We must now leave Captain Crowe and his nephew Mr. Clarke, arguing with
great vehemence about the fatal intelligence obtained from the conjurer,
and penetrate at once the veil that concealed our hero. Know then,
reader, that Sir Launcelot Greaves, repairing to the place described in
the billet which he had received, was accosted by a person muffled in a
cloak, who began to amuse him with a feigned story of Aurelia, to which,
while he listened with great attention, he found himself suddenly
surrounded by armed men, who seized and pinioned down his arms, took away
his sword, and conveyed him by force into a hackney-coach provided for
the purpose. In vain he expostulated on this violence with three persons
who accompanied him in the vehicle. He could not extort one word by way
of reply; and, from their gloomy aspects, he began to be apprehensive of
assassination. Had the carriage passed through any frequented place, he
would have endeavoured to alarm the inhabitants, but it was already clear
of the town, and his conductors took care to avoid all villages and
inhabited houses.
After having travelled about two miles, the coach stopped at a large iron
gate, which being opened, our adventurer was led in silence through a
spacious house into a tolerably decent apartment, which he understood was
intended for his bed-chamber. In a few minutes after his arrival, he was
visited by a man of no very prepossessing appearance, who endeavouring to
smooth his countenance, which was naturally stern, welcomed our
adventurer to his house; exhorted him to be of good cheer, assuring him
he should want for nothing, and desired to know what he would choose for
supper.
Sir Launcelot, in answer to this civil address, begged he would explain
the nature of his confinement, and the reasons for which his arms were
tied like those of the worst malefactor. The other postponed till
to-morrow the explanation he demanded, but in the meantime unbound his
fetters, and, as he declined eating, left him alone to his repose. He
took care, however, in retiring, to double lock the door of the room,
whose windows were grated on the outside with iron.
The knight, being thus abandoned to his own meditations, began to
ruminate on the present adventure with equal surprise and concern; but
the more he revolved circumstances, the more was he perplexed in his
conjectures. According to the state of the mind, a very subtle
philosopher is often puzzled by a very plain proposition; and this was
the case of our adventurer.--What made the strongest impression upon his
mind was a notion that he was apprehended on suspicion of treasonable
practices, by a warrant from the Secretary of State, in consequence of
some false malicious information; and that his prison was no other than
the house of a messenger, set apart for the accommodation of suspected
persons. In this opinion he comforted himself by recollecting his own
conscious innocence, and reflecting that he should be entitled to the
privilege of habeas corpus, as the act including that inestimable jewel
was happily not suspended at this time.
Consoled by this self-assurance, he quietly resigned himself to slumber;
but before he fell asleep, he was very disagreeably undeceived in his
conjecture. His ears were all at once saluted with a noise from the next
room, conveyed in distinct bounces against the wainscot; then a hoarse
voice exclaimed, “Bring up the artillery--let Brutandorf’s brigade
advance--detach my black hussars to ravage the country--let them be new
booted--take particular care of the spur-leathers--make a desert of
Lusatia--bombard the suburbs of Pera--go, tell my brother Henry to pass
the Elbe at Meissen with forty battalions and fifty squadrons--so ho, you
Major-General Donder, why don’t you finish your second parallel?--send
hither the engineer Shittenback--I’ll lay all the shoes in my shop, the
breach will be practicable in four-and-twenty hours--don’t tell me of
your works; you and your works be d--n’d.”
“Assuredly,” cried another voice from a different quarter, “he that
thinks to be saved by works is in a state of utter reprobation--I myself
was a profane weaver, and trusted to the rottenness of works--I kept my
journeymen and ‘prentices at constant work, and my heart was set upon the
riches of this world, which was a wicked work--but now I have got a
glimpse of the new light--I feel the operations of grace--I am of the new
birth--I abhor good works--I detest all working but the working of the
Spirit--avaunt, Satan--O! how I thirst for communication with our sister
Jolly.”
“The communication is already open with the Marche,” said the first, “but
as for thee, thou caitiff, who hast presumed to disparage my works, I’ll
have thee rammed into a mortar with a double charge of powder, and thrown
into the enemy’s quarters.”
This dialogue operated like a train upon many other inhabitants of the
place; one swore he was within three vibrations of finding the longitude,
when this noise confounded his calculation; a second, in broken English,
complained he vas distorped in the moment of de proshection; a third, in
the character of His Holiness, denounced interdiction, excommunication,
and anathemas; and swore by St. Peter’s keys, they should howl ten
thousand years in purgatory, without the benefit of a single mass. A
fourth began to halloo in all the vociferation of a fox-hunter in the
chase; and in an instant the whole house was in an uproar.
The clamour, however, was of a short duration. The different chambers
being opened successively, every individual was effectually silenced by
the sound of one cabalistical word, which was no other than Waistcoat. A
charm which at once cowed the King of P----, dispossessed the fanatic,
dumbfounded the mathematician, dismayed the alchemist, deposed the Pope,
and deprived the squire of all utterance.
Our adventurer was no longer in doubt concerning the place to which he
had been conveyed; and the more he reflected on his situation, the more
he was overwhelmed with the most perplexing chagrin. He could not
conceive by whose means he had been immured in a madhouse; but he
heartily repented of his knight-errantry, as a frolic which might have
very serious consequences, with respect to his future life and fortune.
After mature deliberation, he resolved to demean himself with the utmost
circumspection, well knowing that every violent transport would be
interpreted into an undeniable symptom of insanity. He was not without
hope of being able to move his jailor by a due administration of that
which is generally more efficacious than all the flowers of elocution;
but when he rose in the morning, he found his pockets had been carefully
examined, and emptied of all his papers and cash.
The keeper entering, he inquired about these particulars, and was given
to understand, that they were all safe deposited for his use, to be
forthcoming at a proper season. But, at present, as he should want
nothing, he had no occasion for money. The knight acquiesced in this
declaration, and eat his breakfast in quiet.
About eleven, he received a visit from the physician, who contemplated
his looks with great solemnity; and having examined his pulse, shook
his head, saying, “Well, sir, how d’ye do?--come, don’t be dejected--
everything is for the best--you are in very good hands, sir, I assure
you; and I dare say will refuse nothing that may be thought conducive to
the recovery of your health.”
“Doctor,” said our hero, “if it is not an improper question to ask, I
should be glad to know your opinion of my disorder.”--“Oh! sir, as to
that,” replied the physician, “your disorder is a--kind of a--sir, ‘tis
very common in this country--a sort of a”----“Do you think my distemper
is madness, doctor?”--“O Lord, sir,--not absolute madness--no--not
madness--you have heard, no doubt, of what is called a weakness of the
nerves, sir,--though that is a very inaccurate expression; for this
phrase, denoting a morbid excess of sensation, seems to imply that
sensation itself is owing to the loose cohesion of those material
particles which constitute the nervous substance, inasmuch as the
quantity of every effect must be proportionable to its cause; now you’ll
please to take notice, sir, if the case were really what these words seem
to import, all bodies, whose particles do not cohere with too great a
degree of proximity, would be nervous; that is, endued with sensation.
Sir, I shall order some cooling things to keep you in due temperature;
and you’ll do very well--sir, your humble servant.”
So saying, he retired, and our adventurer could not but think it was very
hard that one man should not dare to ask the most ordinary question
without being reputed mad, while another should talk nonsense by the
hour, and yet be esteemed as an oracle.
The master of the house finding Sir Launcelot so tame and tractable,
indulged him after dinner with a walk in a little private garden, under
the eye of a servant who followed him at a distance. Here he was saluted
by a brother-prisoner, a man seemingly turned of thirty, tall and thin,
with staring eyes, a hook-nose, and a face covered with pimples.
The usual compliments having passed, the stranger, without further
ceremony, asked him if he would oblige him with a chew of tobacco, or
could spare him a mouthful of any sort of cordial, declaring he had not
tasted brandy since he came to the house. The knight assured him it was
not in his power to comply with his request; and began to ask some
questions relating to the character of their landlord, which the stranger
represented in very unfavourable colours. He described him as a ruffian,
capable of undertaking the darkest scenes of villany. He said his house
was a repository of the most flagrant iniquities. That it contained
fathers kidnapped by their children, wives confined by their husbands,
gentlemen of fortune sequestered by their relations, and innocent persons
immured by the malice of their adversaries. He affirmed this was his own
case; and asked if our hero had never heard of Dick Distich, the poet and
satirist. “Ben Bullock and I,” said he, “were confident against the
world in arms--did you never see his ode to me beginning with ‘Fair
blooming youth’? We were sworn brothers, admired and praised, and quoted
each other, sir. We denounced war against all the world, actors,
authors, and critics; and having drawn the sword, threw away the
scabbard--we pushed through thick and thin, hacked and hewed helter
skelter, and became as formidable to the writers of the age as the
Boeotian band of Thebes. My friend Bullock, indeed, was once rolled in
the kennel; but soon
He vig’rous rose, and from th’ effluvia strong
Imbib’d new life, and scour’d and stunk along.
“Here is a satire, which I wrote in an alehouse when I was drunk--I can
prove it by the evidence of the landlord and his wife; I fancy you’ll own
I have some right to say with my friend Horace,
Qui me commorit, (melius non tangere clamo,)
Flebit, et insignis tota cantabitur urbe.”
The knight, having perused the papers, declared his opinion that the
verses were tolerably good; but at the same time observed that the author
had reviled as ignorant dunces several persons who had writ with
reputation, and were generally allowed to have genius; a circumstance
that would detract more from his candour than could be allowed to his
capacity.
“D--n their genius!” cried the satirist, “a pack of impertinent rascals!
I tell you, sir, Ben Bullock and I had determined to crush all that were
not of our own party. Besides, I said before, this piece was written in
drink.”--“Was you drunk too when it was printed and published?”--“Yes,
the printer shall make affidavit that I was never otherwise than drunk or
maudlin, till my enemies, on pretence that my brain was turned, conveyed
me to this infernal mansion”--
“They seem to have been your best friends,” said the knight, “and have
put the most tender interpretation on your conduct; for, waiving the plea
of insanity, your character must stand as that of a man who hath some
small share of genius, without an atom of integrity. Of all those whom
Pope lashed in his Dunciad, there was not one who did not richly deserve
the imputation of dulness, and every one of them had provoked the
satirist by a personal attack. In this respect the English poet was much
more honest than his French pattern Boileau, who stigmatised several men
of acknowledged genius; such as Quinault, Perrault, and the celebrated
Lulli; for which reason every man of a liberal turn must, in spite of all
his poetical merit, despise him as a rancorous knave. If this
disingenuous conduct cannot be forgiven in a writer of his superior
genius, who will pardon it in you whose name is not half emerged from
obscurity?”
“Hark ye, friend,” replied the bard, “keep your pardon and your counsel
for those who ask it; or, if you will force them upon people, take one
piece of advice in return. If you don’t like your present situation,
apply for a committee without delay. They’ll find you too much of a fool
to have the least tincture of madness; and you’ll be released without
further scruple. In that case I shall rejoice in your deliverance; you
will be freed from confinement, and I shall be happily deprived of your
conversation.”
So saying, he flew off at a tangent, and our knight could not help
smiling at the peculiar virulence of his disposition. Sir Launcelot then
endeavoured to enter into conversation with his attendant, by asking how
long Mr. Distich had resided in the house; but he might as well have
addressed himself to a Turkish mute. The fellow either pretended
ignorance, or refused an answer to every question that was proposed. He
would not even disclose the name of his landlord, nor inform him
whereabouts the house was situated.
Finding himself agitated with impatience and indignation, he returned to
his apartment, and the door being locked upon him, began to review, not
without horror, the particulars of his fate. “How little reason,” said
he to himself, “have we to boast of the blessings enjoyed by the British
subject, if he holds them on such a precarious tenure; if a man of rank
and property may be thus kidnapped even in the midst of the capital; if
he may be seized by ruffians, insulted, robbed, and conveyed to such a
prison as this, from which there seems to be no possibility of escape!
Should I be indulged with pen, ink, and paper, and appeal to my
relations, or to the magistrates of my country, my letters would be
intercepted by those who superintend my confinement. Should I try to
alarm the neighbourhood, my cries would be neglected as those of some
unhappy lunatic under necessary correction. Should I employ the force
which Heaven has lent me, I might imbrue my hands in blood, and after all
find it impossible to escape through a number of successive doors, locks,
bolts, and sentinels. Should I endeavour to tamper with the servant, he
might discover my design, and then I should be abridged of the little
comfort I enjoy. People may inveigh against the Bastile in France, and
the Inquisition in Portugal; but I would ask, if either of these be in
reality so dangerous or dreadful as a private madhouse in England, under
the direction of a ruffian? The Bastile is a state prison, the
Inquisition is a spiritual tribunal; but both are under the direction of
government. It seldom, if ever, happens that a man entirely innocent is
confined in either; or, if he should, he lays his account with a legal
trial before established judges. But, in England, the most innocent
person upon earth is liable to be immured for life under the pretext of
lunacy, sequestered from his wife, children, and friends, robbed of his
fortune, deprived even of necessaries, and subjected to the most brutal
treatment from a low-bred barbarian, who raises an ample fortune on the
misery of his fellow-creatures, and may, during his whole life, practise
this horrid oppression, without question or control.”
This uncomfortable reverie was interrupted by a very unexpected sound
that seemed to issue from the other side of a thick party-wall. It was a
strain of vocal music, more plaintive than the widowed turtle’s moan,
more sweet and ravishing than Philomel’s love-warbled song. Through his
ear it instantly pierced into his heart; for at once he recognised it to
be the voice of his adored Aurelia. Heavens! what was the agitation of
his soul, when he made this discovery! how did every nerve quiver! how
did his heart throb with the most violent emotion! he ran round the room
in distraction, foaming like a lion in the toil--then he placed his ear
close to the partition, and listened as if his whole soul was exerted in
his sense of hearing. When the sound ceased to vibrate on his ear, he
threw himself on the bed; he groaned with anguish, he exclaimed in broken
accents; and in all probability his heart would have burst, had not the
violence of his sorrow found vent in a flood of tears.
These first transports were succeeded by a fit of impatience, which had
well-nigh deprived him of his senses in good earnest. His surprise at
finding his lost Aurelia in such a place, the seeming impossibility of
relieving her, and his unspeakable eagerness to contrive some scheme for
profiting by the interesting discovery he had made, concurred in brewing
up a second ecstasy, during which he acted a thousand extravagances,
which it was well for him the attendants did not observe. Perhaps it was
well for the servant that he did not enter while the paroxysm prevailed.
Had this been the case, he might have met with the fate of Lichas, whom
Hercules in his frenzy destroyed.
Before the cloth was laid for supper, he was calm enough to conceal the
disorder of his mind. But he complained of the headache, and desired he
might be next day visited by the physician, to whom he resolved to
explain himself in such a manner, as should make an impression upon him,
provided he was not altogether destitute of conscience and humanity.