“The world,” said he, pursuing this train of thought, “ridicules a
passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract
the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist
in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and
taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste,
and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then
are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness,
dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity
and truth?”

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of
steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an
ascent, that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the
carriage, they entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was
diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf, that
grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm,
thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines,
beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most
delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of
the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant
scenery, which gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more
interesting, more impressive, than any that had been presented to the
eye. The wanderers often lingered to indulge in these reveries of
fancy. The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than
ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating
vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an
unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid
understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of
the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had
continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it
exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his
own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the
road were equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced,
they perceived a shepherd’s cabin, between the boles of the trees at
some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When
he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the turf
before the door. He looked into the hut, but no person was there, and
the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with his flocks,
and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would be back
presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a
sudden he heard Michael’s voice roaring forth most manfully among the
cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately
answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket
that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After
much struggle over brambles and precipices, he reached Michael, and at
length prevailed with him to be silent, and to listen to him. The road
was at a considerable distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily
were; the carriage could not easily return to the entrance of the wood,
and, since it would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long
and steep road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious
to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return. The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols,
and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure
upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his
remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and
their lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily
observing, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively
airs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most
captivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took
her hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the
melancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt
her, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded,
he joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as well
as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to the
carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert
surveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and
this ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be
less toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to
attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he
should rest, and dine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to
the carriage for the refreshments deposited there. On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to
where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and thither
they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the
children, and caress and weep over them. The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She
took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St.
Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on
the preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for
some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his
master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the shepherd’s wife, “had saved a
little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go
to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than all,
his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer
with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to
become of our children!”

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner
in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story;
and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the
value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look
of disappointment.