As I afterwards discovered, my uncle had had me confined upon the plea that I was a young man, who was deranged with an idea that his name was Simple, and that he was the heir to the title and estates; that I was very troublesome at times, forcing my way into his house and insulting the servants, but in every other respect was harmless; that my paroxysms generally ended in a violent fever, and that it was more from the fear of my coming to some harm, than from any ill-will towards the poor young man, that he wished me to remain in the hospital, and be taken care of.
The reader may at once perceive the art of this communication: I, having no idea why I was confined, would of course continue to style myself by my true name; and as long as I did this, so long would I be considered in a deranged state. The reader must not therefore be surprised when I tell him, that I remained in Bedlam for one year and eight months. The doctor called upon me for two or three days, and finding me quiet, ordered me to be allowed books, paper, and ink, to amuse myself; but every attempt at explanation was certain to be the signal for him to leave my apartment. I found, therefore, not only by him, but from the keeper, who paid no attention to anything I said, that I had no chance of being listened to, or of obtaining my release.
After the first month, the doctor came to me no more: I was a quiet patient, and he received the report of the keeper. I was sent there with every necessary document to prove that I was mad; and, although a very little may establish a case of lunacy, it requires something very strong indeed, to prove that you are in your right senses. In Bedlam I found it impossible. At the same time I was well treated, was allowed all necessary comforts, and such amusement as could be obtained from books, etcetera. I had no reason to complain of the keeper—except that he was too much employed to waste his time in listening to what he did not believe. I wrote several letters to my sister and to O’Brien during the first two or three months, and requested the keeper to put them in the post. This he promised to do, never refusing to take the letters; but, as I afterwards found out, they were invariably destroyed. Yet I still bore up with the hopes of release for some time; but the anxiety relative to my sister, when I thought of her situation, my thoughts of Celeste and of O’Brien, sometimes quite overcame me; then, indeed, I would almost become frantic, and the keeper would report that I had had a paroxysm. After six months I became melancholy, and I wasted away. I no longer attempted to amuse myself, but sat all day with my eyes fixed upon vacancy. I no longer attended to my person; I allowed my beard to grow—my face was never washed, unless mechanically, when ordered by the keeper; and, if I was not mad, there was every prospect of my soon becoming so. Life passed away as a blank—I had become indifferent to everything—I noted time no more—the change of seasons was unperceived—even the day and the night followed without my regarding them.
I was in this unfortunate situation, when one day the door was opened, and, as had been often the custom during my imprisonment, visitors were going round the establishment, to indulge their curiosity, in witnessing the degradation of their fellow-creatures, or to offer their commiseration. I paid no heed to them, not even casting up my eyes. “This young man,” said the medical gentleman who accompanied the party, “has entertained the strange idea that his name is Simple, and that he is the rightful heir to the title and property of Lord Privilege.”
One of the visitors came up to me, and looked me in the face. “And so he is,” cried he, to the doctor, who looked with astonishment. “Peter, don’t you know me?” I started up. It was General O’Brien. I flew into his arms, and burst into tears.
“Sir,” said General O’Brien, leading me to the chair, and seating me upon it, “I tell you that is Mr Simple, the nephew of Lord Privilege; and, I believe the heir to the title. If, therefore, his assertion of such being the case, is the only proof of his insanity, he is illegally confined. I am here, a foreigner, and a prisoner on parole; but I am not without friends. My Lord Belmore,” said he, turning to another of the visitors who had accompanied him, “I pledge you my honour that what I state is true; and I request you will immediately demand the release of this poor young man.”
“I assure you, sir, that I have Lord Privilege’s letter,” observed the doctor.
“Lord Privilege is a scoundrel,” replied General O’Brien. “But there is justice to be obtained in this country, and he shall pay dearly for his lettre de cachet. My dear Peter, how fortunate was my visit to this horrid place! I have heard so much of the excellent arrangements of this establishment, that I agreed to walk round with Lord Belmore; but I find that it is abused.”
“Indeed, General O’Brien, I have been treated with kindness,” replied I; “and particularly by this gentleman. It was not his fault.”
General O’Brien and Lord Belmore then inquired of the doctor if he had any objection to my release.