THE MADNESS OF LORD BYRAM.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIV, Issue VI, 9 February 1895, Page 128

THE MADNESS OF LORD BYRAM.

BY

HENRY RICHARDSON RAE.

CHAPTER I. MARGARET. IT is a long time ago now since this thing occurred. The years, somehow, seem to roll away faster and faster as one grows older; and the twilight of the early colonial days grows fainter and fainter, as time and black night creep on 1 1 remember well enough all the circumstances; and I can almost feel at this moment, the glare of that lurid, scorching Australian summer's day, eighteen hundred and something, when they brought Lord Byram to modern Bedlam. I stood by, in fact, when the waggon arrived. There he lay—mad, pallid, clammy, dust-covered, and exhausted, on a pallet at the bottom of the conveyance. All the way, for two hundred miles, or more, he had straggled to be free, and kept on calling for Margaret. But now he was weak, and helpless as a child ; the delirinm had passed away. With it, also, went suddenly, after a sleep which was stupor, the very remembrance of Margaret—he never once I think mentioned her name again. AU recollection in that respect (as in others) seemed to have been utterly blotted out after raging fever of the brain had passed over. Then there was a knocking at Modern Bedlam door (reminding one of tbe knocking at the gate in Macbeth), and mysterious mutterings and whispers, and official papers to account for what was selfevident—and so tbe arrival was explained. No time was lost in unbinding the cords that held the patient down, and Lord Byram was speedily conveyed past the given portals. He was, in fact, shot inside, as a bag of coals might be shot down a coal hole : the creaking gate was instantly closed, after official delivery had been taken of tbe human parcel. Exactly the same thing happens every day almost—even at mansions—when the baker bands in his loaf. And I have known something like it occur when an upstart Yahoo answered the bell which had been ever so gently touched by the hand of a gentleman. There is no such thing as good manners to be found in Bedlam—nor yet in the habitations (be they ever so grand and gaudy) of many a mushroom parvenu. The door was shut, the gates were locked—and a crack of the whip told the jaded horses that they could trot away up-country wards. It is in this cold blooded, inevitable way that pregnant chapters in people’s lives open, and fatal chapters close. Then the end comes ; the word ‘ Finis ’ is written in fantastic characters by the hand of time—and the man is not yet born who can say positively what that word means. It would take an abler pen than mine to deal fully with the three very incomprehensible elements of this little narrative. For myself, I had nothing to do with the bringing of them together. They fall into their peculiar places, simply because the story happens to be true—and it is the true thing that is always the strangest. Bedlam is a very incomprehensible house ; the insane man is a very incompre hensible man ; a girl—be her name Margaret or any other —is incomprehensible to most men, and probably to herself —although, maybe, most women understand her, perfectly. Perhaps the better way will be to take the girl first, and so get her out of the way as it were, before one comes to speak of things far more disagreeable and by no means so nice ? And it is rather fortunate that 1 really have little to say about her, for much about her Ido not know. Her name appears to have been Margaret Lord Byram raved and raved over tbe name, and caused it to be borne—on tbe wings of the hot wind—through the lonely and long Beechworth road, for 200 miles. I am aware that her name was Margaret from other circumstances. There was a curl of yellow hair in a volume of miscellaneous poems, in Lord Byram’s tent at the Ovens, and a bunch of withered and dry violets in the same book, on the fly leaf of which was written * from Margaret.’ There was, in the same tent, a very gaudy and brilliant piece of feminine workmanship, which, I understand, was called a * comforter ’ (it looked exceedingly out of place, on a peg in a tent, on a January day, at the Ovens diggings), but Lord Byram thought nothing on all tbe field bo appropriate and handsome. It was, he said, knitted by Margaret. Furtheimoie there was a photo. There always is, somehow, a photo. Aboard ship, up in the lonely interior, on stations; on any corner of this earth where civilized man is—there is a photo—the photo of a woman. This one bad the name * Margaret ’ written on the back of it. It wasn’t the photo, exactly, of a very pretty girl, but it was the picture of an attractive and interesting girl, with eyes dazzling and speaking a language of their own, which I don’t profess to thoroughly understand. Lord Byram thought he knew that language thoroughly—yet he didn't, not he. For now in as few words as may be it is to be stated that our interesting Margaret of the dazzling eyes was at the bottom, and indeed tbe sole cause, of Lord Byram's present trouble. She was far away in Sussex,

and perhaps was not greatly concerned in what might occur 13,000 miles away. She was the pledged sweetheart of the man who now called himself Lord Byram ; and it was for her he worked and struggled on the Ovens ; worked on hopefully and even joyously for months and months. But, one day there came an English mail and a letter. Margaret herself wrote it—she wrote to say she had married another. This is a thing that girls constantly do, and often without logical explanation. It doesn’t hurt them, I suppose, to marry * another,* or even trouble them in the smallest, although sometimes the consequences are so serious to him whose misfortune it may be that he isn’t ‘another.’ The thing happens every day on this remarkable globe, and probably will take place until the 21st Century,about which period, I think, marriage will be altogether superseded by some simpler and altogether more rational climax to courtship. However, we haven’t got rid of the 19th century and its somewhat conventional methods yet; and there are men now living who cannot stand a jilting at all. There are, of course, philosophers, who take the thing as a matter of coarse, and put the best possible face on it and assume an unwonted cheerfulness under the distressing blow. But the number of philosophers is very small: so small is it that even in our House of Representatives, with its seventy odd giant intellects, there are bnt three philosophers. 1 won’t name them—you probably can pick them out. The men who are not philosophers have a really bad time after the perfidious Margarets have done with them, and thrown them over. They invariably take to something or other —and the something doesn’t somehow appear a good thing for a bad condition of affairs. Some take to laudanum, or tbe rushing river or the moaning sea. We cannot say what country lies beyond that wide and dark ocean. Some take to drink—and thus vulgarize a very tender and melancholy romance. Some take to eternal celibacy—and this, it may be, is a very sensible thing to take to. But lam hardly sure, never having tried it. Lastly some take to downright madness. This is what Lord Byram took to, not immediately, but within a reasonable time after reading Margaret’s letter.

At first he could not believe it to be true. There are countless trne things which the very sanest man refuses to credit when he first hears them. When Lord Byram found there was no getting away from the awful fact that confronted him in the little Sussex note, he was struck dumb and motionless for a period, after which, as tne days crept on, he grew mure and more * strange,’ and then came tbe maniac. The frantic fever passed on—and for ever after there was quite a simple and a harmless, nay, even an innocent man, rational, in a way, on nearly all subjects; but firmly rooted to a fixed delusion, which never for an instant left him. He believed himself to be Lord Byron—and he called Lord Byron ‘Lord Byram.* Itwill be my purposein succeeding papers to tell you something about this man, and to attempt to describe the queer institution at which he was lodged when this desultory narrative opened. Margaret—l think you may go. Tbere is really no more to be said about you. Yon are probably a mother now, and not at all comely. Those bright eyes, that dazzled so in 1869—was it 1869 ?—are dull now, and covered with spectacles. Your violets are dust, and their sweet scent is gone for ever. I hope you are happy—happy as wives and mothers go. Their share of happiness isn’t a great one ; and I am afraid * another ’ generally turns out a rank fraud. Anyhow, there was no mistake about your old sweetheart, who was sane enough to go clean mad on your account, at the Ovens diggings in tbe sixties? Of course yon meant no harm, and did what you did for the best: or rather, didn’t think much about it, one way or another, at all. But lat all events heard your name called and called on the Beech worth road, on the broiling summer’s day above referred to ; and I know for a fact that towards the end of the journey your name and all recollection of you were utterly blotted out from the memory of the man, who up to then, adored you 1 But you did not treat him well-X--now did you ?

CHAPTER IL— MODERN BEDLAM. What happened to Lord Byram when the doors were closed and the waggons drove away I really don’t know. It depended, of course, a good deal on himself. After all, our treatment in the world—even in the insane world—rests very much on onr own conduct. If Lord Byram fell in with his curious surroundings and acted like a well-behaved, rational, and reasonable madman, I haven’t the least doubt that he could wander up and down the long ward in which he was confined in a perfectly vacant, idiotic, and wild sort of way, entirely unmolested by anybody. If, on the contrary, he was troublesome or pugnacious, they had a way in Modern Bedlam of crunching, or 1 might say breaking in, all such patients. Lord Byram, of course, thought everybody he saw

around him was mad; but then everybody thought the same thing of every other body in the community, which, to be cure, was a mad one. There were Hugs and queens very numerous in the Asylum: Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria, was there, eating a filthy looking mess of minced meat out of a dilapidated pannikin; the Empress Eugenie was on the other aide of the premises sailing about in a brown wincey dress stamped in various places with a broad arrow. Several millionaires talking all day long of gold, gold, heaps of gold, wandered up and down—their pockets stuffed with rags, stones, and bits of old newspapers. These people I notice generally have softening of the brain and go off in a fit; the brain of the real millionaire is hard as nails—yet he too goes off when his time comes, generally in a fit—and no wonder 1 A million of money is sufficient of itself to give any man apoplexy or paralysis. Some of the people believed themselves to be dead j believed themselves to be transformed; believed themselves to be as soft as butter—or else so brittle that they sat down with extreme caution, afraid of breaking themselves. Others of them thought they were lost, and looked tor themselves in various places — looked for themselves under the bed—and couldn’t find themselves there or anywhere else. There is no place in this world where the intense selfishness of mankind is more apparent than in an insane hospital. Every man there, every woman, is wrapt op in self. In Bedlam, ancient or modern, there were or are no friendships; I have seen poverty, in a Kerry workhouse, relieved and graced by the affection of two people who dung to etch other through the storm of adversity and penury; I have seen the delightful friendship of little children in orphan asylums; I have known High School girls correspond with each other for a decade. I have witnessed that sort of impulse which we call honour among thieves, and which is the result of friendship; bus such a thing as love or affection for each other is never found amongst the insane. Every being there stands alone. And this is rather an advantage, if the establishment be a wellordered, honest, and well-regulated one. There can be no combination or conspiracy, or anything of that kind, to injure the management. If the management be bad the disadvantage is just as great—one finds it absolutely impossible to get at the naked truth ; for no two insane people will agree on one story: and one can’t get the exact truth from officials who are themselves implicated. Now, it so happened that about the time that Lord Byram was brought to Modern Bedlam, there was a great hub-bub about that eccentric institution, and people outside didn’t very well know what to make of it. If one judged by entries in official visitors* books, and reports of inspectors, and, above all by statistics, it was an admirably conducted hospital. Nay, even if one went through it and saw jost those people, places, and things that the public at large might look at, there seemed to be every reason for commendation. On the other hand, the JfeZftoume Aryus kept hammering away at the placet saying in leader after leader, that it was a disgrace to the era: that deceit, dishonesty, and gross cruelty governed it, and that all the reports, entries, and statistics merely recorded outward show,

and sham, while within everything was about as bad as an egg laid six months ago. There was a large farm attached to the Modern Bedlam grounds worked by lunatic labour ; but the Argtu said these poor creatures were driven like dumb cattle, and haven’t a bit better lives—moreover what became of the produce : the insane people it was absolutely certain never saw so much as an egg! The cures, when analysed by the Ar gut, didn’t look creditable at aU. And the number of deaths were out of all proportion to what they should be. It was remarkable also—the Argut kept on saying—how many of these dead people were found with broken ribs; those horrid and incredulous editors simply scoffed at stories of falls from window-sills ! This state of things went on—puffs of Modern Bedlam in one paper, severe censure in the other—until at last the Government were obliged to take notice of it. The truth must be elicited somehow—if at all possible. It was an immense concern costing an enormous sum of public money, and nearly one thousand human beings—some of them, many of them, the pioneers of the country—were incarcerated within those walls: prisoners but not criminals. For lunacy is a disease; it is as much a disease as phthisis is; and it is estrange thing that even those persons who ought to be quite aware and sure of this, are not always aware and sure of it. I had a book once by Dr. Forbes Winslow called * The Confessions of the Insane.* Now the very title of the book is illogical and inappropriate. * Confession ’ implies guilt; but there is no more guilt in a man supposing and believing himself to be Napoleon HI. than there io guilt in the red rash of scarlatina. Anyhow, the Government said to the keeper of Modern Bedlam that he must either take an action for libel against the Argut or retire from the Lunacy Department. And he did take the action. What that memorable trial cost, I don’t now remember; but it lasted nine days, and was, in several respects, the most extraordinary investigation in Oceana, in modern times. Witness after witness came forward to declare that what the Argus said and persistently repeated wasn’t true. They described the institution as a sort of nineteenth century paragon of madhouse. They said there wasn’t any cruelty perpetrated there at all; no robbery ; no plunder of Government property and produce; no organised system of jesnitical deceit: no concealment of ugly sights; no brutality ; no restraint worth mentioning. But the Argut had witnesses also—very few—and these told a quite different story. There were some of the best medical and scientific men of Melbourne amongst them ; the jury believed these men ; so did the Chief Justice who tried the case; and a rotten, corrupt management fell to pieces. From that time henceforward I lust all faith in special visitors’ reports, and if I find shorn exceedingly fulsome and lavish in praise—l know exactly how the lunatic cat jumps. Although I am not aware of the particular treatment accorded to Lord Byram immediately on his admission to Modern Bedlam, I have a perfect knowledge of that very surprising and erratic institution as it was at that time, and subsequently. The place where his lordship was taken to, when the doors were shot upon him —so far as the outer world was concerned — was a

long gallery or corridor, built of atone, with cells or rooms on each side to the number of, I think, fifty. It had all the appearance of a prison. Some of these rooms or cells were wide open; others were looked; and from these letter howls, execrations, and mournful snatches of Syme Variously proceeded. There was one room occupied r a man who was a shipwrecked sailor—quite a young and good-looking fellow he was. He kept peeing up and down his cell day and night—no one ever knew of his getting any sleep. He kept peeing up and down heaving an Imaginary lead and ringing out, ' Eight fathom I Six fathom I Five fathdm I* for weeks and weeks. Another man was sitting tn a comer of hie cell intently bent on tearing all his clothes and bed clothes Into pieces about an inch square. Another man was decked out with tin and tinsel like a warrior; and another was crouched in a comer w(th a pgir of black eyes and several broken bones. A great many were walking up and down the corridor in that listless way which lunatics have always—with wild eyes, mutterlogs, occasional bunts of laughter which were far more melancholy titan the strains of an tiian harp. Generally there was of disorder and confusion about the whole surroundings of the place, and a good deal of discoidant noise. Butin a month after the jury had given in their verdict in the Ayers case the whole thing was changed. A new management was at once appointed. All those locked cells were immediately thrown open, and the incarcerated creatures therein had henceforth some degree of liberty. They could roam about at will—and did; nor did anybody suffer in consequence. The old managers said these men were * dangerous ’—that was the sole and simple explanation of their treatment. Bat they were dangerous because they were made so by improper treatment. One of the great delusions of sane men is that insane persons are necessarily 'dangerous.* There are, of course, dangerous lunatics ; there are, here and there, raving maniacs—just as in the sane world there are, here and there, poisoners and ent-throats. But, as a rale, insane people very much resemble children, and can be managed rather more easily. The uproar, and elamonr, and turmoil at Modern Bedlam censed, anyhow; and presently there was not one single being in confinement in that building. It was Dr. Conolly whq first discovered or adopted this humane and rational system of treating mentally afflicted persons. Judge Conolly, of Auckland, is, I think, his son. There was a num once whom Dr Conolly released in thia way, and who. soon afterwards was set to work in a wood, chopping trees. Dr. Conolly happened to go to see the man at work. Instead of recognizing the man as his benefactor, however, the man raised his axe with both hands over hie head—in an instant it would have smote the great and philanthropic reformer. But Dr. Conolly never wavered an instant: he took ont his watch, looked at itj looked at the man, and again at the watch—and the insane woodchopper turned away, lowered hia axe and went on with hia work. So that, you see that nerve and resource and presence of mind will do very much, even in those eases where insane people are really dangerous—and these cases are not at all numerous.

I could tell yon some queer things about Modern Bedlam if I chose; and, indeed, I never think of that place without being awfully and deeply impressed with the utter vanity of human affairs. There was De Uouroey, of De Courcey Hall, Galway. He died in Modern Bedlam ;he is buried in the insane cemetery, and there isn't so much as a + to mark the place where his bones are. Yet at one time he

bad his bounds and his racehorses, and his open house; —Ma hospitable honae; open to all comer*. Hospitality and Irish extravagance ruined the family of De Conroey. The Landed Estates Coart sold them up, and left them with just enough to take them to Australia. What could De Conroey do in Australia ? Shoot snipe, grouse, ride far bounds, be first over a break-neck fence, and snort scarlet T The man with his family landed in Post Philip; looked tor work when he could do nothing worth doing in thia world, and presently grew silly. He grew to be imbecile : then they took Mm away to Modern Bedlam —and in that institution the gay Galway spark, the amok shot, the squire of the district, the leading Freemason and foremost J.P. idiotically came to Ma end. I daresay there is a dump of earth covered with yellow gram just over him at the present moment. Then therewas that famous barrister —the greatest wit and genius who ever left England. I saw him in Modern Bedlam—oh God I what a sight I what a wreck I - He also was a man of infinitely large heart—Ms head and intellect were quite as gigantic as Ma heart wa-. But poor De Conroey hadn’t an ounce of brains. Bat lam losing sight of Lord Byram altogether. In the next chapter we must remember that there is—or was—sueh a person.

CHAPTER lll.—More About Modern Bedlam. Modern Bedlam was, and is, so curious a place that once in it, or about it, one can’t very well get away from it. I must my something more about this queer institutior, which I happen to know .thoroughly. There are many people who dread even to go inside the walls of the building. I knew an Archbishop who ordered out his carriage to drive out in order to go round * the establishment.’ But when he got as far as the gates, his ecclesiastical courage failed him, and he directed his coachman to —drive back to the Palace again. Another man—a barrister before mentioned in this story—said to himself, * I must see Modern Bedlam.* Well, he did see it, sure enough—but he was mad at the time. When he went to the place of Ms own accord, and when he was sane, he just looked at the outer walls: Heaven only knows what his thoughts were—bnt he turned back without knocking And yet there isn’t and wasn’t, anything to be afraid of; bnt there was and is a very great deal to give one food for reflection, and to think over. Talk about the tricks of the poor heathen Chinee: talk about the abominable deceit of some women, and many Jesuits—what are these things compared to the artifices and deceptions in this hospital for the insane 1 It was an admirable show place for visitors, and nothing was more amusing than to hear the exclamations of these people—they were quite delighted always with what they saw. A large day room was kept scrupulously clean for their sole inspection: it was scrubbed ont every morning at 6 a.m. by the poor creatures who, after breakfast, had to go and do a long day’s work in the bush like the convicts in the mines of Siberia. Tables were covered with nice cloths, and flowers were brought in—but a patient never so mnch as got a glimpse of these refinements. There were show dormitories also—awful places at night, with dozens of human beings huddled anyhow on the floor; but at daybreak all the ruck and muck were cleared away: beautifully white quilts wereputon the bedsand the stock of these articles, which I dare say cost £7O or more, was used for the exclusive purpose of deceiving the public. Where else in this world were bed-clothes put on beds in the day time to be removed at night ? And not a single person ever saw his own white counterpane I Not a solitary being except visitors ever looked at these beautiful clean beds. The poor devils scrubbed away in the morning—fixed up the dormitories and day rooms—and were then driven oat to work, after a breakfast lasting for ten minutes. I have seen them chained to trucks, like cattle, covered with perspiration and mud (two very bad things—l always avoid both myself) and this work, and the scrubbing and cleaning, and three meals, and sleep—this constituted their whole insane lives. A dozen or two of the people were treated differently for various reasons. First of all they had friends, and some influential friends. It is a very good thing, even when one is mad, and fancies himself the King of the Cannibal Islands, to have influential friends. I have friends myself, and am about as rational as Solomon, but it will take my friends all their time to see that I am not ill-used, if, unfortunately, I should one day be taken to Modern Bedlam. The dozen or two fortunate but demented persona just referred to were * show ’ patients too; they had tweed suits and were supposed to enjoy various privileges. They went, for instance, in a gang to race meetings. Right under the Grand-stand, where everybody of any consequence could see them, seats were erected—and there the unfortunate beings were paraded race meeting after race meeting, although the course had many other spots far more fitted for that privacy and retirement which is best fitted for well regulated lunacy. There was a reading-room in Modern Bedlam also—delightfully clean and not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. A good many papers were filed there, the day after the officials had quite done with them. But the strange thing about this reading r . m was—that nobody ever read anything in it. It was kept up simply for show, and the patients kept it dean for visitesa to leek at—that was all. I saw a poor fellow oaoe wandering in there, in an idiotic, vacant sort of way;

he didn’t want to read—he wandered in there by aooideda He wan instantly eaught by the collar and thrown oat on the gravel. Also there was a billiard-room. The brasses of the gasaliera of this room were kept well-polished; every day they were looked after and burnished op—bat what was gaa laid on there at all for! For the gas never ones was lighted. On wet days the patients were crowded into this room—that was the only time they saw it. Covered with mack and mod and drenching wet, they were brought in from the bush, and it was a spectacle to see some few of them knocking the balls about, while some forty or fifty others stood around huddled together like a flock of sheep. To go through this place in daytime, and to see it, as it really was, at night (or at any other time), were two totally different things. It was crowded, to be sure—and that was the excuse for many things, although no excuse at all, whan one looked into matters properly I For instance, doyens of inmates slept anyhow (or didn’t sleep at all) on dirty straw mattresses thrown on the floor. The explanation of this dr. cumstance was that the accommodation was inanifiriant to berth the people properly. Now at this very time the keeper (whose name, strange to say, was Cobbler, although he never did mend the worn out soul of mortal) had an excellent house, suitable, in fact, for anybody to live in. Bit it wasn’t at all grand enough tor him. With material purchased by the Government, and with the labour of insane

and other persons, a splendid residence was built on a section of the keeper’s own, for his own especial use. Tnis new abode was called ‘ Modem Bedlam L»dge’—and the unfortunate and helpless imbeciles had to continue to sleep on the floor nevertheless. And all the while there were the Inspectorsand visitors, praising the management of Modern Bedlam, and deploring the supineness of the Government for not providing more buildings for the mentally afflicted I This is the sort of thing that has ruled the world for centuries, bnt isn’t going to rule it for twenty years more. People are getting too enlightened now to tolerate humbug of this kind, and they won’t do so. But perhaps you may think I ought to say less about Modem Bedlam and more about Lord Byram, the hero of tins story ; and you may perhaps wonder where or how or why I learned so much-and I could tell you far more than : h ; a 7J°??r abon ‘ a - mad honBe - For U( i uite “rtain that. thu.Idler (eccentric certainly he is) was never taken to Modern Bedlam by anybody living ? In fact, he is too sane a man, even for a church. Neither did be go there as a spy, as a writer for the Melbourne Argus once did. I would not accept any such position. Bat I have a knowledge of “I* K he 5 aad “ y °" w ‘ Qt ‘ «■<* complete history of the institution you can get it, if you ask for it with becoming politeness. CHAPTER IV.—LORD BYRAM. Loyd Byram was a tall, slim, gentlemanly looking young fellow : he much reminded me, in appearance, of Colonel Hughes Hallett, the superfinely Conservative member for Rochester. He—Lord Byram—knew very little about Lord Byron, although he thought he was that poetic lord. When a change took place in the management of Modem Bedlam • een that Lord Byram was a perfectly simple, goodnatured, harmless, and, in many respects, trustworthy man, and he was allowed almost perfect liberty. The officials employed Mm often as a messenger to the adjacent town, and be invariably did what be had to do reliably. In thia

way he earned a little money, and was able to drees himself in suitable clothing. Thia attire was, of course, d la Byron —he wore a loose neckcloth, turn down collar, and even pretended to be a little lame on one foot. I mentioned the name of Margaret to Mm on several occasions, but it never appeared to excite in him even a glimmer of a recollection. AU the peat appeared to be an utter and complete blank in hia memory. He could speak quite rattonaUy on a gnat many subjects, but he invariably shunned the society of women—a fact which shows that he was either very mad or too sane, I am not sura which. At Modem Bedlam the officials occasionally gave dances and balls for the amusement of their friends, and to these a proportion of the inmates were admitted. Poor things, they danced a jig or two like automations at these entertainments. On one of these occasions the Queen of Spain (a rather fat person about 40 years of age) seeing Lord Byram standing in a melancholy mood and attitude solus, walked np to him and asked him to do her the favour of * dancing this jig * with her. This was a reversal of the usual procedure in sueh eases—but in Bedlam things are generally somewhat upside down. At all events Lord Byram wasn’t at all pleased or complimented. He said to the Queen of Spain: ‘Young woman I Keep your distance 1 I want none of your freedoms I I’d have you to know that I’m a respectable married

man, and my name is Lord Byram 1’ This latter statement shows that Lord Byram didn’t really know very much about Lord Byron, who couldn’t very well be called a • respectable ’ married man. The Queen of Spain retired—as other Queens of Spain have done before now. When the Galatea anchored in Port Philip Bay Lord Byram took it into his head that he would go and see His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh. Accordingly, one afternoon he hired a boat, and got alongside that neat little vesseL On deck he rather startled the officers by an announcement that he wished H.R H. the Dook to be immediately informed that • Lord Byram was aboard wishing to see His Royal Highness.' The officers didn’t very well know what tomakeof th eincident, or what tothinkof the man; butanyhowsomeoneof them went to theDukeof Edinburgh's cabin and told Mm what had taken place on deck. The Duke appears to have seen through the thing in a moment. He gave directions for his lordship to be shown down to him. And there the two bad cigars and wine, and chatted pleasantly for an hour or two—the Duke being extremely amused with some of the remarks of his strange guest. Lord Byram wanted, above all things, to be taken permanently, on the Galatea, and the Duke was apparently quite willing to do so; but presently a boat came under the hows, and Lord Byram was carried forcibly back t° Modern Bedlam. There, for a time, he was in disgrace; and put under lock and key once more. But he was so amiable, so entirely harmless, that, shortly, he allowed bis full measure of freedom again. Some years afterwards, he was seized with typhoid fever. He raged and raved for days and nights. Then came calm and quietude, and serene peace. For an hour, back again came to Mm, all memory, so long lost : he lived his youth over again; he saw the green lanes of the home country —he heard the voice once more of Margaret 1 And he passed away pallid and cold, with the name of Margaret on his lips, and her memory restored to his poor wandering brain.