But finding, however affecting the
picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the
multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me. -
- I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his
dungeon, I then look'd through the twilight of his grated door to
take his picture.
I beheld his body half-wasted away with long expectation and
confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was
which arises from hope deferr'd. Upon looking nearer I saw him
pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once
fann'd his blood; - he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time -
nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his
lattice. - His children -
But here my heart began to bleed - and I was forced to go on with
another part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest
corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed: a
little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notch'd all
over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there; - he had
one of these little sticks in his hand, and, with a rusty nail he
was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I
darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye
towards the door, then cast it down, - shook his head, and went on
with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as
he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. - He
gave a deep sigh. - I saw the iron enter into his soul! - I burst
into tears. - I could not sustain the picture of confinement which
my fancy had drawn. - I started up from my chair, and calling La
Fleur: I bid him bespeak me a remise, and have it ready at the
door of the hotel by nine in the morning.
I'll go directly, said I, myself to Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul.
La Fleur would have put me to bed; but - not willing he should see
anything upon my cheek which would cost the honest fellow a heart-
ache, - I told him I would go to bed by myself, - and bid him go do
the same.
THE STARLING. ROAD TO VERSAILLES.
I got into my remise the hour I proposed: La Fleur got up behind,
and I bid the coachman make the best of his way to Versailles.
As there was nothing in this road, or rather nothing which I look
for in travelling, I cannot fill up the blank better than with a
short history of this self-same bird, which became the subject of
the last chapter.
