Lucida Intervalla

by James Carkesse

Lucida Intervalla: Containing Divers Miscellaneous Poems, Written at Finsbury and Bethlem by the Doctors Patient Extraordinary (1679)

68 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1679

Reviews

[Osiris Oliphant · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lucida Intervalla: Containing Divers Miscellaneous Poems Written at Finsbury and Bethlem by the Doctors Patient Extraordinary(1679)

This is considered the first book of poems written by an inmate of a mad-house in England. Maybe anywhere? And it's not just a historical novelty. There is a lot going on in these poems. It would be great to read a modern edition with footnotes and essays to get a fuller idea of the their relevancy. The author works in a lot of classical allusions, contemporary medical concepts amf word play whose meaning and implications were obscure to me. Even without the full context it's very clear what a heroic act the writing of these poems was for the author against the friends who had betrayed him and the quack doctors trying to purge his madness by bleeding vomiting and beating the poet out of him.

The Poetical History
OF
Finnesbury Mad-house.

The Dr--- of Finnesbury-House
Knows, how to dissect an Oyster,
Whether Man, no more than a Mouse,
Be fit for Bedlam, or Cloyster.
I'le tell you his way of Proceeding,
All you, that here shall enter;
Purges, Vomits, and Bleeding,
Are his method of Cure, at a Venture...

To this Colledge was brought by force,
A Parson, that shall be nameless;
The Doctor, he takes the same Course,
Though the Man be sober and blameless:
For he, both Fool and Physitian,
At all no difference made,
Betwixt a Senseless condition,
And Madness in Mascarade.

He Reports to the KING and the Court,
That Learning had made the Man Mad:
To observe, was the Patient's sport,
How little the Doctor had.

This Parson, he tore his Garment,
Then Mad he was concluded;
Hold, Good Sir, there's no harm in't,
Your Senses are deluded:
You for your Mad Meeting-House stickle,
And publick Bedlam cry down;
But I pray, in a Conventicle:
Who Sober would wear a Gown?

Oh but, Parson, you break the Wall,
And Burglary you commit;
If I must not this Madness call,
I am sure, 'tis want of Wit.
Religio Medici's left in the lurch,
He knows not Good from Evil:
For surely, the way to Build up the Church,
Is to pull down the Chappel o'th' Devil.
Then throw the House out a Window,
And lay it flat with the Ground;
For undoubtedly they Sin do,
That keep it another Year round.

The Doctor his Argument urges;
This Parson must needs be Mad,
For on him, neither Vomits nor Purges,
Any Influence have had.
Fond Doctor, you beg the Question,
And you might have spar'd your pains;
For my Blood's from a good digestion,
And your Physick is lost in my Veins.

Nay, I prescrib'd Chains of Iron,
To take him off of his Mettle;
But Brass did him environ,
He had rub'd his Face with a Kettle.
My Fetters they were but Straw,
To the Sinews of his Armes;
And he burst Bars and Doors, as I saw,
By I know not what mighty Charmes.

Moreover I him in the Hole,
As under a Bushel, confin'd;
Lest God's Word, the Light of the Soul,
In my Mad-house should have Shin'd.

Ne're the less into the Dungeon,
He let in the Rayes of the Sun,
And i'th' Pit, where him I did plunge in,
Made Night and Day meet in one.
In a place I did him stow,
Where Rats and Mice do swarm;
These by Instinct the Madmen know,
And therefore do them no harm.

My Potions he turn'd into Drenches,
For he freely would take ne're a jot;
But by Thomas and the Wenches,
They were forced down his Throat.
To feel his Pulse, I never thought;
In a Month I see him but once:
And how my Mad Physick has wrought,
If I know in the least, I'm a Dunce.

For, in Truth and sober sadness,
This Parson I found so smart,
That I fear'd his Wit, more than his madness,
The March-Hare I never dare start.

I order'd his Keeper, at Large,
On occasion to ply him with Blows,
That what Jugular did not discharge,
The mad Blood might come out at his Nose.

[Katie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Back when I took a class about 18th-century novels, my professor gifted all of us our own little printed copies of super old, random books and this was mine.

I gave it five stars just because I found it so fascinating to read a collection of poetry from back then that was basically just this guy's journal. It's a sentimental little book for me because of where I got it from and how that made me feel so special getting it from a professor and picking it out of a mystery bag.

And since it's printed with that old, original font, sometimes the letter "s" is written to look like the letter "f" which can provide some funny lines if you forget that's a thing. My favorite being "What Homer our Great Grandfather did Vomit, / We licking up, turn sucking poets from it."

Also loved the intro which gave me some info on this guy because otherwise, I think I would have been lost.