BETHLEM HOSPITAL.
What contrasts does mortal existence present to view!
While some are joyous and happy in one place, others are overwhelmed
with sorrow and affliction elsewhere! At the same moment that the
surgeon ushers a new being into life, the hand of the executioner cuts
short the days of another. _Here_ the goblet sparkles with the ruby
wine—_there_ the lip touches the poisoned glass of suicide:—in _this_
abode a luxurious banquet is spread upon the table—in _that_ the
wretched inmate has not a crust to stay the cravings of famine!
Thus was it that while the hostess and the guests were blithe and happy
in the villa near Clapton, a painful scene was in process of enactment
elsewhere.
It was about five o'clock on that same evening when a cab stopped at the
prisoners' gate of Newgate; and from the vehicle stepped a tall,
powerfully-built, and rather good-looking man dressed in plain clothes.
He was accompanied by a Superintendent and Serjeant of Police.
They were immediately admitted into the lobby of the gaol; and the
turnkey, after bestowing upon them a nod of recognition, said, "You
needn't tell me to guess what you're come about. So the youngster is to
go over, then—after all?"
"Yes," replied the tall man in plain clothes. "The Secretary of State's
warrant was sent down here about an hour ago. I suppose Cope is in?"
"Step into the office, Mr. Busby, and see," answered the turnkey.
The tall man, who responded to the name of Busby, accordingly passed
from the lobby into the governor's office.
"Any thing new?" asked the turnkey, rubbing his nose with the end of the
massive emblem of his office, and accosting the two police authorities,
who had seated themselves on the bench facing the gate.
"Not that I know on," returned the Serjeant; "leastways nothink
partickler—unless it is that my Superintendent here is doing someot in
the littererry line, and writing a book about Great Criminals, and
Police, and Prisons, and all that there kind of thing."
"You don't say so?" ejaculated the turnkey.
"Yes, sir—Mr. Crisp is quite right," said the Superintendent, pompously:
"I _ham_ getting up a work on them subjects; but my official po-sition
will compel me to publish it enonnymusly, as they say. And while we're
here, Crisp, we may as well take down a few notes—for I must inform
you," continued the Superintendent, addressing himself once more to the
turnkey, "that my friend and subordingate Mr. Crisp is helping me in
this here labour of love."
"Well, sir," returned the gaol functionary, "any information that I can
give you, I shall be most happy to furnish you with, I'm sure."
"Thank'ee kindly," said the Superintendent. "Now, Crisp, out with your
note-book, and fall to. Busby will be half an hour or so in the office.
Pray, sir, what may be the anniwal average of prisoners, male and
female, in Newgate?"
"About three thousand males and eight hundred females," answered the
turnkey.
"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose in the males you includes boys, and in
the females you comprises gals?"
"Certainly," was the reply.
"Put that down, Crisp. Now what's the state of discipline here?" asked
the Superintendent. "I've heerd a good deal about it, in course; but I'd
rayther have it direct from a 'ficial source."
"Why, there isn't much to say on that point," returned the functionary
thus appealed to. "We let the prisoners have pretty much their own way:
they gamble, play at ball, fight, swear, sing, and lark in the wards
just as they like."
"Put that down, Crisp. It's a blessing to think of the state of freedom
one enjoys even in the gaols of this enlightened and liberal nation."
"To be sure it is," said the turnkey. "The young thieves consider
Newgate to be a capital school for improvement in their profession: when
they're at chapel, they're always practising pick-pocketing on
each-other."
"What's bred in the bone will never go out of the flesh," observed the
Superintendent. "But the poor creeturs must have some diwersion. Put
that down, Crisp."
"Ah! Newgate has seen some rum things in its time," moralised the
turnkey. "It has been a felon's gaol for well-nigh seven hundred years."
"Has it, though?" cried the Superintendent. "Now, then, Crisp—put that
down."
"And ever since I first come here," continued the turnkey, "there have
been constant _Reports_ drawn up about the state of discipline; but I
never see that any change follows."
"Put that down, Crisp. When _my_ book is published, my good fellow,
you'll jist see what the world will say about a change! There's no need
of change—and that I'll undertake to prove. Newgate is the very palace
of prisons. Lord bless us! it would do half the Aldermen themselves good
to pass a few days in such a pleasant place."
"Sometimes we have a few discontented fellows here that don't like to
associate with the rest," proceeded the turnkey; "and then they ask to
be thrown into solitary cells."
"Put that down, Crisp. I suppose they're always gratified in their
wishes?" asked the Superintendent.
"Oh! always," replied the turnkey. "But the worst of all is that the
chaplain here is nothing more or less than a regular spy upon the
governor and the officials, and constantly reports to the Home Office
every thing that occurs."
"Put that down, Crisp. Such conduct is shameful; and I wonder the Gaol
Committee of Aldermen don't take the matter up."
"So they will," rejoined the turnkey. "But here comes Busby."
And, as he spoke, the tall man in plain clothes re-entered the lobby.
"All right?" asked the Superintendent.
"Yes. We'll take him over at once," was the reply.
The turnkey stepped into a passage leading to the interior of the gaol,
and gave some instructions to a colleague who was stationed there.
A few minutes afterwards Henry Holford, dressed in his own clothes, and
not in the prison-garb, was led into the lobby by the official to whom
the turnkey had spoken.
The youth was well in health, and by no means cast down in spirits. His
face, at no period remarkable for freshness of colour, was less pallid
than it ever before had been. There were, however, a certain apathy and
indifference in his manner which might have induced a superficial
observer to conclude that his reason was in reality affected; but a
careful examination of the expression of his countenance and a few
minutes' study of his intelligent dark eyes, would have served to
convince even the most sceptical that, however morbid his mind might for
an interval have become, that excitement or disease had passed away, and
he was now as far removed from insanity as the most rational of God's
creatures.
"Come, young man," said Mr. Busby, with great kindness of manner, as if
he were endeavouring to conciliate an individual whom he actually deemed
to be of disturbed intellects; "you are going along with me—and I'll
take you to a nice house with a pleasant garden, and where you'll be
well treated."
"I am at no loss to imagine the place to which you allude," said
Holford, an expression of slyness curling his lip. "Better Bedlam than
Newgate."
"He's no more mad than me, Crisp," whispered the Superintendent to the
Serjeant.
"Not a bit, sir," was the reply.
"You may put that down, Crisp," continued the Superintendent, still
speaking aside to his subordinate. "It will all do to go into our report
to the Home Secretary. How capital that turnkey allowed himself to be
pumped by me, to be sure! Don't you think I did it very well?"
"Very well, sir, indeed," returned Crisp. "But I introduced the subject
for you, by saying that you was okkipied in writing a book."
"Good hidear, that, Crisp," rejoined the Superintendent. "The turnkey
little thought we was spies, while he blowed up about the chaplain."
"In course you'll make out Newgate a horrid place, sir?" said Crisp.
"In course I shall," answered the Superintendent, emphatically; "'cos
it'll please the Home Secretary. But there's Busby a-calling after us."
This was indeed the case; for while the two police-officers were thus
engaged in the interchange of their own little private sentiments, Mr.
Busby had conducted Holford to the cab, and had ensconced himself
therein by the side of the prisoner.
The Superintendent followed them into the vehicle; and, at the
suggestion of Busby, who declared in a whisper to that functionary that
three men were not needed to take care of one boy, the farther services
of Crisp were dispensed with.
And now the cab rolled rapidly along the Old Bailey, turned down Ludgate
Hill, thence into Bridge Street, and over Blackfriars Bridge, in its way
to Bethlem.
How strange to Holford appeared the busy, bustling streets, and that
river—"the silent highway"—on whose breast all was life and
animation,—after the seclusion of several weeks in Newgate!
But—ah! did he not now behold those scenes for the last time? would not
he thenceforth become dead to the world? was he not about to be immured
in a living tomb?
Never—never more would the echoes of the myriad voices of the great city
meet his ears! He was on his way to the sepulchre of all earthly
hopes—all mundane enjoyments—all human interests!
Henceforth must that bright sun, which now steeped pinnacle, dome,
tower, and river in a flood of golden lustre, visit him with its rays
only through the grated window of a mad-house!
For the last time was he crossing that bridge—for the last time did he
behold that crowded thoroughfare leading to the obelisk:—on the gay
shops, the rapid vehicles, and the moving multitudes, was he also now
gazing for the last time!
_The last time!_ Oh! those three monosyllables formed a terrible
prelude—an awful introduction to an existence of monotony, gloom, and
eternal confinement! Ah! could he recall the events of the last few
weeks!—But, no—it was impossible:—the die was cast—the deed was done—and
justice had settled his destiny!
_The last time!_ And he was so young—so very young to be compelled to
murmur those words to himself. The sky was so bright—the air of the
river was so refreshing—the scene viewed from the bridge was so
attractive, that he could scarcely believe he was really doomed never to
enjoy them more! And there was a band of music playing in the road—at
the door of a public-house! What was the air? "_Britons never shall be
slaves!_" Merciful God!—he was now a slave of the most abject
description! The convict in the hulks knew that the day of release must
come—the transported felon might enjoy the open air, and the glorious
sun, and the cheering breeze:—but for _him_—for Henry Holford—eternal
confinement within four walls!
_The last time!_ Oh! for the pleasures of life that were now to be
abandoned for ever! For the last time did his eyes behold those
play-bills in the shop windows—and he was so fond of the theatre! For
the last time did he see that omnibus on its way to the Zoological
Gardens—and he was so fond of those Gardens! Ah! it was a crushing—a
stifling—a suffocating sensation to know that in a few minutes more huge
doors, and grated windows, and formidable bolts and bars must separate
him from that world which had so many attractions for one of his age!
Yes:—he now beheld those houses—those shops—those streets—those
crowds—those vehicles—_for the last time_!
And now the cab has reached the iron gate in front of Bethlem Hospital.
There was a temporary delay while the porter opened that gate.
Holford looked hastily from the windows; and his lips were compressed as
if to subdue his feelings.
Again the vehicle rolled onward, and in a few moments stopped at the
entrance of the huge mad-house.
The Superintendent alighted: Holford was directed to follow; and Busby
came close after him.
The great folding doors leading into the handsome hall of the
establishment stood open:—Holford paused on the threshold for an
instant—cast one rapid but longing look behind him—_a last look_—and
then walked with firm steps to a waiting-room commanding a view of the
grounds at the back of the building.
On the table lay a book in which visitors to the institution are
compelled to enter their names and places of abode. Holford turned over
the leaves—carelessly at first; but when he caught sight of several
great names, he experienced a momentary glow of pride and triumph, as he
murmured to himself, "_How many will come hither on purpose to feast
their eyes on me!_"
Busby, who was one of the principal officers connected with the
establishment, of which Sir Peter Laurie is the intelligent and
justly-honoured President, left the room for a short time, Holford
remaining in the charge of the Superintendent. When the first-mentioned
functionary returned, it was to conduct the youth to his future place of
abode.
Busby led the way through a long and well ventilated passage, in which
about a dozen miserable-looking men were lounging about.
Holford cast a glance of ill-concealed terror upon their countenances,
and read _madness_ in their wild eyes. But, to his astonishment, he
beheld no horrifying and revolting sights,—no wretches writhing in
chains—no maniacs crowning themselves with straws—no unhappy beings
raging in the fury of insanity. He had hitherto imagined that madhouses
were shocking places—and Bethlem worse than all: but distressing though
the spectacle of human reason dethroned and cast down must ever be, it
was still a great relief to the young man to find, upon inquiry of the
officer, that there were no scenes throughout the vast establishment one
tittle worse than that which he now beheld.
On one side of that long passage were the cells, or rather little rooms,
in which the inmates of that department of the asylum slept, each being
allowed a separate chamber. The beds were comfortable and scrupulously
cleanly in appearance; and the officer informed Holford that the linen
was changed very frequently.
From the other side of the passage, or wide corridor, opened the rooms
in which the meals were served up; and here we may observe that the food
allowed the inmates of Bethlem Hospital is both excellent in quality and
abundant in quantity.
There was a very tall officer,—indeed, all the male keepers throughout
the institution are tall, strong, and well-built men,—walking slowly up
and down the passage of which we are speaking; and when any of the
unhappy lunatics addressed him, he replied to them in a kind and
conciliatory manner, or else good-naturedly humoured them by listening
with apparent interest and attention to the lamentable outpourings of
their erratic intellects.
It is delightful to turn from those descriptions of ill-disciplined
prisons and of vicious or tyrannical institutions, which it has been our
duty to record in this work,—it is delightful to turn from such pictures
to an establishment which, though awakening many melancholy thoughts,
nevertheless excites our admiration and demands our unbounded praise, as
a just tribute to the benevolence, the wisdom, and the humanity which
constitute the principles of its administration.
Oh! could the great—the philanthropic Pinel rise from the cold tomb and
visit this institution of which we are speaking,—he would see ample
proof to convince him that, while on earth, he had not lived nor toiled
in vain.
Connected with the male department of Bethlem, there are a library and a
billiard-room, for the use of those who are sufficiently sane to enjoy
the mental pleasures of the one or the innocent recreation of the other.
The books in the library are well selected: they consist chiefly of the
works of travellers and voyagers, naval and military histories and
biographies, and the leading cheap periodicals—such as _The London
Journal_, Chambers's _Information for the People_, Knight's _Penny
Magazine_, &c.
Communicating with the female department of the asylum, is a
music-room,—small, but elegantly fitted up, and affording a delightful
means of amusement and solace to many of the inmates of that division of
the building.
When these attentions to the comforts and even happiness,—for Bethlem
Hospital exhibits many examples where "ignorance is bliss,"—of those who
are doomed to dwell within its walls, are contrasted with the awful and
soul-harrowing spectacle which its interior presented not very many
years ago, it is impossible to feel otherwise than astonished and
enraptured at the vast improvements which civilisation has introduced
into the modern management of the insane!
But let us return to Henry Holford.
We left him threading the long passage which formed a portion of his way
towards the criminal department of the hospital,—that department which
was thenceforth to be his abode!
It may be readily imagined that he gazed anxiously and intently on all
he saw,—that not a single object of such new, strange, and yet mournful
interest to him escaped his observation.
Suddenly he beheld a man leaning against the wall, and staring at him as
he passed in a wild and almost ferocious manner. There seemed to be
something peculiar in that poor creature's garb:—Holford looked
again—and that second glance made him shudder fearfully!
The man had on a strait-waistcoat,—a strong garment made of bed-ticking,
and resembling a smock that was too small for him. The sleeves were
_beneath_, instead of _outside_, and were sewn to the waistcoat—a
contrivance by which the arms of the unhappy wretch were held in a
necessary restraint, but without the infliction of pain.
"Merciful God!" thought Holford, within himself; "if a residence within
these walls should drive me really mad! Oh! if I should ever come to
such an abject state as _that_!"
His miserable reflections were strangely interrupted.
One of the lunatics abruptly drew near and addressed him in a wild and
incoherent tone.
"The nation is falling," he said; "and the worst of it is that it does
not know that it is falling! It is going down as rapidly as it can; and
I only can save it! Yes—the nation is falling—falling——"
Holford felt a cold and shuddering sensation creep over him; for these
manifestations of a ruined intellect struck him forcibly—fearfully,—as
if they were an omen—a warning—a presage of the condition to which he
himself must speedily come!
He was relieved from the farther importunities of the poor lunatic, by
the sudden opening of a door, by which Busby admitted him into a narrow
passage with two gratings, having a small space between them. The inner
grating was at the bottom of a stone staircase, down which another
keeper speedily came in obedience to a summons from Busby's lips.
This second keeper now took charge of Henry Holford, whom he conducted
up the stairs to a gallery entered by a wicket in an iron grating, and
divided by a similar defence into two compartments.
One of these compartments was much larger than the other, and contained
many inmates and many rooms: the smaller division had but six chambers
opening from it.
The entire gallery was, however, devoted to those persons who, having
committed dread deeds, had been acquitted on the ground of insanity.
It was to the lesser compartment that Holford was assigned.
And now he was an inmate of the criminal division of Bethlem
Hospital,—he who was as sane as his keeper, and who could, therefore,
the more keenly feel, the more bitterly appreciate the dread
circumstances of his present condition!
And who were his companions? Men that had perpetrated appalling
deeds—horrible murders—in the aberration of their intellects!
Was this the triumph that he had achieved by his regicide attempt? had
he earned that living tomb as the sacrifice to be paid for the infamous
notoriety which he had acquired?
Oh! to return to his pot-boy existence—to wait on the vulgar and the
low—to become once more a menial unto menials,—rather than stay in that
terrible place!
Or else to be confined for life in a gaol where no presence of madness
might tend to drive him mad also!—Yes—that were preferable—oh! far
preferable to the soul-harrowing scene where man appeared more degraded
and yet more formidable than the brutes!
Yes—yes: transportation—chains—the horrors of Norfolk Island,—any
thing—any thing rather than immurement in the criminal wards of Bethlem!
Vain and useless regrets for the past!—futile and ineffective
aspirations for the future!