(The name only by which he is known), aged about forty-seven, admitted
here about six years since. This man is a Greek, native of one of
the Ionian isles, and was sent hither, under an order of the Home
Department, from Sir Jonathan Miles’s mad-house at Hoxton, where he had
been some time confined as a criminal lunatic.
He was tried at the Old Bailey, on 21st September 1811, on an
indictment for cutting and wounding John Bennet, with intent to do
him a violent bodily harm: a crime constituted capital under Lord
Ellenborough’s Act.
It appeared in evidence that the prosecutor Bennet was a baker in the
Minories, and that on the Tuesday preceding the trial he was told by
his wife that a thief had stolen a loaf from his window. He went to
the door, and seeing the prisoner running, he pursued and knocked him
down; but, in endeavouring to secure him, fell upon him, and a scuffle
ensued, in which the prisoner cut him across the face with a sharp
instrument. A crowd was collected, and the prisoner secured; and near
the spot was found a razor, somewhat bloody, and no doubt remained that
it was the instrument with which the wound was inflicted.
This testimony was corroborated by several other witnesses. But it
appeared from the testimony of the constable who apprehended the
prisoner, and of Mr. Hobler, the Lord Mayor’s clerk, that the prisoner
had been for some time a frequent attendant at the Mansion-house,
presenting various papers, and offering money to have them transcribed
and translated. They were for the most part in the Spanish language;
several of them were orders, in that language, drawn upon Sir Francis
Burdett for various sums of money, and all of them were couched in
terms of the most extravagant wildness; which, coupled with other
circumstances, proved the man to be utterly deranged; and the Jury,
under the direction of the Common Serjeant, who tried the case,
acquitted the prisoner, and he was sent to a mad-house.
This unfortunate foreigner is one of the most turbulent, noisy, and
furious patients in the present establishment. He is eternally on
the fret, and in perpetual vociferation: which, from his countenance
and gestures, seems to be complaint and abuse; but his utterance is
so highly impassioned and rapid, that even if his language were
intelligible, no hearing or intellect of his auditors could follow him
fast enough to collect his meaning. Yet as he does not know a single
word of English, and speaks in a dialect dissimilar to every known
language of Europe, all the caustic of his eloquence is lost in mere
sounds, and falls harmless on the feelings of those he would abuse.
There is but one man in the hospital equally furious with himself, who
seems to catch the fire of his language, and to testify a degree of
rage perfectly responsive to his own: this is the ferocious Patrick
Walsh, already mentioned, and who has constantly manifested towards
this Greek the most vengeful antipathy.
That part of the criminal wing where the Greek is confined overlooks
the airing-ground for the hospital patients, where the terrible
Walsh is permitted to walk by himself for two hours every morning.
The Greek’s apartment is one story from the ground. Walsh hears him
raving at his window, and flies instantly to the spot, when a curious
and most formidable scene is acted. They view each other with mutual
fury: their eyes flash fire, and they commence a highly impassioned
dialogue of reciprocal resentment and abuse, which, however, is
mutually unintelligible; excepting so far as the pantomime of gesture,
grimace, and vocal intonation can express meaning. The Greek, all the
while in the most violent rage, attempts to force his way through the
iron window-bars to come at his antagonist. Walsh, with equal rage and
eagerness, springs and jumps up, to reach him if possible, and then
runs round the corner and back again, in search of some avenue that
might lead him to his opponent: but, disappointed in this purpose, he
kicks up his shoes at the Greek, spits at him repeatedly, and reviles
him with the bitterest abuse, until his fancy is wrought up to a belief
that he has caught hold of his enemy below; when, imagining he has got
him down and under his feet, he stamps the ground with all the energy
of an exasperated horse, and exclaims with fury, “Die, you thieving,
rascally Spaniard!--Die, you villainous Spanish vagabond!”
By this time the Greek is generally taken from the window by his
keeper; and Walsh, supposing from his silence that he is dead, comes
away singing, and exulting “that he has put an end to him.”
If it were possible for both to come into contact the combat would be
dreadful, and mutual destruction would no doubt be the consequence.