Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Although, on the trial of Hatfield, it was evident the act was that of a madman, yet from a circumstance that occurred the day before in Hyde Park, it was generally considered that such a coincidence must have been the result of an organized plan to assassinate his Majesty. On the previous day there was a review of the 1st Battalion of Guards in Hyde Park, in the presence of the King, Lords Chatham, Chesterfield, and a number of distinguished officers, when after the commencement of the evolutions, a gentleman of the name of Ongley, who was about twenty yards from his Majesty, received a musket ball through the upper part of his thigh, and fell. This accident, it was ascertained, proceeded from neglect in one of the soldiers, who had unintentionally left a ball cartridge in his cartouch: but the event of the succeeding evening at the theatre caused the greatest inquietude and alarm among all the well-disposed subjects of his Majesty. On the 26th of June Hatfield was tried for high treason, before Lord Kenyon and three other Judges, at the Court of King’s Bench. Mr. Abbott, the present Lord Chief Justice, opened the pleadings: evidence was detailed of the firing at his Majesty, and Hatfield acknowledging the fact, because he was tired of his life. His defence was conducted by the present Lord Erskine, when after several witnesses were called to prove the insanity of the prisoner, Lord Kenyon interrupted the proceedings, and thought the inquiry should not proceed farther.--A verdict was passed of Not Guilty, and he was ordered to be confined as a maniac in Old Bethlem, where, during his stay, he killed a poor maniac named Benjamin Swain, by a stroke on his head, which tumbled him over a form, and he died instantly.

He contrived to make his escape from Old Bethlem, but was apprehended at Dover; and for his better security, was sent to Newgate, where he remained until the 8th of November 1816, whence he was brought here, and has since remained.

The first symptoms of this man’s insanity are thus reported. He was one day, shortly previous to the attempt on his late Majesty, in White-Conduit Fields, when he was accosted by a religious fanatic named Bannister Truelock (now confined in Bethlem), and after both had conversed for some time on religious topics, Truelock told him, “that a great change of things in this world was about to take place; that the Messiah was to come out of his mouth, and that if the King was removed, all obstacles to the completion of their wishes would be removed also.”

By ravings of this sort he so completely influenced the mind of Hatfield, that the desperate attempt was resolved, and the day fixed for its perpetration.

Truelock was apprehended, and, upon examination, was found to be deranged in his mind: he was sent to Old Bethlem, whence he was removed hither.

Hatfield has made from time to time several applications to be removed, or allowed further indulgences. He petitioned the House of Commons for the purpose, in the last session of Parliament, and his petition was presented by one of the Governors, Mr. Williams, and ordered to lie on the table. Although for a long time past this man has evinced no symptoms of actual insanity, yet his impatience of confinement sours his temper, in spite of all the indulgences allowed him. He is ever grumbling and discontented without cause, and finds fault with every thing. Though his manners and language are those of a vulgar, low-bred fellow, he is cleanly in his person and regular in his habits; knacky and ingenious in his amusements. He makes handsome straw baskets, which he is permitted to sell to visitors, and for which he obtains from 3s. 6d. to 7s. 6d. each. He receives a pension from Government of 6d. per day, in consideration of his former military services.

BANNISTER TRUELOCK,

Aged fifty-two; admitted into Old Bethlem the 18th December 1800, and removed here, with the other patients, in 1815: he had been seven months in the House of Correction previously.

This man is noted as being suspected of causing James Hatfield to attempt the late King’s life, at Drury Lane Theatre: he met Hatfield by accident in White-Conduit Fields, and talked the unfortunate fellow into a persuasion, that the first step to the commencement of his doctrines, and to its fulfilment in a happy change of things throughout the world, would be the death of the Sovereign; with this view, Hatfield set out as the supposed chosen instrument for the accomplishment of the great design. Hatfield, in his examination, mentioned this man’s name; he was accordingly apprehended the next day, underwent several examinations, and was committed to prison; but from his incoherent manner, his answers, and the evidence of his mother, he was found to be deranged, and was sent ultimately to Old Bethlem.

He is a most singular and curious character, and in his ordinary conversations of life, betrays not the smallest symptoms of a disordered intellect; is cool, steady, and deliberate in all his actions, cleanly in his person, and regular and decent in his apartment. His conversations are not long, in a general way, before he contrives to make some allusion to his case, and immediately strikes out upon his darling subject of religion.

He has an apartment at the top of the house, which has a good prospect, southward, commanding a view of the Surry hills; he has coal, candle, and every convenience for his use; his provisions are regularly brought to him, and in fine weather he is permitted to walk in the garden allotted to the superintendant, steward, &c. two hours each day, when he chooses; he has the privilege of mending the shoes for the servants and patients, as he was bred a shoemaker, for which work he is regularly paid his own price. He is also permitted to breed birds, and allowed to sell them; he has a great number of canaries and other singing birds, in places neatly fitted up, which he keeps in great order; and, in fact, has less reason to complain of his confinement than perhaps any other man in a similar situation. Notwithstanding the exclusive privileges he enjoys beyond other irrecoverable patients, he is extremely dissatisfied. Nothing pleases him: he is continually finding fault without reason, and stating grievances that never had existence; complaining to the governors; dissatisfied with the physician, superintendant, steward, keepers, in fact with all persons concerned in the business of the house. He is kept entirely apart from all the other patients, for very substantial reasons: 1st. The propagation of his new religion to weak minds might do much harm, in the forcible, pointed, and positive manner he has of impressing his tenets, and would very shortly bring the unfortunate patients, already sufficiently deluded, to become converts to the Truelock principles, and they would forget every thing else that tended to the restoration of reason.--2dly. Being a discontented and uneasy subject, he might soon excite contentions and dissatisfaction amongst all the patients; for the best of them, at certain periods of their disorder, are liable to catch at any trifle to complain of; and when they feel their confinement sit uneasy, particularly if a man of such apparent consequence as Truelock was to pronounce a patient perfectly sane, and say to him that his confinement was arbitrary and oppressive; that his separation from friends, relations, business, and his home, was in opposition to sound sense and reason; that it was unjust and cruel: such convictions of seeming truth, a poor deluded maniac would readily grasp at; a general mutiny might be the consequence, which would, perhaps, be difficult to suppress. Besides this, he would create a general murmur as to the quality and quantity of their provisions, such as he feels himself; for if he had in the greatest abundance all the luxuries and delicacies of life, he would still find some deficiency, and some cause of complaint; and he still continues the same radical malcontent. But his religious opinions explode at once every idea of his sanity. He believes that the true and real Messiah is to be born of himself, and is to come into the world from out of his mouth; he declares himself to be with child for upwards of twenty-five years; he calls the Bible a vulgar and indecent history, not to contain one solid or sensible argument. The New Testament he regards as mere falsehood and deception, which he seldom takes notice of, he says, unless for its absurdity.

He has written seventy-eight _signs_, with comments on each; which are to be the sum and substance of bringing all persons to the true light. “In your History,” says he (alluding to the Bible), “it is mentioned that a prophet will arise. Now I am that identical prophet spoken of; the Messiah is to be produced from my mouth, in spirit, not in fleshy substance, as was the case with Christ.”

He then proceeds with a confession of faith, embracing all the prophane and anti-Christian tenets of the Carlilean-school of theology, which it would be impious to repeat.

The signs that he has written are, as he says, seventy-eight: but on these he has remarks and comments in abundance. He continues to write more, occasionally. The whole of these signs are merely repetitions of the same things; but sometimes inverted, twisted, and transposed; the whole being a medley of the most unintelligible nonsense that perhaps ever entered the bewildered imagination of a wretched maniac, occasionally interlarded with, “Mount Sion, the two-edged sword, the flaming lions, the gates, the angels, the word, the prophet, and the devil.”

“The time,” he says, “is fast approaching when all things are to be fulfilled,” and the whole world, of course, to believe and be converted to his doctrines. He has had these opinions for many years: but hope bears him on, from a consciousness of their ultimate fulfilment. Of this he is positive; no power on earth can prevent it. “They may confine me, to be sure,” says he, “but it must come to pass.”

This prophet, in addition to his other privileges, formerly had permission to go abroad, accompanied by the porter, for a day, to purchase leather, and other things necessary for his use and convenience, when he wanted, by leave of the committee; but, like many other cases in the world, good-nature and indulgence made him proud, and he abused the confidence reposed in him.

Having a great desire to have his new tenets published, and his signs made manifest, as necessary to the fulfilment of his “divine mission,” one evening (8th December, 1821), when he had been walking in the garden, he contrived suddenly to disappear; but by what means is still a mystery. He was missed in a moment, and all possible search made about the house: but to no purpose, for the prophet had fled. Despatches were sent to all the haunts he frequented, when out on business; but no success:--he was invisible.

It appears since that he went to Mr. Hone, the bookseller, of Ludgate-hill, as a likely man to publish his new doctrines. Mr. Hone treated him very civilly. He explained his subject and his wish; but he was told that the publication of a sufficient number of pamphlets would cost £100. This the prophet was unable to advance. Mr. Hone would not trust to the chance of the work for payment, if even he were inclined to publish such nonsense. However, the prophet had humility enough to ask for a bed. Mr. Hone could not accommodate him in his house, and recommended him to a likely place: but it was strongly suspected that he spent his night in very unprophet-like company, contrary to his piety, his morality, and the divine mission in which he pretended to be employed.

A vulgar, Billingsgate, and apparently abandoned woman comes frequently to see him at the hospital, and is supposed to have been his companion on the night in question. Failing, however, in his application for “giving light” to the world, he came home next evening (9th December, 1821), at dusk, of his own accord, much fatigued, and no doubt much disappointed, with his signs under his arm.

These signs and comments, &c. he has enclosed in a neat leathern case, which he carries with him, at all times and on all occasions--to bed, to the garden, in fact every where the prophet goes. It would be easier to get sight of the original Alcoran, or unfold and make legible the Herculanean manuscripts, than obtain a perusal of the signs without his consent, or resorting to force. He is a very bad orthographer, and it is difficult in some places to English his signs.

The following placard is pasted up in his room, which visitors naturally read, and possibly inquire their meaning; which affords a good opportunity for Truelock’s explanations.

“Three hundred years ago a philosopher sayed, the Stars give the day-light.

“One hundred years ago, a philosopher proves to the publick that the Sun give the day-light, and without the Rise of the sun there was no day-light.

“One thousand eight hundred and nineteen years ago, the prophits rote the Law, which was the Gospel, and said, that Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, and walked on the face of the earth, that _groes weat, oats, beens_, and _barley_.

“Now a Prophit rises, and says, he will prove to the publick that Christ will appear out of the dark soul of the prophit, ware in he stands, to give light, and be delivered out of the prophit’s mouth.

“The same is the two-edged sword, which is Christ; the same is the Son of God, the same is the spirit of truth, the same is a new dockterin, the same is a new revelation, for all the world, the same is Christ, and his true and living prophit Saturn, in him, whom Christ is well pleased;

“BANNISTER TRUELOCK,

“Mad man.”[2]

* * * * *

Another paper is pasted beside the foregoing, to the following effect:

“Do you know what we most admire in you? it is not your dress, we could make a beast fine with trappings. What we admire, and what we ought to admire in man, is that collection of fine feelings, which makes him a human creature, to God and man.

“To know that the most distinguished geniusses are liable to egregious, and most reprehensible feelings.

“The antient Pagans declared, in express terms, that there was wanting some universal method of delivering men’s souls, which no sect of philosophy had ever yet found out.

“No man is obliged to speak against the religion of a country, though a false one, unless he has power of working miracles from Jesus Christ.

“BANNISTER TRUELOCK,

“Mad man.”

THOMAS LLOYD,

Admitted in 1817. He was formerly a corn-factor of Mark Lane.

The annals of Bedlam, or probably of any other asylum for insanity, scarcely afford any parallel to this heterogeneous compound of cunning, pride, wit, impudence, boasting, lies, filth, and frenzy; and if so many conflicting ingredients entered his system when sane and in society, his ultimate distraction must be only a very natural result. A whole volume could scarcely detail a tenth of his characteristical operations from day to day.

In the morning when he rises from bed (which he always leaves in no very seemly state), he proceeds to the decoration of his person, which he begins by adorning his legs with all the rags and pieces of old stockings he can collect; and then bandages them on with a strip torn from his blanket. His trowsers are then put on; which (having no fashionable stays) he binds round his waist as tight as a packing-case corded for exportation. Next comes his waistcoat and jacket, both well fastened at bottom, to prevent the escape of such treasures as he can collect in the course of the day, and which he puts in at top. Afterwards he ties round his neck a sort of composite cravat, formed from pieces of blue, black, yellow, white, red and chequered handkerchiefs, and tied so extremely tight as frequently to render him black in the face. He then proceeds to collect his personal property, consisting of stones, bones, woollen and linen rags, pieces of glass, paper, pens, pencils, snuff-boxes, wood, bread, tobacco, cheese, butter, apples, cold potatoes, pieces of coal, parts of old shoes, and in fact every thing portable which comes within his reach, all blended in happy confusion, the cheese in the snuff-box, the butter amongst the tobacco; and, thus equipped, he sallies forth slip-shod with an air of imagined dignity.

The first patient he meets in the gallery he commands with high authority “to pull up the heels of his shoes.” He puts on the first hat he meets, his own or another’s, which he usually crams with slips of blankets, rags, or straw, to sustain its crown. He then, with apparent condescension, bids good-morning to the keeper, and a few others whom he deigns to notice, and then marches majestically into the airing-ground, of which he considers himself lord paramount, sovereign ruler, grand seignor, governor, high admiral, captain of the gang, or any other pitch of dignified authority he chooses to assume for the moment. His first, and indeed general occupation there, is digging holes with his feet in the ground; which if wet and soft he likes the better, as it is more manageable, and works to advantage. This he calls levelling; and supposes he is rendering great service to the establishment. He then proceeds to the gutters, in which he kicks about until breakfast-time, when his feet are generally soaked in mire, his shoes being seldom whole, for a new pair will not last him a week.

His memory, shattered as it is, seems charged with a general recollection of most of the respectable houses of trade in London; and he pretends to an intimate knowledge of all the respectable merchants and traders, old and young. He remembers them, as he says, when they were children, and knew all their fathers and connexions perfectly well; salutes all occasional visitants to the hospital in this way, as old acquaintances; tells them they must surely know him, Captain Lloyd, of Mark-lane, corn-factor; and, ultimately, he never forgets to ask them for some money, “just to buy snuff and tobacco for the poor unfortunate patients who have no cash; not for himself by any means, oh, no; he would scorn to beg; he asks purely for those poor patients who have neither money nor friends.” But whatever he thus obtains he applies to his own use, quite regardless of those for whom he pretends to solicit. He is a most assiduous mendicant, and no visitor to the establishment eludes his importunities.

Some short time since, Mr. Ex-Sheriff Parkins came to make some inquiries respecting the case of a criminal patient; and, on his return from that wing of the building, he was addressed by the importunities of Captain Lloyd, with the usual “how do you do, Sir? I remember you perfectly well--your face is quite familiar to me; I remember you in trade, and knew your father exceedingly well.”--“Did you, indeed?” answered Mr. Parkins; and, turning aside, in a low tone continued--“faith, that is more than I did myself.” Lloyd, who overheard him, but could make no impression on his purse, took a sudden opportunity of exercising his satirical talents in a severe and abusive epigram on his municipal acquaintance.

When he gets sublimely high, he styles himself “The righteous God;” assumes the command of the weather, can render it foul or fair when he pleases, and deal out any wind, from a hurricane to a zephyr; and as to lightning, thunder, and earthquakes, they are quite at his command.

In the universality of his genius, he considers himself the most sublime poet that ever courted the muses, and whenever he can procure a scrap of paper, he proceeds to compose verses; but as those extemporaneous productions do not usually please his critic fancy, he converts them to ingredients in his gruel at breakfast, probably to enrich the soil of his genius for a new crop of heroics. This gruel is the common receptacle for a much greater variety of articles than usually go to the composition of turtle soup. He puts all his verses into it to cleanse them, as he says; and with a selection from the before-mentioned articles from his bosom, cheese from his snuff-box, butter from his tobacco-box, the exhausted quids from his mouth, sometimes the portion of another article that shall be nameless, bits of leather, small stones, pieces of bone, coals, &c.; thus this _epicure_ makes up for himself a relishing mess, somewhat a-kin to the hell-broth of Macbeth’s wizards, and setting all German cookery at defiance. In this filthy system of culinary composition, however, he affects to proceed on scientific principles. Leather clarifies it; stones purify it; coals mineralize it; one article acidulates it; another gives it an alkaline virtue; a third, a high flavour. This mollifies it, that dulcifies it; the whole together makes it a delicious mess, and he swallows it with the _goût_ of an Apicius. Sometimes his beer is enriched with part of the same ingredients; and though such is his daily practice, his health is not injured by it.

About two years since he was laid up with erysipelas; and on examination by the attending physician, it was found that his ears, nose, mouth, and another part, were crammed with cut tobacco.

He seldom takes the trouble to visit the water-closet, and the result is always obvious; nothing can equal his general propensity to filth, nor can all the endeavours of the attendants keep him clean. In addition to his other high talents, he professes an universal acquaintance with ancient and modern languages, sciences, history, music, fencing, drawing, dancing, and the fine arts. He says, “his only fault in life was an ardent attachment to the fair sex; and, with the exception of that, he is the most perfect man that ever trod the world’s wide stage.” Sometimes he is a dramatist, and asks the visitors if they wish for a specimen of Madame Catalani? and then begins to warble an Italian opera air of his own composition, in a style perfectly unique, and tones like any thing but music. He often proposes to give a specimen of his dancing, in order to obtain money, and glides off with much grace, in a few movements of the _Minuet de la Cour_, and then he begins a song--“The British lion is my sign,”--“My name is “Mistress Casey;” dancing to the music of his own voice.

As a specimen of his skill in the languages, he one day addressed a French gentleman who visited the hospital, with his usual “how do you do, Sir? &c.” in miserable French. One of the physicians offered him sixpence if he would ask the gentleman for one in French. “Oh! doctor,” answered he, “I was never taught to beg in French.” This little sally, however, obtained the reward. He has occasional gleams of wild wit, and will sport some well-applied puns on the names of all the commodities and attributes of the Corn Exchange. “He has no _tick_ with his banker, but he does not care a _bean_ for that--no man dares to say _pease_ to him. These damned doctors and keepers _grind_ him to dust, but he will _mill_ them to powder. He is the _flour_ of the _grist_, and will _bolt_ out as soon as he can, and _thrash_ any man that opposes him; he will be no longer _mealy-mouthed_, but will tell those damned doctors and keepers his mind, because they measure his _corn_ by their own _bushels_, but they all deserve to get the _sack_.”

The following is a specimen of his poetical composition:

New Bethlem reared, at an immense expense,
To contain maniacs, but men renown’d for sense,
Immured within its dreary gates and walls,
From which the philantropic heart recoils;
The polish’d gentleman, born, bred, and taught,
By parents nurtur’d fondly, as he ought,
Admired by all, who have the sense to judge,
Appreciate worth from worthless, not prejudge,
As some abroad, demagogues, self-witty,
In simile to those who call themselves Committee,[3]
Who dare presume such men to here admit,
They shall, they must, by God, all pay for it.
The polish’d gentleman, the classic scholar,
Complete in arts and science, are crammed in here,
The hoary-headed hero--the veteran,
Who conquer’d armies, through France and Spain,
Then scoured the ocean, captured combined fleets,
Return’d to happy Albion, to taste the sweets
Of Britain’s gratitude: oh, Britons blush,
Or stones will rise in rage--no tongue shall hush,
Sole Monarch of this Bastile, in Albion,[4]
This the fifth anniversary of his reign,
With straw crown and sceptre, struts around the throne,
And renovates his partizans, or knocks them down.
“_Non obstanti_”--can dare come in his way,
All must be parasites, or they are turn’d astray.
Here we have two conjurors called physicians,[5]
Who study the black art, on conditions
Of remuneration, for unfolding
Their dark hid mysteries, which, beholding
Patients one by one, two times a week,
Keepers and collectors, or those who herd the sheep;
They would rather pass you by than find you out,
Knowing that _I_ am there, their mystery to scout,
Would quickly catch, and judge their cunning,
And by _my_ art, would ridicule their punning;
The system which, they know, I will expose,
And all their hidden nonsense will disclose.
When disappointment knaws the bleeding hearts,
And mad resentment hurls her venom’d darts;
When angry noise, disgust, and uproar rude,
Damnation urge, and every hope exclude;
These, dreadful though they are, can’t quite repel
The aspiring mind, that bids the man excel.
His rules alone would yield a barren fame,
Such praise, as rules can merit, he may claim.
No change of scene denotes a changed abode,
But all is a sad, dreary, loathsome, weary road.
To brighter mansions let us hope to pass,
And all our pains and torments end. Alas!
That fearful bourne, we seldom wish to try,
We _hate_ to live, and still we _fear_ to die.
If nurtur’d not by dews, and heaven-born fire,
The half-blown bud of hope, and plant, must soon expire.
Here we have statesmen, doctors, lawyers wise,[6]
Who all the schools of antiquity despise.
Their own wild notions for the moment please,
And fill’d with false imagination, ease
Their really troubled souls and worn-out frame,
Return to reason, find themselves the same.
One lately dubb’d a knight, of the elastic brush,[7]
For his ready compliance to the Fourth George’s wish.
For attending all the mobility crew,
Whether mad or not, Turk, Heathen, Jew,
It matters not, for if they’re troublesome,
Sir George thinks it his duty, to find a home
To spend their dreary night, as well as days,
Not in the Commons House of means and ways;
And prove to all, if others be not mad,
I, Lloyd must be alone, make all hearts glad.[8]
Sing, O be joyful, Josephus is at last,[9]
“Nem con,” declared a madman, all that’s past
Appears as visionary. “I thought him so,”
Says the sarcastic knight, likewise Monro:
Therefore I’m double damn’d by real judges,
I’m just as safe as bugs in rugs--fudges.
I’m braggadocio, what I write is stuff,
They have heard too often, and I’ve wrote enough.
“We have him fast in limbo, safe and sound,
Lock’d in, and in, the garden walking round:
And safely him we’ll keep, he shan’t get out,
Till dead as door nail, in a wooden shirt.”
Then songs of mirth, as solemn dirge were wont
To chaunted be by “Papist crew,” when he a saint.
Vile sinner of holy tribe, so ’tis now,
Only _vice versâ_, when and where, I know.
“Here lies interred an impious Cardinal,
Whose life was one continued madrigal.
Invoke the saints, implore the God of heaven,
To receive his tainted soul, and sins forgiven.
His life so pure, he pardoned thousands living,
For such good deeds he’s sure to go to heaven.
“Pro bono publico,” I write what’s true,
Nor care what others think, or say, or do.
Three-score long years’ experience have I had,
Through thick and thin, and still I am not dead.
My ribs and head, my fingers, legs and toes,
Have oft been broke,--with many a bloody nose.
The unhappy maniac knows no better fate;
Reflection on times past are now too late.
Shut up in dreary gloom, like convicts are,
In company of murd’rers![10] Oh, wretched fate!
If pity ere extended through the frame,
Or sympathy’s sweet cordial touched the heart,
Pity the wretched maniac, who knows no blame,
Absorbed in sorrow, where darkness, poverty, and every curse impart.
For when our reason leaves us, in pursuit
Of Madness sinks us down degrees below the brute.
Methinks that still I see a brighter ray,
That bids me live, to see a happier day,
And when my sorrows, and my grief-worn spirit flies,
My Maker tells me--fear not, Lloyd--it never dies.
This cheering hope has long supported me,
I live in hope much happier days to see,
When madness, folly, and frantic nonsense are d-e-a-d.

“THOMAS LLOYD.”

He will utter the grossest abuse against governors, doctors, and stewards; more especially when he fails to obtain money from them. He treats them all alike. He ranks himself with the highest, and domineers over the silly and quiet patients.

The accumulation of merchandize is another of his favourite objects; and whole cart-loads of rubbish have been taken from him by the keepers, time after time, with a view of keeping him clean, if possible; but to no purpose. All this filth he values above any treasure; and tells them they must have every ounce of it forthcoming in the Court of Chancery; where it is highly probable, Captain Lloyd, with all his chattel interests, would not be a very welcome suitor.

This untameable genius has been in St. Luke’s several times, and in different private mad-houses. He describes himself as fourscore and two years old; but his real age is about sixty-one, and he is extremely active for his years.

CHARLES P. TRAILE,

Aged thirty, admitted 1st November 1821. This unfortunate gentleman’s case was extremely distressing and lamentable, and is a melancholy instance of the dangerous and alarming pitch of delusion to which the human imagination is liable under a state of derangement.

Mr. Traile had been a Lieutenant in the 95th, or rifle regiment of foot. He had served during the late war, in Spain, and other parts of the Continent: and from the account of his friends, had always conducted himself with honour and reputation as a gentleman and an officer. At the peace he retired on half-pay; but some time afterwards his mind was engloomed, partly by religious enthusiasm, and partly by imaginary apprehensions, and he became deranged. He was affected by a bitter sense of remorse for ideal crimes, a horror of death, and a perpetual suspicion that every person about him intended to assassinate or poison him. For a long time he took his food with the greatest caution, his suspicions of poison still increasing. Afterwards he would obstinately refuse the provisions assigned for himself, but exchange them for those given to other patients; and would take none offered him by his keeper. By degrees he got still worse, and at last would receive neither meat nor drink, in any shape, or from any person whatever, to preserve his existence. All means were tried to dissipate his apprehensions, and induce him to take nourishment, but in vain. At last recourse to the elastic bottle and tube were found absolutely necessary to keep him alive. This bottle was formed of India rubber, with an elastic leathern pipe attached, about twenty inches long. The bottle was filled with rich broth, to which eggs beaten up and some wine were added. The pipe was passed up his nostril, through the palate of his mouth, by which means the nutriment was conveyed to his stomach; and this operation was performed daily for some time, by Surgeon Lawrence, in the presence of Dr. Wright the medical superintendant: both gentlemen treated him with the greatest possible tenderness and humanity. He felt this mode of nutrition with so much abhorrence, that clysters of the like ingredients were adopted; but the horrors of his mind had such an effect on his habit, that although his physical health was sustained his derangement got worse. The horrors of death still rendered him despondent and miserable. He sought every opportunity of getting to the windows, and would cry out in a loud voice: “Neighbours, neighbours! Save me, save me! Help, help!--I am going to be murdered!--Is there no good creature left in the world to save an unfortunate young man from the most cruel death? Oh, merciful God! oh, just heaven, avert the impending and dreadful doom of the most unfortunate of human beings!”

Previously to the use of the elastic bottle, he was repeatedly intreated, in the kindest and most indulgent manner, to take of himself the refreshments prepared for him, and avoid the disagreeable operation otherwise indispensable. But he answered invariably that “he could not, as from a sense of religious duty he could not voluntarily receive poison; but if it was forced on him, he would not be answerable for his own death.” Dr. Wright would say to him: “Dear Traile, you shall now see me eat some of it; and surely if it was poison, as you suppose, you cannot imagine I would take it.” But he would answer; “Oh, Dr. Wright, how easy it is for you to obtain an antidote, or any of you: but as to me, miserable wretch! I have not the means.”

When the pipe was partly down the passage to his stomach, and perhaps the pain great, he would give his honour that he would take the whole of the nutriment of his own accord. But the moment the pipe was withdrawn he would relapse into his previous refusal, pleading his religious scruples. It was then, of course, given to him in the usual way.

In this state he continued for some time, and every means were used to sustain life, in the hope of abating his disease; until Sunday the 31st of March 1822, when he was again calling loudly at the window: “Neighbours, neighbours! save me, save me!” &c. &c.; and became so refractory that his keeper locked him up in his own room. In about half an hour the keeper, perceiving he was quiet, went to release him; but alas! found him dead, suspended by his neck-kerchief to the wire-guard over his bed-room door. This he accomplished by standing upon two wooden night-bowls; and fastening the corner of his neck-kerchief through the wire-guard in a very curious manner, fixed the other round his neck, and by kicking from under him the bowls, he hung with his feet just touching the floor, as he was found. But the vital spark had too long fled to warrant any hopes of resuscitation; and thus this poor gentleman effected with his own hands the fate he so long dreaded with the greatest horror.

He was a young gentleman well brought-up and accomplished, and maintained the manners and deportment of such even in his derangement. He was most respectably connected, and his father was an old Major in the army. He was generally under restraint when out of the keeper’s sight, to prevent any mischief, until the day of this unfortunate occurrence: and he must have had great resolution and perseverance in his purpose, for in his waistcoat pocket was found a part of the handkerchief, which was evidently torn off in his attempt, and a rent appeared in another part of the wire where it had been tied before he succeeded.

A coroner’s inquest was held on the body, who pronounced a verdict of insanity.

The wire-guards over the doors have been since removed all through the establishment, and wooden fronts substituted, with a perforation at top, to allow free circulation of the air in the rooms, and obviate all future chance of a similar fatality.

JOB HOLLINGE,

From Shropshire, middle-aged, admitted 8th of April 1819. This man, whatever might have been the natural propensity of his mind in his state of sanity, displays in his deranged state a cunning, wily, treacherous and fierce disposition. When first admitted he appeared to be so tame and tranquil, that he was permitted to work in the garden, in order to occupy his attention, and afford him wholesome and active exercise; but he soon betrayed the real ferocity of his character. As he passed one day down the garden, he, without any provocation or apparent cause, suddenly sprang upon the gardener with the rage of a tiger, knocked him down, and kicked him most unmercifully while down; and would probably have killed him, had he not been suddenly overpowered and secured by the keepers. He has since frequently attacked the keepers themselves, in the most furious and formidable manner. He has a constant smile on his countenance, so that no one within his reach can be secure for a moment, or aware of his intention to pounce on any person who unguardedly approaches him. He is generally very silent, seldom speaks to any one, and when he does it is usually to ask; “Why do you keep I here? You have no business to keep I here.” When he seems the most tranquil, he is then the most fierce and dangerous; and no act of kindness can soothe him. When once he commences his attack, he knows no bounds to his malice and fury. He will strike, kick, or bite all indiscriminately, without favour or respect to persons; and no kind action done for him, nor even the giving him snuff, which he is fond of, will secure the donor against his rage: for after receiving the little boon, he will devoutly pray God bless the giver, and then spring upon him with the fury of a lion. Sometimes, previously to one of those outrages, he will calmly ask for a Bible; which, if he gets, he reads about half a chapter, returns the book, and then seems ready for his work of vengeance. He once attempted to murder his poor wife, previous to coming here, but was most providentially prevented by averting his blow.

In September, 1822, his disorder seemed much abated, and he was liberated for a short time from restraint (always avoided here if possible), in the hope that restraint might no longer be necessary; but he soon returned to his old practices. Restraint became again requisite, and he is now the only patient in the hospital under strict restraint (the ferocious Patrick Walsh excepted). He wears a belt, with handcuffs attached, and hobbles upon his ancles.

For one good action, however, he deserves credit, by which much mischief was prevented, and the sanguinary Walsh secured. When the latter, after inflicting so many mortal wounds upon a poor patient named Leonard, in April 1820, was menacing destruction to all who approached him, Hollinge came behind, seized him round the neck, and threw him to the ground, when he was secured by the keepers.

Hollinge is a strong healthy man, but has lately become very dirty and negligent of himself.

CHARLES GOLDNEY,

Aged near seventy. This poor old man has been confined at Sir Jonathan Miles’s, in Old Bethlem, and here, altogether between thirty and forty years; and was many of those years restrained in irons at Old Bethlem.

But his derangement is not abated. He has the strangest notions imaginable: he believes himself to be a man of immense property; he says he gave his son, in Somersetshire, a fortune of £400,000; but they murdered him, and built monuments, churches, and canals with the money. He has, by his own account, a hundred coaches running in London at this day. As an amusement he has charge of the ducks, and assists, as well as his age permits, the cutter of provisions. He is particularly tender about the ducks and pigs; the ducks, he believes, are of a very high breed, between a cock pheasant and a game hen; some are double high, some treble high cross breed. When a duck is to be killed it must be done without his knowledge: he soon, however, misses it, and exclaims, “Ah! so they have been at their damnable work again, have they? I’ll make them pay for it.” During the very cold weather in January this year, when the pond was frozen over, all the ducks died but four, and Goldney swore they had all been poisoned. He is equally exasperated when a pig is killed: he believes ducks and pigs, Bethlem, and all belonging to it, are his own property, and says they know it, but they want to keep him out of it if they can, but it must come to him after all, when the time comes. A pig was lately killed, which he says he would not take any money for: he bought its mother in France thirty-six years ago, and gave eighteen pounds twenty-eight shillings and fourteen-pence, for her. He says he is but forty-six years old, and has been confined forty-two years, but his present body is the third he has had, the former two bodies were worn out many years ago: the present one is forty-six years old. He chews a quantity of tobacco, and when speaking to any one seriously, he turns his quid, winks his eyes or shuts both, gives you a touch with his elbow, in a sort of knowing way, and says, “all will be well with him very soon, he knows all about it, but he keeps quiet and peaceable: he don’t let them know that he knows anything about it, but they can’t deceive him.” In the last summer he swore that air-pumps were employed to pump fleas into his neck, with a view of devouring him alive: he believes that they (God knows who) would give £500,000,000 of money if he was dead, but they will be deceived, he assures them. He does some trifling jobs about the house, which employ his mind; the exercise is conducive to his health. His appetite is good, but age creeps on the poor fellow apace: he is perfectly harmless, and may be trusted with safety any where; is punctual and attentive in all his little works, and offensive to no one.

WILLIAM KENDAL.

This old fellow, by a confinement of twenty-seven years as a lunatic, has thus enfranchised himself as a sort of denizen in this corporation; and though he was formerly a seaman in the Royal Mary, and had fought in several engagements during the Gallico-American war, particularly in the action with Admiral Rodney, at the time of his victory on the 12th of April 1782, and capture of the Count de Grasse, he seems to have quite forgotten his loyalty, and retains none of his naval accomplishments, but his inveterate habit of swearing, and the coarser part of his forecastle rhetoric in the dialect of Portsmouth point. His favourite topic is damning the king and his ministers; profaning and cursing the powers of heaven; like a sort of human mule, between a radical and an atheist. He is constantly on foot, and is always ready with a damn, a blow, or a blast for every person or object he passes, which he usually follows up with the most gross and horrid epithets of abuse and insulting comparison; but to ladies, and women in general, his language is abominable. He used to wear in his hat an old tuft, such as soldiers wear in their uniform caps, probably as an emblem of his former militant profession: but this has been some time worn bald, and abandoned. He is sometimes employed through the week in white-washing parts of the hospital; but Sunday is his holiday, the whole of which he devotes to perpetual damning, swearing, and ranting; this he calls “working double tides.” Any attempt at confinement or coercion renders him much worse: he seems in a perpetual state of irritation, which gives constant stimulus to his profane and abusive tongue; and his own eyes and limbs are the themes of his imprecation, in the absence of other objects.

WILLIAM KILLINER

Aged near sixty, admitted about six years since. This unfortunate man comes from London, and was convicted of firing a loaded gun indiscriminately amongst a crowd of people, who were assembled around his house. It appeared that he had repeatedly desired them to go away, which they refused to do; and at length he, in a rage, fired amongst them, but providentially no mischief was done. He was, however, convicted of the criminal intent, but his derangement at the time of the act was fully proved, and he was sent here. He seems at present perfectly calm, rational, cleanly, and well behaved, and has many respectable friends.

JOHN HORDER,

Aged about forty-five, admitted about six years since, comes from Derbyshire. This man was tried and convicted of the murder of his father-in-law. In a fit of frenzy, he went in pursuit of his wife, who had taken refuge at the house of her father, who interposed for the protection of his daughter against the fury of her husband; upon which the latter instantly shot him dead. Upon his trial for the horrid deed it appeared that he was deranged, and he was sent to this hospital. He is still much disordered in his mind; is constantly talking about making large sums of money, and prophecying what kings will be hereafter; but he appears to have no evil intentions, and in general is quiet and harmless.

NOAH PAGE,

Aged about fifty, admitted here about six years since. This man had been a pauper in a London workhouse, where he was received as foolish, and incompetent to earn his livelihood: but while there, his conduct developed much more violent symptoms of derangement, and he became so furiously impatient of restraint and discipline, that he one day, in a frantic rage, actually murdered the master of the workhouse, for which he was tried and convicted at the Old Bailey; but his insanity exempted him from capital punishment. He was some years confined in Newgate, from which place he was sent to St. Luke’s hospital, whence he was transferred to Sir Jonathan Miles’s private mad-house at Hoxton, and from thence he came here about six years since. Though quite an idiot, he is smart and active in his motions, and has a peculiar oddity in his appearance. He believes himself to be a king (for this ambition for monarchy is a very prevalent trait amongst the imaginary potentates of this establishment); but instead of the insignia of royalty, he is quite delighted with a bunch of feathers, a soldier’s old tuft, a piece of ribbon or rag, a paper cockade, or any thing of the kind, to adorn his hat with. He is, in general, quiet and harmless, but extremely irritable on the slightest cause, and even dangerous when thus excited. He is left beyond all hopes of recovery.

ANDREW HARVEY,

Aged about forty-five, admitted here about five years since. This is a Cornish man, and comes from Penzance, where his insanity first appeared; and he became so violent and unmanageable, that it was thought necessary to confine him in a detached house, or crib, erected purposely for himself, and in which he was chained like a bull, to a post driven into the ground, and had no range beyond the length of his chain. A woman was in the habit of attending him daily with his food; and one day, when his derangement was at its height, he seized his opportunity and murdered this unfortunate attendant. It has been found by frequent experience that the severities adopted by timid and unskilful keepers, in the provincial mad-houses, for the coercion of insane patients, and the irritation thereby excited in the unhappy objects of their care, tend much more to aggravate than to mitigate their disorders.

When this unhappy patient was transmitted hither from Cornwall, he came loaded with half a hundred weight of irons; and the very chain which fastened him to the cart on which he was conveyed, and through the bottom of which it was rivetted, might serve as the anchor chain to a ship of considerable burthen. Even under such restraint, the keepers who came with him approached him with as much apprehension and terror as if he were a lion or a tiger.

His high paroxysms of insanity are, however, but periodical: but while they prevail they are truly formidable, as he becomes extremely fierce, vicious, and dangerous. Every person and thing that comes in his way is alike the object of his fury; and man or woman, doors or windows, would alike sustain the storm of his frenzy, if the utmost caution was not exerted to restrain him. In this state he will exclaim, in a grumbling tone of voice, “Oh, blessed Saviour!” but although he calls aloud for forgiveness, during the continuance of his fit, he would destroy at the same instant, if he could, his best friend. He has a powerful voice, and is extremely vociferous on those occasions; but when his frenzy abates he becomes calm, quiet, and obedient.

Of late he is never permitted to associate amongst the other patients, who, in fact, are all afraid of him. When he walks out alone for exercise in the airing-ground, he is always secured by the iron belt and handcuffs; and when in the house, he is separated by an iron railing from the others, though he is free from other restraints.

HUGH THIER,

Aged about forty-five, admitted four years since. This patient is a Scotchman; was tried for breaking into a dwelling-house and stealing some wearing apparel: but was found to be insane, and sent hither. He supposes himself to be a very exalted personage, and assumes the rank of “Head General of the whole world.” But notwithstanding his military character he is perfectly quiet, harmless and inoffensive.

GEORGE CONNOR,

Aged about thirty. This man is a native of Ireland, and was a seaman. He was tried and found guilty of murdering one of his shipmates; but it was proved to be done in a fit of insanity, and he was sent to this place about six years since.

He still continues in a high state of derangement, is extremely dangerous, and is not to be trusted for a single hour, even under the appearance of temporary tranquillity; for such appearance would only veil in him the wily ferocity of a tiger; as, if he had the means and opportunity to do mischief, he feels the constant propensity to use them for bad purposes. He is therefore amongst the number of those whom it is found necessary to watch with perpetual caution.

GEORGE WATSON,

Aged fifty, admitted about six years since. This man was tried and found guilty of the murder of his mother; but this shocking act was proved to be the result of insanity, and he was sent here.

He appears very much disordered in his mind, highly irritable, and will strike furiously at any one on the slightest offence. He speaks very seldom, and is in general quiet and inoffensive.

THOMAS FISHER,

Aged above seventy, of London, admitted six years since. This man was tried and convicted at the Old Bailey for shooting his wife: but on his trial was proved to be deranged at the time, and was sent hither. He shews at present no symptoms of insanity, but is regular, quiet, and cleanly. He was formerly a very regular attendant at chapel, but age and its infirmities now press heavily on him. He has become unable to walk; and is generally confined to his bed through the debility of his aged constitution. He seems to have been a strong, healthy man, but is now reduced almost to ruins.

AARON BYWATER,

Aged about fifty, and confined here upwards of six years. He is a native of Wales, and was tried for the murder of his master; but found to be insane, and consequently doomed to confinement in a mad-house rather than to capital punishment.

There is nothing very remarkable in the conduct of this man, save that he is habitually idle; is a sly, cunning, artful fellow, and appears desirous to conceal his disorder.

JOHN ZORN,

Aged upwards of sixty, admitted here about six years ago, when he was brought from Exeter gaol, where he had been previously confined eight years.

This man exhibits in his person the remains of a fine, portly, athletic fellow, and is still straight, erect, and above six feet high. He was a coachmaker; and the cause of his first confinement commenced at a public-house in Devonshire, where he had been drinking; and in consequence of some dispute about the reckoning, he refused to pay his part of the score. An officer was sent for to enforce the payment; very irritating words arose, and Zorn, in his rage, uttered some seditious expressions, for which he was apprehended, tried, and convicted; and in the course of his term of imprisonment arose those symptoms of insanity which led to his subsequent detention.