“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 madhouse.
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 little 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—suc
h 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!
CHAPTER CCXXXI.
MR. GREENWOOD AND MR. VERNON.
It was in the middle of April, and about two o’clock in the afternoon, when the Honourable Gilbert Vernon knocked at the door of Mr. Greenwood’s mansion in Spring Gardens.
He was immediately admitted by a footman in livery; and Filippo, the Italian valet, who was lounging in the hall at the moment, conducted him to the elegant drawing-room where the Member for Rottenborough was seated.
As soon as Filippo had retired, Mr. Vernon said in a somewhat impatient tone, as he fixed his large grey eyes in a scrutinising manner upon Greenwood’s countenance, “May I request to know, with as little delay as possible, the reason that has induced you to demand this interview?”
“Sit down, Mr. Vernon,” was the reply; “and listen to me calmly. In January last I met you accidentally in London; and you implored me not to breathe to a soul the fact that you were in this country.”
“And if I had private—urgent motives for so acting, Mr. Greenwood,” exclaimed Vernon, “I cannot suppose that it cost you any effort to maintain my secret.”
“I set out by requesting you to listen to me attentively,” returned the Member of Parliament, with the coolness of a man who knows he is dictating to one completely in his power.
“Proceed,” said Vernon, biting his lip. “I will not again interrupt you: that is—unless——”
“I need scarcely state that I did keep your secret,” continued Greenwood, without appearing to notice the hesitation with which his visitor gave the promise of attention. “You shortly afterwards called upon me to request a loan, which it was not convenient for me to advance at the moment. On that occasion you reiterated your request of secrecy relative to your presence in London. I renewed my pledge of silence—and I kept it; but I felt convinced that there were some cogent reasons which prompted that anxiety for concealment. Knowing much of your circumstances, I instituted inquiries in a certain quarter; and I learnt that Lord Ravensworth was dying—dying gradually—in a most mysterious manner—and of a disease that baffled all the skill of his physicians. I also ascertained that he was a slave to the use of a particular tobacco which you—his brother—had kindly sent him from the East!”
“Mr. Greenwood!” ejaculated Vernon, his face assuming so dark—so foreboding—so ferocious an expression that the Member of Parliament saw his dart had been levelled with the most accurate aim.
“Pray, listen, Mr. Vernon!” said Greenwood, playing with his watch-chain in a calm and quiet manner, as if he were discoursing upon the most indifferent topics. “Having made those discoveries,—which, indeed, were so generally known in the fashionable world, that the most simple inquiry induced any West-End gossip or newsmonger of the Clubs to descant upon them,—I began to view them in a particular light——”
“Mr. Greenwood,” cried Vernon, starting from his seat, his countenance red with indignation, “do you pretend for one moment to insinuate that I—I, the brother of the late Lord Ravensworth——”
“I insinuate nothing,” interrupted the Member, with the most provoking calmness: “but I will presently explain to you in broad terms, if you choose, the facts of which I am convinced. I promise you that you will do well to hear me patiently.”
“But is my character to suff
er by the scandal of superannuated dowagers and the tattle of Club quid nuncs?” demanded Vernon, rage imparting a terrible emphasis to his deep-toned voice.
“Your character has in no way suffered with those parties,” answered Greenwood. “All that they relate is mere idle gossip, without an object or an aim. They have no suspicion: circumstances have aroused none in their minds. But when I heard all that they state as mere matter of conversation, I viewed it in a different light, because my suspicions were aroused by the knowledge of your presence in England, and your anxiety to conceal that fact. And, if any thing were wanting to confirm those suspicions, the company in which I saw you the evening before last——”
“Ah! you saw me—with some one?” cried Vernon, hastily, and for the moment thrown off his guard.
“Yes: I saw you in conversation with a man of the most desperate character—a man who only last month escaped from the Middlesex House of Correction——”
“Then, in a word, Mr. Greenwood,” interrupted Vernon, subduing his vexation and rage with a desperate mental effort, and resuming his seat, “how came you to discover my address in Stamford Street? and wherefore did you yesterday write to me to call on you to-day?”
“I overheard you say to Anthony Tidkins, ‘The day after to-morrow I shall proceed to Ravensworth Hall, as if I had only just returned to England in consequence of the letters sent to Beyrout to announce to me my brother’s death; and you will join me in the capacity agreed upon.’ This I overheard you say, Mr. Vernon,” continued Greenwood, fixing upon his visitor a glance of triumphant assurance; “and I then felt convinced that all my previous suspicions were well founded! I accordingly followed you when you separated from that individual who bears the odious name of the Resurrection Man; and I traced you to your lodgings in Stamford Street.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 102