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.