CLAUDINE: A SAVOYARD TALE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE FLORIAN.

IN the month of July, 1788, being again at Ferney, which, since the death of Voltaire, appears like one of those deserted castles said to have been formerly inhabited by genii, I resolved to pay a visit to the famous glaciers of Savoy. A Genevese friend had the kindness to be my companion. I will not describe this journey, because, in order to make it interesting, it would be necessary for me to copy that swelling, sublime style, which is unintelligible to the profane, but with which a traveller must not now dispense, if le have journeyed two leagues, and have any pretensions to feeling it would be necessary for me to talk of nothing but extacies, thrillings, and inexpressible emotions; and I confess that, common as these words are become, I am not yet familiar enough with them. I have seen Mount Blanc, the icy sea, and the source of the Arveron. I have long contemplated in silence those terrible rocks, covered with hoar frost; those Vol. VII, No. XXXVII.

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icy points which pierce the clouds; that vast stream, which has the name of a sea, suspended at once in its course, and the moveless billows of which seem still to retain their fury; that immense vault, formed by the snow of so many ages, whence rushes a whitish tor rent bearing blocks of ice over massy fragments of stone. All this inspired me with terror, and filled me with melancholy. It appeared to me as if I were gazing on the terrific image of nature, without a sun, and abandoned to the god of the tempests. While I viewed these fine horrors, I thanked the Omnipotent Being for having made them so rare, and was desirous to quit them, that I might return to the valley, the delicious valley of Maglan.* It was there that I hoped to console my saddened eyes, by wandering slowly through that smiling landscape, and contemplating, on the banks of the Arve, the rich expanses of verdure, those quiet woods, those enamelled meadows, those cottages, those scattered houses, where my imagination shewed to me an old man surrounded by his family, a mother suckling her child, or two young lovers returning from the altar. This is the spectacle which delights my eyes; these are the scenes which touch my heart, and afford to it sweet recollections and pleasing desires.

O my worthy friend Gessner, you think as I do, you who, born in the most varied and most picturesque country in the world, and the most capable of furnishing you with descriptions always different, have never, as so many others have done, misused the art of writing, have never believed that a picture, however brilliant might be its colouring, could do without figures. You sing the umbrageous groves, the verdant meads, the limpid brooks; but, there, shepherdesses and swains give lessons of love, of piety, and of benevolence. While we read, our satisfied eyes see the spot which you have painted, and our minds, still more satisfied, are nourished by useful precepts, and enjoy sweet emotions.

Such were my thoughts at Chamouny, as I was descending the Montanverd, on my return from the icy

This is a charming valley on the banks of the Arve, which is passed in the way to Chamouny.

sea. After two hour's laborious walking, I reached the spring at which I had rested in the morning. I wished to rest there again; for, though I have no great love of torrents, I am very fond of springs. Besides, though quite unworthy of my fatigues, I was really worn out. I therefore begged my brave and honest guide, whose name was Francis Paccard, to sit down by me; and we began a very pleasant conversation on the customs, character, and manner of living of the inhabitants of Chamouny. The worthy Paccard had interested me very much by his description of those simple manners, which we love to talk of, even if it be only to regret them, when we were interrupted by a pretty little girl, who came to offer me a basket of cherries. I bought them of her. As soon as she was out of hearing, Paccard said to me, laughing, "Ten years ago, on the spot where we now are, one of our peasant girls paid dearly for having come in that way to offer her fruit to a traveller." I immediately begged Paccard to tell me the story. "It is rather a long one," replied he; "I know every particular of it from the rector of Salenches, who himself played a principal part in that adventure." I pressed Paccard to repeat to me what he had been told by the rector of Salenches; and, while we were seated on the ground, with our backs leaning against two fir trees, and eating our cherries together, Paccard thus began his narrative

"You must know, Sir, that, about ten years ago, our valley of Chamouny was not as famous as it is now. Travellers did not then come to bring us their guineas that they might see our frozen snow, and pick up our little pebbles. We were poor, and ignorant of evil, and our wives and our daughters, entirely taken up with their household affairs, were still more ignorant than we were. I tell you this beforehand, that you may be able to make some excuse for the fault which Claudine committed. The poor child was so artless, that it was very easy to deceive her.

Claudine was a daughter of old Simon, a husbandman of Le Prieuré,the principal village of the valley of Chamouny. This Simon, whom I knew very well, for he has not been dead more than two years, was the Syndic of our parish. Every body respected him for

his probity. But he was naturally of a severe character: he never overlooked any of his own faults, and very few of other people's; and, therefore, he was as much feared as he was respected. If any of our inhabitants had had a quarrel with his wife, or had taken a glass too much on Sunday, he did not dare to speak to Simon during the whole week. Our children left · off making a noise as he passed by them, took off their hats as expeditiously as possible, and did not begin to play again till Mr. Simon was out of sight.*

Simon had remained a widower since the death of his wife Magdalen, who left him two daughters. Nanette, the eldest, was well enough, but Claudine, the youngest, was an angel of beauty. Her pretty round face, her beautiful black eyes, full of life and spirit, her handsome eye-brows, her little mouth, which was like this cherry, and her gay and innocent manners, made all the young men of our village in love with her; and when, on Sunday afternoons, she came to dance in her jacket of blue cloth, which fitted close to her fine shape, her straw bonnet, decked with ribbons, and her little round cap, which could hardly keep in her long ringlets, there was a general rivalship for the pleasure of dancing with Claudine.

Claudine was only fourteen; her sister Nanette was nineteen, and always stayed at home to manage the house. Claudine, the youngest, was sent to watch the flock on the Montanverd; she carried with her, her dinner and her distaff, and she spent the day in spinning, singing, or prattling with the other shepherdesses. In the evening she returned to Simon, who, after supper, read to his daughters some story out of the Bible, and gave them his blessing, and then every body went to bed.

It was at that time that strangers began to visit our glaciers. A young Englishman, named Mr. Belton, the son of a rich London merchant, on his way from Geneva to Italy, had the curiosity to make a journey

* I could almost believe that Simon and his two daughters first suggested to Walter Scott his David, Jeannie, and Effe Deans. Florian's is but a sketch, but it might give the idea for the finished picture. The reader will judge.

Ed.P.M.

to Chamouny. He alighted at the inn kept by Madam Couteran, and the next day, conducted by my brother Michael, who is now the eldest of the guides, he ascended the Montanverd, to view the icy sea. He returned from it about eleven o'clock, and was resting, as we are, at this very spring, when Claudine, who was just by with her sheep, seeing that he was much heated, came to offer him some fruit and milk, which she had for her dinner. The Englishman thanked her, looked a great deal at her, talked with her a good while, and offered her five or six guineas, which Claudine refused: but poor Claudine did not refuse to take Mr. Belton to shew him her flock, which she had left among those large trees. The Englishman begged his guide to wait for him, and went with Claudine. They were gone above two hours. To tell you what they talked about is more than I can do, for nobody heard them. It is enough for me to tell you that Mr. Belton set off that evening, and that, when Claudine went home, she was pensive, thoughtful, and even sad, and had on her finger a beautiful green diamond, which the Englishman had given to her. Her sister asked her where she got that diamond, and Claudine replied that she found it. With a discontented look, Simon immediately took the ring, and carried it himself to Madam Couteran, that enquiry might be made for the person who had lost it. The ring, however, was not claimed by any traveller. Mr. Belton was already far off; and Claudine, to whom the diamond was restored, grew more melancholy every day.

Five or six months now passed away. Claudine, who every evening came home with her eyes made red by weeping, at length determined to confide in her sister Nanette. She confessed to her that, on the day when she met Mr. Belton on the Montanverd, he had told her that he was in love with her; and that he meant to come and live at Chamouny, that he might never be separated from her, and might marry her. "For my part," said Claudine," I believed him; he swore it to me more than a hundred times; he told me that some business compelled him to return to Geneva, but that before a fortnight was gone he would be back here; that he would buy a house, and that we