He let him in to see the place—just by way of
      variety,—to have a little fun with him. As soon as he had
      gammoned him sufficiently, he let him out, and sent him about his
      business.”

      “And how long, then, did the madmen reign?”

      “Oh, a very long time, indeed—a month certainly—how much longer I
      can’t precisely say. In the meantime, the lunatics had a jolly
      season of it—that you may swear. They doffed their own shabby
      clothes, and made free with the family wardrobe and jewels. The
      cellars of the château were well stocked with wine; and these
      madmen are just the devils that know how to drink it. They lived
      well, I can tell you.”

      “And the treatment—what was the particular species of treatment
      which the leader of the rebels put into operation?”

      “Why, as for that, a madman is not necessarily a fool, as I have
      already observed; and it is my honest opinion that his treatment
      was a much better treatment than that which it superseded. It was
      a very capital system indeed—simple—neat—no trouble at all—in
      fact it was delicious—it was—”

      Here my host’s observations were cut short by another series of
      yells, of the same character as those which had previously
      disconcerted us. This time, however, they seemed to proceed from
      persons rapidly approaching. “Gracious heavens!” I ejaculated—“the lunatics have most
      undoubtedly broken loose.”

      “I very much fear it is so,” replied Monsieur Maillard, now
      becoming excessively pale. He had scarcely finished the sentence,
      before loud shouts and imprecations were heard beneath the
      windows; and, immediately afterward, it became evident that some
      persons outside were endeavoring to gain entrance into the room. The door was beaten with what appeared to be a sledge-hammer, and
      the shutters were wrenched and shaken with prodigious violence. A scene of the most terrible confusion ensued. Monsieur Maillard,
      to my excessive astonishment threw himself under the side-board. I had expected more resolution at his hands. The members of the
      orchestra, who, for the last fifteen minutes, had been seemingly
      too much intoxicated to do duty, now sprang all at once to their
      feet and to their instruments, and, scrambling upon their table,
      broke out, with one accord, into, “Yankee Doodle,” which they
      performed, if not exactly in tune, at least with an energy
      superhuman, during the whole of the uproar. Meantime, upon the main dining-table, among the bottles and
      glasses, leaped the gentleman who, with such difficulty, had been
      restrained from leaping there before. As soon as he fairly
      settled himself, he commenced an oration, which, no doubt, was a
      very capital one, if it could only have been heard. At the same
      moment, the man with the teetotum predilection, set himself to
      spinning around the apartment, with immense energy, and with arms
      outstretched at right angles with his body; so that he had all
      the air of a tee-totum in fact, and knocked everybody down that
      happened to get in his way. And now, too, hearing an incredible
      popping and fizzing of champagne, I discovered at length, that it
      proceeded from the person who performed the bottle of that
      delicate drink during dinner. And then, again, the frog-man
      croaked away as if the salvation of his soul depended upon every
      note that he uttered. And, in the midst of all this, the
      continuous braying of a donkey arose over all. As for my old
      friend, Madame Joyeuse, I really could have wept for the poor
      lady, she appeared so terribly perplexed. All she did, however,
      was to stand up in a corner, by the fireplace, and sing out
      incessantly at the top of her voice, “Cock-a-doodle-de-dooooooh!”

      And now came the climax—the catastrophe of the drama. As no
      resistance, beyond whooping and yelling and cock-a-doodling, was
      offered to the encroachments of the party without, the ten
      windows were very speedily, and almost simultaneously, broken in. But I shall never forget the emotions of wonder and horror with
      which I gazed, when, leaping through these windows, and down
      among us _pêle-mêle_, fighting, stamping, scratching, and
      howling, there rushed a perfect army of what I took to be
      chimpanzees, ourang-outangs, or big black baboons of the Cape of
      Good Hope. I received a terrible beating—after which I rolled under a sofa
      and lay still. After lying there some fifteen minutes, during
      which time I listened with all my ears to what was going on in
      the room, I came to same satisfactory _dénouement_ of this
      tragedy. Monsieur Maillard, it appeared, in giving me the account
      of the lunatic who had excited his fellows to rebellion, had been
      merely relating his own exploits. This gentleman had, indeed,
      some two or three years before, been the superintendent of the
      establishment, but grew crazy himself, and so became a patient. This fact was unknown to the travelling companion who introduced
      me. The keepers, ten in number, having been suddenly overpowered,
      were first well tarred, then carefully feathered, and then shut
      up in underground cells. They had been so imprisoned for more
      than a month, during which period Monsieur Maillard had
      generously allowed them not only the tar and feathers (which
      constituted his “system”), but some bread and abundance of water. The latter was pumped on them daily. At length, one escaping
      through a sewer, gave freedom to all the rest. The “soothing system,” with important modifications, has been
      resumed at the _château;_ yet I cannot help agreeing with
      Monsieur Maillard, that his own “treatment” was a very capital
      one of its kind. As he justly observed, it was “simple—neat—and
      gave no trouble at all—not the least.”

      I have only to add that, although I have searched every library
      in Europe for the works of Doctor _Tarr_ and Professor _Fether_,
      I have, up to the present day, utterly failed in my endeavors at
      procuring an edition. THE LITERARY LIFE OF THINGUM BOB, ESQ. LATE EDITOR OF THE “GOOSETHERUMFOODLE.”
By Himself


      I am now growing in years, and—since I understand that
      Shakespeare and Mr. Emmons are deceased—it is not impossible that
      I may even die. It has occurred to me, therefore, that I may as
      well retire from the field of Letters and repose upon my laurels. But I am ambitious of signalizing my abdication of the literary
      sceptre by some important bequest to posterity; and, perhaps, I
      cannot do a better thing than just pen for it an account of my
      earlier career.