Sketches in Bedlam (part 2)

In addition to the long proved honesty, industry, and good conduct of this poor fellow, it should be mentioned that, besides what his humble earnings and economy enabled him to do for his family, by his thrift he had saved £40, which he had out at interest when he was sixty-eight years old, had his cottage decently and comfortably furnished, and owed no debts.

William Killick,

Aged sixty-one, from Sutton, admitted February 7th 1822. This poor old man appeared naturally harmless, kind-hearted, and simple. While here he appeared constantly ready and anxious to do any thing for his fellow-patients, and especially those who were unable to assist themselves. His prevalent notion was to think himself immensely rich, and he expected every day to hear that he was to go and take possession of his estates.

He had been a humble sawyer at Sutton; but when out of work in that trade, would do any thing else to earn a few shillings.

Amongst his other miscellaneous occupations was that of supplying the place of an alarum-clock to his neighbours, who had occasion to rise early, for the market or other objects, by rousing them from their slumbers at one, two, three, four, or five in the morning. For this purpose poor Killick usually sat up all night, in order to be up early: and for these services he received a few shillings per week. But after his mental derangement commenced, he still remembered his old calling, followed it up without any particular orders, and would awake half the neighbourhood at all hours of the night: so that instead of being a useful monitor, he became a general nuisance; and he persevered in this practice, until many of his customers actually paid him for desisting from those unseasonable visits, and not calling them through the night. By these kind of services, negative and positive, he made out a little weekly income for his support.

He was never under restraint here; always kind and obliging, and a sort of favourite with every one.

On the 29th of March, after (as may be presumed) a very learned discussion upon religion and politics in the keeper’s room, as the poor fellow was in the act of making up the bed of a stupid patient, he was seized with a fit of apoplexy, and instantly expired, without even a sigh. He had reared a fine comely family.

William Vale,

Aged thirty-one, admitted on the 17th January 1822. This man, whether from the effects of his malady, or the cast of mind which nature so strongly depicts on the countenance of some men, without art enough to conceal their genuine propensities, had something in his physiognomy extremely repulsive and suspicious; of an artful, gloomy, and mischievous disposition, void of candour and kindness. He had been a footman in the family of a clergyman, the Rev. Mr. V——, of Bushy; and while at Brighton with his master, he dreamt that if he should only murder his mistress, with a part or the whole of the family, he would succeed to all their property and possessions. This visionary idea was afterwards always uppermost in his thoughts. He was a firm believer in the supernatural inspiration of dreams, and his ambition to be a rich man combining with this prophetical hint, seemed to suggest a means of accomplishing his wishes, which might, in such a mind, have produced the most dreadful results. It had, however, much influence on his cogitations; and he one day mentioned his dream to a female fellow-servant, and wondered what it meant. But his confidant, not naturally prone to secrecy, communicated the story to others of her fellow-servants, with the miscellaneous news of the morning. The story reached Mr. V——, who knew too well the liabilities of a low, ignorant, and superstitious mind to the most desperate temptation from such a combination of excitements as immediately occurred to him; and, perceiving that the natural sullenness of Vale assumed apparent symptoms of distraction and wildness, he took the precaution of having his footman lodged in New Bethlem, as the safer place to get his dream interpreted by the seers of this temple.

After his admission here he maintained for some time a sullen and cautious silence: but as he had shrewdness enough to discover that the chance of his liberation depended on his conduct, he changed it for the better, assumed a more cheerful aspect, told his dream to his fellow-patients with an air of jocular levity, declared he had no intention whatever of destroying his master’s family, but had merely told his dream to his fellow-servants, as any other person might do. But dreamers of such dreams were not to be tolerated in a prudent family, without apprehension and alarm; and though this man was discharged quite well, on the 18th of April 1822, he was not again received into the service of Mr. V——.

Frederick Foster,

Aged thirty-one, from near Petersfield, Hants, admitted 17th October 1822. This poor simpleton had been a farmer, and rented a few hundred acres of land; but, from the late misfortunes attending agriculture, as well as from his own want of skill and judgment in the management of his affairs, from which, with all his industry, he could not pay rent, tithes, and taxes, he was reduced, with his wife and family, to extreme poverty; and would probably have come to his parish-workhouse, but for the temporary aid of his friends. Without knowledge or experience for any other pursuit than that of farming, or capital to adopt any if he were competent (and he has made some efforts), he became quite low and despondent; for he was destitute of employment, with nothing but famine and despair in his prospects. In this state he was sent to this hospital, where, after a short time, he affected to throw off his melancholy and cheer up his drooping spirits, and determined, in his own phrase, “never to say die.”

He details amongst his fellow-patients, whom he can induce to listen, a series of adventures in search of livelihood, after he abandoned farming. He first resolved to try his fortune in London, as a promising field of speculation. He waggoned it up to town, attired in his professional smock-frock, and lodged for a short time with a relation, who advised him to try an advertisement in the newspapers for a place; and the first that offered was a situation in Hart Street, Covent Garden, where his duty was to attend as major-domo, in a hotel occupied by six single ladies, and to bring them gin, beer, and such other refreshments as they occasionally required. When gentlemen came to visit any of the ladies, he was to act as master of the ceremonies, and to preserve order and decorum; and suffer none to depart without paying their costs, for sundry accommodations furnished them. The better to discharge this office of comptroller, he was to take his post near the street door; and, in remuneration for his services, he was to live as well as the ladies, his employers, and receive custom-fees of office, in the way of perquisites.

He was quite willing to accept this engagement, wholly unsuspecting its true nature, but was dissuaded by his friend.

The next post that offered was to take care of a horse and gig, and carry out small parcels, for a young gentleman who kept an oil-shop; but, having no skill in the management of a gig, and not knowing the topography of London, this prospect failed.

Another situation offered, better suited to his taste and qualifications, where much activity or address were not requisite. It was to distribute printed papers in Oxford-street, for the information of such ladies or gentlemen as might happen to be peculiarly indisposed. These papers were the professional announcements of the celebrated Doctor Eady, of Dean-street, Soho; who was pleased with poor Foster’s operations, and paid him a shilling per day. The faithful distributor did his duty with zeal, and indiscriminately, to personages of all classes and descriptions, from the right reverend prelate, or the noble peer, to the lowest porter; from the duchess ascending her vis-à-vis, to the match-girl or barrow-wench; all were faithfully apprized, in print, of the doctor’s unparalleled skill. But as his trivial income by no means equalled his expenditure in the articles of food, drink, lodging, and washing, and the occasional drops of comfort he had been used to enjoy, he relinquished his employment, and commenced business on his own account, in retailing playbills, at nights, about the entrances of the minor theatres, for the ladies and gentlemen “to know all about the play.” The unsold surplus of one evening’s merchandize he vended on the next or succeeding night, no matter how the performance changed. But this trade was too good to last: for the fruit-women, and other ladies in the bill trade, considered him an illegitimate intruder on their privileges; and by dint of eloquence, and threats to tear his eyes out, obliged him to retire.

His next occupation was to bear about a pole, sustaining a sort of banneret, emblazoned by a large printed sheet, with a great many names on it, describing “all about how the play was to be done.” His station was assigned in Leicester-square; but such a number of folks came to stare at him and his board, that he was soon stared quite out of countenance, and he resigned this employment.

The next post that offered was with a reverend gentleman, a Methodist parson, near Newington. It was to cultivate a small kitchen-garden, attend two pigs, milk a cow, wait at table, transact the business of valet to his master, and attend devotions morning and evening. But so many occupations were beyond his skill: besides, he had no taste for psalmody, and therefore he declined so lucrative a post, though it was ten pounds a year!

He then applied to an eminent cow-keeper at Islington, where he was told there was a vacancy for a skilful milker. But, unfortunately, the post was previously filled by a more fortunate candidate.

A great variety of other occupations tempted his ambition, and cherished for some weeks his hopes of advancement: but he was always either too late, or not liked. He was at one time in ardent hopes of a good place at the English Opera House, to clean sinks and gutters, dust scenes, and other minor offices about this court of Thespis, at fourteen shillings a week, but then there was a long vacation to intervene before his talents could be put into action; and seeing no chance of any other engagement, he took the resolution of returning to the country, with his extensive stock of London experience and knowledge. Unhappily, he could not find any one to estimate his value, and his speculations ended in transmission to this asylum.

He now thinks himself competent for any thing, and contemplates a hundred different employments, some of which he is to adopt the moment he gets out. He intends to give a bottle of wine to a celebrated dancing-master in Nelson’s-square, for teaching him to dance; and then he can soon get a guinea a day on the stage, for he has seen a play, and he that played the farmer seemed to know nothing about it. At another time he will make his brother-in-law procure him an engagement with a great haberdasher in Fore-street. He understands measuring land; and, of course, he must know how to measure flannels, calicoes, ribbons, and tapes. But a still more feasible project is, that when he gets out, and has money enough, he will go to Cambridge University, and learn to be a parson. No people, he says, have less to do than the parsons, and none live better. He will soon reform things in that way, for he will only take half the tythes. He will be very good to the poor, attentive to the sick, and preach twice every Sunday, and he will charge no fees for weddings, or christenings, or burials, to poor people. At another time he is to go to a chandler’s-shop in London, to study the business for three months, and then set up for himself, and make a fortune.

But, at all events, he will never be a farmer again, though he should get land rent-free; for all his hard work could hardly raise produce to pay tythes and taxes, and keep his family, and he knows fifty farmers, not called madmen, who think the same way.

One of the keepers sometimes plays on a flute, and poor Foster, who is alive to the sympathies of merry music, instantly begins to dance—certainly not in the most graceful style. Some of his fellow-patients, rather more tame than himself, are cunning enough to make fun of him; they encourage his dancing-fits by mock applause, and persuade him to strip off all his clothes, his breeches and shirt only excepted, telling him it is best for good dancers to be as loose and unencumbered as possible. To the agility of his dancing he sometimes adds his musical powers of voice; and they highly applaud his songs, which are groaned in a style at war with all harmony, while his motions in the pas seul surpass in awkwardness those of a bear. But these mirthful intervals do not at all divert his clerical speculations, for he says he is about composing his first sermon in a few days. He declares he is perfectly well, and never was so happy in all his life, which is probably true, as to his own state of mind. And then he says he has learned so much since he came into Bethlem, that in less than twelve months after he gets out, he would not call the King his uncle, nor the Lord Chancellor his grandmother. He is in robust bodily health, and, by way of counteracting his mirth, will sometimes weep bitterly, which he says is to do him good; and if happiness consists in opinion, few men enjoy more of it than poor Foster.

George Brown,

From Margate, aged twenty-one, admitted March 14th, 1822. This young man’s first symptoms of insanity were discovered from his eating candles, starch, chalk, and other trash, and drinking urine wherever he could come at it. He is cheerful and harmless, but vain of his universal qualifications. According to his own account, he was the handsomest boy in all Margate; and can dance, sing, swim, and do many other feats, to admiration. He appears to have been bred to the sea; vaunts much of his skill and seamanship, and performed a voyage to the East-Indies and back, in a fortnight. He imagines himself still on board ship. The gallery floors he calls the deck, the windows are the port-holes. When ordered into the airing ground, he terms it “going on shore;” and when ordered up, he calls it “going on board again.” Any questions put to him he sometimes answers with smartness, and sometimes with wit or shrewdness, but, in general, is rather silly.

Shortly after his admission, he stood one day in the stone sink under the pump; but on the approach of one of the governors, he jumped down. The governor, seeing him a new patient, kindly asked him how he was, and where he came from? Brown returned the civility of the first inquiry, and pointing to the sink said he came from that. “Aye, but,” replied the governor, “where did you come from originally?” His answer was, “from my mother: and where did you come from?” The governor declined to continue the conversation.

John White,

Aged forty-three, admitted 28th February 1822. This imaginary great man had formerly been a ship-carpenter in the British navy, and was on board the fatal expedition to Walcheren, in 1809; where he caught the fever and ague, then so prevalent and so destructive to our brave troops. The master chord of this poor fellow’s malady is an insurmountable notion that he is bewitched by his wife; and so prevalent with him is this persuasion, that whether his appetite fails or he wants sleep, or feels pain or extraordinary uneasiness of mind, he attributes all to this witchery of his helpmate.

He frequently holds conversations with himself, and will smile at any thing pleasant that seems to occur to him in these soliloquies. He was stationed for several years in the East-Indies, from his recollection of which he assumes much importance. According to his own account, he was intimately acquainted with all the admirals, generals, and other principal officers in that quarter. “Surrounded,” says he, “by all the brave men of the age, I was highly honoured and respected: I had my sepoys to attend me, and was just as I ought to be, treated like a gentleman.”

His fancy supplied him with exhaustless details of battles never fought, sea engagements that never occurred, and most extraordinary events which have never taken place. He was, according to his own story, the leading man on all occasions; first called on to build up, or pull down; and his professional instruments, the axe, mallet, hammer, and chisel, were uppermost in his fancy.

His disease, however, was so far cured, that he obtained liberation, on leave of absence, on the 9th of May; and was finally discharged well, on the 24th of October 1822.