The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 101: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

To Dr. Popplejoy, &c. This note, as might be expected, brought the old purblind,* superannuated Dr. Popplejoy to the asylum, and Mr. Fogg received him in due form, and with great gravity, saying, almost with tears in his eyes— “My dear sir, the whole aim of my existence now, is to endeavour to soften the rigours of the necessary confinement of the insane, and I wish this inspection of my establishment to be made by you in order that I may thus for a time stand clear with the world—with my own conscience lam, of course, always clear; and if your report be satisfactory about the treatment of the unhappy persons I have here, not the slightest breath of slander can touch me.” “Oh yes, yes,” said the old garrulous physician, “I—I—very good—eugh, eugh—I have a slight cough.” “A very slight one, sir. Will you, first of all, take a look at one of the sleeping chambers of the insane?” The doctor agreed, and Mr. Fogg led him into a very comfortable sleeping-room, which the old gentleman declared was very satisfactory indeed, and when they returned to the apartment into which they had already been, Mr. Fogg said— “Well then, sir, all we have to do is to bring in the patients, one by one, to you as fast as we can, so as not to occupy more of your valuable time than necessary; and any questions you ask will, no doubt, be answered, and I, being by, can give you the heads of any case that may excite your especial notice.” “Exactly, exactly. I—I—dquite correct. Eugh—eugh!” The old man was placed in a chair of state, reposing on some very comfortable cushions; and take him altogether, he was so pleased with the ten guineas and the flattery of Mr. Fogg—for nobody had given him a fee for the last fifteen years—that he was quite ready to be the foolish tool of the madhouse-keeper in almost any way that he chose to dictate to him. We need not pursue the examination of the various unfortunates who were brought before old Dr. Popplejoy; it will suffice for us if we carry the reader through the examination of Tobias, who is our principal care, without, at the same time, detracting from the genial sympathy we must feel for all who, at that time, were subject to the tender mercies of Mr. Fogg. At about half-past twelve the door of Tobias’s cell was opened by Mr. Watson, who, walking in, laid hold of the boy by the collar, and said— “Hark you, my lad! you are going before a physician, and the less you say the better. I speak to you for your own sake; you can do yourself no good, but you can do yourself a great deal of harm. You know we keep a cart-whip here. Come along.” Tobias said not a word in answer to this piece of altogether gratuitous advice, but he made up his mind that if the physician was not absolutely deaf, he should hear him. Before, however, the unhappy boy was taken into the room where old Dr. Popplejoy was waiting, he was washed and brushed down generally, so that he presented a much more respectable appearance than he would have done had he been ushered in in his soiled state, as he was taken from the dirty madhouse cell. “Surely, surely,” thought Tobias, “the extent of cool impudence can go no further than this; but I will speak to the physician, if my life should be sacrificed for so doing. Yes, of that I am determined.” In another minute he was in the room, face to face with Mr. Fogg and Dr. Popplejoy. “What—what?—eugh! eugh!” coughed the old doctor; “a boy, Mr. Fogg, a mere boy. Dear me! I—I—eugh! eugh! eugh! My cough is a little troublesome I think, to-day—eugh! eugh!” “Yes, sir,” said Fogg, with a deep sigh, and making a pretence to dash a tear from his eye; “here you have a mere boy. I am always affected when I look upon him, doctor. We were boys ourselves once, you know, and to think that the divine spark of intelligence has gone out in one so young, is enough to make any feeling heart throb with agony. This lad though, sir, is only a monomaniac.* He has a fancy that some one named Sweeney Todd is a murderer, and that he can discover his bad practices. On all other subjects he is sane enough; but upon that, and upon his presumed freedom from mental derangement, he is furious.” “Tt is false, sir, it is false!” said Tobias, stepping up. “Oh, sir, if you are not one of the creatures of this horrible place, I beg that you will hear me, and let justice be done.” “Oh, yes—I—I—eugh! Of course—I—eugh!” “Sir, [am not mad, but I am placed here because I have become dangerous to the safety of criminal persons.” “Oh, indeed! Ah—oh—yes.” “T am a poor lad, sir, but I hate wickedness; and because I found out that Sweeney Todd was a murderer, I am placed here.” “You hear him, sir,” said Fogg; “just as I said.” “Oh, yes, yes. Who is Sweeney Todd, Mr. Fogg?” “Oh, sir, there is no such person in the world.” “Ah, I thought as much—I thought as much—a sad case, a very sad case, indeed. Be calm, my little lad, and Mr. Fogg will do ail that can be done for you, I’m sure.” “Oh! how can you be so foolish, sir,” cried Tobias, “as to be deceived by that man, who is making a mere instrument of you to cover his own villainy? What I say to you is true, and I am not mad!” “T think, Dr. Popplejoy,” said Fogg, with a smile, “it would take rather a cleverer fellow than I am to make a fool of you; but you perceive, sir, that in a little while the boy would get quite furious, that he would. Shall I take him away?” “Yes, yes—poor fellow!” “Hear me—oh, hear me,” shrieked Tobias. “Sir, on your deathbed you may repent this day’s work—I am not mad—Sweeney Todd CORniclooo S CO)