248 BITS OF BIOGRAPHY. 



cat would in killing in a mouse." The keeper retired for a moment, 

 nnd the madman walked to the substantial grating. " Don't believe 

 him, sir," said he ; (t he is a brutal villain. This morning he beat 

 me to such a degree that I was mashed into the circumference of a 

 pint-pot ; no thanks to him that I have recovered my proper dimen- 

 sions !" 



But now for Martin : He had an apartment on the first floor. I 

 followed the keeper up the stone staircase, and a little way along the 

 granite gallery. He took out his bunch of keys, ran over them, and 

 soon found the right one. We were opposite a repulsive, austere- 

 looking door. He opened it. I glode in, and the next moment found 

 myself locked up with a madman. The keeper, treating me enfa- 

 mille, had gone away, leaving me and my visitant perfectly safe, if 

 " fast bind, fast find," be incontrovertible. High in the opposite wall 

 of the bleak and well whitewashed apartment, aloof from all human 

 access by the inmate, was a grated window. Assurance had been 

 made doubly sure. If Martin could have grown a pair of wings on 

 his shoulders, it was impossible to get out. The aspect of the room 

 told the inhabitant at a glance that he was imprisoned for life ; that 

 the four naked walls constituted his future world. On my left there 

 was a plain comfortable bed ; on the right stood a table and one chair. 

 Every thing was painfully clean and orderly ; the furniture was evi- 

 dently under the inspection of a committee ; there was not the 

 slightest appearance of that sort of temporary litter which evinces 

 that a man is in his own house, and can do as he likes : the inanimate 

 articles were in quiet subjection in perfect keeping. 



But where was the lion of this solitary den ? On the chair, close to 

 the table, drawing a bishop with seven heads under the influence of 

 absolute fatalism undaunted by its bituminous breath, rushing into 

 the open jaws of a colossal crocodile ! The artist disappointed me : 

 he had none of the sublimity of his great brother, the painter of Bel- 

 shazzar's feast; he was crude, ignorant, impotent. His sketch was 

 a mere exaggerated matter of fact, madly conceived, and contemptibly 

 executed. It made me pity him. He stood up, and never in my 

 life had I beheld a human being in appearance so perfectly harmless. 

 Passion never seemed to have ploughed his forehead with its ada- 

 mantine keel : the surface was smooth and unruffled as that of a vil- 

 lager's babe. I dived into the depths of his eye, but brought up 

 neither monster nor pearl : it was barren it was common-place 

 there was nothing in it. It grinned, not sardonically but because it 

 seemed to have nothing better to do. The mouth was feeble, almost 

 inane. I sought earnestly for some lurking expression, but could 

 find none not even the ghost of an idea flitted over his features. 



Still he looked like any thing but a bedlamite : there was no fear- 

 ful aberration of intellect visible. Had I met him on the highway I 

 should have concluded from his lineaments that he was one of the 

 most gentle of God's creatures : apparently he would not injure a 

 worm. With an unsheathed poignard in his hand, I could have slept 

 calmly contentedly under his wardenship. Smiling simplicity was 

 the prevailing character of his countenance. It required an effort to 

 make me feel that I was talking to the incendiary of York Minster. 



