Aged thirty-nine, a native of London, and admitted on the 27th July
1820. When this patient was admitted he was in a high state of
derangement; but was discharged finally cured, on the 20th of March
1821.
Like other maniacs, though his mind was wild and extravagant on
most subjects that happened for the moment to occupy his memory or
attention, he had his favourite topic which prevailed over all others,
and seemed to be the main spring of his delusions.
This was with him his imaginary skill in bridge-building; in which,
according to his notions, his operations were perfectly magical.
He boasted of having built Waterloo-bridge in four days, and the
Southwark-bridge in two hours. All the bridges over the Thames belonged
to him, as did the Mansion-house, Carlton-house, and Somerset-house;
and all the turnpike-tolls in England were his property. Any building
wheresoever, in which he had once set his foot, became instantly his:
and this was his reason for coming to reside in Buckingham-house (by
which name he styled Bethlem-hospital). But to his imaginary skill, and
his extensive possessions on these points, he was also an excellent
whip; and talked frequently of his dexterity in driving gigs, tandems,
and curricles, better than any man in England, and of his deep
knowledge in horse-flesh, and the pedigrees of the turf.
On the same day that he came into the hospital there was also admitted
a poor woman named Abigail Rees. She was brought in secured in a
straight-waistcoat, which was fastened in a very slovenly manner, so
that the strings hung loosely about her, before and behind.
Snelling, who marched about with a very knowing strut, observed
her sharply for a little time: but his fancy instantly perverted
the faculty of vision, and she was changed, in his view, to a very
different sort of personage.
He called, with an air of authority, to one of the keepers, and
pointing to Abigail Rees, said: “I say, hostler! you see that mare,
don’t you?” The keepers answered, “Oh yes, your honour.” “Well, then,”
returned Snelling, “I can assure you she is one of the very best bits
of blood in this country. Her sire was the son of old Eclipse, and her
dam was the Duke of Devonshire’s first breeding-mare, Catherine. I
drove her in harness to Brighton yesterday, to see the Prince Regent,
in thirty-nine minutes and twelve seconds, by my stop-watch; and this
morning I drove her back to town in twelve minutes and thirty-nine
seconds. To be sure, there is something to be said for the longer
time in yesterday’s journey, because I stopped to dine on the road,
and purchased some houses on the way, by just putting my foot into
them: but to-day she dashed forward at such a rate, she played the
devil with my hands, in striving to rein her in. See,” said he, “how
she has broken the reins,” taking hold of the loose strings of the
straight-waistcoat.
Poor Abigail seemed quite angry, and rushed away from him with great
indignation. “I say, hostler,” continued Snelling, “take care she don’t
kick or bite you; she’s d----d vicious.”
Many months afterwards, when this man’s derangement had considerably
abated, and he was almost well, he assured the keepers that he
remembered this occurrence perfectly, and that for a long time
subsequent he believed the woman was a mare, and that all he had said
about her at the time was perfectly true.