(09) Book Ninth - Residence in France

Book Ninth Residence in France

AS oftentimes a river, it might seem,
Yielding in part to old remembrances,
Part swayed by fear to tread an onward road
That leads direct to the devouring sea,
Turns and will measure back his course—far back, 5
Towards the very regions which he crossed
In his first outset—so have we long time
Made motions retrograde, in like pursuit
Detained. But now we start afresh: I feel
An impulse to precipitate my verse. 10
Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness,
Whene'er it comes, needful in work so long,
Trice needful to the argument which now
Awaits us—oh, how much unlike the past—
One which though bright the promise, will be found 15
Ere far we shall advance, ungenial, hard
To treat of, and forbidding in itself.

Free as a colt at pasture on the hills
I ranged at large through the metropolis
Month after month. Obscurely did I live, 20
Not courting the society of men,
By literature, or elegance, or rank,
Distinguished—in the midst of things, it seemed,
Looking as from a distance on the world
That moved about me. Yet insensibly 25
False preconceptions were corrected thus,
And errors of the fancy rectified
(Alike with reference to men and things),

And sometimes from each quarter were poured in
Novel imaginations and profound. 30
A year thus spent, this field, with small regret—
Save only for the bookstalls in the streets
(Wild produce, hedgerow fruit, on all sides hung
To lure the sauntering traveller from his track)—
I quitted, and betook myself to France, 35
Let thither chiefly by a personal wish
To speak the language more familiarly,
With which intent I chose for my abode
A city on the borders of the Loire.

Through Paris lay my readiest path, and there 40
I sojourned a few days, and visited
In haste each spot of old and recent fame—
The latter chiefly—from the field of Mars
Down to the suburbs of St. Anthony,
And from Mont Martyr southward to the Dome 45
Of Genevie`ve. In both her clamorous halls,
The National Synod and the Jacobins,
I saw the revolutionary power
Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms,
The Arcades I traversed in the Palace huge 50
Of Orleans, coasted round and round the line
Of tavern, brothel, gaming-house, and shop,
Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk
Of all who had a purpose, or had not;
I stared and listened with a stranger's ears, 55
To hawkers and haranguers, hubbub wild,
And hissing factionists with ardent eyes,
In knots, or pairs, or single, ant-like swarms
Of builders and subverters, every face
That hope or apprehension could put on— 60
Joy, anger, and vexation, in the midst
Of gaiety and dissolute idleness.

Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust
Of the Bastile I sate in the open sun
And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, 65
And pocketed the relick in the guise
Of an enthusiast; yet, in honest truth,
Though not without some strong incumbencies,
And glad—could living man be otherwise?—
I looked for something which I could not find, 70
Affecting more emotion than I felt.
For 'tis most certain that the utmost force
Of all these various objects which may shew
The temper of my mind as then it was
Seemed less to recompense the traveller's pains, 75
Less moved me, gave me less delight, than did
A single picture merely, hunted out
Among other sights, the Magdalene of le Brun,
A beauty exquisitely wrought—fair face
And rueful, with its ever-flowing tears. 80

But hence to my more permanent residence
I hasten: there, by novelties in speech,
Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks,
And all the attire of ordinary life,
Attention was at first engrossed; and thus 85
Amused and satisfied, I scarcely felt
The shock of these concussions, unconcerned,
Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower
Glassed in a greenhouse, or a parlour-shrub,
When every bush and tree the country through, 90
Is shaking to the roots—indifference this
Which may seem strange, but I was unprepared
With needful knowledge, had abruptly passed
Into a theatre of which the stage
Was busy with an action far advanced. 95
Like others I had read, and eagerly
Sometimes, the master pamphlets of the day,
Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild
Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk
And public news; but having never chanced 100
To see a regular chronicle which might shew—

If any such indeed existed then—
Whence the main organs of the public power
Had sprung, their transmigrations, when and how
Accomplished (giving thus unto events 105
A form and body), all things were to me
Loose and disjointed, and the affections left
Without a vital interest. At that time,
Moreover, the first storm was overblown,
And the strong hand of outward violence 110
Locked up in quiet. For myself—I fear
Now in connection with so great a theme
To speak, as I must be compelled to do,
Of one so unimportant—a short time
I loitered, and frequented night by night 115
Routs, card-tables, the formal haunts of men
Whom in the city privilege of birth
Sequestered from the rest, societies
Where, through punctilios of elegance
And deeper causes, all discourse, alike 120
Of good and evil, in the time, was shunned
With studious care. But 'twas not long ere this
Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew
Into a noisier world, and thus did soon
Become a patriot—and my heart was all 125
Given to the people, and my love was theirs.

A knot of military officers
That to a regiment appertained which then
Was stationed in the city were the chief
Of my associates; some of these wore swords 130
Which had been seasoned in the wars, and all
Were men well-born, at least laid claim to such
Distinction, as the chivalry of France.
In age and temper differing, they had yet
One spirit ruling in them all—alike 135
(Save only one, hereafter to be named)
Were bent upon undoing what was done.
This was their rest, and only hope; therewith

No fear had they of bad becoming worse,
For worst to them was come—nor would have stirred, 140
Or deemed it worth a moment's while to stir,
In any thing, save only as the act
Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years,
Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile
He had sate lord in many tender hearts, 145
Though heedless of such honours now, and changed:
His temper was quite mastered by the times,
And they had blighted him, had eat away
The beauty of his person, doing wrong
Alike to body and to mind. His port, 150
Which once had been erect and open, now
Was stooping and contracted, and a face
By nature lovely in itself, expressed,
As much as any that was ever seen,
A ravage out of season. made by thoughts 155
Unhealthy and vexatious. At the hour,
The most important of each day, in which
The public news was read, the fever came,
A punctual visitant, to shake this man,
Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek 160
Into a thousand colours. While he read,
Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch
Continually, like an uneasy place
In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour
Of universal ferment—mildest men 165
Were agitated, and commotions, strife
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds.
The soil of common life was at that time
Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then, 170
And not then only, 'What a mockery this
Of history, the past and that to come!
Now do I feel how I have been deceived,
Reading of nations and their works in faith—
Faith given to vanity and emptiness— 175
Oh, laughter for the page that would reflect

To future times the face of what now is!'
The land all swarmed with passion, like a plain
Devoured by locusts—Carra, Gorsas—add
A hundred other names, forgotten now, 180
Nor to be heard of more; yet were they powers,
Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by day,
And felt through every nook of town and field.

The men already spoken of as chief
Of my associates were prepared for flight 185
To augment the band of emigrants in arms
Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued
With foreign foes mustered for instant war.
This was their undisguised intent, and they
Were waiting with the whole of their desires 190
The moment to depart. An Englishman,
Born in a land the name of which appeared
To licence some unruliness of mind,
A stranger, with youth 's further privilege,
And that indulgence which a half-learned speech 195
Wins from the courteous, I—who had been else
Shunned and not tolerated—freely lived
With these defenders of the crown, and talked,
And heard their notions; nor did they disdain
The wish to bring me over to their cause. 200
But though untaught by thinking or by books
To reason well of polity or law,
And nice distinctions—then on every tongue—
Of natural rights and civil, and to acts
Of nations, and their passing interests 205
(I speak comparing these with other things)
Almost indifferent, even the historian's tale
Prizing but little otherwise than I prized
Tales of poets—as it made my heart
Beat high and filled my fancy with fair forms, 210
Old heroes and their sufferings and their deeds—
Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp
Of orders and degrees, I nothing found

Then, or had ever even in crudest youth,
That dazzled me, but rather what my soul 215
Mourned for, or loathed, beholding that the best
Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to rule.

For, born in a poor district, and which yet
Retaineth more of ancient homeliness,
Manners erect, and frank simplicity, 220
Than any other nook of English land,
It was my fortune scarcely to have seen
Through the whole tenor of my schoolday time
The face of one, who, whether boy or man,
Was vested with attention or respect 225
Through claims of wealth or blood. Nor was it least
Of many debts which afterwards I owed
To Cambridge and an academic life,
That something there was holden up to view
Of a republic, where all stood thus far 230
Upon equal ground, that they were brothers all
In honour, as of one community—
Scholars and gentlemen—where, furthermore,
Distinction lay open to all that came,
And wealth and titles were in less esteem 235
Than talents and successful industry.
Add unto this, subservience from the first
To God and Nature's single sovereignty
(Familiar presences of awful power),
And fellowship with venerable books 240
To sanction the proud workings of the soul,
And mountain liberty. It could not be
But that one tutored thus, who had been formed
To thought and moral feeling in the way
This story hath described, should look with awe 245
Upon the faculties of man, receive
Gladly the highest promises, and hail
As best the government of equal rights
And individual worth. And hence, O friend,
If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced 250

Less than might well befit my youth, the cause
In part lay here, that unto me the events
seemed nothing out of nature's certain course—
A gift that rather was come late than soon.
No wonder then if advocates like these 255
Whom I have mentioned, at this riper day
Were impotent to make my hopes put on
The shape of theirs, my understanding bend
In honour to their honour. Zeal which yet
Had slumbered, now in opposition burst 260
Forth like a Polar summer. Every word
They uttered was a dart by counter-winds
Blown back upon themselves; their reason seemed
Confusion-stricken by a higher power
Than human understanding, their discourse 265
Maimed, spiritless—and, in their weakness strong,
I triumphed.

Meantime day by day the roads,
While I consorted with these royalists, 270
Were crowded with the bravest youth of France
And all the promptest of her spirits, linked
In gallant soldiership, and posting on
To meet the war upon her frontier-bounds.
Yet at this very moment do tears start 275
Into mine eyes—I do not say I weep,
I wept not then, but tears have dimmed my sight—
In memory of the farewells of that time,
Domestic severings, female fortitude
At dearest separation, patriot love 280
And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope
Encouraged with a martyr's confidence.
Even files of strangers merely, seen but once
And for a moment, men from far, with sound
Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread, 285
Entering the city, here and there a face
Or person singled out among the rest
Yet still a stranger, and beloved as such—

Even by these passing spectacles my heart
Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed 290
Like arguments from Heaven that 'twas a cause
Good, and which no one could stand up against
Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud,
Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved,
Hater perverse of equity and truth. 295

Among that band of officers was one,
Already hinted at, of other mold—
A patriot, thence rejected by the rest,
And with an oriental loathing spurned
As of a different cast. A meeker man 300
Than this lived never, or a more benign—
Meek, though enthusiastic to the height
Of highest expectation. Injuries
Made him more gracious, and his nature then
Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, 305
As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf
When foot hath crushed them. He through the events
Of that great change wandered in perfect faith,
As through a book, an old romance, or tale
Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought 310
Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked
With the most noble, but unto the poor
Among mankind he was in service bound
As by some tie invisible, oaths professed
To a religious order. Man he loved 315
As man, and to the mean and the obscure,
And all the homely in their homely works,
Transferred a courtesy which had no air
Of condescension, but did rather seem
A passion and a gallantry, like that 320
Which he, a soldier, in his idler day
Had payed to woman. Somewhat vain he was,
Or seemed so—yet it was not vanity,
But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy
That covered him about when he was bent 325

On works of love or freedom, or revolved
Complacently the progress of a cause
Whereof he was a part—yet this was meek
And placid, and took nothing from the man
That was delightful. Oft in solitude 330
With him did I discourse about the end
Of civil government, and its wisest forms,
Of ancient prejudice and chartered rights,
Allegiance, faith, and laws by time matured,
Custom and habit, novelty and change, 335
Of self-respect, and virtue in the few
For patrimonial honour set apart,
And ignorance in the labouring multitude.
For he, an upright man and tolerant,
Balanced these contemplations in his mind, 340
And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped
Into the turmoil, had a sounder judgement
Than afterwards, carried about me yet
With less alloy to its integrity
The experience of past ages, as through help 345
Of books and common life it finds its way
To youthful minds, by objects over near
Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled
By struggling with the crowd for present ends.

But though not deaf and obstinate to find 350
Error without apology on the side
Of those who were against us, more delight
We took, and let this freely be confessed,
In painting to ourselves the miseries
Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 355
Unfeeling where the man who is of soul
The meanest thrives the most, where dignity,
True personal dignity, abideth not—
A light and cruel world, cut off from all
The natural inlets of just sentiment, 360
From lowly sympathy, and chastening truth,
When good and evil never have the name,

That which they ought to have, but wrong prevails,
And vice at home. We added dearest themes,
Man and his noble nature, as it is 365
The gift of God and lies in his own power,
His blind desires and steady faculties
Capable of clear truth, the one to break
Bondage, the other to build liberty
On firm foundations, making social life, 370
Through knowledge spreading and imperishable,
As just in regulation, and as pure,
As individual in the wise and good.

We summoned up the honorable deeds
Of ancient story, thought of each bright spot 375
That could be found in all recorded time,
Of truth preserved and error passed away,
Of single spirits that catch the flame from heaven,
And how the multitude of men will feed
And fan each other—thought of sects, how keen 380
They are to put the appropriate nature on,
Triumphant over every obstacle
Of custom, language, country, love and hate,
And what they do and suffer for their creed,
How far they travel, and how long endure— 385
How quickly mighty nations have been formed
From least beginnings, how, together locked
By new opinions, scattered tribes have made
One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven.
To aspirations then of our own minds 390
Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld
A living confirmation of the whole
Before us in a people risen up
Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked
Upon their virtues, saw in rudest men 395
Self-sacrifice the firmest, generous love
And continence of mind, and sense of right
Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife.

Oh, sweet it is in academic groves— 400
Or such retirement, friend, as we have known
Among the mountains by our Rotha's stream,
Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill—
To ruminate, with interchange of talk,
On rational liberty and hope in man, 405
Justice and peace. But far more sweet such toil
(Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse)
If Nature then be standing on the brink
Of some great trial, and we hear the voice
Of one devoted, one whom circumstance 410
Hath called upon to embody his deep sense
In action, give it outwardly a shape,
And that of benediction to the world.
Then doubt is not, and truth is more than truth—
A hope it is and a desire, a creed 415
Of zeal by an authority divine
Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death.
Such conversation under Attic shades
Did Dion hold with Plato, ripened thus
For a deliverer's glorious task, and such 420
He, on that ministry already bound,
Held with Eudemus and Timonides,
Surrounded by adventurers in arms,
When those two vessels with their daring freight
For the Sicilian tyrant's overthrow 425
Sailed from Zacynthus—philosophic war
Led by philosophers. With harder fate,
Though like ambition, such was he, O friend,
Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis—let the name
Stand near the worthiest of antiquity— 430
Fashioned his life, and many a long discourse
With like persuasion honored we maintained,
He on his part accoutred for the worst.
He perished fighting, in supreme command,
Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 435
For liberty, against deluded men,
His fellow countrymen; and yet most blessed

In this, that he the fate of later times
Lived not to see, nor what we now behold
Who have as ardent hearts as he had then. 440

Along that very Loire, with festivals
Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet
Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk,
Or in wide forests of the neighbourhood,
High woods and over-arched, with open space 445
On every side, and footing many a mile,
Inwoven roots, and moss smooth as the sea—
A solemn region. Often in such place
From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought,
And let remembrance steal to other times 450
When hermits, from their sheds and caves forth strayed,
Walked by themselves, so met in shades like these,
And if a devious traveller was heard
Approaching from a distance, as might chance,
With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs 455
From the hard floor reverberated, then
It was Angelica thundering through the woods
Upon her palfrey, or that gentler maid
Erminia, fugitive as fair as she.
Sometimes I saw methought a pair of knights 460
Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm
Did rock above their heads, anon the din
Of boisterous merriment and music's roar,
With sudden proclamation, burst from haunt
Of satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance 465
Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst,
A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall.
The width of those huge forests, unto me
A novel scene, did often in this way
Master my fancy while I wandered on 470
With that revered companion. And sometimes
When to a convent in a meadow green
By a brook-side we came—a roofless pile,
And not by reverential touch of time

Dismantled, but by violence abrupt— 475
In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies,
In spite of real fervour, and of that
Less genuine and wrought up within myself,
I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh,
And for the matin-bell—to sound no more— 480
Grieved, and the evening taper, and the cross
High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign
Admonitory to the traveller,
First seen above the woods.

And when my friend 485
Pointed upon occasion to the site
Of Romarentin, home of ancient kings,
To the imperial edifice of Blois,
Or to that rural castle, name now slipped
From my remembrance, where a lady lodged 490
By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him
In chains of mutual passion—from the tower,
As a tradition of the country tells,
Practised to commune with her royal knight
By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 495
'Twixt her high-seated residence and his
Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath—
Even here, though less than with the peaceful house
Religious, 'mid these frequent monuments
Of kings, their vices and their better deeds, 500
Imagination, potent to enflame
At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn,
Did also often mitigate the force
Of civic prejudice, the bigotry,
So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind, 505
And on these spots with many gleams I looked
Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less,
Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one
Is law for all, and of that barren pride
In those who by immunities unjust 510
Betwixt the sovereign and the people stand,

His helpers and not theirs, laid stronger hold
Daily upon me—mixed with pity too,
And love, for where hope is, there love will be
For the abject multitude. And when we chanced 515
One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl
Who crept along fitting her languid self
Unto a heifer's motion—by a cord
Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane
Its sustenance, while the girl with her two hands 520
Was busy knitting in a heartless mood
Of solitude—and at the sight my friend
In agitation said, ''Tis against that
Which we are fighting', I with him believed
Devoutly that a spirit was abroad 525
Which could not be withstood, that poverty,
At least like this, would in a little time
Be found no more, that we should see the earth
Unthwarted in her wish to recompense
The industrious, and the lowly child of toil, 530
All institutes for ever blotted out
That legalized exclusion, empty pomp
Abolished, sensual state and cruel power,
Whether by edict of the one or few—
And finally, as sum and crown of all, 535
Should see the people having a strong hand
In making their own laws, whence better days
To all mankind. But, these things set apart,
Was not the single confidence enough
To animate the mind that ever turned 540
A thought to human welfare?—that henceforth
Captivity by mandate without law
Should cease, and open accusation lead
To sentence in the hearing of the world,
And open punishment, if not the air 545
Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man
Dread nothing. Having touched this argument
I shall not, as my purpose was, take note
Of other matters which detained us oft

In thought or conversation—public acts, 550
And public persons, and the emotions wrought
Within our minds by the ever-varying wind
Of record and report which day by day
Swept over us—but I will here instead
Draw from obscurity a tragic tale, 555
Not in its spirit singular, indeed,
But haply worth memorial, as I heard
The events related by my patriot friend
And others who had borne a part therein.

Oh, happy time of youthful lovers—thus 560
My story may begin—oh, balmy time
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
To such inheritance of blessedness
Young Vaudracour was brought by years that had 565
A little overstepped his stripling prime.
A town of small repute in the heart of France
Was the youth's birthplace; there he vowed his love
To Julia, a bright maid from parents sprung
Not mean in their condition, but with rights 570
Unhonoured of nobility—and hence
The father of the young man, who had place
Among that order, spurned the very thought
Of such alliance. From their cradles up,
With but a step between their several homes, 575
Th pair had thriven together year by year,
Friends, playmates, twins in pleasure, after strife
And petty quarrels had grown fond again,
Each other's advocate, each other's help,
Nor ever happy if they were apart. 580
A basis this for deep and solid love,
And endless constancy, and placid truth—
But whatsoever of such treasures might,
Beneath the outside of their youth, have lain
Reserved for mellower years, his present mind 585
Was under fascination—he beheld

A vision, and he loved the thing he saw.
Arabian fiction never filled the world
With half the wonders that were wrought for him:
Earth lived in one great presence of the spring, 590
Life turned the meanest of her implements
Before his eyes to price above all gold,
The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine,
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
The portals of the east, all paradise 595
Could by the simple opening of a door
Let itself in upon him—pathways, walks,
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirits sunk
Beneath the burthen, overblessed for life.
This state was theirs, till—whether through effect 600
Of some delirious hour, or that the youth,
Seeing so many bars betwixt himself
And the dear haven where he wished to be
In honorable wedlock with his love,
Without a certain knowledge of his own 605
Was inwardly prepared to turn aside
From law and custom and entrust himself
To Nature for a happy end of all,
And thus abated of that pure reserve
Congenial to his loyal heart, with which 610
It would have pleased him to attend the steps
Of maiden so divinely beautiful,
I know not—but reluctantly must add
That Julia, yet without the name of wife,
Carried about her for a secret grief 615
The promise of a mother.

To conceal
The threatened shame the parents of the maid
Found means to hurry her away, by night
And unforewarned, that in a distant town 620
She might remain shrouded in privacy
Until the babe was born. When morning came
The lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss
And all uncertain whither he should turn,
Chafed like a wild beast in the toils. At length, 625
Following as his suspicions led, he found—
O joy!—sure traces of the fugitives,
Pursued them to the town where they had stopped,
And lastly to the very house itself
Which had been chosen for the maid's retreat. 630
The sequel may be easily divined:
Walks backwards, forwards, morning, noon, and night
(When decency and caution would allow), And
Julia, who, whenever to herself
She happened to be left a moment's space, 635
Was busy at her casement as a swallow
About its nest, erelong did thus espy
Her lover; thence a stolen interview
By night accomplished, with a ladder's help.

I pass the raptures of the pair, such theme 640
Hath by a hundred poets been set forth
In more delightful verse than skill of mine
Could fashion—chiefly by that darling bard
Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, 645
And of the lark's note heard before its time,
And of the streaks that laced the evening clouds
In the unrelenting east. 'Tis mine to tread
The humbler province of plain history,
And, without choice of circumstance, submissively 650
Relate what I have heard. The lovers came
To this resolve—with which they parted, pleased
And confident—that Vaudracour should hie
Back to his father's house, and there employ
Means aptest to obtain a sum of gold, 655
A final portion even, if that might be;
Which done, together they could then take flight
To some remote and solitary place
Where they might live with no one to behold
Their happiness, or to disturb their love. 660
Immediately, and with this mission charged,

Home to his father's house did he return,
And there remained a time without hint given
Of his design. But if a word were dropped
Touching the matter of his passion, still, 665
In hearing of his father, Vaudracour
Persisted openly that nothing less
Than death should make him yield up hope to be
A blesse`d husband of the maid he loved.

Incensed at such obduracy, and slight 670
Of exhortations and remonstrances,
The father threw out threats that by a mandate
Bearing the private signet of the state
He should be baffled of his mad intent—
And that should cure him. From this time the youth 675
Conceived a terror, and by night or day
Stirred nowhere without arms. Soon afterwards
His parents to their country seat withdrew
Upon some feigned occasion, and the son
Was left with one attendant in the house. 680
Retiring to his chamber for the night,
While he was entering at the door, attempts
Were made to seize him by three arme`d men,
The instruments of ruffian power. The youth
In the first impulse of his rage laid one 685
Dead at his feet, and to the second gave
A perilous wound—which done, at sight
Of the dead man, he peacefully resigned
His person to the law, was lodged in prison,
And wore the fetters of a criminal. 690

Through three weeks' space, by means which love devised,
The maid in her seclusion had received
Tidings of Vaudracour, and how he sped
Upon his enterprize. Thereafter came
A silence; half a circle did the moon 695
Complete, and then a whole, and still the same
Silence; a thousand thousand fears and hopes

Stirred in her mind—thoughts waking, thoughts of sleep,
Entangled in each other—and at last
Self-slaughter seemed her only resting-place: 700
So did she fare in her uncertainty.

At length, by interference of a friend,
One who had sway at court, the youth regained
His liberty, on promise to sit down
Quietly in his father's house, nor take 705
One step to reunite himself with her
Of whom his parents disapproved—hard law,
To which he gave consent only because
His freedom else could nowise by procured.
Back to his father's house he went, remained 710
Eight days, and then his resolution failed—
He fled to Julia, and the words with which
He greeted her were these: '
All right is gone, Gone from me.
Thou no longer now art mine,
I thine. A murderer, Julia, cannot love 715
An innocent woman. I behold thy face,
I see thee, and my misery is complete.'
She could not give him answer; afterwards
She coupled with his father's name some words
Of vehement indignation, but the youth 720
Checked her, nor would he hear of this, for thought
Unfilial, or unkind, had never once
Found harbour in his breast. The lovers, thus
United once again, together lived
For a few days, which were to Vaudracour 725
Days of dejection, sorrow and remorse
For that ill deed of violence which his hand
Had hastily committed—for the youth
Was of a loyal spirit, a conscience nice,
And over tender for the trial which 730
His fate had called him to. The father's mind
Meanwhile remained unchanged, and Vaudracour
Learned that a mandate had been newly issued
To arrest him on the spot. Oh pain it was

To part!—he could not, and he lingered still 735
To the last moment of his time, and then,
At dead of night, with snow upon the ground,
He left the city, and in villages,
The most sequestered of the neighbourhood,
Lay hidden for the space of several days, 740
Until, the horseman bringing back report
That he was nowhere to be found, the search Was ended.
Back returned the ill-fated youth,
And from the house where Julia lodged—to which
He now found open ingress, having gained 745
The affection of the family, who loved him
Both for his own, and for the maiden's sake—
One night retiring, he was seized.

But here
A portion of the tale may well be left 750
In silence, though my memory could add
Much how the youth, and in short space of time,
Was traversed from without—much, too, of thoughts
By which he was employed in solitude
Under privation and restraint, and what 755
Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,
And what through strong compunction for the past,
He suffered, breaking down in heart and mind.
Such grace, if grace it were, had been vouchsafed—
Or such effect had through the father's want 760
Of power, or through his negligence, ensued—
That Vaudracour was suffered to remain,
Though under guard and without liberty,
In the same city with the unhappy maid
From whom he was divided. So they fared, 765
Objects of general concern, till, moved
With pity for their wrongs, the magistrate
(The same who had placed the youth in custody)
By application to the minister
Obtained his liberty upon condition 770
That to his father's house he should return.

He left his prison almost on the eve
Of Julia's travail. She had likewise been,
As from the time, indeed, when she had first
Been brought for secresy to this abode, 775
Though treated with consoling tenderness,
Herself a prisoner—a dejected one,
Filled with a lover's and a woman's fears—
And whensoe'er the mistress of the house
Entered the room for the last time at night, 780
And Julia with a low and plaintive voice
Said, 'You are coming then to lock me up',
The housewife when these words—always the same—
Were by her captive languidly pronounced,
Could never hear them uttered without tears. 785
A day or two before her childbed time
Was Vaudracour restored to her, and, soon
As he might be permitted to return
Into her chamber after the child's birth,
The master of the family begged that all 790
The household might be summoned, doubting not
But that they might receive impressions then
Friendly to human kindness. Vaudracour
(This heard I from one present at the time)
Held up the new-born infant in his arms 795
And kissed, and blessed, and covered it with tears,
Uttering a prayer that he might never be
As wretched as his father. Then he gave
The child to her who bare it, and she too
Repeated the same prayer—took it again, 800
And, muttering something faintly afterwards,
He gave the infant to the standers-by,
And wept in silence upon Julia's neck.

Two months did he continue in the house,
And often yielded up himself to plans 805
Of future happiness. 'You shall return,
Julia', said he, 'and to your father's house
Go with your child; you have been wretched, yet

It is a town where both of us were born—
None will reproach you, for our loves are known. 810
With ornaments the prettiest you shall dress
Your boy, as soon as he can run about,
And when he thus is at his play my father
Will see him from the window, and the child
Will by his beauty move his grandsire's heart, 815
So that it shall be softened, and our loves
End happily, as they began.' These gleams
Appeared but seldom; oftener he was seen
Propping a pale and melancholy face
Upon the mother's bosom, resting thus 820
His head upon one breast, while from the other
The babe was drawing in its quiet food.
At other times, when he in silence long A
nd fixedly had looked upon her face,
He would exclaim, 'Julia, how much thine eyes 825
Have cost me! During daytime, when the child
Lay in its cradle, by its side he sate,
Not quitting it an instant. The whole town
In his unmerited misfortunes now
Took part, and if he either at the door 830
Or window for a moment with his child
Appeared, immediately the street was thronged;
While others, frequently, without reserve,
Passed and repassed before the house to steal
A look at him. Oft at this time he wrote 835
Requesting, since he knew that the consent
Of Julia's parents never could be gained
To a clandestine marriage, that his father
Would from the birthright of an eldest son
Exclude him, giving but, when this was done, 840
A sanction to his nuptials. Vain request,
To which no answer was returned.

And now
From her own home the mother of his love
Arrived to apprise the daughter of her fixed 845
and last resolve, that, since all hope to move
The old man's heart proved vain, she must retire
Into a convent and be there immured.
Julia was thunderstricken by these words,
And she insisted on a mother's rights 850
To take her child along with her—a grant
Impossible, as she at last perceived.
The persons of the house no sooner heard
Of this decision upon Julia's fate
Than everyone was overwhelmed with grief, 855
Nor could they frame a manner soft enough
To impart the tidings to the youth. But great
Was their astonishment when they beheld him
Receive the news in calm despondency,
Composed and silent, without outward sign 860
Of even the least emotion. Seeing this,
When Julia scattered some upbraiding words
Upon his slackness, he thereto returned
No answer, only took the mother's hand
(Who loved him scarcely less than her own child) 865
And kissed it, without seeming to be pressed
By any pain that 'twas the hand of one
Whose errand was to part him from his love
For ever. In the city he remained
A season after Julia had retired 870
And in the convent taken up her home,
To the end that he might place his infant babe
With a fit nurse; which done, beneath the roof
Where now his little one was lodged he passed
The day entire, and scarcely could at length 875
Tear himself from the cradle to return
Home to his father's house—in which he dwelt
Awhile, and then came back that he might see
Whether the babe had gained sufficient strength
To bear removal. He quitted this same town 880
For the last time, attendant by the side
Of a close chair, a litter or sedan,
In which the child was carried. To a hill

Which rose at a league's distance from the town
The family of the house where he had lodged 885
Attended him, and parted from him there,
Watching below until he disappeared
On the hill-top. His eyes he scarcely took
Through all that journey from the chair in which
The babe was carried, and at every inn 890
Or place at which they halted or reposed
Laid him upon his knees, nor would permit
The hands of any but himself to dress
The infant, or undress. By one of those
Who bore the chair these facts, at his return, 895
Were told, and in relating them he wept.

This was the manner in which Vaudracour
Departed with his infant, and thus reached
His father's house, where to the innocent child
Admittance was denied. The young man spake 900
No words of indignation or reproof,
But of his father begged, a last request,
That a retreat might be assigned to him—
A house where in the country he might dwell
With such allowance as his wants required— 905
And the more lonely that the mansion was
'Twould be more welcome. To a lodge that stood
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
Of four and twenty summers he retired,
And thither took with him his infant babe 910
And one domestic for their common needs,
An aged woman. It consoled him here
To attend upon the orphan and perform
The office of a nurse to his young child,
Which, after a short time, by some mistake 915
Or indiscretion of the father, died.
The tale I follow to its recess
Of suffering or of peace, I know not which—
Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine.

From that time forth he never uttered word 920
To any living. An inhabitant
Of that same town in which the pair had left
So lively a remembrance of their griefs,
By chance of business coming within reach
Of his retirement, to the spot repaired 925
With the intent to visit him; he reached
The house and only found the matron there,
Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
For that her master never uttered word
To living soul—not even to her. Behold, 930
While they were speaking Vaudracour approached,
But, seeing some one there, just as his hand
Was stretched towards the garden-gate, he shrunk
And like a shadow glided out of view.
Shocked at his savage outside, from the place 935
The visitor retired.

Thus lived the youth,
Cut off from all intelligence with man,
And shunning even the light of common day.
Nor could the voice of freedom, which through France 940
Soon afterwards resounded, public hope,
Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
Rouze him, but in those solitary shades
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind.