As to women, he had once already been drawn headlong by impetuous folly, which he meant to be final, since marriage at some distant period would of course not be impetuous.  For those who want to be acquainted with Lydgate it will be good to know what was that case of impetuous folly, for it may stand as an example of the fitful swerving of passion to which he was prone, together with the chivalrous kindness which helped to make him morally lovable.  The story can be told without many words.  It happened when he was studying in Paris, and just at the time when, over and above his other work, he was occupied with some galvanic experiments.  One evening, tired with his experimenting, and not being able to elicit the facts he needed, he left his frogs and rabbits to some repose under their trying and mysterious dispensation of unexplained shocks, and went to finish his evening at the theatre of the Porte Saint Martin, where there was a melodrama which he had already seen several times; attracted, not by the ingenious work of the collaborating authors, but by an actress whose part it was to stab her lover, mistaking him for the evil-designing duke of the piece.  Lydgate was in love with this actress, as a man is in love with a woman whom he never expects to speak to.  She was a Provencale, with dark eyes, a Greek profile, and rounded majestic form, having that sort of beauty which carries a sweet matronliness even in youth, and her voice was a soft cooing.  She had but lately come to Paris, and bore a virtuous reputation, her husband acting with her as the unfortunate lover.  It was her acting which was “no better than it should be,” but the public was satisfied.  Lydgate’s only relaxation now was to go and look at this woman, just as he might have thrown himself under the breath of the sweet south on a bank of violets for a while, without prejudice to his galvanism, to which he would presently return.  But this evening the old drama had a new catastrophe.  At the moment when the heroine was to act the stabbing of her lover, and he was to fall gracefully, the wife veritably stabbed her husband, who fell as death willed.  A wild shriek pierced the house, and the Provencale fell swooning:  a shriek and a swoon were demanded by the play, but the swooning too was real this time.  Lydgate leaped and climbed, he hardly knew how, on to the stage, and was active in help, making the acquaintance of his heroine by finding a contusion on her head and lifting her gently in his arms.  Paris rang with the story of this death:—­was it a murder?  Some of the actress’s warmest admirers were inclined to believe in her guilt, and liked her the better for it (such was the taste of those times); but Lydgate was not one of these.  He vehemently contended for her innocence, and the remote impersonal passion for her beauty which he had felt before, had passed now into personal devotion, and tender thought of her lot.  The notion of murder was absurd:  no motive was discoverable, the young couple being