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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