Chapter VII: Introduction (6)

Such, in his case, are the miserable effects of a practical joke, which cannot fail to embitter for life the feelings of the unthinking author, as well as those of the unfortunate young man’s family.

JOSEPH REDFERN,

Aged forty-three, admitted 28th November 1822. This is a married man, with several children; was a hatter by trade, and is in a high state of derangement. He became so from some unaccountable cause, and was at first sent to a private mad-house, at Somers Town; where, having some altercation with his keeper, he attacked the man with great fury, got him down, and nearly strangled him with his own neckerchief, which was drawn so tight, that it became necessary to cut it from his neck, to save his life. It then became requisite to restrain him by handcuffs; but, notwithstanding this restriction, he made his escape through the roof of a summer-house in the garden, proceeded to the next coach-stand, and hired two hackney-coaches, telling the drivers “he had a party to take up:” and, by his order, they drove from place to place until quite tired; when, becoming doubtful of their fare, and observing his handcuffs, they took him before a police magistrate, when he was found to be insane, and was secured. He was shortly after brought here from the White-house, Bethnal Green; but with two black eyes, received during the struggle with his keeper at Somers Town.

He is always noisy, wild, and incoherent, and wears, even in his insanity, all the characters of having been a disorderly and dissolute man. It is highly probable that excessive drinking of ardent spirits was the cause of his derangement; for he frequently boasts of having drank the greater part of twenty glasses of brandy and water after business-hours, and a bottle of cogniac in a morning, before business commenced. But this, he says, was done to relieve him of spasms, with which he is much afflicted.

The first symptoms of his derangement was an aerial speculation for building churches all over Derbyshire, of which he is a native; and this he proposed to do on a scale much higher, longer, broader, handsomer, more commodious and ornamental, than any other churches in England, in half the time, and for one-quarter the expense that other builders have charged.

As to his hat-making trade, he affects to despise it; although he considers himself the first maker in Europe.

He believes another patient, William Collison, to be his father; abuses him grossly, asks him numberless questions about his money, and his business, and inquires of him about persons whom poor Collison never before heard of. Collison is a mild, harmless poor fellow, and is often alarmed at him, and assures him he is not his father, for he never had a son or a daughter in all his life.

Redfern insists that old Groves, another patient, was the Bishop of London, but was deprived for practices similar to those of a late Irish Bishop. He affects to know every body, and all their private affairs, and is familiarly acquainted, he says, with every part of England; and that, while he remains here, he is making more money than all the hatters in the trade together. His skill and dexterity in this art is his favourite hobby-horse, and most frequent topic of discourse. He can make hats much better than those usually sold, out of any stuff: a pair of old bellows, matting, blankets, old carpets, rugs, mops, old wigs--in short, any thing, no matter what. He is extremely deep and knowing in his own opinion, and sets all others down as flats and greenhorns. But as he is very noisy, quarrelsome, and violent, he frequently gets into scrapes with the more sturdy of his fellow-patients.

JOHN GILBERT,

Aged twenty-three, admitted July 25th 1822. This young man came from Ramsgate, where his family had been once reputable, but are now reduced. He carried about him no signs of frenzy, although his intellects were quite deranged. He would sometimes say that Ramsgate was two thousand miles off, sometimes only four hundred, and at other times not more than twenty-five; but, if he were let out, he would go home in half an hour. On being asked if he was aware of what place he was now in, he would sometimes answer, “yes, in the West-Indies:” and at other times in Turkey, America, France, &c.; sometimes he would answer in Newgate, and at other times in the Rule of Three!! He laughed at every thing, gay or serious, and seemed happy in his mind, particularly at meal-times. He frequently danced for his amusement, in his own peculiar style, which was by hopping on one foot, and turning round all the while, until he fell down from giddiness. He was found to be merely silly, and not dangerous to be at large, and was discharged as idiotic, on the 7th November 1822.

WILLIAM PETER JONES,

Aged twenty-four, admitted the 11th July 1822. This unfortunate genius was a stage-struck votary of Thespis, disappointed in all his hopes of astonishing the world by his histrionic powers, notwithstanding his indefatigable endeavours to obtain an engagement at any of the theatres. His propensities for the stage were cotemporary with the first dawnings of his puerile taste; but, unfortunately, the estimation of his talents in the eyes of others bore no proportion to his notions of himself. His chosen line of acting was that of heroes in tragedy: Alexander the Great, Coriolanus, Brutus, and the like. But, to judge from his pitch of person and talents, Tom Thumb the Great would have been better adapted to his performance, for he is about four feet and a half high, and formed all of a lump, like a butter-firkin. He had made several attempts to mount the London stage, but with singular ill fortune: and the present is his fourth attack of insanity, all incurred by his ardour in his favourite pursuit. He was first admitted on the 6th of August 1818, and discharged quite well on the 31st December following. He returned on the 25th of September 1819, and was discharged again on the 6th of July 1820. He was re-admitted, for the third time, on the 24th of March, and discharged on the 1st of November in the same year; and he again became a sojourner on the 11th of July 1822.

All his former attacks had been more or less calm, but always high; constantly spouting dramatic speeches, or his head occupied by some wild speculation, as well as by a fulness of blood, which was always the leading physical symptom of his disorder. But on his returning the last time, his malady assumed a quite different character; for he was quite low and despondent, in terror of all who approached him, and apprehensive of being burned, or drowned, or cut up piece-meal to make soup. He would cry out murder, at the appearance of his own shadow! He imagined every person who walked quickly towards him, was coming to destroy him. When conversing with the keepers, he would hastily ask, “have you got a knife in your pocket?” and every knife or other weapon he saw or heard of, he considered as intended to destroy him.

At one time he imagined himself in hell, and all who surrounded him demons. Old Lloyd, one of the patients, he imagined to be Beelzebub himself, the prince of devils; Henry Taunton and others he imagined to be minor devils, and attendants on his Satanic majesty. A cat in the place was, at one time, a frightful object of apprehension and terror to him: he said her eyes were fire, and he could plainly see her intention to devour him. He would never venture into the keeper’s room if poor puss was present. In October 1822 he became much better, and all his apprehensions, which he perfectly remembered, were quite dispelled, but his ardour for theatricals by no means abated. He expects to be speedily discharged, and purposes to renew his application for a stage engagement on some of the London boards. He details many of his adventures, and the kind of encouragement he received from several of the managers in pursuit of his object: he began with Covent Garden, and ended with Rathbone-place. His leading object is to put down Kean. He would play none but first-rate characters, and has not the least doubt of speedily becoming more celebrated than any of the Cookes, Kembles, Keans, or even Garrick himself.

Previously to his second attack being known to his friends, he waited one day on Mr. M’Cready, in Berners-street, gave a specimen of his talents, and received, as he imagined, very flattering promises. He afterwards applied to Mr. Charles Kemble, who treated him with the most gentlemanly politeness, and after hearing him sing and repeat a few parts, promised him a rehearsal at his theatre; but his friends dissuaded him from the attempt at that time. He next applied to Sir George Smart, the musician, who took him into the orchestra to see Don Giovanni: where he remained very quiet, until the dancing scene commenced, when he could no longer restrain his ardour but jumped up, and would have joined the ballet on the stage but for Sir George, who withheld him.

He next appeared at the Surrey Theatre. “They appeared there,” he said, “to relish his performance very well;” but some scapegrace fellows led him to a public-house, blacked his face with grease and soot, daubed his coat with paint, and then turned him into the street to exhibit in the part of Othello.

The next attempt was at the Coburg, and there they painted and blacked him all over, and told him to call again next day. A shopkeeper’s wife, near the Coburg, took compassion on his distress and disappointment; took him to her house and had him washed, and the paint was taken off by his father when he got home.

But all this did not dispirit his ambition. He next applied at the Regency Theatre for a first-rate engagement. They brought him on the stage, as he wished, and while he was enacting with all his energy a scene in Alexander the Great, a trap-door in the stage unfortunately opened, and down dropped the poor hero into the lower regions. But this was not all: for before he was half reconciled to the change of scene, down dropt upon him three full buckets of cold water. The ill-starred William Peter was then, by some invisible guide, escorted to the street by a short cut, and left to explore his way to the New Road, dripping wet at all points, like a sheep newly washed.

Disgusted with these adventures, and determined to trust no more to the politeness or liberality of the London managers, he resolved to appeal for his merits to the candid and untried judgment of the public at large: and he one day made his _débût_ in Rathbone-place; scene, the open street; time, noon-day; in the celebrated character of the Third Richard, before a crowded and impartial audience of boys, coster-mongers, Irish women, and such other miscellaneous company as happened to be in attendance; and bursts of pleasantry and applause crowned his performance in every passage. But merit the most consummate cannot please all minds, or at all times receive its due meed of approbation. The parish officers had not taste enough to be pleased; and while Richard, “his eye in a fine frenzy rolling,” had reached the very climax of his exertion, was offering “his kingdom for a horse!” and was about to retire well-pleased with his success, “he was seized by the strong hand of power,” and conveyed to that enchanted castle the parish watch-house, for raising a disturbance.

He then talked of relinquishing the stage, and cultivating quietness in retirement; but his imagination took the new bent that led to his last confinement here.

HENRY TAUNTON,

Aged about sixty, admitted 9th May 1822. This poor old fellow, who came from Brentford, in Middlesex, was formerly a patient in St. Luke’s Hospital, and has at present a son there, who inherits his father’s derangement, the only paternal heir-loom he is likely ever to enjoy.

The old man was by trade a butcher, and has been, by his own account, the whole of his life a flighty and unsettled character. During his period of apprenticeship he had no less than eleven different masters, and did not complete his term of service at last. He was sent to sea, the last refuge for hopeless youngsters; was taken prisoner by the enemy, and carried to a Spanish prison, where he remained a considerable time; and after his return to England, he resumed his trade, sometimes as a journeyman, and sometimes on his own account.

As is usual with many of the wretched men in his state of mind, his fancy is constantly haunted by the recollections of his professional occupation. He incessantly talks of his killing abilities, and is very busy in sticking imaginary pigs, knocking down ideal bullocks, slaughtering suppositious sheep, blowing up visionary veal, and dressing out conjectural joints, for the shambles of his own mind.

By his own account no pig has been killed for a series of years near the neighbourhood he lived in, but by himself; for there, it seems, the fate of the whole swinish multitude was decided by his skilful hand, and no fierce warrior ever delighted more in bloodshed, than Taunton in the slaughter of the bristly generation. How strange is it, that professional vanity should haunt the ambition of so humble an individual, even in his derangement! but it is a trait from which no class of mankind is exempt.

The acquirement of great property was probably one amongst the various reveries that occupied his mind in the season of his sanity. It has not forsaken his fancy to this hour, and fancy supplies what physical exertions could never realize. Poor Taunton supposes himself a man of considerable wealth; in which he enumerates nineteen substantial brick-built dwelling-houses at Whetstone, an estate at Deptford, an extensive stock in trade, numerous flocks of sheep and lambs at grass, and £300 in cash, when he was brought here, and is quite an independent man. To his wealth, fancy has superadded dignity and authority; for he says he is a magistrate, and sits with Colonel Clitheroe on the bench at Quarter Sessions. He complains bitterly of cruel treatment from his family. It is said that his father bequeathed him at his death a handsome property, and left himself and a near relative executors to his will, but Henry mortgaged some parts, neglected others, quarrelled with his brother, went to law, but had not money to carry the suit to its conclusion; and twenty years have elapsed without his receiving any part of the issues. He states his age at no more than forty-five; although he recollects clearly transactions fifty years back, and has a daughter aged thirty-two. He feels quite comfortable here, and speaks highly of his good treatment: but he complains of ill-usage from every one out of doors; “he has been knocked down, had his skull fractured, and his bones broken, though quite innocent of any just cause.” He has lately lost his wife, for which he evinced no grief. In fact, he is quite a man of business; not much affected by losses: but like Whennell, Lloyd, and many others of his fellow-patients, is always well loaded with a general assortment of all manner of rubbish, rags, bones, wooden spoons, &c. that he can collect; he always appears busy and cheerful, and is punctually attentive and _industrious_ at his meals.

He was sent here from his parish workhouse at Putney; and on the 26th of last September he obtained a month’s leave of absence, which was afterwards extended to another month. But during the latter he fell into a sad mistake, which nearly proved fatal to the keeper of his workhouse: for whether from some old grudge, or new cause of irritation, or whether his visit to the former scene of his professional operations revived his ardour for the exercise of his knife, and that he mistook the man for a hog, he attempted to kill the unsuspecting governor, in which purpose he was most fortunately prevented, and brought back here on the 21st of November.

WILLIAM TUCKER,

Aged forty-eight, from Berkshire, admitted 2d November 1820. This poor man had been a labourer, and appeared ten years older than his age as given in. Delusion had carried him almost beyond conception: he saw no man or woman whatever, either gentleman or lady, labourer or laundress, that passed with him by their own names, or represented their proper characters. This one he knew in gaol, by such a name; another was the youngest brother of Buonaparte; such a lady was Tom Somebody’s wife, who had run away with another man; this young woman was once his servant; that was his niece, or aunt, as her age corresponded. He believed that he was only put here for a “hum;” and he pretended to know precisely the day when he would be discharged, but would name it to no one. He spoke very harshly of his family; said that his wife was an abandoned wretch, and his son no better; that his wife and son were living as man and wife in every particular; that he knew it, had seen many instances of it, and was fully and incontrovertibly convinced that they were aware of it, and, to prevent the consequences, that they had planned to send him here. He was permitted to work occasionally in the garden of the hospital; but latterly he was prevented, in consequence of his concealing a weapon he found while at work. Previously to his coming here he repaired to an auction, and bid for the toll of a turnpike-gate; he outbid his competitors, till the gate was knocked down to him, but unfortunately he had “not sixpence capital.” He was, perhaps, the most cunning man of the age, in his own opinion: “Lord bless you,” says he, “half an eye is enough for me; I can see what they are all about through a brick wall--I know them; little they think who I am, and what I am here for.” He was always a working man, and was discharged uncured.

JOHN WEBB,

Aged forty-three, from East Peckham, Kent, admitted 13th February 1823. This man was an agricultural labourer, lived upwards of twenty-five years at a farm-house in the parish above-named, and ultimately became deranged in his intellects. For some time after his disorder became apparent, he would go regularly to his work in the usual way; but shortly afterwards he would turn out for labour at the plough, or any other occupation, in a state of perfect nudity, much to the scandal and disgust of his neighbours. Being checked in this propensity, and persuaded to desist from a custom so shameful, his fancy took another direction, and he fell deeply in love with a respectable farmer’s daughter, and became so extremely assiduous, obtrusive, annoying, and dangerous in the fervour of his addresses, that it was found necessary to confine him in the parish poor-house, from which, after a little time, he was transmitted to this asylum. His mind, however, is still busy with the scenes of his former residence. He carries on an imaginary intercourse daily with the gentlemen of East Peckham and those of Farley parishes, which adjoins; and he persuades himself that both are at open war with each other for the property of his person as a pauper. “East Peckham,” he says, “claims him stoutly, as belonging to their parish; while Farley, his favourite parish, is determined not to give him up, but to keep possession of him at all risks.” Such a contest, in reality, would be quite novel in the system of parochial disputes: for although expensive law-suits are daily incurred by parishes in the endeavour to cast on each other the maintenance of doubtful paupers, few parish officers would be found to contend for the exclusive honour of supporting a mendicant; but would cheerfully resign that privilege to any person who chose to claim it, all the learning of the poor-laws and opinions of vestry clerks to the contrary notwithstanding.

But while this imaginary contest between these rival parishes still remains _pendente lite_, until a _quo warranto_ or a _mandamus_ shall settle the point, poor Webb has made up his own mind touching the conjugal property of the young lady he had fixed his heart on, and who, he insists, is his wife, guardian, and trustee. Through the same active medium of his fancy, he carries on a perpetual conversation, and as in wedlock the twain are one, so he answers on her part his own questions, and thus maintains a dialogue for hours together. He will frequently convey to his keeper her earnest injunctions for his own immediate liberation. He will often run, in a violent hurry, to the same guardian, tell him that he has just heard from Farley, and that the parish officers there request he may be sent down without delay, and this he frequently does ten times in a day. But the obstinate incredulity of his keeper still bars his purpose, and then he summons supernatural influence to aid his suit: he contends that all storms, shipwrecks, fires, and dreadful accidents, are entirely attributable to the injustice and cruelty of his confinement. Severe frost, snow, cold, wet or gloomy weather, nay, even a mark or stain on the gallery floor, or the sudden illness of a fellow-patient, are all imputable to the same cause, and would all be prevented by his liberation.

Unable to succeed by such representations, he directly resorts to one of his imaginary conversations with his friends at Farley, much in this manner:

“Now, Mr. John Webb, come home directly to your woife.”

“Very well, zur; Oi wull come, directly.”

“And be zure you brings down sum noice things for hur.”

“Oh yes, zur, that Oi wull; and plenty on’ um, indeed.”

“Oi hopes your are very well, Mr. Webb?”

“Oh yes, zur; very well, zur, Oi thanks you koindly.”

“Your woife is very anxious to zee you, Mr. Webb.”

“Oi dare zay she be, zur; Oi wishes her well, zur, Oi assure you.”

“You be worth a good deal o’ property, Mr. Webb?”

“Oh, that Oi be, zur; many scores o’ pounds, zur.”

“Well, Mr. Webb, whoy do’an’t you cum hoam?”

“Yes, zur; yes zur; Oi’ll go and zee abaout it, zur, directly. Good morning zur.”

Fully impressed with this imaginary conversation with some leading parishioner of Farley, he flies to the keeper, tells him that he has just settled with Mr. Somebody to go home to his wife, guardian, and trustee: that he must go immediately, or the consequences will be very bad to any one who detains him.

Thus he passes his days: at nights he amuses himself with the like soliloquies, and is constantly in fretful agitation.

He has a son twenty-one years of age, for whom, he says, he has been mistaken in this case; and that this son is the man who should be imprisoned, and not he. The most remote notion of his own affliction never enters his mind: for he says he never had an hour’s illness in his life. He has conducted himself pretty well since his admission; but is so fretful and uneasy, as to shew symptoms of soon breaking out into violence, on the score of his detention.

JAMES PARSONS,

Aged forty, came from Suffolk, admitted 18th July 1822. This poor unhappy man had a wife and four children. He evinced no symptoms of violence, or mental derangement, except a settled melancholy. He appeared constantly in a low, dejected, and desponding state, but assigned to no one the cause of his wretchedness; probably that cause was combined of extreme poverty and embarrassment, and the dread of being unable to support his beloved wife and offspring, so dear to his affections.

When first admitted he appeared quite languid; was ordered by the physicians an allowance of wine, but preferred, and was permitted, to have porter instead. After some time he appeared to get better in spirits and health, and was employed in some little offices about the gallery: but he appeared to have an insurmountable antipathy to all social intercourse with the other inmates. If he was sitting down, and a few of his fellow-patients, cheerfully disposed of an evening, began to amuse themselves by singing or dancing, while a keeper played on his flute, poor Parsons would immediately rise from his seat, and wander alone to the remote end of the gallery. He very seldom conversed with or spoke to any one. He had attempted twice to destroy himself, while at home with his friends.

On Sunday, December 1st 1822, he had taken tea with his keeper at six o’clock; and, after tea, the keeper saw him no more till eight o’clock; when, on coming to his room-door, and missing him, he supposed he was in the water-closet, or had fallen asleep somewhere about the gallery. He instantly went in search of him, and at last found him in the dining-room, sitting on the floor, with his legs stretched out, his arms and hands resting in front, his chin supported on his breast, with a rope about his neck, fastened at one end to the iron bars of the window. He was quite dead. The cord with which he effected his fatal purpose was composed of many pieces tied together, and a slip-noose made to receive his neck: it must, therefore, have required deliberate contrivance, as well as determined resolution, to effect his desperate purpose: a purpose which, sooner or later, if once fixed by the melancholy maniac, he will effect in spite of all vigilance, if the means are within his reach. The keeper, on finding him, instantly cut him down; and Dr. Wright, with the steward, immediately attended. He was bled, and every means used to restore him, but the vital spark was fled.

A coroner’s inquest was held on the body, and returned a verdict, Death in consequence of Insanity. But the manner in which he obtained the cord by which he effected his purpose, eluded all inquiry.

HENRY SWINDEN,

Of London, watch-maker, admitted on the 30th of August 1822. This patient had been an inmate here before, and was discharged as cured, in October last year. But as the derangements of his mind most probably had their chief source in the nature of his occupation, his recurrence to that occupation, after he was first restored to reason, had the effect of renewing his malady: and the art of watch-making is the leading subject of his illusions.

According to his own account, he is the greatest artist of his profession in the universe. He can make a chronometer that will go for a whole year, without varying in the thirtieth part of a second. He has sent some thousands of them abroad, at prices from fifty to three hundred guineas each. He boasts continually of his immense property, and his professional excellence. He had forty of his chronometers at Flamstead House, Greenwich Park, the residence of the Astronomer Royal, for examination, and never had one returned as imperfect; and he talks of his certificates from thence, always describing his work as the best they had ever seen: nay, his chronometers had been sunk many fathoms under water, for twenty-four hours together, without the slightest variation or injury: and no weather or climate, hot or cold, wet or dry, can affect them.

He says, by way of anecdote, that his late Majesty having accidentally heard, one morning, that Mr. Swinden was walking in Kew Gardens, sent his compliments to him, stating that His Majesty would be happy if Mr. Swinden would honour him by his company to breakfast. Mr. Swinden complied; and while His Majesty and he chatted together about chronometers, Mr. Vulliamy, of Pall-Mall (the famous watch-maker) came in, and wanted to wind up the King’s clock: but Mr. Swinden happening to have the key in his breeches pocket with some watch-springs, and as he had made this clock, which never varied in a single second, he did not think proper to trust the winding up to another. Mr. Vulliamy, however, demanded the right of winding, in rather an imperative tone and manner; but Mr. Swinden instantly knocked him down; and when he got up again seconded the motion. Mr. Vulliamy, not having any particular relish for a repetition of the compliment, sneaked off: when His Majesty highly applauded Mr. Swinden for his spirit. He then wound up the clock, much to the satisfaction of his Majesty, who promised him a patent; and so they shook hands and parted. Mr. Swinden was to have not only the patent, but all the King’s work, if he had not been maliciously brought in here as a madman.

Of his immense property in houses he frequently talks. Besides the whole of Skinner Street, he owns many splendid mansions in various parts of the country. His foreign trade is most extensive in every part of the globe. The deaths of his relations all bring him astonishing riches; and his wife, of whom he always spoke well (contrary to the prevailing custom amongst his fellow-patients), he represents as getting twenty, fifty, and sometimes a hundred guineas from ladies whom she attends as a nurse.

During his sojournment in this hospital he says he has discovered a perpetual motion (possibly it is his tongue, which appears to have that quality, for it rarely ever stops or requires winding), and by this discovery he is to make an immense fortune, when he gets out.

Previously to his last admission here he laboured under melancholy and depression of spirits, and would stand for hours at the corner of a court or street, quite lost in insensibility. It is probable that want of employment and distress sometimes brought on his malady; but as soon as his distresses were relieved, his imaginary wealth was renewed; and he could earn, as he thought, a hundred guineas a day.

In his encomiums on his wife, he said he was not always in earnest. He had his own views in speaking well of her, for he threatened, whenever he got out, to cut her throat, and that of his brother Charles. He was discharged from here as cured, on the 11th of April 1822. He was quite harmless, and, in his lucid intervals, seemed a quiet, good sort of man; and was said to be an excellent workman. But his enlargement served to revive in him the exciting causes of his disorder, and he has been re-admitted here by petition, at the date already mentioned. He is in a very desponding state, and this is the third attack of his disorder.

JOHN DAVID,

Aged forty, admitted in December 1822. This is a Welshman. He was tried for cutting and wounding his wife, and attempting to murder her: but on his trial was found to be insane, and was consigned to restriction in a mad-house. Since his confinement here reason seems to have resumed her seat; for he has behaved himself very well, is quiet and regular, and has shewn no symptoms that bespeak mental derangement.

THOMAS NARROWAY,

London, aged twenty-one. This poor fellow was convicted at the Old Bailey, in October 1822, of stealing some pigs. It was his first offence: but whether it was an act of insanity, or his insanity arose from the remorse, terror, and despondency, naturally arising in a mind not naturally corrupt, from a sense of ruined character, is doubtful. He was sent from Newgate to the Penitentiary, where he proved to be deranged, and was thence sent here. He is at present in a low and desponding state, but quiet, regular, and perfectly harmless.

RICHARD B. E--R--G,

Aged twenty-three, admitted 5th September 1822. This young man was a surgeon and apothecary in Southwark, and his derangement is attributed to the intensity of professional study and application. When he came here he was impressed with a notion that he was principal apothecary to the King, and was to be raised to the dignity of a baronet. He has written several letters, intended for Dr. Cholmley, urging him to forward his views, and confirm his appointment as apothecary to his Majesty; and to the Lord Bishop of Durham, and others, to obtain his baronetcy. As to the former, he urges his ample qualifications; for he has walked the hospitals, attended lectures, and passed his examinations at the College of Surgeons and Apothecaries’ Hall, and cannot see what should delay the confirmation of his appointment; and as to the latter, he thinks himself quite old enough to be a baronet, and knows no reason why he should not be one. His views of advancement are not confined to these two points; for he looks to matrimony as an important round in the ladder of elevation. He wants to obtain a wife with property: ten or fifteen thousand pounds, or so; but even five thousand would do, if no more could be got; and if any one would procure for him a wife with such a portion, he would have no objection to make him a handsome present of five or ten pounds. He would not be over particular as to the lady’s person or education. If he should like her, he would live with her a short time, perhaps: but if not, he would allow her something handsome to live on: half a guinea a week, or so, he should think might do. He has no particular wish to see the lady before-hand, nor to waste time in the tedious forms of courtship: when she comes to church to be married would be quite time enough. He has a high opinion of his own personal symmetry, views himself in the glass, when he has an opportunity, examines the proportions of his limbs, and asks all about him what they think of him.

Besides his medical and anatomical talents, he assumes deep knowledge in theology and moral philosophy; and he has written here several sermons, moral essays, and treatises on human nature, as he calls them; but all in a style of wildness and incoherency perfectly congenial to the deranged state of his intellects, and not legible, in any connection, for two lines together.

His professional pursuits frequently occupy his anxiety in the round of miscellaneous topics. At one time he is extremely busy on subjects of anatomy; at another, in making out accounts of money due to him from his patients, while in practice. But in no two bills made out for the same person do his charges correspond. That which is charged at ten shillings one day, is but five shillings the next; or perhaps fifty, according, as he says, to his consideration of persons, and their circumstances.

He is ever starting from one subject to another, and in that unsettled, uneasy state, which Dean Swift termed “the fidgets.” Sometimes he proposes going into the army; but not abroad, as he does not like, nor understand, fighting: at other times he proposes to travel, for the two-fold purpose of improving his knowledge, and affording him opportunities of gaining a rich wife. But at all times he assumes great consequence, is highly susceptible of the least imaginary slight, extremely irritable, and prompt to violence on those at whom he takes offence, but is much afraid of being hurt in the encounter.

His friends and connexions are respectable, and extremely attentive to him since his confinement.

DAZELY HURRILL,

Aged thirty-three, admitted 21st June 1822. This man had been a rustic labourer. When admitted to this hospital he was in a very weakly state. His countenance and complexion were scarcely of human aspect, having more the resemblance of a baboon, without the lively grimace of that animal.

His mind was deeply impressed with the notion that he was here on board a convict-ship, on his voyage to Botany Bay; that the weather was extremely stormy and dangerous; and he expected the vessel every moment to be upset, wrecked, or sunk; and nothing could dissuade him from this opinion. His conversation every morning was about the rocking and heaving of the vessel during the preceding night. “My eyes!” he would exclaim, “how she did roll about, pitch, and heave last night! I thought it was all over with us.” One morning his keeper found him with his legs and body under his bed, and holding on with both hands by the side of the bedstead. On asking him what he was about; he answered, “my dear soul! I am glad you are come. I have been holding on all night, and am almost gone, I expected that I must have let go, and have gone smack overboard.”

When the keeper shewed him his error, the poor fellow said: “Lord have mercy on me! Why it is a bed!” and heaving a deep sigh, continued, “I thought I was hanging by the ship’s side all night. I did not know till now that I was in the cabin all the while!”

He was asthmatic, had very ill health, and was discharged sick and weakly, July 18th 1822.

WILLIAM ELMORE,

Aged thirty-four, from Kettering, in Northamptonshire, admitted the 11th of April 1822. This poor object had been a common labourer. He was obstinate and untractable, almost beyond all example: it was scarcely possible to do anything that met his wishes, or render him any kindness that seemed agreeable. He stoutly resisted every attempt to dress or undress him. In order to shave him, it required the aid of a keeper at each arm and leg, another at his head, and others to restrain his body: and yet, with all, the operation could not be thoroughly effected. Although apparently reduced to a skeleton, through his obstinate abstemiousness, he was remarkably strong, and on every occasion opposed his strength to any efforts for bettering his unhappy state. He would be induced to take no part of his provisions but by dint of force: and although he would cry out repeatedly, “for God’s sake give me something to eat;” yet the instant that food was brought before him he would reject it with horror, as a patient in the hydrophobia would reject any liquid, and would struggle with all his might to avoid it.

So far did delusion carry this man’s fancy, that he actually believed he had neither eyes, nose, mouth, tongue, nor teeth. While feeding him, his keeper would desire him to open his mouth. “Mouth!” he would answer, “I have got no mouth; I had a nice large one once, but I have got none now.” He actually supposed his mouth to be quite an opposite part of his person, and would call aloud to his keeper when endeavouring to feed him, “don’t! pray don’t put meat and things in there! it’s so unnatural. Nobody ever did that before to any man; its so unreasonable: pray don’t do it!” The like perverse and revolutionary notions of his other organs, already mentioned, gave rise to the most extraordinary misconceptions, as if perception and all its natural organs were at open variance with each other. In this intestine war of the organic elements, his person became emaciated, feeble, and sickly; and he was discharged on the 30th May 1822, and sent to a private mad-house.

JOSEPH HILLS,

From Coggershall, Essex, aged forty, admitted 21st March 1822. This man had been here before, in April 1818, and was discharged well; but became disordered again, it is supposed, from continual inebriety. He was only mischievous, so far as tearing his clothes, and generally wore a number of ornaments about his person, such as pieces of his handkerchief tied about his legs and hat, and of coloured fragments of the rugs, swung from a button-hole of his coat, from which was suspended a piece of old hat, leather, or a button or two, &c. He was continually complaining of his confinement, and for ever proclaiming gross charges against his brother and friends, of robbing him of his farms, estates, houses, lands, gold, silver, brass, furniture, bills of exchange, leases, annuities, cows, horses, sheep, cats, dogs, his intended wife, children, &c. &c. He always had some alleged cause of complaint, and was never deficient in the names of things he had been robbed of: but nothing appeared to hurt him so much as traducing and scandalizing his character, by representing him as a madman. Of his disorder no man could be more unconscious: he would justify every action of his life by an argument as fallacious as possible; his excuse for tearing his clothes was, because he ought to have better; and wearing a collection of strings and fantastical rags about him was, because he ought to have honours and distinctions instead; but they were mere substitutes. He was extremely noisy by day and night, a very strong man, did no mischief, was by no means dangerous, but abusive to excess when crossed or vexed, which a very little was sufficient to do. He had been a married man and had a large family, who were entirely supported by his brother, a respectable farmer. He lost his wife, and he now again felt a second tender emotion towards matrimony: he complained of being imprisoned when he was about being made the happiest of mankind; and frequently said he would not take a million of money to compromise this scandalous and unjust affair. He, however, became less noisy, more calm and rational; and continuing to improve, was enlarged, on leave, 5th December 1822.

STEPHEN ELLIS,

Aged sixty, admitted 21st November 1822. This poor old man is married, has one daughter, is from Greenwich, and was a labourer in Deptford Victualling yard for twenty-nine years; but, in the late economical arrangements in many departments of the country’s expenditure, he was lopped off; and not meeting with employment of any kind, he became low and desponding, tormented by night, unhappy and restless by day: he attempted at last to beat his head to pieces against the wall, but was prevented and sent to this hospital. He imagines that he is charged with stealing government stores, and that he has been sent here for a temporary purpose; but expects every hour to be carried to prison, and condemned for an offence, of which he most solemnly protests his innocence. He is continually under the most painful apprehensions, and every new face he sees, he supposes “that person is come to fetch him away to Maidstone goal.” Soothing advice is completely lost upon him; for although he appears satisfied of his erroneous opinion for the moment, it returns again with increased conviction, five minutes afterwards. He bears an excellent character for sobriety and honesty, civil, harmless, and peacable--a good husband, an affectionate father, and is much to be pitied.

JAMES B----R,

Aged thirty-seven, admitted 18th April 1822. This patient seemed, from the whole bent of his mind, and the tenour of his life, to have been destined by nature for the stage. From his earliest youth the histrionic profession engrossed his thoughts, and occupied his highest ambition; but the taste of his friends took an opposite direction, and they inexorably opposed his favourite object, and forced him to adopt the graver path of commercial life, for which his taste and talents seemed equally unsuited. “A poet must be born, not made,” says a Latin proverb; perhaps the maxim would be equally applicable to an eminent player. Natural genius is indispensable to genuine excellence in either; and as to emoluments, instances are not wanting in modern as well as ancient times, to prove that poets and players may attain wealth from their professions, as well as the most plodding votaries of Cocker and the counting-house; and, probably, if the stage-struck B----r had not been thwarted in his favourite pursuit, he might have found his way to fortune and eminence, as well as the Kembles and Keans of the age in which he has lived. But the source of his misfortune lay in the very track his friends marked out for his prosperity. He was engaged in trade, was unlucky, got into debt, was arrested, and thrown into prison; where his philosophy was not proof against the hopeless privation of liberty. He became deranged in his intellects as well as in his circumstances, and was ultimately sent here a bankrupt in mind.

Still, however, his attachment to the stage bore the ascendant in his ideas. When he came to this place he was tolerably quiet: he supposed Bethlem Hospital to be a Royal Theatre, and he looked with eager attention at the patients in the airing ground, whom he considered as rehearsing their several parts; but finding no person to push him forward for a display of his talents, he determined to volunteer an effort by himself, and to become the busiest actor in the whole drama. He commenced his preparation for appearance by kicking his shoes over the wall; then threw himself into all the varieties of stage attitude, and occasionally personated Richard, Othello, Shylock, Coriolanus, Macbeth, King Lear, Brutus, Alexander, and, in short, ranted through the whole round of tragic characters, in which the Garricks, the Barrys, the Kembles, the Keans, the Youngs, and all our most celebrated dramatists have waged their way to fame and fortune. To specify all the parts he _enacted_ in the course of six months would be an arduous task. His delight was to go without shoes or stockings, probably from his conception of the part he was going to perform, and whenever he received new shoes or half-boots, he took the first opportunity to get rid of them. He would place them loosely on his feet, and by a sudden jerk send them over the wall: whenever he was discovered to be thus discalced, he was directly brought to his own room.

One evening while a party of _learned theologians_, his fellow patients, were in solemn converse, and profoundly discussing the question, “what became of man after death,” B----r, with both his hands full of mud, advanced to the outer part of the ring formed by this conclave. He listened some time with apparent attention, but suddenly exasperated by some of their arguments, he started into a stage attitude, and exclaimed, in a stentorian voice, “curse ye all! ye vagabonds, and the woman too!” and dashing the mud amongst them, retreated grim as Bajazet; and as he retired, made frequent stops and pauses, darting angry looks at the group, and at each pause reciting some dramatic passage expressive of his rage, until he reached the bottom of the airing ground, when he made his exit, not to the green room, but to the privy.

He was at one time necessarily confined in straw, when his malady was at the height; and during that time he imagined that his task was to reduce into chaff the material of his couch; in his endeavours to effect which he was extremely sedulous, for next morning there was not a single fragment of straw to be found longer than a pin. He slept but little at a time, for a very considerable period: so that nearly the whole of each night was employed in thrashing to chaff the straw he lay on.

The notion “that Bethlem was a large theatre” was still uppermost in his mind; and that he had an unlimited number of parts to act. And when he saw so great a number of brother actors in the airing ground, each performing his own part in the way his fancy suggested, he declared he could observe no regularity in their acting, nor meaning in their speeches. A fine opportunity thus offered, in his notion, for a happy display of his own superior talents, and never did tragedian enter with more earnest solemnity into the respective parts he assumed for the moment, during the successive scenes of this heterogenous pasticcio, which was continued daily for near six months, when the happy _dénouement_ of his own convalescence terminated his dramatic labours.

In spite of the incessant action of his mind and body, which would have worn out the most robust health of a sane subject in half the time, his strength and vivacity continued undiminished, by the aid of a perpetual appetite for all food he could meet. Never was insanity more impetuous, nor less abated by intervals of tranquillity.[12] His whole frame was in constant and violent action, and his tongue never at rest day or night, but during his short and unfrequent snatches of sleep. Besides his dramatic occupations, his mind was in constant ferment from notions of ill-treatment conjured up by his own fancy.

For his wife he had conceived the most inveterate antipathy, and constantly vented against her the most horrid epithets and imprecations. In every part he acted, or speech he uttered, he always contrived to introduce her name in terms of abuse and execration: but there could not be a stronger trait of a perverted mind; for this afflicted partner in his misfortunes, during the whole period of his confinement, was unceasing in her attentions, and made daily inquiries after his health; managed his affairs with singular application and economy, paid off a great portion of his debts, greatly improved his house and business, and conducted herself as a worthy examplar to all her sex.

But as his malady abated, and “reason resumed her seat,” his gratitude and affection to her was not only restored, but redoubled. To abuse and execration, succeeded affection, panegyric, and benediction; and he seemed to hail his recovery only as it would enable him to make her amends. After the lapse of six months, his health daily improved; and on the 7th November 1822, he was discharged cured; and he returned to his home well dressed, calm, collected, and rational, with his excellent wife.

CHRISTOPHER HELMES,

Aged forty, admitted 14th November 1822. This poor fellow was a respectable agriculturist in Devonshire, near Plymouth: but the severe losses he sustained obliged him to give up the concern, when he became deranged, owing to his failure in business. It is impossible to describe the variety of wild ideas he entertained. He called himself a sailing master, captain, admiral, general, in fact, almost every thing in turn; was very noisy by day, and had very restless nights; swearing and cursing, and calling to sailors aloft and below. He was utterly insensible to his own situation, and even the calls of nature. His health was in a very precarious state when he was admitted, which generally declined till the 15th of January 1823, when he paid the debt of nature.

He was of a respectable family, and was remarkable as a good moral man; sober, industrious, and discreet in every particular. He has left a family.

JOHN PARKER,

Aged forty, admitted 19th December 1822. This poor man was a butcher in London, and was in a bad state of health when he came here. His derangement was attributed to a cause, very rarely, if ever heard of, namely, his extraordinary success in business: it is sometimes usual for a man, when anticipating any singular good fortune, to say, if such an event was to occur “I should go mad for joy;” but here we have practical illustration, if the report of his friends be true. He had formerly been much embarrassed, and sustained many severe losses and disappointments; but latterly every thing he undertook was successful: his trade flourished, he was paying off rapidly his former debts, and succeeding in his business far beyond his most sanguine expectations, when he became disordered in his intellects, and was brought to Bethlem.

Here his ideas were continually occupied on his trade; he was always giving answers to his customers; praising the various joints of meat, and fixing his price; and one time he imagined he had bought five hundred bullocks at a halfpenny each; sheep, two for three farthings; and lambs three a penny. He was continually making bargains in Smithfield; “send me home these fifty bullocks, here’s your money, fifty pence make four shillings and twopence; fifty halfpence are two shillings and a penny; here you are; here’s your money; what do you buy? what are you looking for? very well, come in an hour, ma’am, my man’s out; kill them bullocks; yes, sir; do it directly; I am going to get half a pint of beer; very well, make haste; bring me a glass of brandy and water,” &c. &c. &c. In this manner was his distracted mind continually exercised, until his health declining very fast, he kept his bed, and died 14th January 1823.

WILLIAM GARWOOD,