From Lowes, Lincolnshire, admitted November 25th, 1819. This
unfortunate young man had been professionally brought up a surgeon, and
the cause of his malady appears to have been a persuasion that he had
undergone the fate of Abelard: and this notion was the constant source
of his lamentation; for his perpetual complaint was, “Oh! what shall
I do? what shall I do? They have taken away my ----! Gone, all gone!
What shall I do? All gone! Gone for ever!” Convinced of this privation,
he imagined the loss had caused a contraction of his limbs; and under
this idea he had acquired habits of contraction extremely painful to
himself, and distressing to all who saw him. His elbows were pressed
in as if screwed to his sides; his lower arms projecting outward on
a line with his breast, and his hands continually clenched with such
vigour, that they could be opened only by force for the purpose of
washing them; and then the palms were found to be so indented by the
pressure of his finger ends, that they seemed almost to have grown
together. But no sooner was he freed from restraint, than they returned
to their former position. He walked invariably on tiptoe, took very
little exercise, and would stand for hours together in one spot without
setting his heels to the ground, if not roused by the keepers and urged
to walk about. At times he was without appetite, and very weakly: at
other times his appetite was good, and he would sit down contentedly to
dinner without any appearance of pain. But as soon as he had finished
his meal he got up to the gallery, and began his usual plaints: “Gone!
gone! all gone! what shall I do for my ----.”
In May, 1820, a party of ladies of rank and distinction came to visit
the hospital; and poor Woods was bewailing in his usual vein, “Oh, my
----! what shall I do for my ----? They are all gone.” When one of the
ladies, a peeress, asked him what he complained for; but could get no
reply but “oh, my ----! what shall I do for my ----! gone! gone! for
ever!” and this with a piteous look of tribulation.
The lady, unable to comprehend his meaning, applied for explanation to
the keeper; who, with some discreet presence of mind told her ladyship
that the poor patient was in the habit of collecting a quantity of
pebbles, flints, and other rubbish about the airing ground, which he
fancied to be emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and other precious gems; that
it became necessary to take them away from him, in order to prevent
the accumulation of such rubbish in the gallery; and that a recent
privation of this sort was now the subject of his lament. “Oh, poor
man,” said her ladyship, turning to the patient, “never mind them!
When his lordship comes here again, he shall bring you some pretty
ones which he has got at home; they will be much handsomer than those
you have lost: so don’t fret about them any more.” But poor Woods, not
at all satisfied with the promised alternative, answered with much
displeasure, “that won’t do! I will have none but my own.” And thus
they separated, each unconscious of the other’s meaning.
After remaining here eighteen months, this poor fellow was removed by
his friends, who are respectable, to a private mad-house at Battersea,
where he died shortly afterwards.