From Southwark, aged forty-six, admitted December 14th 1820. This
pleasant, cheerful, eccentric fellow, had been an inmate here before,
for he was admitted the first time on the 11th of March 1819, and
was discharged well on the 20th of May following. He is one of
those characters so often found in society to illustrate the poet’s
description:
“Great wits to madness nearly are allied.”
And he says, “he was thought to be mad this time, only because nature
had furnished him with more discernment, reflexion, and fancy than
his neighbours, and he had not prudence to conceal them: therefore
he was found guilty of common sense, and sent to prison.” According
to his notion, Bedlam was the only quiet and rational society in the
country, for the people out of doors were ten times more mad than those
within; and all London should be a Bedlam, in order to restrain its mad
inhabitants, one-half of whom were too mad to perceive the madness of
the other half.
“Who,” says he, “fit to live out of Bedlam, would spend half his life
to gain one or two hundred thousand pounds, and then, instead of
cutting with all risk and living like a lord upon his income, would
dabble on to double it by new adventures, until he loses the whole,
turns a bankrupt, and comes to dependance or beggary in his old age?
I have known twenty such fools. Who, fit to live out of Bedlam, would
dash in the stocks, at the constant risk of ruin, win a hundred
thousand pounds one day, lose it the next by the same game; and then
perhaps hang himself or cut his throat for vexation. But the good old
city of London has lost its wits, you may depend on it. Your Aldermen
are all turned Baronets and members of Parliament, your citizens are
all esquires, and your beardless boys all booted beaus or dashing
bloods; your city wives and daughters are all ladies of fashion and
luxury; nothing like plain joints and puddings, now a-days! Oh, no:
cookery and cuckoldom go together; banquets and deserts, and all
the wines of the world! And then comes your bankruptcy. Up to-day,
down to-morrow. This year a villa, a chariot, or a curricle; the
next a shabby lodging, broken shoes, and the top of the stage coach.
Well, then, what would be said in the time of our grandfathers, to a
projector who would offer to light all the lamps and shops in London
with the smoke of pit-coal? Would people then think a man sane, who
should not only say he could make mills to spin and looms to weave,
but ships to sail against wind and tide by the steam of hot-water? or
cause a coach to run without horses? or make a snuff-box to play half
a dozen tunes, and no one near them; or a wooden-puppet walk across
the stage, salute the company, play concertos on a trumpet, beat
any antagonist at chess, drafts, or dominos, and perform many other
wonders? or who should teach dogs to play cards, or horses to tell
fortunes? or who would propose to drive mail-coaches through iron tubes
five hundred miles a day, or establish sea-water baths at Hornsey or
Primrose Hills, and pump up the tide from Southend to supply them? I
should not be surprised at seeing a wooden Parliament worked by steam,
or wooden clergy, to serve out sermons and devotions from the churches
to the parishioners’ houses, like pipe-water or coal-gas, through
tubes. And, by the way, this would save a devilish deal of money, in
bribes and pensions, tythes, and parish-dues. Why,” he would say, “I
came in here for quietness, to avoid being bit by some city-baronet
or mad stock-jobber; or run over by a citizen’s coach, or crushed to
dust under the wheels of a waggon at full gallop. I hope those d----d
fellows wo’n’t break in upon us here, to disturb our comfort.”
Such were the wild notions that played round poor L----y’s fancy. He
had a prolific genius for inventions, if they were only practicable;
and perhaps, under a better education, and earlier care to direct his
capacity, such a mind might have been of service to his country.
One of his freaks was the invention of a plan for an aquatic engine
to be fixed on the River Thames, between Blackfriars and Southwark
bridges, which, by the aid of proper apparatus, might prevent the
destruction of St. Paul’s Cathedral if it should ever take fire, and
thus protect that noble structure. Similar plans he thought might
be adopted in every part of England, and save the necessity of fire
insurance offices. But just as he had matured his project, and had
almost brought it to perfection in his own mind, some other little
whims, combined with this plan, procured him a return to his old
quarters here.
While he continued he was very flighty, but tolerably quiet; with the
harmless exception of a little noise, singing, dancing, and ornamental
writing on the walls, at which last he was very expert and skilful.
He was discharged well, on the 20th of May, 1821, and has since
continued so.