Aged forty-three, from East Peckham, Kent, admitted 13th February 1823.
This man was an agricultural labourer, lived upwards of twenty-five
years at a farm-house in the parish above-named, and ultimately became
deranged in his intellects. For some time after his disorder became
apparent, he would go regularly to his work in the usual way; but
shortly afterwards he would turn out for labour at the plough, or any
other occupation, in a state of perfect nudity, much to the scandal
and disgust of his neighbours. Being checked in this propensity, and
persuaded to desist from a custom so shameful, his fancy took another
direction, and he fell deeply in love with a respectable farmer’s
daughter, and became so extremely assiduous, obtrusive, annoying,
and dangerous in the fervour of his addresses, that it was found
necessary to confine him in the parish poor-house, from which, after
a little time, he was transmitted to this asylum. His mind, however,
is still busy with the scenes of his former residence. He carries on
an imaginary intercourse daily with the gentlemen of East Peckham and
those of Farley parishes, which adjoins; and he persuades himself that
both are at open war with each other for the property of his person as
a pauper. “East Peckham,” he says, “claims him stoutly, as belonging
to their parish; while Farley, his favourite parish, is determined not
to give him up, but to keep possession of him at all risks.” Such a
contest, in reality, would be quite novel in the system of parochial
disputes: for although expensive law-suits are daily incurred by
parishes in the endeavour to cast on each other the maintenance of
doubtful paupers, few parish officers would be found to contend for
the exclusive honour of supporting a mendicant; but would cheerfully
resign that privilege to any person who chose to claim it, all the
learning of the poor-laws and opinions of vestry clerks to the contrary
notwithstanding.
But while this imaginary contest between these rival parishes still
remains _pendente lite_, until a _quo warranto_ or a _mandamus_ shall
settle the point, poor Webb has made up his own mind touching the
conjugal property of the young lady he had fixed his heart on, and
who, he insists, is his wife, guardian, and trustee. Through the same
active medium of his fancy, he carries on a perpetual conversation,
and as in wedlock the twain are one, so he answers on her part his own
questions, and thus maintains a dialogue for hours together. He will
frequently convey to his keeper her earnest injunctions for his own
immediate liberation. He will often run, in a violent hurry, to the
same guardian, tell him that he has just heard from Farley, and that
the parish officers there request he may be sent down without delay,
and this he frequently does ten times in a day. But the obstinate
incredulity of his keeper still bars his purpose, and then he summons
supernatural influence to aid his suit: he contends that all storms,
shipwrecks, fires, and dreadful accidents, are entirely attributable to
the injustice and cruelty of his confinement. Severe frost, snow, cold,
wet or gloomy weather, nay, even a mark or stain on the gallery floor,
or the sudden illness of a fellow-patient, are all imputable to the
same cause, and would all be prevented by his liberation.
Unable to succeed by such representations, he directly resorts to one
of his imaginary conversations with his friends at Farley, much in this
manner:
“Now, Mr. John Webb, come home directly to your woife.”
“Very well, zur; Oi wull come, directly.”
“And be zure you brings down sum noice things for hur.”
“Oh yes, zur, that Oi wull; and plenty on’ um, indeed.”
“Oi hopes your are very well, Mr. Webb?”
“Oh yes, zur; very well, zur, Oi thanks you koindly.”
“Your woife is very anxious to zee you, Mr. Webb.”
“Oi dare zay she be, zur; Oi wishes her well, zur, Oi assure you.”
“You be worth a good deal o’ property, Mr. Webb?”
“Oh, that Oi be, zur; many scores o’ pounds, zur.”
“Well, Mr. Webb, whoy do’an’t you cum hoam?”
“Yes, zur; yes zur; Oi’ll go and zee abaout it, zur, directly. Good
morning zur.”
Fully impressed with this imaginary conversation with some leading
parishioner of Farley, he flies to the keeper, tells him that he has
just settled with Mr. Somebody to go home to his wife, guardian, and
trustee: that he must go immediately, or the consequences will be very
bad to any one who detains him.
Thus he passes his days: at nights he amuses himself with the like
soliloquies, and is constantly in fretful agitation.
He has a son twenty-one years of age, for whom, he says, he has been
mistaken in this case; and that this son is the man who should be
imprisoned, and not he. The most remote notion of his own affliction
never enters his mind: for he says he never had an hour’s illness in
his life. He has conducted himself pretty well since his admission; but
is so fretful and uneasy, as to shew symptoms of soon breaking out into
violence, on the score of his detention.