He was, accordingly, conducted to his cell, but after a short time, he came back sad and thoughtful--“He is, indeed, mad now,” said he, “misfortune and captivity have alienated his reason, but it is you who have to answer for his madness: when you cast him into that cell, you confined the greatest genius of the age.” After this, we went away, and since that time he has done nothing but talk of Solomon de Caus. Adieu, my dear friend and faithful Henry. Make haste and come back, and pray do not be so happy where you are, as not to keep a little love for me. MARIAN DELORME. [6] This book is entitled, “Les raisons de forces mouvantes avec diverses machines tant utiles que puissantes.” Published 1615. ❦ [Sidenote: Physiognomy.] Was there ever seen a smile on the lip, with which the upper part of the face agrees not in expression, that was not evidently feigned and forced,[7] to be the disguise of a mind ill at ease, and of a sick spirit? The mind looks through the eyes, and the brow should smile in unison with the lip, to show the joy sincere. [7] This was uniformly remarked of Napoleon’s smile. ❦ [Sidenote: A Father’s Death Bed.] How solemn is the sick man’s room, To friends or kindred lingering near; Poring on that uncertain gloom In silent heaviness and fear! How sad, his feeble hand in thine, The start of every pulse to share; With painful haste each wish divine, Yet feel the hopelessness of care. To turn aside the full fraught eye, Lest those faint orbs perceive the tear; To bear the weight of every sigh, Lest it should reach that wakeful ear. In the dead stillness of the night, To lose the faint, faint sound of breath; To listen in restrain’d affright, To deprecate each thought of death. And when a movement chased that fear, And gave thy heart-blood leave to flow, In thrilling awe the prayer to hear, Through the clos’d curtain murmur’d low. The prayer of him whose holy tongue Had never yet exceeded truth; Upon whose guardian care had hung The whole dependance of thy youth. Who noble, dauntless, frank, and mild, Was for his very goodness fear’d; Beloved with fondness like a child, And like a blessed saint rever’d. I have known friends--but who can feel The kindness such a father knew? I serv’d him still with tender zeal, But knew not then how much was due. And did not Providence ordain That we should soon be laid as low, No heart could such a stroke sustain, No reason would survive the blow. ❦ [Sidenote: The Plague.] The fearful progress and effects of the dreadful pestilence which visited England during the reign of Edward III. are traced by a masterly hand in the work from which this extract is made.