Foive days have I lived in London, an' 'tis nothin' but
battle, murdher, an' suddhen death for me here all day an' ivery day! An'
the polis say I'm dhrunk!"
He gesticulated wildly, and to me it seemed just possible that the police
might be right.
"They say I'm drunk, sor," he continued, "but, begob, I b'lieve they think
I'm mad. An' me being thracked an' folleyed an' dogged an' waylaid an'
poisoned an' blandandhered an' kidnapped an' murdhered, an' for why I do
not know!"
"And who's doing all this?'
"Sthrangers, sor--sthrangers. 'Tis a sthranger here I am mesilf, an' fwy
they do it bates me, onless I do be so like the Prince av Wales or other
crowned head they thry to slaughter me. They're layin' for me in the
sthreet now, I misdoubt not, and fwat they may thry next I can tell no
more than the Lord Mayor. An' the polis won't listen to me!"
This, I thought, must be one of the very common cases of mental
hallucination which one hears of every day--the belief of the sufferer
that he is surrounded by enemies and followed by spies. It is probably the
most usual delusion of the harmless lunatic.
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