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.