And so Edward coming in with Alfred's dinner on a tray, found the soi-disant maniac delivering his wrongs with the lofty serenity of an ancient philosopher discussing the wrongs of another, Julia crying furtively into the tub, and the good physician trampling and raving about the room, like what the stoical narrator was accused of being. Edward stopped, and looked at them all over the tray. “Well,” said he, “if there's a madman in the room, it is not Hardie. Ahem.”
“Madman? ye young ijjit,” roared the doctor, “he's no madder than I am.”
“Heaven forbid,” said Alfred drily.
“No madder than you are, ye young Pump.”
“That's an ungenerous skit on Edward's profession,” objected the maniac.
“Be quite now, chattering,” said the excited doctor; “I tell ye ye niver were mad, and niver will be. It's just the most heartless imposture, the most rascally fraud I've ever caught the Mad Ox out in. I'll expose it. Gimme pninkpapr. Man, they'll take y' again if we don't mind. But I'll stop that: these ineequities can only be done in the dark. I'll shed the light of day on 'em. Eat your dinner, and hold your tongue a minute—if ye can.” The doctor had always a high sense of Alfred's volubility.
He went to work, and soon produced a letter headed, “PRIVATE MADHOUSES.” In this he related pithily Alfred's incarceration, and the present attempt to recapture him, with the particulars of his escape. “That will interest th' enemy,” said he drily. He vouched for Alfred's sanity at both dates, and pledged himself to swear to it in a court of law. He then inquired what it availed to have sent one tyrant to Phalaris and another to Versailles in defence of our Liberty, since after all that Liberty lies grovelling at the mercy of Dr. Pill-box and Mr. Sawbones, and a single designing relative? Then he drew a strong picture of this free-born British citizen skulking and hiding at this moment from a gang of rogues and conspirators, who in France and other civilised countries that brag less of liberty than we do, would be themselves flying as criminals from the officers of justice; and he wound up with a warm appeal to the press to cast its shield over the victim of bad laws and foul practices. “In England,” said he, “Justice is the daughter of Publicity. Throughout the world deeds of villainy are done every day in kid gloves: but, with us, at all events, they have to be done on the sly! Here lies our true moral eminence as a nation. Utter then your 'fiat lux,' cast the full light of publicity on this dark villainy; and behold it will wither, and your oppressed and injured fellow-citizen be safe from that very hour.”
He signed it and read it out to them, or rather roared it. But he had written it so well he could not make it bad by delivery. Indeed, he was a masterly writer of English, you must know. Julia was delighted, but Alfred shook his head. “The editor will not put it in.”
“Th' editor! D'ye think I'm so green as to trust t' any one editor? D'ye think I've lived all these years and not learned what poor cowardly things men are? Moral courage! where can you find it? Except in the dickshinary? Few to the world their honest thoughts avow; the groveller policy robs justice now—
And none but Sampson dares to lift a hond
Against the curst corruption of the lond.