Bastile

H' incounters Talgol, routs the Bear, / And takes the Fidler Prisoner; / Conveys him to enchanted Castle, / There shuts him fast in wooden Bastile.

Thither arriv'd th' advent'rous Knight / And bold Squire from their Steeds alight, / At th' outward Wall, near which [there] stands / A Bastile built t'imprison hands; / By strange enchantment made to fetter / The lesser parts, and free the greater. / For though the Body may creep through, / The Hands in Grate are fast enough.

―The devil it is! ſaid I—but I vvill go to then thouſand Baſtiles firſt— […]

But Nigel was somewhat immured within the Bastile of his rank, as some philosopher, (Tom Paine, we think,) has happily enough expressed that sort of shyness which men of dignified situations are apt to be beset with, […]

Inſtead of forging Chains for Foreigners, / Baſtile thy Tutor: Grandeur All thy Aim?

[W]hy if you don't ſcamper, you'll be baſtil'd, before you can ſay, "Killarney."

All the doleful stories of prisoners of earlier or later ages, in the Bastile, including much sentimental balderdash, are drawled out by a very stupid and would-be effective writer, for the purpose of proving that the imprisonment of political offenders and captives by the North is precisely on a par with that of ‘Bastiling’ them, and that Abraham Lincoln is only a revival of the worst kings of France in an American form.

I know that peaceable and unoffending citizens of my own State have been "bastiled" in different parts of the United States—"cut off from their family, their friends, and their every connection."