The Collected Novels. William Harrison Ainsworth

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