſt?

No, I don't, uncle Blaiſe; nor that I am to be married to Jeannotte neither, and that's better ſtill.

Well, well; buſineſs firſt, and pleaſure af⯑terwards, Guillot.

Servant, good people:—Pray can any of you tell me which is the way to the cottage of Maſter Blaiſe?

I am Maſter Blaiſe, my friend: what would'ſt thou pleaſe to have?

A lucky rencounter, my friend! the Mar⯑quis De Bellemine and his Lady, who ſtopped here ſome months ago, in their way to Italy, are now hard by in their carriage, and have very earneſt buſineſs with you.

O huſband! as ſure as you are alive they are come to take away Adelaide from us.

Oh, what that's your pretty Shepherdeſs of the Alps that we have heard ſo much talk about?—No, no friend, 'tis a different ſort of a ſtory, I can tell you that.

Ay! what is it, pray?

A ſhocking affair, friend, a ſhocking af⯑fair!—they have loſt their only ſon, and are now in ſearch after him; that's all.

Mercy, dear! that's ſad indeed.—Huſband, don't let them wait in the coach.

Wait in the coach! no, not for the world! Wife Renette, do you run home and bruſh up the things: Jeannotte, do you help her: Guillot, go and call Adelaide. Come, come, ſtir.

SCENE II.

I'cod, my uncle's in a woundy hurry, he has forgot his grapes and his wine now.

Ay, ay, and no wonder; go child and call Adelaide; Jeannotte, do you come along with me,

I'll follow you directly; well, Guillot, why don't you go and do what you were bid?

I'cod, I am afraid.

Afraid, of what?

Of you.

Of me!

Yes, of you; don't I know very well you'd be as jealous as fury about it!

Who's fault's that? en't you always ſmirking up to her, and ſaying ſoft things in her ear? do you think I don't take notice of your oglings, and leer⯑ings?

Me, ogle and leer! I wiſh I may die, when⯑ever ſhe comes near me, if I don't run away from her as faſt as my legs can carry me; no, no, I thank you, I likes peace and quietneſs a little too much for that.

Why, then, if I do ſcold you, it's all be⯑cauſe I can't bear to ſee an upſtart creature come from nobody knows where—

Why, for the matter of that, Jeannotte, every-body ſays ſhe muſt be a gentlewoman by diſtrac⯑tion.

Every-body ſays? Yes, every-body ſays a fine pack of nonſenſe about her education, and her manners, and her beauty. I ſhould be ſorry, indeed, if ſhe was the only beauty in the village,

I'cod, I don't know whether ſhe's handſome or ugly; you always takes care that I ſhan't look at her enough for that.

Yes, indeed, you thinks 'tis very eaſy to blind me; I ſuppoſe you don't intend to look at her, neither when you go to call her home?

Why, if you are afraid of it, you had better go and call her yourſelf.

Shall I Guillot? And do you forgive me, Guillot, for being ſo haſty?

I can't ſay I do quite, Jeannotte, and ſo what ſignifies lying?

But I have no cauſe to be jealous, have I?

Why lord, you know you have not as well as I do.

Give me your hand, then, and we'll make it all up.

Nay, as to that, we'll kiſs and be friends if you will.

SCENE III.

Ay, 'tis all very well; but I know, in half an hour's time, 'twill be juſt as bad again; lord, lord, what a fine life I am likely to lead with her! to be ſure ſhe is the beſt girl in the world if ſhe was not ſo confounded jealous; I'cod I don't know what 'tis for; I am not ſo handſome, as I knows of, and then ſhe talks of loving me ſo plaguely! hang me, if one [7] might not as well be hated as ſcolded from morning 'till night. If I could but hit of a way to cure her of it! I was thinking, that ſuppoſe I made love to Adelaide out of a joke; but then, lord, ſhe'd never liſten to me; what put it in my head was, there's a mad comical ſort of a young gentleman has been plaguing me theſe two days to ſell him the ſtock that father left me, becauſe he wants to turn ſhepherd; and I have heard them ſay, that money is no bad thing to go a courting with; well, we ſhall ſee, but here comes the gentleman of the gentlefolks; I'll be gone.

SCENE IV.

Here, ſtop young man, I want to ſpeak to you; you are going to call the ſhepherdeſs, en't you?

No, Sir, our Jeannotte's gone.

I am damn'd ſorry for that, I wanted to ſee her; and, pray, has this blazing ſtar been long upon your meridian?

Star, Sir!

Dam'me, there's no lowering one's ſelf to the comprehenſion of theſe brutes: to ſpeak in your lan⯑guage, then, has this young woman been long in theſe parts?

I believe it's about two years, Sir.

And ſhe really is as divinely handſome as ſhe is reported to be?

Why, as to that, I can't ſay.

I can't ſay! the clown! you muſt ſhew her to me; I am in love with her by reputation.

I'cod, 'tis my belief ſhe has another gueſs ſort of a reputation than that, tho'

That! what, my friend? I don't under⯑ſtand you.

Why, then, to fall in love with ſuch folks as you and I.

That's pleaſant, by Heaven; my friend, you are deceiv'd, I believe; there is ſome little diſtance between you and I.

'Tis my opinion there is, ſaving reſpect, for you have got a maſter, and I am maſter for myſelf: no offence, I hope.

No, friend, your ignorance is your protec⯑tion. What! I ſuppoſe you take me for one of the followers of the old people? if ſo, I muſt tell you that I have the honour to be, in ſome ſort, a companion of the Abbé de la Mouche, famous for his elegance and taſte; for his amours, for his poetry, and for his new conſtructed comb for the eyebrows.

Ho, ho, ho! Lord, that muſt be a comical thing! ho, ho, ho!

Ho, ho, ho! the natural! The Abbé, I ſay, being on a viſit at their houſe, came with them this way, partly in ſearch after their ſon, who we un⯑derſtand has taken the road to France; and partly, like me, out of curioſity to ſee this wonderful creature, whoſe praiſes they have done nothing but din in our ears ever ſince they ſaw her.

Ah! likely enough.

This, ſir, is the way I happened to be in company with the marquis and his lady, who are, by [9] all that's whimſical, the moſt fantaſtical, the moſt contrary, and the moſt ridiculous couple that ever yoked together in the ſhackles of matrimony; and, as if they were not abſurd enough of themſelves, they have brought with them that walking tombſtone, Count Triſte, who has cried a whole fortnight for the death of a wife, that any other man would have given half his eſtate to get rid of, and who like other tomb⯑ſtones is continually telling the world of beauties and virtues that the deceaſed never poſſeſſed. But here comes the marquis and his lady.

And uncle along with them. I'cod, I'll get out of the way, or I ſhall have it for not going after Adelaide.

But hear me, young man; I want you, I tell you, to introduce me to this fine creature.

Me, ſir?

Yes.—You'll tell her that I am, as you ſee, a genteel young fellow; and that—

SCENE V.

Don't tell me, I'll never be comforted: he's dead; nay, I am ſure you know it, and conceal it from me.

Zounds, my dear! you won't hear reaſon: for my part, ſo far from thinking as you do, I look upon this little exploit as a ſmart, ſpirited thing. What the devil! a young fellow, with good clothes on his back, and money in his pocket, loſt, or dead!—A pack of nonſenſe!

Why ſhould he fly from us, then?—From me in particular—ſo indulgent a mother!

Oh, my dear, boys, when they come to be towards twenty, think of ſomething elſe beſides in⯑dulgent mothers. Take my word for it he is after ſome wench.

Oh! the very thoughts of it would make me die with confuſion.

Why, what the devil, would you always [11] tie him to your apron-ſtring? no, no, I hope my boy has too much of my blood in him for that.

Yonder comes the Abbé.

Damn the coxcomb, what did you bring him with you for? fire and water are not more oppo⯑ſite than him and me; I am a Roman of the time of the commonwealth, and he is an Italian of the preſent age, a fellow all pomatum and pulvilio; we ſhould have been here three hours ſooner if I could have got him away from his damned toilet.

Dear Marquis, don't talk ſuch ſtuff now.

Nay, only let me draw his picture a little: after combing his eyebrows, and laying his rouge, he threw himſelf into an arm chair, took three ſorts of ſnuff out of the ſame ſnuff-box, ſneezed into a white ſilk handkerchief, wiped his mouth with a pink one, got up, looked in the glaſs, bridled, whirled about upon his heel, and then anſwered the ſalutation of good morrow, which I had given before all this cere⯑mony began.

Heavens! how can you?

This done, I had a ſecond impertinence to go through; he made me liſten to the contents of his whole pate folio, ſuch a cargo of ſonnets, epigrams, lampoons, and paſquinades, enough to furniſh out a ballad-ſinging Savoyard at a Dutch fair. However, you was determined to bring your Abbé, and I have brought my Count; we travel in a great ſtile, we have each of us a fool.

Your's is a fool, indeed, with his odious grief for his wife, who was neither amiable nor hand⯑ſome, and who never loved him.

Oh, dam'me, I would have him; 'twas impoſſible to come all this way without ſome amuſe⯑ment; what with your lamentations for your ſon, his ſuperficial cry, and the Abbé's ſupercilious laugh, you make a deviliſh good trio: but here comes the Abbé.

My dear Marchioneſs, I have a million of par⯑dons to intreat of you; but it was impoſſible to quit the carriage till I had adjuſted myſelf a little: my rouge was ſo rubbed about my face, that my cheeks were as ſal⯑low as the Counteſs of Hypocondria's, and my forehead and noſe as red as the Marquis of Burgundy's, who lives upon ſwallowing pint bumpers; beſides, I was ſtruck on the way by the moſt beautiful idea for a paſ⯑toral poem.

My dear Abbé, I am ſo unhappy about my ſon, I have no leiſure to reflect on any thing elſe.

Don't make yourſelf uneaſy, madam; the moment we get among the polite circles at Paris, I ſhall circulate a little poetical hue and cry through the hands of the moſt diſtinguiſhed characters, and your loſt ſheep will be inſtantly found, I dare ſwear; but you promiſed to introduce me to this ſhepherdeſs.

Introduce you! what the devil ſhould ſhe in⯑troduce you for? to frighten her! Why, what with your little black cloak, your feathers in your hat, and your wings at your ears, ſhe'll take you for ſome ſtrange bird of prey going to fly away with one of her lambs. Zounds! if Cato and Caeſar could give a look at Rome in its preſent ſtate—

They would find it filled, ſir, with men of elegance, politeneſs and taſte.

Foppery, luxury and effeminacy! Would any body believe this oſier twig was the produce of the ſame clime where grew ſo many ſturdy oaks? How manners change! Thoſe were the times when a vete⯑ran, pinned againſt a tree, would deſtroy you fourteen or ſixteen of his enemies with his own proper hand; but now, dam'me, if I ſhould not like to ſee what a fi⯑gure you'd cut pinned againſt a tree.

Savage and barbarous! the antients are only fit to be made ſubjects of my ſatires and odes; a de⯑lightful people to copy after to be ſure!

They were the only people to copy after; they were manly and brave, friendly and generous; they were ſtrangers to luxury, their meals were fru⯑gal, and what nature required; and their dreſs was made for uſe, and not for ornament.

Their meals! Why, the beſt cook they ever had was not capable of making a ſauce robert; I ridi⯑culed them for it in my little Impromptu, written at the bottom of Corregio's picture, where Ajax invites Aga⯑memnon to dinner upon a boiled bull; and as to the reſt, they had neither ſpoons nor forks; nor table cloths, nor napkins; they eat with their fingers like their forefather Adam, and wiped them upon their beards like Methuſalem.

Very well, Mr. Fop.

No, no, Marquis, our buildings, our orna⯑ments, our dreſs, our eating, are ſo many refine⯑ments that do honour to the preſent age, and horridly expoſe the ignorance of our anceſtors.

All this may be true in the language of fop⯑pery; but, in the language of common ſenſe, in your buildings and ornaments you have exchanged ſolid for ſuperficial; your dreſs has metamorphoſed the hu⯑man ſpecies into apes and monkeys; and as to your repaſts, you have inverted the ſeaſons to procure eat⯑ables without their natural flavour; and all your im⯑provements have only taught you to have peas and ſtrawberries at Chriſtmas, and melons and pine-apples, in deſpight of nature.

Go on, Sir, 'twill only ſerve as minutes for my next paſquinade.

As for you, you are out of meaſure ridicu⯑lous; you thought you could not ſufficiently diſgrace your family, which is truly antient and noble, by imitating the other faſhionable follies and extrava⯑gancies, but you muſt get into the church, be made an Abbé, one of that mongrel kind of animals who now indeed ſwarm all over the world, half clergyman, half coxcomb.

Well, Marquis, we had better not diſpute, for, I fancy, we ſhall never agree. At preſent, I be⯑lieve, the Marchioneſs wiſhes to repoſe herſelf; there⯑fore, good man, if you'll ſhew us your place we ſhall be obliged to you.

To be ſure, Sir, if your honour pleaſes.

And then, my dear Madam, you ſhall intro⯑duce me to the Shepherdeſs.

SCENE VI.

Thoſe are your nobles of the preſent times; if my ſon had nothing more noble about him, he ſhould not catch me ſcampering, the devil knows where, over the Alps after him in compliment to any wife in the world; bur here comes a coxcomb of ano⯑ther kind; a fellow who cries for his wife with one eye, and leers at every girl he meets with the other; I ſhall divert myſelf with him, or I am miſtaken. What, ſtill unhappy, Count? Zounds, man! I thought this journey would have diverted you.

Ah, I told you, Marquis, what a wretched companion I ſhould make for you.

Come, come, you muſt ſhake off your chag⯑rin; conſider you are going to ſee the lovely Shepher⯑deſs of the Alps, and would you viſit your miſtreſs with a face a yard long?

Miſtreſs! lord, Marquis, how you rattle! me think of a miſtreſs, indeed, who have ſo lately loſt ſuch a treaſure, my poor dear! Ah, thou beſt of wives, when ſhall I ever ſee thy fellow!

I tell you this Shepherdeſs is her very pic⯑ture, has every trace of her, from the caſt of her eye, to the mole upon her left cheek, that people uſed to take for a black patch.

Captivating ornament!

She has, I aſſure you; in ſhort, I am de⯑termin'd you ſhall ſee her; your ſorrow preys too much upon you, and the only way to forget one wo⯑man is to make love to another.

Do you think ſo?

I am ſure of it.

Why this grief is very terrible without doubt; and, if there was any way to cure it—but then how could I expect any woman would liſten to me, broke down as I am by affliction?

Not liſten to you! damn it, don't talk to me in that ſtile, don't I remember when you and I went to Venice.

What, upon the road, the lovely Brunetta who played upon the mandilina?

Ah, rogue!

I ſhall never forget her; what eyes!

What teeth!

Pearl.

What cheeks!

Roſes.

With the dew upon them when ſhe cried at parting from you, eh, Count!

Oh, never was man ſo happy.

Where was the Counteſs then?

Alas! poor ſoul, ſhe little thought I was wronging her; but my ſins are puniſhed, for ſhe is taken away from me, and I ſhall never be happy any more.

Yes, you will. Come, come, prepare your⯑ſelf to ſee this wonder, ſhe'll wound you deeper than the Brunetta did.

No, no, I won't think of it; melancholy ſhall be my only miſtreſs; nor ſhall I expect relief but in the cold tomb! Are you going to ſee her now?

Preſently.

Well, adieu.—I'll find out ſome corner where I may indulge my miſery.

—And ſo ſhe reſembles my poor deceaſed dear!

—I ſhould like juſt to ſee her.

You ſhall not only ſee her, but have her in your arms.

What, and preſs her to my boſom!—No, no; don't talk ſo.

You ſhall, I tell you.—The charming, tempting, heavenly—

Yielding creature!—hey, Marquis!

Ay, this is ſomething like: zounds [...] think of blubbering and crying! and yet, to ſay the truth, I don't wonder at it, for women make us juſt what they pleaſe.

SCENE VII.

He's very right, they do make us juſt what they pleaſe, indeed.

SCENE VIII.

Indeed, ſir, 'tis a very fooliſh thing, and I would not have you think any more of it.

That's my affair, Guillot.

Unleſs I ſell you my cottage, and ſheep, in ſhort, all my ſtock, you ſhall be unhappy!—I don't underſtand it for my part.

And yet, Guillot, 'tis very true.

What a whim, ſir, under favour!—A gen⯑tleman, as you ſeem to be, rich, and well-born, to come here and keep ſheep!

What would you have me ſay to you?—'Tis for my pleaſure—I come to taſte at a diſtance from the town that happineſs which heaven has in ſtore for you. The candour that reigns in your eyes, convin⯑ces me your happy days are the charming image of the golden age. To know love is to know happineſs; 'tis in the woods he is born: the humbleſt eſtate is, for me, the ſweeteſt; and your's ſeems the retreat of innocence and tranquillity.

For me, who am a ſhepherd, I ſwear to you, that our lives have ſome good moments, but it's hard, it's hard.

I know all this, Guillot; and yet I perſiſt.

Well, I can't help it, Sir; I muſt not con⯑ſent to it. What would our neighbours ſay?—To be ſure, if I had a mind, nobody could furniſh you with better things for your purpoſe, than I—let me ſee—I have a—but, no, no, no; I can't think of it.—Servant, Sir,

Nay, Guillot, pray come back. I'll give you a handſome price for your things.

No, no, ſir; 'tis not that. I dare ſay you have money enough, and no doubt but you would part with it in a gentleman-like way; and, as I ſaid before, if things were agreeable, I don't know any body could match you better than I; but, Lord! on⯑ly conſider; 'tis wrong, ſir, 'tis indeed: how many ſheep did you pleaſe to want?

I'll buy all you have.

All I have! oh, no; I could not ſpare you all I have; beſides, what ſhould you buy any for?

Well but, Guillot—

Here my afflicted mind nouriſhes its pain; I cry, and I am comforted; 'twas here I ſaw my huſband; here, alas! I kept him from the battle; here he bid me adieu; here I waited his return; here, being diſ⯑honoured, [22] loſt without reſource, he ſeized the mo⯑ment, while I had fallen ſenſeleſs at the news, to take away that life which I had rendered odious; and, Oh! cruel and tender remembrance, 'twas here I built his tomb! but what flock moves this way? I never before ſaw the ſhepherd who conducts them; I'll turn aſide to avoid his preſence.

SCENE IX.

[23]At laſt I am a ſhepherd; how many contending ſenſations do I feel! ah! finiſh, love, let me behold her, the report alone of whoſe charms induced me to leave my country and my family. Beautiful and touching Adelaide! perhaps thou wilt liſten to a timid ſhepherd, when thou wouldſt ſtartle at the voice of love! alas, the god thou flieſt is my guide; but let me rather ſeek occaſion to do her kindneſs than ſur⯑prize her too abruptly; yonder ſhe is; I cannot be miſtaken, I'll watch upon her ſteps for ever but I'll find out ſome way to oblige her.

SCENE X.

He is gone, and I am irreſiſtibly drawn again towards this ſpot.

Gods, what an angel!

Hark! here's ſome one coming.

Shall I ſpeak to her?

Here comes that fool Guillot, I muſt ſtep aſide or he'll diſ⯑cover me. Gods, what an angel!

SCENE XI.

Heaven defend me! what do I ſee, who is that, Guillot?

Yes, 'tis Guillot out of his ſenſes; Guillot grown rich; in ſhort, Guillot who ſo loved me yeſter⯑day, today hates me worſe than poiſon.

What's the meaning of all this! how came you ſo fine, Guillot?

Another gentleman and I changed clothes, that's all.

But why does your finery make you deſpiſe Jeannotte?

For a very good reaſon; I intends to make love.

Alas! Guillot, broken vows and inconſtancy will never recommend you to me.

Oh lord, I ſhan't be falſe-hearted to you a bit, I always had a ſort of a ſneaking for you; only I thought when I was but a poor ſhepherd, you'd turn up your noſe at me; I hardly believe you will now though.

Did any body ever hear ſuch a wretch? I'll tear your eyes out! and I'll tear her eyes out! and I won't ſuffer it, ſo I won't.

How will you do to help yourſelf? you ſee, Mrs. Jeannotte, what your jealouſy has brought you to, and ſo no more words; if Adelaide will have me, I'll have her.

This love, then, which is ſaid to be ſo ſweet, makes, every-where, unhappineſs. If it is dangerous for ſhepherds, for whom is it harmleſs?

SCENE I.

I'VE watched till I have loſt myſelf; but how to accoſt her—how to manage the timidity of this ſo⯑litary beauty—if ſhe is unhappy, her heart will have need of conſolation. After all, we ſeem as if we were alone in the univerſe, and ſhall be every thing to each other. If we converſe, we ſhall not be far from friendſhip, and friendſhip, at our age, oft changes into love; but ſhe is here. If I am right in my obſerva⯑tion, ſhe has already ſome curioſity concerning me; I'll draw aſide and endeavour to heighten it, by ming⯑ling with her ſong the ſound of my hautboy.

SCENE II.

The nightingale gives me his wonted evening ſalutation; and, as I return with my flock, anſwers my ſighs with a ſweet complaining ſong.

Heavens! what do I hear! a hautboy accompanies me; 'tis the ſhepherd who leads his ſheep to feed at the foot [28] of the mountain.

A ſhepherd!—let us liſten—

'tis an enchantment; is it poſſible to believe that ſentiment, alone, can be ſo faithful a guide! who will dare after this to ſay, that taſte is the fruit of a ſlow culture? It ſeems as if fortune pitied me, and ſent this ſhepherd as a new echo to anſwer to my griefs.

A ſhepherd this! but hold; the Marquis of Bellemine is in ſearch after his only ſon; it muſt be ſo; but here he comes; his air, his manner, his ad⯑dreſs all confirm me in my ſuſpicions; I'll ſpeak to him; oh how I ſhall bleſs this accident if I can con⯑ſole this unfortunate pair!

SCENE III.

Do you lead your ſheep far from hence, ſhep⯑herd?

I don't lead them at all, they go themſelves to the paſtures which they love.

You are not of theſe parts then?

No.

Nor, as it ſhould ſeem, born to be a ſhep⯑herd.

Since I am one, doubtleſs I was born to be ſo; I know not where I am.

He ſeems troubled, and, as if fearful of being betrayed; 'tis ſurely as I gueſſed: no, no, your air, your language, all convince me that heaven deſigned you a more favourable lot.

Why ſhould you think ſo? 'twould be as rea⯑ſonable for me to believe the ſame thing of you; you have the air of an inhabitant of the woods, and yet in that eſtate I ſee you; but nature is the mother of ſhepherds as well as kings; and ſometimes with a light and fa⯑vouring hand beſtows talents and graces on the ſimple and timid ſhepherd as the object of her choice. The flowers which are born in the country want no cul⯑ture; nor have the birds that ſing ſo ſweetly any leſſons but thoſe of nature.

I am convinc'd—you would deceive me I tell you. The art with which you animated the hautboy, in a ſimple inhabitant of the woods would, indeed, be a rare prodigy.

'Tis your voice tis the prodigy in a ſimple ſhepherdeſs.

What has inſtructed you?

My heart and my ear. You ſing, I am ra⯑viſhed, and my tractable hautboy longs to anſwer you; is this art difficult? Alas! to explain what one feels, coſts nothing: when one has ſenſibility and tender⯑neſs to form enchanting ſounds, one has only to hear you; 'twas that ſtruck me with admiration, and my mouth and my hautboy were inſpired by my mind.

But you expreſſed ſadneſs!

Becauſe you inſpired it: take a laughing air, and I'll play an allegro.

No; theſe places were not made for vain and frivolous joy; complaints and ſighs only are found here.

Let me then ſigh with you.

Alas! I penetrate his deſigns, and muſt prevent them. Are you then unhappy?

What if I am?

Perhaps then heaven has ſent you that we may conſole each other; but there muſt be a mutual con⯑fidence. At ſun-riſe to-morrow, let me find you at the foot of that oak where firſt you heard me ſigh; there my heart will I lay open to your eyes; but you muſt leave me now.

I obey. To-morrow at ſun-riſe: my impa⯑patience overcomes me! Oh, how I ſhall count each moment!

SCENE IV.

Thus I ſhall be ſure of rendering him to his friends: no, no, I no longer entertain a doubt that under this ſhepherd's habit I have ſeen the young Marquis of Bel⯑lemine; Guillot's appearance, every thing confirms it: but whence does it ariſe? no matter whence; every thing adds to my unhappineſs; his deſign is but too evident, and he'll join his intreaties with theirs to reconcile me to the world—ineffectual endeavours!

SCENE V.

Well, Abbé, I accept your propoſal; I'll ſign articles of peace immediately, if you'll enter into a treaty to ſhew off the Count.

And you promiſe, for the future, not to find fault either with my dreſs or manners.

You may uſe nineteen perfumes to as many pocket handkerchiefs, and take out forty toothpicks at one dinner time, without my ſaying a word: nay, I'll even praiſe your poetry; and I am ſure that's ſa⯑crifice enough in all conſcience.

I'm ſatisfied.

To buſineſs then: the Count has been teaz⯑ing me to introduce him to the ſhepherdeſs.

Him, a brute! He'd be as ridiculous as the bear in my fable, that makes love to the panther.

Liſten to me: you muſt know I have been out upon the ſearch, (for I like, I confeſs, to look at a freſh country girl) and I have found one, the very thing, to paſs upon the Count.

An admirable thought, curſe poiſon me! the very epiſode to my little Serenata I made the fellows act ſo often after Goldoni's Comedies.

And to make it impoſſible that he ſhould know the true from the counterfeit, I have got the good man, Blaiſe, to accommodate him and you at the cottage of one of his neighbours; ſo there's no fear of his encountering Adelaide.

But, Marquis, are not you afraid the girl her⯑ſelf will diſcover who ſhe is?

Not at all; I underſtand ſhe has been ill uſed by ſome fellow, who was to have married her; and I have adviſed her to ſnap up the Count out of revenge, and inſtructed her how to behave at the firſt interview.

Excellentiſſimo! damnato di mio! poetical juſtice in every conception!

But here he comes: remember our firſt at⯑tack is to ſee how extravagant we can make him by extolling the Counteſs to the ſkies.

SCENE VI.

Dear Marquis, what has become of you? 'tis cruel to leave me to myſelf in ſuch diſtreſs.

But, my dear friend, you muſt take comfort.

No, no, Marquis, there's no comfort for me.

I grant you the Counteſs was a moſt divine creature.

Don't mention her.

What grace! what ſpirit! what gaiety!

Had not ſhe! oh! oh! oh!

I ſhall never forget how moſt inceſſantly ſhe laughed at my lampoon upon the Friar that we perſuaded to go to the play in a domino.

Did ſhe? oh! oh! oh! what an irreparable loſs!

Particularly the deſcription of the old fellow when his falſe frizure fell off, ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha! to ſee his bald pate!

I remember ſomething of it, peeping up above his blue ſilk domino with gold frogs.

True, true, ha! ha! ha!

He muſt cut a ridiculous figure, ha! ha! ha!

Damn'd ridiculous

ha! ha! ha!—a—a ah! I don't wonder that my poor dear ſhould laugh at it, oh!

what ſhall I do?

I wiſh we could conſole you.

No, I'll never be conſoled; every thing calls her to my mind, every body admired her.

What admirable talents!

How charmingly ſhe played upon the harp⯑ſichord!

Aſtoniſhingly! oh! oh! oh!

Eſpecially the cantata I wrote her: her judg⯑ment and finger were petrifying, ſtrike me ridiculous.

How ſhe ſung!

Oh! delightful! oh! oh! oh!

One ſong in particular.

Ah, what was that? I remember all.

Let me ſee, 'twas in one of the operas.

Caro amore?

The very thing.

Ah, ſhe did ſing it delightfully indeed!

Do you remember her manner, Abbé?

I'll try

Oh! that was not at all like it.

Not a bit, not a bit; ſhe glided over the paſ⯑ſages, ah!

Thus

No, no, I'm out of patience with you, this was it

Bravo! bravo!

Exquiſitiſſimo!

Stop, I have not done.

Charming!

Enchanting! no, dam'me, there's nothing in the world could make a man amends for the loſs of a woman who could ſing in that manner.

No, my friends, there is nothing in this world worth my notice.

'Tis very true; merit like this was irre⯑ſiſtible. I am ready to cry myſelf, when I think of your ſituation.

'Tis friendly of you, my dear Marquis.

'Tis terrible to loſe ſo many united accom⯑pliſhments, for we have not half mentioned them.—She ſung divinely to be ſure, but ſhe danced—

I remember it! may roſe-water poiſon me, but ſhe was grace itſelf: her minuet was the moſt de⯑lightful thing. I remember I wrote her a litttle com⯑plimentary trifle on it, called, "Venus in the Fourth Poſition."

O charming!

Very true; and then to ſee her ſwim an al⯑lemande! I remember ſhe had one particular trip that was beautifully elegant—let me ſee—how was it?—Give me your hand, Abbé.

No, don't diſtract me ſo, pray.—Oh dear! you are not right at all; you bouree what you ſhould chaſſé.

Pardon me; I know very well what I am about;

—The head upright:—

The body thrown gracefully for⯑ward.

Zounds! 'tis no more like her—Give me your hand, Abbé.

—Oh! oh! oh! what can ever make me amends for the loſs of her?

Yonder's my counterfeit ſhep⯑herdeſs! do you begone.

Well, Count, I ſhall find you; I muſt ſpeak to my fellow.

Adieu, Abbé.

Adieu!—take care you don't make out the little ballad I wrote upon the road.

What, about inconſtancy?—no, there's no danger of that.

Take care, that's all.—It runs thus, you know.

SCENE VII.

I am glad he's gone, the troubleſome fool.

Tireſome to a degree; well, my dear Marquis, have you ſeen the Shepherdeſs?

Yes, and what's better, I have prepared her to ſee you, and what's better ſtill, here ſhe comes.

Does ſhe? you throw me all over in an agi⯑tation.

Well, I'll leave you together; remember ſhe's all delicacy.

Never fear.

Now have mercy upon her; don't wound her too deep.

SCENE VIII.

Ah you bantering devil. There will be a fine ſcene between us, I ſuppoſe; I ſhall perſwade, ſhe'll heſitate, and then, ah I know how it will be.

SCENE IX.

She is a moſt heavenly creature.

Was any poor wretch ever ſo uſed as I am?

She ſeems very unhappy, indeed; I am too much overwhelmed with diſtreſs myſelf not to pity her.

I could cry for vexation.

Poor ſoul!—I'll try to comfort her.—Dear, lovely young creature, may I preſume to aſk if you are the pretty Shepherdeſs of the Alps?

Yes, ſir; there's a great many people have ſaid that of me.

And they ſay you have ſomething upon your mind that very much troubles you.

Yes, ſir; I have, indeed.

And may I take the liberty, divine crea⯑ture, to aſk what it is?

Why, ſir, I would not tell every body, but ſuch a gentleman as you are, I think there can be no great harm.

Ingenuous and ſenſible?—'tis too great a ſacrifice to let her ſtay here.—Well, my love.

Well, ſir; my ſtory's very ſhort; 'tis only, ſir, that a young man was to have married me, but he grew rich, and deſpiſed me, and ſo has left me to the wide world.

'Twould be a great ſtroke to carry her off!—My dear, your ingenuity demands as ingenuous a return: our caſes, then, are exactly alike; death has taken away my wife, and ambition your huſband.

No, ſir; 'twas another ſhepherdeſs that took him away.

Simplicity itſelf! I like that.—So you ſee, my angel, we are both miſerable alike.

Indeed, ſir, I pities you; it muſt be a ſad thing for you, indeed.

Oh! a very ſad thing; I ſhall never be happy any more.

Dear ſir, don't ſqueeze my hand quite ſo hard.

I was only admiring how like your hand and arm is to my poor deceaſed wife's.—And ſo, my love, he has quite forſaken you?

Lord, ſir!—yes, ſir, he has indeed, and I am ſure I don't know what I ſhall do.

I muſt have her.—And have you liſtened to no offers ſince this affair?

There have been none made to me, ſir.

Your frankneſs encourages mine, and if I did not fear to offend your delicacy, (for they tell me you have a prodigious deal of that) I would tell you that I have a vacancy in my heart and my houſe, and that if my perſon was agreeable—

You, ſir!—Lord, ſir! how can I expect ſuch a great man as you? Beſides, if you can forget your wife ſo ſoon, what would ſhortly become of me?

Oh my dear! there is not the leaſt compa⯑riſon: ſhe was old enough to be your mother.

Oh! that indeed is another thing.

And then you ſeem to have a heavenly temper.

Yes, I'm a monſtrous good-humour'd girl.

Whereas ſhe was the very devil, and it was impoſſible to have any peace with her, from morning 'till night.—Come then to my arms, there thou ſhalt [42] find an aſylum, and the end of all thy woes; coach, title, equipage, every happineſs ſhall attend you; dia⯑monds—

A coach! oh dear!—but, ſir, you muſt give me time to think of it.

Well, but—

Nay, nay, I won't conſent to any thing, un⯑leſs you leave me now; and I'll tell the other gentle⯑man when you ſhall ſee me again.

One kiſs then for earneſt.

Rap⯑ture paſt expreſſing!

SCENE X.

A coach and jewels! but here comes Guillot: I ſhall match the gentleman now, I believe.

So, Mrs. Jeannotte, you are there.

Yes, ſir, I am; and what then?

Nay, nothing at all; your ſervant.

One word, Mr. Guillot, if you pleaſe: pray when is the wedding day to be? I ſuppoſe, Madam Adelaide has conſented; I beg you'll let me be bride⯑maid.

To be ſure, Jeannote, one can't do leſs than that for old acquaintance ſake. I ſee ſhe's as mad as fury, but I'll ſeem not to mind it. Why now, that is as it ſhould be; I knew all along you did not love me, and ſo you know how fooliſh it would have been for two people to be hampered together in a yoke, for no⯑thing in the world but to draw contrary ways.

Very true, Mr. Guillot; and I dares to ſay you'll be more happy with a runaway vagabond creature than with an honeſt vartuous girl, that's not [43] aſhamed to tell who her parents are; you may take that wipe as you think proper, ſir. A great credit to you, to be ſure, inſtead of working as an honeſt man ought, to be dancing about in a fool's frock, and run⯑ning after beauties.

Why, if I was you, Jeannotte, if I did not care for't, I would not trouble my head about it.

Oh, not I indeed: I was only going to ſay, ſir, that tho' you fancy me jealous and ugly, and all that's bad, there are men in the world think me the pretty ſhepherdeſs of the Alps.

I don't gain-ſay it.

Beſides and moreover, to let ſome folks know other folks can get rich as eaſy as them; nay, and can keep their coach: what do you think of that? and have their jewels, and their ſervants to wait upon them.

I'cod! well done Jeannotte, ha, ha, ha!

I can tell you, ſir, 'tis not a thing to laugh at.

Why, how canſt thou be ſuch a natural? do you think this ſham will paſs upon me? don't I know 'tis all flim-flam to try me. Well, Jeannotte, I can⯑not help ſaying but I am ſorry for thee.

Why, you naſty, good for nothing, falſe-hearted creature, you ought to be aſhamed of your⯑ſelf, ſo you ought: I do love you, then; I own I do;

and if you had not treated me ſo, I would ſeen him further with all his fine promiſes; but now I'll go and keep my coach out of ſpight.

SCENE XI.

A coach and jewels! what is all this? I ſurely have not been playing the fool 'till I have loſt her. I'cod, this puts me in mind, when I was a boy, of catching birds, and letting them go again.

SCENE XII.

Well, whenever we die, ſhe ſhall find herſelf in as good a caſe as we are.

We'll give her all our ſheep, and our cot⯑tage.

Ay, and every bit of dowlas that I have been ſo long a ſpinning; for I love her as much as if ſhe was my own child.

And ſo do I, ſhe's ſo good, ſo ſweet, ſo gen⯑teel, for all the world like thee, when thou wert of her age.

Lord, thou art joking good man.

I en't indeed; every-body ſaid you looked the ſweeteſt, and dancing the nimbleſt in all the vil⯑lage.

'Tis thy kindneſs makes thee think ſo.

Not at all, I have not forgot when I firſt ſaw you dancing under the elm; but above all upon our wedding-day; lord how I did love thee!

Ay, and thou loveſt me now too.

Ah, but in fifty years of marriage the firſt fire gets a little low; however, with pleaſure I recal the image.

SCENE XIII.

Dear, dear, if there was but any thing we could do!

Ay, if you would be ſo good to tell us how we could ſerve your honour.

I thank you, my good friends; we are very ſenſible of your kindneſs, but we only mean to repoſe ourſelves in your cottage this evening; where is the Shepherdeſs? where is the beautiful Adelaide? I muſt ſee her again; ſhe is as charming as ever.

Good Sir, our daughter will be here di⯑rectly. I believe ſhe is getting for you the beſt our poor houſe affords; we call her our daughter; heaven knows whoſe ſhe really is, for we aſk her no queſtions, becauſe we ſee it afflicts her. However, never had child for a father and mother more kindneſs than ſhe has for us; it ſeems as if ſome good angel was ſent among us to comfort us in our old age.

Huſh! huſh! good man, here ſhe comes.

SCENE XIV.

You are going to ſup in a homely manner, my dear lady, but every thing is clean; our bread is not the whiteſt, but it is new and good; the eggs are freſh, [49] the milk is warm, and the fruit I have the honour to preſent you, is the beſt the ſeaſon affords.

With what diligence and attention, with what noble and decent grace, this wonderful ſhep⯑herdeſs renders all the duties of hoſpitality!

SCENE XV.

Come, come, no reſiſtance; you ſhall be brought before my lord and lady.

What the devil's all this noiſe!

Guillot!

My Nephew Guillot!

What's the matter? ſpeak out, Dubois.

Why, Sir, we have found this thief with my young maſter's clothes on.

'Tis true! 'tis true! I know he was robbed and murder'd. Oh! my child! I ſhall never ſee thee again!

Nay, nay, but, my dear, now, zounds, hear reaſon.

Save me, uncle Blaiſe, I am as innocent as an unborn babe.

Yes, yes, your innocence ſhall be rewarded with a halter.

What have you done with my child?

Speak boldly, don't be afraid.

Where did you get thoſe clothes?

I ſwopped mine for them, indeed I did; I ſhould not have taken them, only they were forced on [50] me; and becauſe I did it to cure Jeannotte of her jealouſy.

A very harmleſs thing; go on, my lad; you ſwopped them, you ſay, who did you ſwop them with?

I can't tell.

Some thief who has killed my child, and ſo got rid of his clothes to prevent being ſuſpected.

My dear! zounds, if you interrupt him ſo, how do you expect ever to come at the truth?

I don't interrupt him, I only ſay that—

Now, pray, hold your tongue.—Well.

I was going to ſay he did not look at all like a thief; he ſeem'd, to me, more like ſome young gen⯑tleman croſſed in love.

Of what age?

Oh, about my age, and I am twenty to-morrow; my birth-day is once a year—every wine harveſt; and, becauſe of that, Jeannotte and I were to be married.

His ſize?

About my ſize; or elſe, you know, our clothes would not have fitted each other; in ſhort, he bought of me every thing I had; my cottage, my flock, my clothes; and ſo, rather than go naked, I put on his; now you know all.

I could have ſworn I was right; 'tis my ſon himſelf, without doubt; and where have you left him?

In my cottage that was, where he is now ſleeping upon a bed of ſtraw, as happy, I warrant you, as a prince.

If this is all true, why did you run away from us?

Becauſe you run after me, to be ſure; I did not know but you might be thieves, to tell you the truth; and my uncle can tell you, that I was always frightful from my cradle.

I have heard his ſtory with ſome attention, and think as you do, that it is your ſon; if it is him, he plays upon the hautboy.

There are fewer better ſingers in Italy.

I'cod, that's my young man; it would have done your heart good to have heard him this morning, how his ſingers did work it about.

Let us, this inſtant, go and find him.

Now, why the devil do you want to frighten the boy out of his ſleep?

Indeed, in your place, I would not be too precipitate; if you were to diſturb him thus in the middle of the night, perhaps he might fly into the woods.

Good Heaven! you make me tremble.

Without hazarding this, or without alarming him, let me manage this buſineſs; and, to-morrow, I'll engage to bring him to your arms.

You have ſeen him then, my dear child?

I have, madam.

Well, my dear, what the devil, do you think I don't know a little about theſe things? did not I tell you how it was? the truth is, the boy has heard us talk, a thouſand times, in praiſe of Adelaide; from the picture we drew, he fell in love with her; and de⯑termined to come here to ſee her; 'tis a fault, but it [52] is an honeſt fault, the effect of a young head, but movement of a good heart.

SCENE I.

HEAVENS! for what am I reſerved!—how un⯑lucky was this rencounter with the Marquis and his lady! they have, without intending it, expoſed me to the odious addreſſes of this Abbé, and every danger;—my retreat is diſcovered, and I run a thouſand riſks of being hourly inſulted.

Ah, my lovely girl, I have been looking for you; do you know you have robbed my wife and me of a night's ſleep?

Me, Sir!

Yes, you—you may remember when we were here before, we uſed every argument in our power to induce you to go with us to Italy; and though afterwards, at your earneſt intreaty, we promiſed never to ſay any more to you on the ſubject, we could hardly refrain from breaking this promiſe.

Alas! Sir, don't think of me!—I am put in the world to make every-where unhappineſs.

Look'e, Adelaide, I would not be thought inquiſitively impertinent; nor do I mean to ſeek any thing but your happineſs. I tell you my wife and I have been debating the matter all night; and, for the firſt time, I believe, this ſeven years, we are both in one mind. In conſequence of our determina⯑tion, I come to offer you my ſon; we are convinced your birth is as good as ours; and as to fortune, if any [55] chance has robbed you of that, 'tis lucky my boy has a good ſwinging one to put in his ſcale, which would otherwiſe be overbalanced by your merit. Confide then to us the ſecret of your diſtreſs; I know before⯑hand, 'tis ſomething that will make you more reſpec⯑table in our eyes, for it is impoſſible that any thing but goodneſs ſhould dwell in ſuch a heart as your's.

Sir, I acknowledge that the notice you have been pleaſed to take of me, is a diſtinction, with which I had no right to flatter myſelf. I confeſs, alſo, that I ought to look upon the offer of your ſon, as a very high compliment; your unparalleled kindneſs will never be eraſed from my memory; but, Sir, there is an abyſs between the world and me, that nothing can over⯑leap.

My dear child, the more you humiliate yourſelf, the higher you riſe in my eſteem; at leaſt, let me ſhew you the neceſſity of diſcloſing to us your ſituation, that we may know how to ſoften the rigour of your fate. Conſider what a terrible thing it will be to endure the inclemency of the ſeaſons without a friend to ſupport, or aſſiſt you; you'll find no more Blaiſes and Renettes; you'll be an object of envy to the other villagers. Come, come, Adelaide, I have not made ſuch a fine ſpeech a long time, and, pray, don't let it be in vain.

Sir, you ſhall know my ſtory. I am now going to tell it your ſon; he ought not to think of me, and I have no other way of reſtoring him to himſelf and you, than by holding up the unfortunate circum⯑ſtances of my life, that he may be the firſt to ſay 'tis impoſſible we ſhould ever be united. Thus you will be acquainted with all my unhappineſs; and in return [56] for this confidence, I muſt entreat, you, when you leave this place, to take every poſſible precaution to prevent my being an object of odious curioſity; and while you ſtay here, to guard me from importunities, which are as hateful as they are ineffectual.

That mandrake of an Abbé, I'll lay a mil⯑lion; damn him, I'll cut his ears off. Beautiful young creature, you render yourſelf more and more eſtimable every moment. Be aſſured, you have nothing to do but name your wiſhes, and every thing within my for⯑tune ſhall be your's.

SCENE II.

I am not very fond of the pathetic, but, ſome how or other, I can't help being touched to the ſoul with this amiable young creature's diſtreſs.

SCENE III.

Your moſt humble ſervant, Mr. Abbé,

I have been ſearching for you, Marquis; I have the moſt ridiculous circumſtance in nature to tell you, 'twould be matter for ten ſatirical odes.

What is it?

The Count has made me the confident of his amour.

No, no.

He has; and my fellow, la Pierre, is now upon the ſearch for the beſt carriage to be found in this mi⯑ſerable place, to carry off him and his fair one.

That's excellent!

And what think you I intend to do?

Nay, I don't know.

At the moment he gives his hand to the coun⯑terfeit Shepherdeſs of the Alps, I will ſtep in with the real one; drive off, and leave the poor, Count in the lurch.

And you are really ſo egregiouſly conceited to believe this?

She has ſeen me, Sir.

I know ſhe has; and, to cut the matter ſhort, has placed herſelf under my protection; you muſt there⯑therefore drop all thoughts of her.

Muſt, that's a little ſtrong, Sir.

Come, come, Abbé, it won't do; you can't marry her, becauſe you are of the church; and if you meditate any other deſign, it becomes my affair.

Your affair; Which way?

Becauſe, as an honeſt man, this young crea⯑ture's unfortunate ſituation obliges me to prevent her being inſulted.

You are rather too old, I ſhould think, to pro⯑feſs yourſelf a protector of diſtreſſed damſels, Mar⯑quis.

One can never be too old, puppy, to profeſs one's ſelf a protector of innocence; beſides, I have brought you here; therefore am in ſome degree acceſ⯑ſary to your outrageous folly; and, a word in your ear—a man may by chance admit a raſcal into his company; but if he finds him out, and does not chaſ⯑tiſe him, he is little better than a raſcal himſelf.

Sir, though I don't wear a ſword, I can uſe one.

To do you juſtice, I know you can, though I ſhould be ſorry to ſee you draw it in ſo unworthy a cauſe. However, if it ſhould be neceſſary, I don't be⯑lieve I have forgot that kind of ſport myſelf. I have only then one word to ſay to you; you muſt either give me your honour never to ſpeak to Adelaide any more, or you and I are two.

You and I are two then, my Lord! pen and perſon; I'll not be anſwerable for my actions to you, or any man; I did the girl the honour, I confeſs, to make love to her, and ſhe anſwered me with a great deal of pride, and a great deal of impertinence, which muſt, and ſhall be ſubdued, even though the Marquis of Belemine was ever ſo to profeſs him her knight errant.

Very well, very well, I ſhall watch you; in the mean time, if you think to commit any violence by availing yourſelf of this young creature's defenceleſs ſituation, you are no better than a robber, who would take away her honour becauſe he had a piſtol at her breaſt.

SCENE III.

Dam'me, I'm piqued at this.—Oh, here comes La Pierre.—Well, what news?

Oh, ſir! they'll be drawn to matrimony in much the ſame ſtile as they draw criminals to exe⯑cution; but however, that's not very widely different from the lady's ſituation.

What, you have got a carriage, then?

Yes, ſir, and ſuch a one!

Well, but the plan is changed:—I am go⯑ing in this carriage inſtead of the Count.

You, ſir!—oh! oh! I ſmoke it. I ſaw you together.—Why, ſir, the bargain has not been long making—ſo modeſt too!—well, who will ever truſt to countenances after this?

Hold, Monſieur La Pierre; not quite ſo faſt, if you pleaſe: the bargain is not ſo firmly made, but there will be a neceſſity for a little agreeable violence—you underſtand me.—I ſuppoſe it's poſſible to procure three or four ſturdy fellows?

Whew!—are we thereabouts? why, this affair will make a noiſe, ſir.

I would have it. In ſhort, this muſt all be done within half an hour; meet me at the cot⯑tage, and if you ſee the Count, tell him you can't ſucceed for him.

I am gone, ſir; I ſuppoſe I may ſay that your honour's purſe is pretty full.

What you pleaſe, as to that—and for thee, if I am happy, I'll give thee a ſnug birth in a convent of Benedictines for thy pains.

SCENE IV.

Thus, before there doubtable Marquis will have time to look about him, will I be far enough with my lovely prey; our little novel will exactly make out the bal⯑lad I wrote once upon my ſtealing a nun out of a con⯑vent.

SCENE V.

Why, I tell you, Jeannotte, if you had not been ſo jealous, it would never have happened.

Why, for the matter of that, Guillot, if I had been ever ſo jealous, I don't ſee why—

Nay, nay, damn it! don't fall out the mo⯑ment you have made it up. You have promiſed never to be jealous any more; and you, never to give any cauſe; upon theſe conditions, I ſhall throw ſomething into your purſe; in the mean time, you both remem⯑ber how I told you to manage the Count.

Yes, ſir, never fear, I have got my ſtory.

And ſo have I mine.

Well, here he comes; leave us together for a minute, and come to him when you find him alone; firſt Guillot, and then Jeannotte

We'll take care.

SCENE VI.

So, Count.

So, Marquis; I have ten thouſand obligati⯑ons to you: ſhe is ready to go off with me.

To go off with you! how the devil could you bring her to this?

I don't know; my old way, I inſinuated and inſinuated.—

'Till ſhe could refuſe you nothing, eh! why this will make a devil of a clatter at Turin: you'll be envied by the whole world.

Yes, I believe I ſhall, indeed.

And ſo the Counteſs is quite forgotten!

Now, Marquis, that's unfriendly of you; I had juſt got over the firſt ſhock, and you have revived it again in my mind.

Now, damn it, Count, this is ſo abſurd be⯑tween two ſuch friends as you and I: don't I know what a life you uſed to lead with her?

Horrible, indeed! but to do her juſtice, poor woman, ſhe had a great many virtues.

What virtues! was not ſhe petulant, capri⯑cious, ill-tempered?

As the devil! but then ſhe was divinely handſome.

Handſome! what, with that meagre figure, and her painting herſelf red and white!

I have told her a thouſand times how deteſt⯑able it was: but then her features—

Were at a mile's diſtance from each other.

To be ſure, they were a little irregular; but, however, in perfection itſelf you may find ſome flaw; we ſee ſpots in the ſun.

Come, come, her perfections, compared to her imperfections, were a drop in the ocean, a grain of pepper upon a turtle; In ſhort, ſhe was a mixture of miſchief and malice; incapable of pleaſing herſelf, and envying all thoſe who could; her delight was to tyrannize over her huſband, and to play the co⯑quette with every body elſe.

Dam'me, if I did not tell her the very words once myſelf when we quarrelled.

How different is the preſent object of your wiſhes, gentle, mild, engaging!

Oh, to rapture!

So far from thinking herſelf above you, ſhe will look up to you as the author of her good fortune.

Very true, my dear friend, I'll go this mi⯑nute and beg of her; but, zounds! we can't get a carriage to take us from hence.

I, who am your friend upon all other occa⯑ſions, have thought upon that too; there is one Guillot, I fancy, can do your buſineſs; he is nephew to the honeſt people where we are; yonder is the very man; well, I'll leave you together; I am going to ſee if my wife has left her toilet; I ſaw the ſun riſe this morning, and the ceremony put me exactly in mind of a lady's iſſuing from her dreſſing-room.

SCENE VII.

My uncle Blaiſe has lent me ſome clothes, ſo I look a little more like myſelf, and if they catch me being a gentleman again—

Servant, friend.

Your's, ſir, and pleaſe you.

If your name's Guillot, I am informed you can furniſh me with a carriage to take me to Medina.

Why, ſir, I believe I could do ſuch a thing. How many perſons is it to carry.

Me and another.

I beg your pardon, ſir, but you are the gen⯑tleman that's come with the gentlefolks at uncle's, an't you?

I am, my friend.

Oh, I have been ſpoke to about it before.

What, may I hope by my charming ſhep⯑herdeſs?

Ay, ay, you know who I mean well enough.—I'cod, what a work you have made with her!

Do you think ſhe loves me, then?

Loves you! if the King loved me half ſo well, I need not be a poor peaſant here in a village.

And ſo you can get us a carriage? well, I ſhall reward you for it; and pray what ſort of a one is it?

Why, they ben't the beſt in the world, our way; it will break down five or ſix times before we reach Medina.

Break down!

O yes, that we always lay our account to; but then we take care and carry a parcel of cords with us, to ſet things right again.

Oh, I had rather we could have gone all the way without breaking down.

If the thing could be, ſo would I too, ſir.

Well, and what ſort of cattle have you?

Why, as to that, ſir, pretty well, I don't think they'll founder above three times.

Founder!

Yes, ſir; we ſhall have three times, I reckon, to ſtop in the ſnow; about five hours at a ſpill.

In the ſnow!

Yes, ſir; but then your love will keep you warm.

To be ſure I would undergo a little in con⯑ſideration of that.

And then I hope you are pretty well as to courage, ſir?

How do you mean?

Why, ſir; they ſay there's a woundy ſight of robbers that way.

Robbers! hang it, that's unlucky.—Well, but I hope they are none of thoſe damn'd banditti raſcals who murder people?

Always.

An't you afraid, then, for yourſelf?

O Sir, they never touch the guide.

Well, I muſt conſult the Marquis about it. At all events get ready.—Where ſhall I find you?

Oh, at uncle's.

You know the way?

Yes, yes; every inch of it.—Let me ſee.

SCENE VIII.

I muſt throw none of theſe objections in her way:—here ſhe is. Well, my love, you are come in good time: we ſhall have a carriage directly, and then upon the wings of love.—

Ay, all that's very well, if I could believe you'd love me for ever.

How can you think otherwiſe? who would not have done as much as I have, for the tender, gentle, beautiful Shepherdeſs of the Alps? your diſtreſs beſpoke my pity; pity ſoftened into love, and love commanded me to throw myſelf and my fortune at your feet.

Yes, but ours has been but a ſhort acquain⯑tance; and how do I know but you wants to inveigle me away for ſome wicked purpoſe?

My dear, I would not harbour ſuch a thought for the world: my intention is to take you directly to Turin, there to beſpeak you clothes, jewels, every thing proper for your intended ſituation; and when my twelvemonth and a day expires, to marry you.

Twelvemonth and a day!

Yes, my dear; you know it would not be decent before.

I can tell you, Sir, I won't wait ſo long as that:—to love you ſo dearly as I do, indeed, and not be married 'till then!

But, my life, what can I do?

Why? marry me before you go.

Conſider, love:—beſides there's no ſuch thing as getting a prieſt.

O Lord! our curate will do the job, and thank you into the bargain, if you'll give him a good fee; and then, as I am to be a lady, you know, I can't ſee why you may not bring me acquainted with the gentlefolks, and then we may all go away together.

That's true; but if they find I have made ſuch a ſudden reſolution—

They may laugh at you, perhaps you think; Oh, ſir, if you are aſhamed of your choice, indeed!

No, my life, it is not that.

I can tell you, ſir, I would not turn my back for virtue and honeſty to any one; and then as to beauty—

Venus was never half ſo handſome.

I don't know ſhe, but I am ſure I am very well to paſs.

Zounds! I ſhall loſe her. My love, you are every thing to me, and your will ſhall be obey'd.

Ay, that's ſaying ſomething; but I think you had better make me acquainted with the gentlefolks firſt, and then you may get one of your friends to ſtand father.

A good thought.

And another thing;—you don't think of mar⯑rying me in that diſmal ſuit of clothes, do you?

My dear, I have no other with me.

Oh, I dare ſay the gentleman will lend you ſome.

Well, but.—

Ah, there! You are at your buts again.

Well, well, I'll make no objections; every thing ſhall be as you deſire it: I'll go and find the Marquis directly.—Adieu.

Oh dear! how I ſhall laugh to ſee him in his finery.

SCENE IX.

Three hours have I waited here in anxious expectation, contemplating every one of thoſe objects that have ſo often been ſilent witneſſes of her grief:—all nature ſeems to reſpect it—and where-e'er ſhe comes, like gloomy miſts at the approach of day, all other objects ſhrink back, and behold her approach with ſilent admiration—what can it be?

But ſhe is here, and all at once the blood for⯑ſakes my very heart; how I tremble to approach her!

SCENE X.

I have made you wait; but I'll haſten to re⯑compenſe your patience; you know upon what con⯑ditions you are to hear my ſtory; let us ſpeak to one another then without diſguiſe. I'll begin, and let my confidence encourage your's; liſten—my unhappi⯑neſs will be a leſſon for you—Shepherd, behold this tomb.

Now tell me of what parents you are born, and what reduced you to the ſtate of ſhepherd?

Ceaſe to queſtion me, 'twould afflict you to know an ill you cannot cure. You are unhappy, but I am more ſo; and ſuch is the nature of my diſtreſs, that an eternal ſilence muſt lock it up in my heart.

Alas! how can I without knowing who you are, and what are your troubles, any longer place a confidence in you? the myſtery you make raiſes a cloud between us.

Don't be offended at my ſilence! 'tis ter⯑rible to be condemned to it. The aſſiduous companion of all your ſteps, I'll ſweeten your labour; I'll partake your cares, and you ſhall never repent of having repoſed your miſeries in a heart, alas! but too ſenſible.

No, it cannot be; I exact from you the moſt ſincere confeſſion, and I think I merit it; I have ſpoken to you without myſtery, and you ought to imi⯑tate me.

Alas! let me finiſh my deplorable life, with⯑out leaving you to reproach yourſelf with having ſhortened it.

Sill more and more myſterious.

What would you have me ſay then?—I am—

Speak!

Bellemine! the ſon of thoſe travellers you ſo penetrated with reſpect and admiration.

And you have left your unhappy family in tears?

Their report of your virtues and your charms, inſpired me with the fatal deſign to come and ſee you thus diſguiſed; you therefore know the cauſe of my error.

O fly and conſole—

Spare me unuſeful counſels and reproaches; my reſolution is as fixed, as unalterable as your's; I ſee all the repugnance you have to make me unhappy; I ſee your heart is with him who repoſes in that tomb; I ſee that nothing can detach you from it; your duty is never to love me, and my fate for ever to adore you.

SCENE XI.

Poor Bellemine!

Here ſhe is. Come, ma'am, you ſeem a lady fond of adventures, and therefore I hope you'll not make much reſiſtance; come let me gently force you to be happy.

What do you mean, Sir?

My dear, I can't t [...]k, I ſhall have time enough to obtain my pardon: here my honeſt fellows, aſſiſt me.

Oh,

Heaven! what would you do?

SCENE XII.

How's this? Adelaide in diſtreſs!—hold off, you ruffians!

Nay, I regard not your numbers. What do I ſee, the Abbé dela Mouche!

Young Bellemine!

SCENE XIII.

Where are they? where are they? never fear my boy, the dog has courage enough.

My father! gods!

Ma⯑dam, I have fulfilled my promiſe.

So, Mr. Abbé you are there! did not I tell you, you had better be quiet? you little thought what a terrier I had to ſet after your heels.

I little expected, indeed, the pleaſure of ſee⯑ing Mr. Bellemine.

Nor that you ſhould be chaſtized, I ſuppoſe, for the outrage you have meditated againſt decency, and the laws.

Sir, there's no talking here; you'll find me at Turin.

I will find you at Turin, Sir; in the mean time begone! and thank this company that I part with you upon ſuch eaſy terms.

Here, la Pierre; at Turin, Mr. Bellemine, I ſhall expect the pleaſure of ſeeing you, Sir; in the mean time, I am this company's moſt obedient ſlave.

SCENE XIV.

So, you young dog, I have had a pretty race after you, I think.

Pardon me, Sir, nor make me more miſerable than I am.

Oh, my dear child, why would you be ſo cruel to leave me in ſuch deſpair?

I feel, madam, how much theſe reproaches are my due; but by the ills I endure, love is reveng⯑ed of nature, and your ſon is loſt.

How! my child?

I have done every thing, quitted every thing for her; anſwer me, could I love any thing more beau⯑tiful? but I adore in vain; a young and faithful widow, ſhe weeps a huſband buried in that tomb.

'Tis for that then, ſo young and handſome, ſhe has quitted the world.

The name of your huſband, my dear child?

Doreſtan.

And your's?

Seville.

Why, I know both the names as well, as my own. Did not I ſay my boy knew what he was about? why, you dog, ſhe is deſcended from one of the beſt families in France.

Indeed, child, her heart was worthy of you; but the love you have conceived for her, is a flame that muſt be extinguiſhed.

If I muſt quit Adelaide, I ſhall ſoon after quit the light; I feel too well, that the ſame inſtant will decide my life and my love.

You ſee, child, his extreme unhappineſs.

Ah! how miſerable I am!

Come, come, why ſhould we ſtay here to afflict her? I did not believe it a matter ſo ſerious as this: we won't aſk you, Adelaide, to accompany us.

I wiſh to heaven ſhe would.

Alas! madam, how can I?

Adieu, all that I love.

Adieu, Bellemine.

Oh, what an effort! no, I feel I ſhall ſink under it; let me then upon this tomb.

Alas! Adelaide, your heart is without pity, and for a family too who have ſo much friendſhip for you.

Dear madam, what would you have me do?

I would have you go with us: I aſk not for a return of my child's love, your pity will ſuffice, and that I implore; without that, you'll cauſe his death; and alas, mine ſoon afterwards!

Dear madam.

Save my child! make this effort; a mother upon her knees aſks his life.

Indeed, my dear child, you make madam too unhappy.

Pray, pray, conſent.

Nay, nay, Adelaide, I muſt put in a word now: how can you deny us? beſides your adventure will be known every where; nay, have you not al⯑ready been expoſed to violence? though, thanks to my boy, you were reſcued from it: for his ſake then, for your own,—

For all our ſakes.

Oh Doreſtan, thy heart was noble and generous; and if thou canſt read in the bottom of my mind, thou wilt not com⯑plain of ſo holy a duty.—Riſe, Bellemine!

What voice was that!

What voice! why the voice of thy Ade⯑laide, who conſents to go with us to Turin; oh! you young dog, you have got the uſe of your limbs now, I ſee.

Oh, my Adelaide!

What the devil have we here?

SCENE XV.

Give me joy! my friends, give me joy!

Ah, the Count!

Yes, not the whining, crying Count; but the laughing, happy Count; zounds! I can't help thinking what an aſs I have been; to be ſure, 'tis a ſudden change; but who'll blame me when they know what a temptation was thrown in my way; the lovely, ſolitary ſhepherdeſs of the Alps!

How's this!

SCENE the laſt.

I crave pardon; oh! Sir, you are there; well, every thing is ready, the cattle are too—

Heyday! Jeannotte, what is all this?

Jeannotte! what does the fellow mean by Jeannotte? Sir, this is the lovely Adelaide; the Shepherdeſs of the Alps.

Oh lord! I know a little better than that too; 'tis our Jeannotte, I tell you; and, to ſay the truth, I don't underſtand her toying about along of you, when ſhe is to be married this morning to me.

What is all this, Marquis?

'Tis very true, Count, I aſſure you; yonder's Adelaide with my ſon.

And have I then ſwerved from my duty; dreſſed myſelf up like a mountebank? this was your contrivance then, Marquis.

It was indeed, Count.

And pray, Sir, why?

I'll tell you why: from an inveterate aver⯑ſion I have to every ſort of hypocriſy; come, come, I'll ſettle all your future ſituations: you and Jeannotte ſhall enjoy your farm; which my ſon ſhall reſtore you again; Blaiſe and Renette ſhall go with us; and, as they have lived like Baucis and Philemon, ſo ſhall they die; for I'll change their cottage into a palace—As for you, Count—

I am a wretch, a puppy; I feel it, and will never ſhew my face again; I'll get into my weeds, and never more be comforted.

An excellent reſolution! and there never was ſo fine an opportunity; and dam'me, if I was you, I'd ſtay here in theſe wild mountains; let my hair and my claws grew, and vegetage, like Nebuchad⯑nezzar; [84] and now, my amiable daughter, we'll reſtore you to the world.

Alas, ſir! how ſhall I bear its reproaches?

What reproaches! let it have been witneſs to our united ſolicitations, let it have ſeen the noble conflict in your mind, and then, could the ſevereſt cenſurer have denied, that the Shepherdeſs of the Alps was amiable, even in her infidelity?