From London, admitted November 26th, 1818. This extraordinary maniac
was formerly engaged in the silk trade; and though almost the wildest
of the wild, in this or any similar institution, he thinks himself
perfectly sound in mind as well as body, although the regions of fancy
scarcely afford limits to his conceptions, and his frenzy is only
equalled by his arguments to disprove it. From the airs of consequence
he assumes, he would seem to soar above the ranks of nobility. The
knowledge of his importance, he imagines, has rendered all the great
his enemies, and that all personages of rank in England are leagued in
a conspiracy for the sole purpose of keeping him in this “_Bastile_,”
as he calls it; and which is to him the source of intolerable anguish.
“Here,” he exclaims, “is a piece of complicated villainy, to detain me,
a man of my rank and importance; and, what is still worse, contriving
by _galvanic_ and _electrical_ machines to ruin my health, to waste my
person, and to destroy my faculties; to feed me like a dog, to put me
to bed like a pig, and, in fact, to make a laughing-stock of me, to
gratify and amuse the authors of this case of villainy and cruelty.”
His head is bald, which he takes every opportunity of exhibiting
to all visitors, by taking off his hat with an air of dignified
politeness, and then addressing them with “How do you do, ladies, or
gentlemen? My name is Thomas Jones, a liveryman of the City of London,
and alderman and Lord Mayor Apparent. Pray have you any knowledge of
the Effingham family? Do you know Lady Effingham? Have you any interest
in getting me out of this place? You see what a state I am brought to
(rubbing his bald head). You perceive, I suppose, that my confinement
has deprived me of my hair? Do you not conceive it a shameful
transaction, to deprive an Englishman of his liberty thus, in a land
of boasted freedom, too? You will oblige me very much to try what you
can do towards my removal. My dear Sir George Tuthill will not define
the nature of insanity; and because it seems he cannot, I am to be the
sufferer, and imprisoned here.”
He is ambitious to prove himself, in his own way, a man of highly
scientific character; and pretends to have discovered that all the
royal palaces, Westminster Hall, Westminster Abbey, White Hall, the
theatres, all the fire-insurance, and other public offices and great
public buildings, have each established within them electrical,
galvanic, and magnetic machines, erected expressly for the purpose
of combining their influential powers to annoy him. That they are in
continual operation for this purpose; and that their several pipes
and conductors are united to form one grand power, by which their
collective effects are propelled to a junction with all the gas and
water pipes, along which they run from one iron conductor to another,
until they arrive at Bethlem; when their forces ascend to the iron roof
of the building, whence they run along the iron ceiling of his gallery,
and then descend upon him by night in a combined focus, which produces
effects highly injurious to his health.
In addressing himself to persons of rank who occasionally visit the
hospital, he maintains a high dogmatical manner, styles himself
Thomas Jones Dashwood Howard, of Effingham, Esq., and represents his
confinement here as tyrannical, despotic, cruel, vindictive, and
villainous; and he declaims, rants, abuses, and hectors over all.
But when his physician appears, he assumes a consequential tone of
remonstrance:--“Well, Sir George Tuthill, what have you done about
getting me out of this place? You perceive I am losing time and
wasting the best of my days.” Then, taking off his hat and displaying
his baldness, he adds, “I believe here is a sufficient proof of the
consequence of my imprisonment.”
Sir George, with great patience and humanity, attends to his speech,
and to pacify him promises he will do all he can for him. But the Hon.
Thomas Jones Dashwood Howard, of Effingham, must have more decisive
proofs of his intentions: “he _will_ be liberated.”--“If,” says he,
“you have had an interest in detaining me here, after all that I
have suffered, you might, I think, have been satisfied by this time,
therefore let me go out.”
Sir George then promises to do for him every thing more in his power.
But this will not do: and after a good deal of his usual logic, he goes
on: “then I will not mince matters with you any longer, but tell you
that you are a damned ----” (every abusive epithet he can think of);
and the matter necessarily ends in his removal under the charge of his
keeper.
He suspects every person of respectable appearance who visits the
hospital as concerned in his detention. But if any nobleman, particular
gentleman, merchant, or foreigner comes, he will say, “Oh! perhaps,
I shall have something from him. I suspect he has some hand in my
business: I don’t know positively, but I think it very likely.” And in
this way he has gone on till very lately.
The first symptoms of his malady were discovered by a love fit. He
formed a violent attachment to a young lady of Skinner-street, and,
without consulting her inclinations, went to his brother, who is a
goldsmith, and obtained a number of different sized wedding rings.
Without further ceremony he waited on the lady, then a few miles from
town, made a gallant tender of his heart and hand, presented the rings
for her choice of one, and ardently pressed her to accompany him to the
altar immediately. But his proposal was rejected, and the disconsolate
Thomas Jones Dashwood Howard, of Effingham, was ultimately consigned to
this mansion by his friends.
He has of late fallen again into the tender passion, with a young lady
whom he never saw but at her own window in this neighbourhood, about
two hundred yards distant from the hospital: and this new passion has
supplanted his former flame. He has been in the habit of standing
for hours together, at a window at the east end of the gallery where
he is lodged, contemplating the distant charms of his new adorable
Dulcinea, as she accidentally appears at her back chamber window,
wholly insensible to the ardour of his devotions; and though he is
separated from her by seven walls and a garden, still he considers his
soft whispers as conveyed to her ear. He tells her his high quality and
noble alliance; imagines she hears him, treats his tender tale with
coyness, and he continues, “Now, my dearest love, you should not, you
should not do so. You know your mother’s temper and mine: that I esteem
you more than life, which I would sacrifice for a moment’s pleasure to
your dear self. I have purchased a house and carriage, and every thing
necessary for us to move in the first circles of fashion.” He then
waits for the fair one’s imaginary answer: and no sooner does it reach
his fancy’s ear, than all is immediately reconciled; and he resumes
his tender tales of love with as much ardour as if he were really at
the fair one’s feet: and notwithstanding this ideal courtship has
lasted three months, he knows not the lady’s name or address, nor any
thing about her, although the surrounding walls daily echo his ardent
protestations, while his _Dulcinea del Toboso_ is quite unconscious of
his pain.
The following is one of his letters to the fair _incognita_, whom he
addresses as his wife:
“_Bethlem Hospital, July 16, 1822._
“MY DEAR WIFE:
“I am sorry I have not the pleasure of seeing or viewing your person,
although prevented by my situation from your pleasant conversation.
“I wish you had furnished me with paper, India ink, pencils, &c., and
during your enjoyments away from home I might have drawn something,
though not of the best style, to have amused me, and met your view
of judgment upon return. I should have been most happy to have been
with you at the present, and hope you will not allow me to remain
under restraint of liberty, but apply, or instruct some professional
character, or some one, for my release. I hope your mother is well,
and desire my duty to her. Upon return you will be able to give me
particulars, or shall be most happy to hear from you enjoying good
health, with pleasant society, and all the scenes of innocence for
amusements. My brother Charles, with your brother Capt. Dashwood,
I think might do something in getting me away, or what their views
may be I know not, as to any intentions respecting me; my former
letter to you, &c. in support with the annexed side might do much
for the families--However I do not wish to trouble myself more
than may be satisfactory to you and perfectly to your pleasure and
satisfaction--Your aunt does not appear to have drawn any public
painting, and that which I first formed may now stand without any
madness being attached thereto--and those that acknowledged piracies
and slavery were now, as by the statement, freedom and liberty,
_pax et libertas_, St. Domingo, Hispaniola, America et Mexico, et
Africa--and this motto as to the drawing.
“On July 10, 1822, I see, the meeting of the Company at the City of
London Tavern--for to acknowledge the independence of Columbia;--now
no one need be afraid of their sentiments, and will prove mine in
conformity of that drawing you’re acquainted with.
Hail, Columbia! happy land,
This is the day in which must stand
And united be--
Law, justice, free
From the chains of slavery--
Peace, freedom, and liberty.
“And am,
“Your sincere and loving husband,
“THOMAS JONES.
“You must excuse my writing, as my ink was bad, and partly written in
the dark.”
* * * * *
There is no such person as the lady described, no such name in the
neighbourhood, nor has he any knowledge of her, except by sight, and
can merely see the back of the house she inhabits from the hospital. He
has, however, furnished the lady with a name, and given her an address
quite remote from the view of the hospital. So much for the consistency
of poor Thomas Howard Dashwood Effingham Jones.