CHAPTER CXLVIII.

THE CHARTER HOUSE.

Captain O’Blunderbuss, having made himself thus far comfortable, wrote

a note to Curtis, which Mr. Scales despatched by a messenger to Mr.

Bubbleton Styles’s office in the City;--for the Irishman calculated

that if Curtis should return to the lodgings in Charterhouse Square

before the said note reached him, he would, on hearing the adventures

of the morning, retrace his way to Crosby Hall Chambers--there to await

either the presence of the captain, or at least some communication from

him. This arrangement appeared to be far more prudent than to trust

Mrs. Rudd with either letter or message announcing the place where the

captain was concealed.

The note being written, and the messenger despatched with it, Mr.

Scales proposed a luncheon of bread and cheese and porter, as it was

only eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and he intended to order dinner

for half-past two. A “nurse,” as the charwoman was called, making her

appearance about this time, the refreshments above mentioned were duly

procured; and Mr. Scales intimated to his attendant that he should not

dine in the common hall that day, but would entertain his friend with

steaks and potatoes in his own apartment.

When the captain and the worthy Brother were again alone together, they

fell into a conversation upon the establishment to which the latter

belonged and in which the former had found so hospitable a refuge.

“Ye seem to have a comfortable berth of it, my frind,” observed the

martial gentleman, after burying his countenance for nearly a minute in

a pewter-pot.

“Well, the fact is,” returned Mr. Scales, “I manage to make myself

happy, because I am naturally of a gay and lively disposition, and I

have a great many friends who come to see me. Moreover, I have a few

pounds coming in from a snug little annuity--and therefore I can afford

those luxuries which the others have no chance of obtaining. But if it

weren’t for these circumstances, captain,” added Mr. Scales, sinking

his voice to a mysterious whisper, “I should never be able to endure

the place.”

“Not endure the place!” repeated the captain, who manifested unfeigned

surprise at the observation. “Be the holy poker-r-r! and it sames a

broth of a place, it does!”

“Ah! it’s all very well for people out of doors to be told of the

existence of the charity,” resumed the Brother; “and how it gives

an asylum to eighty poor men, who are widowers and past fifty

years of age: but it’s the discipline, my dear sir--the interior

discipline,--and then the manner in which we are treated by the

authorities of the establishment!”

“Then there’s abuses in the Charter-r-r House as well as elsewhere?”

said the captain, interrogatively. “Blood and thunther! where the divil

aren’t there abuses, if this same is the case?”

“No where, when the Church has any influence in the matter,” returned

Mr. Scales. “But I will explain myself more fully. This institution,

you must know, was founded for the purpose of affording an asylum to

poor and deserving men, chiefly of the literary or learned professions.

But will you believe it? There’s scarcely a literary man in the place;

and the only one of any repute at all is Mr. Valcrieff, the celebrated

dramatic author. The patrons put in their old and worn-out butlers or

lacqueys;--but this would not matter, so long as worthy, deserving, and

respectable characters were nominated--which is not the case----”

“Then you have some quare characters among ye, I’ll be afther

guessing?” exclaimed the captain.

“We have indeed, my friend,” responded Mr. Scales; “and that is what I

chiefly complain of. For instance, we’ve lately had a certain Colonel

Tickner thrust upon us--but who is no more a Colonel than I am. A short

time ago he called himself Major Tickner--and a little while before

that, he was Captain Tickner. So, you perceive, he rises rapidly--and I

have no doubt he will be a General next week.”

“A Ginral, be Jasus!” cried Captain O’Blunderbuss. “It’s thrue I might

have been one myself by this time, if I’d only stuck to the service:

but I’ll swear by the holy poker-r, that your Colonel Tickner is

nothing more nor less than an imposthor--a vile imposthor,--and it’s

meself that’ll unmask him.”

The gallant gentleman deemed it necessary to fly into a passion

relative to the pretences of the self-styled Colonel Tickner to a high

military rank; inasmuch as such a display of indignation on his part

at the assumption of another, seemed to justify his own right to the

honourable grade of Captain.

“Well, it is shameful for men to pretend to be what they are not,”

observed Mr. Scales. “This Colonel Tickner sometimes bores me with his

company; and it is not at all improbable that he may look in after

dinner. If so, we will have some rare fun with him.”

“If he dar-r-rs to have any of his impudence to me,” cried the captain,

looking particularly ferocious at the moment, “I’ll trate him as I

trated a French dhragoon at Water-r-r-loo. ‘_Come hither, ye spalpeen,

and let me cut ye down to the middle!_’ says I.--‘_Oui, Monsieur_,’

says he; and on he comes with a rush.--‘_Blood and thunther!_’ says

I, ‘_is it fighting ye mane, when I’ve as good as taken ye prisoner

before-hand?_’--and griping him by the throat, I throttled him, sir,

in less time than ye’d be in tossing off a thimblefull of potheen. But

pray go on telling me about the Charter House, my frind--and let’s hear

all your little gravances. Ye were spaking of the discipline of the

place just now;--and sure it’s meself that knows what discipline ought

to be.”

[Illustration]

“Ah! my dear sir, the discipline of the Army and that of the Church

are two very different things,” said Mr. Scales. “We’re eighty

Poor Brothers in this establishment; and every night the curfew

rings--eighty strokes of the bell! When one dies, there are only

seventy-nine strokes until the vacancy is filled up;--and you may

believe me when I tell you that there is something horrid in sitting

in one’s lonely room of a dark wintry night, and counting the bell to

see whether a Brother has not died since we all met in the common hall

in the afternoon. For there are some very, very old men here; and old

men go off, you know, like the snuff of a candle. Then, when one does

die, and we hear the bell stop at seventy-nine, it sends the blood all

cold and icelike to the heart--and a shudder creeps over the frame,

from head to foot,--for there’s no saying whose turn it may be next.

Ah! captain, it may seem but a trifling thing to you--a very trifling

and paltry thing, this tolling of the curfew-bell: but I can assure

you that to us, who are pent up here, it is no such trivial matter.

For, in the deep, deep silence of this cloistral building, the dreary,

dull, monotonous tolling of that bell suddenly arouses the most painful

thoughts,--thoughts of approaching death, and coffins, and shrouds,

and new-made graves, and all the sombre ceremony of funerals. But to

hear that bell toll one _less_,--to know that a Brother has succumbed

to the icy hand of the destroyer--to feel that there is a gap in our

fraternity--a vacancy in our association,--even though we may not have

loved--perhaps not even respected the individual who is gone,--still to

have forced open us, by the deep-toned monitor, the conviction that he

_is_ gone,--this--this is terrible in our cloistral loneliness!”

The captain made no observation; but he evidently listened with

profound attention;--and Mr. Scales, warming in his subject, went _on_.

“I told you just now that I am naturally of a gay and cheerful

disposition, and that I can make myself happy under most

circumstances. But when I am alone here of an evening, and listen to

the curfew-bell, I--yes, _I_ also am seized with a cold shuddering,

and my blood creeps with an ice-chill in my veins. And if I hear the

strokes stop at seventy-nine, it suddenly appears to me that a shape,

dim, shadowy, and wrapped in a shroud, flits past me;--and I cast my

eyes around--almost dreading lest the pale and ghastly spectre of the

deceased Brother should be standing behind my chair. And, when there

_is_ one lying dead in the Charter House, I feel afraid at night--and

sleep visits not my pillow. I do not believe in ghosts--at least, I do

not believe in them when it is day-time; but in the deep, silent, and

dark night,--yes, _then_ I believe in them--and I tremble! Oh! you can

form no idea of the horrors endured in this place while the curfew-bell

tolls: for if it give forth a single note less than the eighty, then

every one shudderingly says within himself--aye, and in the solitude

of his own chamber--‘_Who knows but that it may be my turn next?_’ Is

it not cruel, then, to maintain that monastic custom of ringing the

nightly bell,--to alarm weak and trembling old men, whose intellects

are attenuated by the weight of years, and whose imaginations are

so susceptible of all influences likely to engender the gloomiest

forebodings: for such is the case with the great majority of the Poor

Brothers of the Charter House.”

The captain made a brief remark to show that he was listening with deep

attention--as indeed he was; and Mr. Scales proceeded in the following

manner:--

“Yes--the greater portion of the Poor Brothers are very infirm old

men, who need companionship to enliven them, and little attentions to

cheer them, and indulgences to render their existence tolerable. But

every morning,--summer and winter--hot or cold--sunshine above, or

snow knee-deep below,--they must all turn out at an early hour from

their warm beds; and while still fasting, must repair to the chapel

to attend prayers. And in the performance of this duty, which is

rigidly enforced by fine, we are compelled to wear long, dark cloaks,

so that when thus muffled up we appear to be a procession of monks,

each wrapped in his cowl! Here again you may observe that there is

no harm in the custom;--but you must remember that there is a vast

difference between what one does spontaneously, and what he is forced

by a rigid, inexorable discipline to do. The fact that these poor old

men are thus compelled to wear the badge of monastic pauperism is

the iron that enters into their souls. They have been compelled by

their necessities to accept an asylum in this place--and they feel

that they are treated as paupers. Their old age, which the world

without believes to be passing in a serene and tranquil happiness

here, unruffled by mundane cares, is rendered miserable and wretched

by a thousand little vexatious points of discipline which make up an

aggregate sum of tremendous ecclesiastical oppression. In the deep

silence of the night--the awful silence that reigns throughout this

pile,--and in the solitude of his gloomy apartment,--each of those poor

old creatures broods upon what he deems to be his wrongs;--and you need

not be surprised when I tell you that they are often driven to the

very verge of despair--or to the threshold of madness! Ah! and it is

not only the curfew-bell--nor the compulsory attendance at chapel--nor

the long, dark cowls,--it is not all this alone,” continued the

Brother, now speaking with solemn earnestness;--“but it is that we are

watched by spies--watched in all our movements within or without the

walls,--watched to be caught tripping, be it never so lightly--in order

that we may be punished--or perhaps expelled, to make room for some one

whom the Master or any other authority is anxious to provide for. The

surgeon is a spy upon us--the porter is a spy upon us--all the nurses

are spies upon us; and what is worse,” added Mr. Scales, now sinking

his voice to an ominous whisper, and bending his head forward so as

almost to reach the captain’s ear with his lips,--“and what is worse,”

he repeated, bitterly but still in that low tone,--“we are spies upon

each other!”

Captain O’Blunderbuss started, and surveyed his new friend with

astonishment.

“I do not mean to say that I am a spy upon the rest,--nor will I

assert that we are all spies with regard to each other,” resumed

Mr. Scales: “but this I declare--that there are many inmates of the

place who do enact the part of spies against their fellows. Some

wish to curry favour with the Master, Archdeacon Hale--others carry

their tittle-tattle to the surgeon;--some gossip of their Brethren

to the manciple, or steward--others endeavour to worm themselves

into the good graces of even the cook;--and all the nurses, with

scarcely an exception, are the spies of the matron. I tell you, sir,

that there is a monstrous system of supervision and _espionnage_

in existence within these walls;--and one Brother cannot talk as a

friend to another--because he is afraid that he may be all the time

making revelations to an individual who will betray him! We have no

confidence in each other--we are all afraid of one another. There is

not such a thing as a good-natured chat and harmless conversation

in the Charter House. If you make the most common-place observation

upon things the most indifferent, Brother Gray, or Brother Jones, or

Brother Jenkins will shake his head knowingly, as if he saw something

covert and mysteriously significant at the bottom of the remark. But

wherefore does such a state of things prevail in the Charter House,

you will enquire;--and perhaps you will observe that if the Brethren

enact the part of spies upon each other, they alone are to blame for

making themselves miserable. Pause, however--and reflect that it is

all the fault of the authorities. _They_ encourage this contemptible

tittle-tattle--_they_ show favour to the poor silly old dotards who

carry them tidings of all the complaints, expressions of discontent,

or occasional instances of convivial excess which occur on the part

of the rest. These spies are favoured by the authorities: the others

know it, and become spies themselves;--and thus they all spy upon each

other, even as the Jesuits do in obedience to the rules of their Order.

Oh! the mean and contemptible littleness of mind which such a state of

things engenders! I am sick--disgusted, Captain O’Blunderbuss, when I

think of it.”

“Be Jasus! and well you may be, my dear frind!” cried the gallant

gentleman. “But who is the governor, d’ye say?”

“Archdeacon Hale is the Master, as he is called--Archdeacon Hale, the

notorious pluralist who fattens upon the loaves and fishes of the

Church, without ever having done a single thing to render him deserving

of such fine preferment and such large emoluments. He it is who

presides over this Protestant monkery,--who enforces in the nineteenth

century the grinding discipline of the sixteenth,--who moves the whole

machinery of _espionnage_, and rules us as a mitred abbot was wont to

sway his Romish brotherhood. If a gentleman, reduced by adversity,

once enters those walls as an inmate, he must resign himself to the

treatment of a pauper. The authorities look upon us in that light; and

the servants behave to us accordingly. The very porter will sometimes

call us by our Christian or surnames, without the prefatory _Mister_.

If the surgeon visit us, it is evident that he considers himself to

be doing us a great favour--just as you may suppose that the medical

man belonging to an Union of Parishes behaves towards the pauper

invalids requiring his services. Should the Matron have occasion to

call upon us, it is with all the airs of a fine lady--she who curtseys

and does not dare sit down in the presence of the Archdeacon’s wife!

The manciple, or steward, is likewise a great man;--and woe to the

Poor Brother who does not receive _him_ with all possible respect. The

nurses attend upon us in a slovenly, negligent manner; and we dare

not complain nor remonstrate--for we know that they are spies ready

to report us for every incautious word that we may utter, or even to

_invent_ charges against us. It was but the other day that one of the

inmates--a poor old man of nearly seventy--_did_ venture to complain of

the shameful neglect which he experienced at the hands of his nurse.

What was the consequence? She made a counter-charge, to the effect

that he had taken liberties with her! The woman’s statement--her

unsupported statement was believed in preference to the denial and the

complaint of the old man, and he was expelled the Charter House for six

months--turned out upon the wide world to live how he could, or die as

he might![10] Oh! you have no idea of the tremendous tyranny that is

perpetrated within these walls, where all is so silent and all appears

to be so serene and tranquil! A short time ago a Brother, driven

to despair by the horrors of the place, went away--took an obscure

lodging--and put an end to his life by means of poison. The authorities

hushed up the matter as well as they could--prevented the interference

of the Coroner--and had the man buried within three days from the

moment of his self-destruction.[11] These are all facts, sir--stubborn

facts; and the public should know them. Yes--the public should learn

that there are eighty old men dwelling in a monastic institution in the

very heart of London--enduring a discipline as severe, and subject to

a system as despotic and oppressive as in the olden times and in those

very cloistral establishments which Henry the Eighth destroyed! The

public should be informed that then eighty old men are the victims of

ecclesiastical tyranny, and that they are compelled to endure neglect

and even insult at the hands of the very servants who are so liberally

paid to attend upon them.”

“Be the power-r-s! it’s a bur-r-ning shame!” cried Captain

O’Blunderbuss: “and what’s worse of all, is that it’s the parsons

who are your governors and by consequence your opprissors in this

establisment. Bad luck to ’em, say I!”

“A good parson is a most estimable, as well as a most necessary

character in society,” said Mr. Scales; “and this every sensible man

must admit. But an intolerant, illiberal, tyrannical parson is the

greatest curse that can be inflicted upon a community. Such is our

case--such is our misfortune. We have half-a-dozen parsons belonging

to the institution; and their main object is to get all the loaves and

fishes to themselves. Though they rule us with a rod of iron, they

do not mind breaking the regulations themselves. For instance, if a

Poor Brother remains away from chapel without the surgeon’s leave, or

returns home a little after hours in the evening, he is reported and

fined--fined out of the beggarly pittance of seven pounds ten shillings

a quarter allowed him to purchase tea, sugar, milk, and the many other

necessaries which the establishment does not supply. But though the

regulations specify in distinct terms that the Master is to reside

constantly upon the premises, he laughs at the enactments, and passes

weeks or months together in the country. No fine--no punishment for

him! Who would dare to talk of calling the Very Reverend Archdeacon

Hale over the coals? But who does _not_ hesitate to kick Poor Brother

Gray, or Poor Brother Jones, or Poor Brother Scales from pillar

to post, and from post to pillar, if he be caught tripping in the

slightest degree?”

“Jist now, me frind,” exclaimed Captain O’Blunderbuss, looking

particularly fierce, “ye assured me that ye hadn’t an inimy in the

wor-r-ld: but it sames pritty clare to me that I must be afther

punching the head of your Archdeacon--or manciple--or porter--or some

one, jist to revinge your wrongs and create a little sinsation for the

Poor Brothers, as ye call yourselves.”

“My dear fellow, do nothing mad or rash!” cried Mr. Scales, positively

believing at the moment that the formidable Irishman was about to

declare war against the authorities of the institution, and that

he would experimentalise with his fists upon the first of those

functionaries who might chance to come in his way. “All that I have

been telling you is sacred between you and me;--and as a man of honour,

I must appeal to you----”

“Be Jasus! and if it’s to me honour-r-r ye appale,” interrupted the

captain, slapping his left breast with the palm of his right hand,

“I’ll not brathe a wor-rd to a sowl that I’m acquainted with any

gravances at all, at all. But, remember, if the time should come when

ye may feel inclined to administher a thrilling dhrubbing or so to any

of thim spalpeens of whom we’ve been talking----”

“Hush!” cried Mr. Scale?, suddenly: “some one is ascending the stairs.

Let us pretend to be speaking on matters quite indifferent.”

“With all my heart!” said the captain: and, elevating his voice for the

behoof of the person who was approaching the room from the stairs, he

exclaimed, “Yes--’tis a very fine mornin’, Misther Scales--a very fine

mornin’ indeed!”--just as if, in the natural course of things, he would

have made, after a visit of nearly three hours, the remark with which a

conversation is usually commenced.

Mr. Scales burst out laughing at this display of his new friend’s

ingenuity; and the captain laughed heartily likewise--though he knew

not precisely at what.

In the midst of this cachinnation, the door opened, and the nurse, or

charwoman, entered to lay the cloth for dinner.