Old Bedlam.
When Thames Darrell and Jack Sheppard sprang through the window, they
were instantly assailed by Wild, Trenchard, and their attendants. Jack
attacked Jonathan with such fury, that he drove him into a shrubbery,
and might perhaps have come off the victor, if his foot had not slipped
as he made a desperate lunge. In this state it would have been all over
with him, as, being stunned by the fall, it was some moments before he
could recover himself, if another party had not unexpectedly come to his
rescue. This was Blueskin, who burst through the trees, and sword in
hand assaulted the thief-taker. As soon as Jack gained his legs, he
perceived Blueskin lying, as he thought, dead in the plantation, with a
severe cut across his temples, and while he was stooping to assist him,
he heard groans at a little distance. Hastening in the direction of the
sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground.
"Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously.
"Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly--save yourself."
"Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard.
"Gone," replied the wounded man. "They imagine their work is done. But I
may yet live to thwart them."
"I will carry you to the house, or fetch Mr. Wood," urged Jack.
"No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly--or I will not answer for your safety.
If you desire to please me, you will go."
"And leave you thus?" rejoined Jack. "I cannot do it."
"Go, I insist," cried Thames, "or take the consequences upon yourself. I
cannot protect you."
Thus urged, Jack reluctantly departed. Hastening to the spot where he
had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off
across the fields,--for he was fearful of encountering the hostile
party,--till he reached the Edgeware Road. Arrived at Paddington, he
struck across Marylebone Fields,--for as yet the New Road was undreamed
of,--and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. His
destination was the New Mint. At this place of refuge, situated in the
heart of Wapping, near the river-side, he arrived in less than an hour,
in a complete state of exhaustion.
In consequence of the infamous abuse of its liberties, an act for the
entire suppression of the Old Mint was passed in the ninth year of the
reign of George the First, not many months before the date of the
present epoch of this history; and as, after the destruction of
Whitefriars, which took place in the reign of Charles the Second, owing
to the protection afforded by its inmates to the Levellers and
Fifth-monarchy-men, when the inhabitants of Alsatia crossed the water,
and settled themselves in the borough of Southwark,--so now, driven out
of their fastnesses, they again migrated, and recrossing the Thames,
settled in Wapping, in a miserable quarter between Artichoke Lane and
Nightingale Lane, which they termed the New Mint. Ousted from his old
retreat, the Cross Shovels, Baptist Kettleby opened another tavern,
conducted upon the same plan as the former, which he denominated the
Seven Cities of Refuge. His subjects, however, were no longer entirely
under his control; and, though he managed to enforce some little
attention to his commands, it was evident his authority was waning fast.
Aware that they would not be allowed to remain long unmolested, the New
Minters conducted themselves so outrageously, and with such
extraordinary insolence, that measures were at this time being taken for
their effectual suppression.
To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. Having disposed of his
steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other
refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a
heavy slumber. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was
surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bed-side, watching over him
with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a
blood-stained cloth bound across his brow.
"Don't disturb yourself," said his follower, motioning him to keep
still; "it's all right."
"What time is it?" inquired Jack.
"Past noon," replied Blueskin. "I didn't awake you, because you seemed
tired."
"How did you escape?" asked Sheppard, who, as he shook off his slumber,
began to recall the events of the previous night.
"Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. "I suppose I must have been
senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in
my head, and the ground covered with blood. However, no one had
discovered me, so I contrived to drag myself to my horse. I thought if
you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,--and I was
right. I kept watch over you, for fear of a surprise on the part of
Jonathan. But what's to be done?"
"The first thing I do," replied Jack, "will be to visit my poor mother
in Bedlam."
"You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined
Blueskin. "It's runnin' a great risk."
"Risk, or no risk, I shall go," replied Jack. "Jonathan has threatened
to do her some mischief. I am resolved to see her, without delay, and
ascertain if it's possible to remove her."
"It's a hopeless job," grumbled Blueskin, "and harm will come of it.
What are you to do with a mad mother at a time when you need all your
wits to take care of yourself?"
"Don't concern yourself further about me," returned Jack. "Once for all,
I shall go."
"Won't you take me?"
"No; you must await my return here."
"Then I must wait a long time," grumbled Blueskin. "You'll never
return."
"We shall see," replied Jack. "But, if I should _not_ return, take this
purse to Edgeworth Bess. You'll find her at Black Mary's Hole."
And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. Taking his way
along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the
Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at
Moorfields.
Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,--every trace of which has been swept away, and
the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George's Field,--was a vast
and magnificent structure. Erected in Moorfields in 1675, upon the model
of the Tuileries, it is said that Louis the Fourteenth was so incensed
at the insult offered to his palace, that he had a counterpart of St.
James's built for offices of the meanest description. The size and
grandeur of the edifice, indeed, drew down the ridicule of several of
the wits of the age: by one of whom--the facetious Tom Brown--it was
said, "Bedlam is a pleasant place, and abounds with amusements;--the
first of which is the building, so stately a fabric for persons wholly
insensible of the beauty and use of it: the outside being a perfect
mockery of the inside, and admitting of two amusing queries,--Whether
the persons that ordered the building of it, or those that inhabit it,
were the maddest? and, whether the name and thing be not as disagreeable
as harp and harrow." By another--the no less facetious Ned Ward--it was
termed, "A costly college for a crack-brained society, raised in a mad
age, when the chiefs of the city were in a great danger of losing their
senses, and so contrived it the more noble for their own reception; or
they would never have flung away so much money to so foolish a purpose."
The cost of the building exceeded seventeen thousand pounds. However the
taste of the architecture may be questioned, which was the formal French
style of the period, the general effect was imposing. Including the
wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. Each wing
had a small cupola; and, in the centre of the pile rose a larger dome,
surmounted by a gilded ball and vane. The asylum was approached by a
broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a
stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. A wide terrace then led to
large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of
Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and
commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the well-known lines:--
"Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne,
And laughs to think Monroe would take her down,
Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand,
_Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand_."
Internally, it was divided by two long galleries, one over the other.
These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. The wards
on the right were occupied by male patients, on the left by the female.
In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated
to the governors of the asylum. But the besetting evil of the place, and
that which drew down the severest censures of the writers
above-mentioned, was that this spot,--which of all others should have
been most free from such intrusion--was made a public exhibition. There
all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and
the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable
inhabitants.
Entering the outer gate, and traversing the broad gravel walk
before-mentioned, Jack ascended the steps, and was admitted, on feeing
the porter, by another iron gate, into the hospital. Here he was almost
stunned by the deafening clamour resounding on all sides. Some of the
lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some
beating with frantic violence against the doors. Altogether, it was the
most dreadful noise he had ever heard. Amidst it all, however, there
were several light-hearted and laughing groups walking from cell to cell
to whom all this misery appeared matter of amusement. The doors of
several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack
passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates. Here was a
poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden
sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a
monarch on his throne. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in
admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Here
was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild
beast;--there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned
passionately upward. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his
skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;--in
that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the
realization of "moody madness, laughing wild."
Hastening from this heart-rending spectacle, Jack soon reached the
grating that divided the men's compartment from that appropriated to the
women. Inquiring for Mrs. Sheppard, a matron offered to conduct him to
her cell.
"You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they
walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly. Her nurse says
she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast."
"Heaven help her!" sighed Jack. "I hope not."
"Her release would be a mercy," pursued the matron. "Oh! Sir, if you'd
seen her as I've seen her, you'd not wish her a continuance of misery."
As Jack made no reply, the woman proceeded.
"They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. I'm glad of it,
I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. See what
crime does, Sir. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected
with them. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her
wild fits--it would melt a heart of stone to see her. She will cry for
days and nights together. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in
this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget--ay, and a severer one
than even the hangman could read him. Hardened as he may be, that would
touch him. But he has never been near her--never."
Rambling in this way, the matron at length came to a halt, and taking
out a key, pointed to a door and said, "This is Mrs. Sheppard's ward,
Sir."
"Leave us together, my good woman," said Jack, putting a guinea into her
hand.
"As long as you please, Sir," answered the matron, dropping a curtsey.
"There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. Don't be
frightened of her. She's not mischievous--and besides she's chained, and
can't reach you."
So saying, she retired, and Jack entered the cell.
Prepared as he was for a dreadful shock, and with his nerves strung to
endure it, Jack absolutely recoiled before the appalling object that met
his gaze. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate
mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Her eyes glistened in
the darkness--for light was only admitted through a small grated
window--like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed
to penetrate his very soul. A piece of old blanket was fastened across
her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. Her
arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. Her
features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible
stamp of insanity. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a
piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. Her thin fingers were
armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. A chain, riveted to an
iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. The cell in which
she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were
scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short
sentences and names,--the work of its former occupants, and of its
present inmate.
When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering
unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye
had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features
relaxed, and a smile crossed them. This smile was more harrowing even
than her former rigid look.
"You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
"Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this."
"You are an angel, I say," continued the poor maniac; "and my Jack would
have been like you, if he had lived. But he died when he was a
child--long ago--long ago--long ago."
"Would he had done so!" cried Jack.
"Old Van told me if he grew up he would be hanged. He showed me a black
mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. And so I'll tell you
what I did--"
And she burst into a laugh that froze Jack's blood in his veins.
"What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice.
"I strangled him--ha! ha! ha!--strangled him while he was at my
breast--ha! ha!"--And then with a sudden and fearful change of look, she
added, "That's what has driven me mad, I killed my child to save him
from the gallows--oh! oh! One man hanged in a family is enough. If I'd
not gone mad, they would have hanged me."
"Poor soul!" ejaculated her son.
"I'll tell you a dream I had last night," continued the unfortunate
being. "I was at Tyburn. There was a gallows erected, and a great mob
round it--thousands of people, and all with white faces like corpses. In
the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it--and that man was
Jack--my son Jack--they were going to hang him. And opposite to him,
with a book in his hand,--but it couldn't be a prayer-book,--sat
Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. I knew him in spite of
his dress. And when they came to the gallows, Jack leaped out of the
cart, and the hangman tied up Jonathan instead--ha! ha! How the mob
shouted and huzzaed--and I shouted too--ha! ha! ha!"
"Mother!" cried Jack, unable to endure this agonizing scene longer.
"Don't you know me, mother?"
"Ah!" shrieked Mrs. Sheppard. "What's that?--Jack's voice!"
"It is," replied her son.
"The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!"
cried the unhappy woman.
"He stands before you," rejoined her son.
"Where?" she cried. "I can't see him. Where is he?"
"Here," answered Jack.
"Are you his ghost, then?"
"No--no," answered Jack. "I am your most unhappy son."
"Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood,"
cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours.
Jack did not advance to meet her. He could not move; but stood like one
stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out
of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent.
"Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain
would permit her,--"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm
towards him.
Jack fell on his knees beside her.
"Who are you?" inquired Mrs. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face,
and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
"Your son," replied Jack,--"your miserable, repentant son."
"It is false," cried Mrs. Sheppard. "You are not. Jack was not half your
age when he died. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the
robbery."
"Oh, God!" cried Jack, "she does not know me. Mother--dear mother!" he
added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again."
"Off!" she exclaimed, breaking from his embrace with a scream. "Don't
touch me. I'll be quiet. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. I won't dig
their graves with my nails. Don't strip me quite. Leave me my blanket!
I'm very cold at night. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash
cold water on my head. It throbs cruelly."
"Horror!" cried Jack.
"Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest
corner of the cell. "The lash cuts to the bone. I can't bear it. Spare
me, and I'll be quiet--quiet--quiet!"
"Mother!" said Jack, advancing towards her.
"Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. And she buried
herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the
wildest gestures.
"I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely
terrified.
While he was considering what would be best to do, the poor maniac, over
whose bewildered brain another change had come, raised her head from
under the straw, and peeping round the room, asked in a low voice, "If
they were gone?"
"Who?" inquired Jack.
"The nurses," she answered.
"Do they treat you ill?" asked her son.
"Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. "Hush!--come
hither, and I'll tell you."
Jack approached her.
"Sit beside me," continued Mrs. Sheppard. "And, now I'll tell you what
they do. Stop! we must shut the door, or they'll catch us. See!" she
added, tearing the rag from her head,--"I had beautiful black hair once.
But they cut it all off."
"I shall go mad myself if I listen to her longer," said Jack, attempting
to rise. "I must go."
"Don't stir, or they'll chain you to the wall," said his mother
detaining him. "Now, tell me why they brought you here?"
"I came to see you, dear mother!" answered Jack.
"Mother!" she echoed,--"mother! why do you call me by that name?"
"Because you are my mother."
"What!" she exclaimed, staring eagerly in his face. "Are you my son? Are
you Jack?"
"I am," replied Jack. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last."
"Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him
with kisses.
"Mother--dear mother!" said Jack, bursting into tears.
"You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her
breast.
"Never--never!"
The words were scarcely pronounced, when the door was violently thrown
open, and two men appeared at it. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt
Arnold.
"Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet.
"Just in time," said the thief-taker. "You are my prisoner, Jack."
"You shall take my life first," rejoined Sheppard.
And, as he was about to put himself into a posture of defence, his
mother clasped him in her arms.
"They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed.
The movement was fatal to her son. Taking advantage of his embarrassed
position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him.
"Thank you, Mrs. Sheppard," cried the thief-taker, as he slipped a pair
of handcuffs over Jack's wrists, "for the help you have given us in
capturing your son. Without you, we might have had some trouble."
Aware apparently in some degree, of the mistake she had committed, the
poor maniac sprang towards him with frantic violence, and planted her
long nails in his cheek.
"Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "--off, I say, or--" And
he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.
The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless
on the straw.
"Devil!" cried Jack; "that blow shall cost you your life."
"It'll not need to be repeated, at all events," rejoined Jonathan,
looking with a smile of malignant satisfaction at the body. "And,
now,--to Newgate."