Newspaper Page Text
M I S C S Tk :li A S t *
liberating the madmen.
[The following interesting sketch of the first
trial made by the French philanthropist, Pinel,
to govern lunatics hv moial force alone, ib ftom
an account written by his son :]
Tt was in the latter part of 1792, that Pinel,
who had lice a appointed some time before med
ical superintendent of the Bicetre (the Madhouse
of Paris) urgently applied for permission from
the authorities to abolish the use of the irons with
which the lunatics were then loaded. Unsuc
cessfull, but resolved to gain his object be re
peated his complaints with redoubled ardor before
the Commune of Paris, and demanded the reform
of this barbarous system.
“Citizen,” replied one of die members of the
Commune, “to morrow I will pay 3’ou and Bice
tre a visit. But wo to you if you deceive us, and
are concealing the enemies of the people amongst
your madmen i”
The member of the Commune, who spoke thus,
was Couthon. The next day he arrived at the
Bicetre.
Couthon was himself, perhaps, as strange a
sight tfs that which he had come to see. Depriv
ed of thf) use of both his legs, he was always
carried about on men’s shoulders ; and thus moun
ted and deformed, lie, with a soft and feminine
voice, pronounced sentences of death; for death
was the only logic at that moment. Couthon
wished to sec and personally to question the
lunatics one after another. He was condcted to
their quarters of the building; but to all bis ques
tions he received but insults and sanguinary ad
dress, and heard nothing amidst the confused
cries and mad howling but the chilling clank of
the chains reverberating through the disgustingly
O O O O
dirty and damp vaults. Soon fatigued by the
monotony of the spectacle, and the fuility of his
inquiries, Couthon turned round to Pinel, and
said, “Ah, citizen, are not you yourself mad to
think of unchaining such animals ?”
“Citizen,” replied the other, “I am convinced
that these lunatics havs become so unmanagea
ble, solely because they are deprived of air and
liberty, and I venture to hope a great deal form a
throroughly different method.”
“Well, then do what you like with them; I
give them up to you, But I fear you will fall a
victim to your presumption.”
Now master of his own actions, Pinel com
menced the next day his enterprise, the real dif
ficulties of which he had never for a moment dis
guised from himself. lie contemplated libera
ting about fifty raving madmen, without danger
to the more peace bio inmates. He decided to
unchain but twelve as a first experiment. The
only precaution lie judged necessary to adopt,
was to prepare an equal number of waistcoats, —
those make of stout iinnen and long sleeves, and
fastened at tlie back, bv means of which it is ea
sy to prevent a lunatic from doing serious mis
chief.
The first whom Pinel addressed was the oldest
in this scene of misery. He was an English Cap
tain : his history was unknown ; and he had been
confined there forty years. He was considered
the most ferocious of all. His keepers even ap
proached him with caution ; for in a fit of vio
lence he had struck one of the servants with his
chain and kiled him on the spot. He was more
harshly treated than the others, and this severity
and complete abandonment, only tended still
more to exasperate his naturally violent temper.
Pinel entered his cell alone, and addressed him
calmly, “Captain,” said he, “if I take off your
chains, and give you liberty to walk up and down
the yard, will you promise me to be reasonable
and to injure no one?”
“ 1 will promise you ; but you are making game
of me. They arc all too much afraid of me, even
you .yourself.”
“ No, indeed, I am not afraid,” replied Pinel;
“ for I have six men outside to make you respect
me ; but believe my word ; confide in me, and
be docile. I intend to liberate you if you will
put on this linen waistcoat in place of ymur heavy
chains.”
The captain willingly agreed to all they’ requir
ed of him, only shrugging his shoulders and nev
er uttering a word. In a few minutes his irons
were completely loosened, and the doctor and his
assistants retired, leaving the door of his cell open.
Several times he stood up, but sank down again.
He had been in a sitting posture for such a length
of time, that he had almost lost the use of his
limbs. However, at the end of aPquarter of an
hour, he succeeded in preserving his equilibrium :
and from the depth of his dark cell he advanced,
tottering, towards the door. His first movement
was to look up to the heavens, and to cry out in
ecstacy, “how beautiful!” During the whole
day he never ceased running up and down the
stairs, always exclaiming “ how beautiful! how
delightful!” In the evening he returned to his
cell of his own accord, slept tranquilly on a good
bed which had been provided for him in the mean
time, and during the following two years which
he spent at the Bicetre, he never again had a
violent tit ; even made himself useful, exercising
a certain authority over the other lunatics, gov
erning them after his fashion, and establishing
himself as a kind superintendent.
His neighbor in captivity was not less worthy
of pity. He was an old French officer, who had*
been in chains for the last thirty years, having
been afflicted with one of those terrible religious
monomanias of which we even now-a-days see
such frequent examples. Ot weak understanding
and lively imagination, he conceived himselt des
tined by God for the baptism oj blood —that is to
say, to kill his fellow-creatures, in order to save
them from hell, and to send them straight to hea
ven, there to enjoy the felicity of the blessed!
This horrible idea was the cause ot his commit
ting a frightful crime. He commenced his hom
icidal mission by plunging a dagger into the heart
of his own child. He was declared insane, con
fined in the Bicetre and had been afflicted for
years with this revolting madness.
Calmness at length returned, but without rea
son ; he sat on a stone, silent and immovable, re
sembling an emaciated spectre of remorse.
His limbs were still loaded with the same irons
as when first confined, but which he had no
longer strength to lift. They were left on him
as much from habit as from remembrance of his
crime. His case was hopeless. Dr. Pinel had
him carried to a bed in the infirmary: his legs,
however were so contracted, that ail attempts
to bend them failed. In this state he lived a tew
months longer, and then died, without being
aware of his release.
The third presents a strong contrast. He was
a man in the prime of life, with sparkling eyes;
his bearing haughty, and gestures dramatic. In
his youth lie had been a literary character. He
was gentle, witty, and had a brilliant imagina
tion. He composed romances, full of love, ex
pressed in impassioned language. He wrote un
ceasingly ; and in order to devote himself with
greater “ardor to his favorite compositions, he
ended by locking himself up in his room, often
passing the day without food, and the night with
out sleep. To complete all, an unfortunate pas
sion added to his excitement; he fell in love with
the daughter of one of his neighbors. She, how
ever, soon grew tired of the young author, was
inconstant to him, and did not even allow him
the privilege of a doubt. During a whole year
the anguish of the poor dreamer was the more
bitter from concealment. At length, one tine
day, he was in the absurdity of despair, and
passing from one extreme to the other, gave him
self up to a kind of excess. His reason tied, and
taken to the bicetre in a raging fit, he remained
confined for twelve years in the dark cell where
Pinel found him, flinging about his chains with
violence. This madman was more turbulent than
dangerous, and, incapable of understaning the
good intended to him? it was necessary to employ
force to loosen his irons. Once at liberty, he com
menced running round and round the court-yard,
until his breath failing, he fell down quite ex
hausted. This excitement continued for some
weeks, but unaccompanied by violence as former
ly. The kindnes shown to him by the doctor,
and the especial interest he took in this invalid,
soon restored him to reason. Unfortunately he
was permitted to leave the asylum and return to
the world, then in such a state of agitation; he
joined the political factions of the day, with all
the vehemence of his passions, and was beheaded
on the Bth Thermidor.
Pinel entered the fourth cell. It was that of
Chevinge, whose liberation was one of the most
memorable events of the day.
Chevinge had been a soldier of the French
Guard, and had only one fault —that of drunken
ness. But once the wine mounted into his head
he grew quarrelsome, violent and most dangerous,
from his prodigious strength. Frequent excesses
caused his dismissal from the corps, and lie soon
squandered his scanty resources. At length
shame and misery plunged him in despair, and
his mind became affected. He imagined that he
had become a general, and fought all who did not
acknowledge his rank. It was at a termination
of a mad scene of this kind that he was brought
to the Bicetre in a state of fury. He had been
chained for ten years, and with stronger fetters
than his companions, for he had often succeeded
in breaking his chains by the mere force of his
hands. Once, in particular when by this means
he had obtained a few moments of liberty, he de
fied all the keepers together to force him to re
turn to his cell, and only did so after compelling
them to pass under his uplifted leg. This incon
ceivable .act of prowess he performed on the
eight men who were trying to master him. From
henceforth his strength became a proverb at the
Bicetre. By repeatedly visiting him, Pinel dis
covered that good disposition lay hidden beneath
violence of character, constantly kept excited by
cruel treatment. On one occasion he promised
to ameliorate his condition, and this promise
greatly tranquilized him. Pinel now ventured to
announce to him that he should no longer be
forced to wear his chains. “And to prove that 1
have confidence in you,” he added, “and that I
consider you to be a man capable of doing good,
you shall assist me in releasing those unfortunate
individuals who do not possess their reason like
you. If 3’ou conduct yourself property, as I
have reason to hope you will, I shall then take
you into my service, and you shall not leave me.”
Never in the mind of man was there ever seen
so sudden and complete a change; the keepers
themselves were forced to respect Chevinge, from
his conduct. No sooner was he unchained than
he became docile, attentive, watching every
movement of Pinel, so as to execute his orders
dexterously and .promptly, addressing words of
kindness and reason t© those lunatics with whom
he had been on a level but a few hours previous,
but in whose presence he felt the full dignity of
libeity. This man who had been unhumanized
by his chains during the best years ot his life,
and who doubtless would have dragged on this
agonizing existence for a considerable length ot
time, became at once a model of good conduct
and gratitude. Frequently in these perilous
times he saved Pinel’s life ; and one day, among
others, rescued him from a band of ruffians, who
were dragging him off a lan 1 ant erne, as an elec
tor of 1759. During the threatened famine, he
every morning left the Bicetre, and never return
ed without provisions, which at that moment
were unpurchasable even for gold. The remain
der of his life was but one continued act ot de
votion to his liberator.
Next room to Chevinge, three unfortunate sol
diers had been in chains tor } T ears, without any
one knowing the cause of this rigor. They were
generally quiet and inoffensive, speaking only to
each other, and that in a language unintelligible
to the rest of the prisoners. They had, however,
been granted the only favor which they seemed
capable of appreciating —that ot being always
together. When they became aware of a change
in their usual mode of treatment, they suspected
it to pioceed from unfriendly motives, and vio
lently opposed the loosing of their irons. W hen
liberated they would not leave their prison.—
Either from grief or want of understanding, these
unhappy creatures were insensible to the liberty
now offered to them.
After them came a singular personage, one of
these men whose malady is the more difficult of
cure, from its being a fixed idea, occasioned by
excessive pride. He was an old clergyman who
thought himself Christ. His exterior correspond
ed with the vanity of his belief: his gait was
measured and solemn ; his smile sweet, yet se
vere, forbade the least familiarity; every thing
even to the arrangement of his hair, which hung
down on each side of his pale, resigned, and ex
pressive countenance, gave him a singular re
semblance to the beautiful head of our Savior.
If thejj tried to perplex him, and said, “If thou
art Him whom thou pretendest: in short if thou
art God, break thy chains and liberate thyself!”
He immediately, with pride and dignity replied,
“In vain shalt thou tempt thy Lord!” The sub
limity of human arrogance in derangement!
The life of this man was a complete romance
in which religious enthusiasm played the first
part. He had made pilgrimages on foot to Co
logne and Rome, and had embarked for America,
where, among the savages, he risked his life in
the hope of converting them to the true faith.—
But all these travels, all these voyages had the i
melancholy effect of turning his ruling idea into
a monomania. On his return to France, he pub
licly announced that he was Him whose gospel
he had been preaching far and wide. Seized
and brought before the Archbishop of Paris, be
was shut up in the Bicetre, as a lunitic, his hands
and feet were loaded with heavy irons, and for
twelve years he bore, with singular patience, this
long martyrdom, and the incessant sarcasm to
which he was exposed. i
Argument with such minds is useless.; they
neither can nor will understand it. Pinel, there
fore never attempted to reason with him; he un
chained him in silence, and loudly commanded
that every one for the future should imitate his
reserve, and never address a single word to this
poor lunatic.
This line of conduct, which was rigorously ob
served, produced an effect on the self-conceited
man far more powerful than the irons and the
dungeon. He felt himself humbled by this iso
lation, this total abandonment, in the full enjoy
ment of his liberty. At length after much hesi
tation, he began to mix with other invalids. From
that time forward he visibly recovered to ac
knowledge the folly of his former ideas, and to
leave the Bicetre.
Fifty lunatics were in this manner released from
their chains in the space of a few days. Amongst
them were individuals from every rank of life,
and from every country. Hence the great ame
lioration in the treatment of insane patients which,
until then, had been looked on as imprcticable,
or at least fraught with the utmost danger.
A Retreat from a Battery. —Away up among
the granite hills of New Hampshire, there lives a
good natured doctor, who is well known in the
village where he dispenses squills and pellets as
an inveterate wag, fond of a joke at his own or
any one clse’s expense, and never suffers an op
portunity to pass for the creation of a laugh; for,
he contends, that the latter is far more conduc- ,
tive to health oftentimes than the most formida
ble dose of calomel or ipecac.
It chances that in the same village where the
doctor “holds out,” there lives also a stout,braw
ny representative of the African race, who has
made himself notorious, the country round, for
his bragging propensities, and as he is the only
colored gentleman in the vicinit}', he prides him
self upon being able to do anything and every
thing which aiibody else can perform. Not long
since, a joker from the city happened to be pass
ing a day or two at the doctor’s residence, and in
the course of bis peregrinations about the town,
he came across the Sambo, whom we set down at
once as a “character.”
Sambo, according to his account of himself,
could lift the biggest log, turn the heaviest stone,
knock down the strongest ox, carry the greatest
weight, or hold the hardest mouthed horse in all
New Hampshire. After listening* attentively to
Samb’s yarn, our friend very quietl}* remarked
that he was undoubtedly a very smart nigger, but
that with all his boasted prowess and strength,
there was a small machine down at the doctor’s,
that you could’nt hold no how—for he had tried
it, himself-—and he’d bet on it.
“Wot you bet ob it?” asked Sam, determined
to make a tritie out of the stranger.
“ Well, Sambo, have you seen it?’
“ Wal, massa, I tink I hab see it two or three
times, up at de doctor’s. It’s de masheen wid de
brass balls on ’im.”
“ That’s it Sam. I’ll wager a dollar that vou
don’t hold it.”
“Done massa,” said Sambo, at once, and up
they went forthwith, to the doctor’s office, who
was very quickly informed of the nature of the
persent visit, and who was up to the thing in a jif
fy- f . .
“ I think the machine is not in very good order,
Sam,” said the doctor, pleasantly, “and vou will
thus have the advantage of my friend, do you seo
that? You are a very stiong man, Sambo.”
“ Wal, I isn’t nufi’n else; and I’se gwang to
make a penny out o’ dis gem men, as comes all
de way from Boss’n to leech dis chile about de
masheen.”
“ Then you think you can hold it, eh?”
“I duzn’t tink nuft ’n but dal, so you can fetch
’im rite ’long massa,” said Sambo triumphantly,
and the old-fashioned electrifying apparatus, with
its two long arms, was quickly charged, and Ssm
bo was directed to take hold of the ball and hold
on.
In an instant Sambo grasped the bandies with
a double refined, high-pressure force! But poor
Sambo very quickly evinced by the cruel and un
earthly contortions of his ebony vissage, that
somehow or other, lie had made a trifling error in
his calculations this time certain !
“ Bress de lord—ow ! igh !” exclaimed Sam,
at first, as the twitching, twittering, starting cur
rent darted form his palms to his shoulders, “oh!
de iordy, goody, massy I Take ’im off !”
“Hold on Sam, why don’t you hold it?” asked
the doctor, as he renewed the well charged bat
tery, and the motion of the handles had begun
to work well, “Sambo, you’ll fetch it, yet!”
As the poor darkey’s gripe had become im
movably fixed upon the handles, and he tried first
to force one hand away, and then the other, he
was thrashed forward and back, now up, now
down, until he roared like a mad bull, bis eves
protruded wildly from their sockets, his ivory
glistened, and jaws kept time with the rapid ac
tion of the machine, while he yelled at the top of
his lungs :
“O, goddy! massa, (yank, yank!) take ’im off’,
’er, take ’im off, ’er (yank, yank !) de nigger’s
kill, ’er, de nigger’s kill, ’er (yank, yank!) ’er,
murder, murder, murd-e-r! Massa! take ’iin
off’er, take ’im off'!” and, convulsed at Sambo’s
ludricrous grimaces, fright and antics (for he was
unable, of course, to quit his hold upon the han
dles, while the galvanic current was on,) the doc
tor dropped down ond Sambo found himself at
liberty!
Unfortunately for our friend, the money hadn’t
been put up, and as Sambo dashed headlong out
of the office, arid was gathering himself up, iii
his desperate fright, he was accosted with—
“ Hallo! Sam, where’s your dollar? You’ve
lost!”
“Loss de debblc, go der y’u se’f! Ycr duz’nt
fool this chile no more, yer kin bet high on dat
yah, yah!” and away he went, up the road, al
a pace which “ astonished the natives” of the
usually quiet little town of Hornbeam!—Amer
ican Union .
COMMUNICATED.
Mr. E. J. Purse—The enclosed is a copy of a letter dated
London, April 24th, 1819, containing the. analysis of Chemist*
of that city. You will perceive the letter is addressed to a&er.
tleman in the city of New York, who has kindly forwarded f
to me. Believing it would interest that portion of your read
dels who are farmers, if you deem it worthy of a place in youi
colums it is at your disposal.
Very Respectfully Yours,
W. HUMPHREY’S Jr.
Savannah , July 20, 1849.
ANALYSIS OF LINSEED AND CAMELfNA SATIVA.
LINSEED.
The Mucilage obtained by digesting in water
consists of a peculiar Gum, 82 59
Water, iq 30
Inorganic Matter, 711
The elementary analysis of Linseed gives,
Carbon, . 3 g 30
Nitrogen, . 5 07
Hydrogen, 5 65
Oxygen, 50 78
100 00
CAMELINA SATIVA.
Mracilage, 3 75
Water, 10 25
Ashes, 6 00
100 00
The Mucilage consists of
Solulable gum, 61 75
Insolulable Gum 22 00
83 75
The elementary analysis of the Mucilage of the Cattiefc*
Saliva, gives:
Carbon, • 36 30
