Authors, English -- 20th century -- Biography; Blackwood, Algernon, 1869-1951
It was broad daylight by this time. The whole party, of at least
thirty, were assembled in a barn where a magistrate, brought down
specially for the purpose, held an impromptu court. If some of the
inmates were insane at the time and had been so before incarceration,
others certainly had been deliberately made insane by the harsh and
cruel treatment to which they had purposely been subjected. There
were painful episodes, while the testimony was hurriedly listened to
in that improvised court of inquiry. Yet it has all, all vanished
from my memory. I forget even what the sequel was, or what sentence
the infamous proprietor received later on from a properly-constituted
court. Many a sane man or woman had been rendered crazy by the
treatment, I remember, and the quack had taken heavy payments from
interested relatives for this purpose. But all details have vanished
from my mind. What chiefly remains is the wonder of that breaking dawn,
the light stealing over the sky, the sweet smell of the country and the
tang of the salt sea. These, with the singing of the early birds, and
the great yearnings they stirred in me, left deep impressions.
One reason, I am sure, why such painful and dramatic incidents have
left so little trace, is that I had a way of shielding myself from the
unpleasantness of them, so that their horror or nastiness, as the case
might be, never really got into me deeply. By a method of “detachment,”
as mentioned earlier, I protected my sensitive inner self from being
too much wounded. I would depute just sufficient intelligence and
observation to attend to the immediate work in hand, while the rest of
me, the major portion, lay inactive, uninvolved, certainly inoperative.
Painful and vivid impressions were, none the less, received, of course,
only I refused to admit or recognize them. They emerged, years later,
in stories perhaps, these suppressed hieroglyphics, but at the actual
time I could so protect myself that I did not consciously record them.
And hence, I think, my faint recollection now of a thousand horrible
experiences during these New York reporting days.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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