You do me a kindness, sir, to visit me in my dejection. I must receive you in this parlour – it is a fine place is it not? (Do not let it deceive you: within, our condition is not so happy.) Thank you, I believe they are in health.My two boys continue in Latin – I borrowed money of my keeper to pay for it. (Is he gone? Are you quite certain? Then forgive me, I am more comfortable on the floor.) I understand from Gentleman’s Magazine that my poems live on without me and,indeed,that Mr Arne has set my pastoral hymn to music, alas I shall not profit from it, it is as though I were dead already and no more to be acknowledged for my labours than the cow that furnishes the dinner table. Pray do not, if it please you, rub your foot against the carpet, it upsets the grain and must be rubbed back into contentment.Now tell, does the tongue of slander still wag against me? Slander, sir! I do not use the word loosely. My enemies accuse me of false piety; call me one of Mother Needham’s favoured clients. You know I abhorred a bawdy house – except on occasion, when drink had the better of me. But that was in the past, before my illness and second birth. The Lord saved me that I might sing His praises. Oh, I wasted time making enemies with my pen!I was like your namesake the playwrightwho would rather lose his friend than lose a jest. They did the same to poor Will Preston: he railed against the magistrates’ courts and the King’s Bench had him confined. A very convenient disturbance of wits. But forgive me: isolation makes me harptoo much on myself. How goes Mrs Thrale? A most excellent woman – I know you love her – as she does you. In all propriety! Nay, do not leave so soon! My tongue runs away from me, it has so little occasion of exercise. Pray forgive me. Sit a while. You have not brought a little, ah, rum? No matter, no matter. I am so parched I dream of fountains. Ah, we shall drink some day in the light of the sun – just as soon as I am forgiven, though what sin I have committed I know not, they say I am mad, it is not so, for I am composing.They shall be like the songs of David! They will bless and be inquisitive of the Lord! All things that breathe praise God, Mr Johnson. Did He not create the world by speaking it? So a lion that roars himself from head to tail speaks God’s word for lion. And a snail is God’s word in the shape of his shell – do you see? It is God’s work that speaks of God. How else can we speak Him save through His creatures? For I have translated the Psalm:
The earth is God’s, with all she bears
On fertile dale or woody hill;
The compass of the world declares
His all efficient skill.
What think you of it? I shall so punch my words that the mind will take up the image from the mould which I have made. Slow down, yes. I must slow down. Do not think these ravings, sir. I have been deprived of the world that I may comprehend it better. For I bless God that I am not in a dungeon and may see the light of day. Yet even here, the fiend has his agents that will keep me from praising. They lock me in the dark till I am silent. But what may a man do in darkness save people it with his voice? Or else they strap me in my cell to keep me from falling to my knees, but that is not so cruel, for I commune with my own heart and am still. Does this strike you as madness? Though I have a greater compass of mirth and melancholy than another – is that a reason to strap a man to his bed, to chain him in darkness and force harp, harp, harping-irons in his mouth?I would be as a dog, of no consequence. Then perhaps they will not torment me. Men will feed a dog, will they not;they will pat it on the head? No dog is treated as I am. Ah, I shall not weep. I shall not. I am sorry that I roused you from your sleep that time. But I felt the glory of God– we prayed and blessed the Lord, did we not, Mr Johnson, till day broke? I beg you, bring me paper. No, it is not forbidden. But they will not furnish me at my request. Bring me paper. For jubilation to travel it must have transport. How else can my blessings escape these walls? Do me this kindness, sir. And we shall pray, as my cat prays when he licks his paws. Lord, be merciful unto Your creatures. Bless my subscribers. As Your son cured the lunatic, be merciful to all my brethren and sisters in these houses. Bless above all this Your servant, who has agreed to furnish me with the means of spreading my song that will be to Your glory and the praise of all Creation. So be it, Lord. Hallelujah and amen.
© Gregory Norminton 2008
At prayer in the Madhouse with Kit Smart by Gregory Norminton was read by Steve Wedd at the Liars' League Saints & Sinners event on 8 July 2008
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