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Beau Brummels are not to be found in the soci- way concerned in the treatment of the insane. ety of princes and nobles alone. They vie with The first attempt ever made to change the harsh, each other in their deportment, which is marked and sometimes cruel treatment to which lunatics by extreme courtesy and respect. The evening is were subjected was in the year 1792, during the passed with additional pleasure when the music- French Revolution. M. Pinel, who was physial programme is varied by the performance of a cian to the lunatic asylum in Paris known as the Virginia reel, a cotillion or waltz. There are Bicêtre, removed the chains from a great number two pianos furnished for their use, at one of of its inmates. The result which attended his which a female patient was practicing at the first efforts proved the truth of the views he had time of our visit.

entertained as to the efficiency of kindness in the Our impressions were very favorable in regard treatment of the insane. He was also convinced to the general treatment pursued, the kindness that insanity proceeded from nearly the same of the attendants, and we were not a little aston-causes as other diseases. The popular opinion ished at the liberty enjoyed by the inmates that it was produced by spiritual agencies, was at There is perhaps no large asylum in the world in once rejected by him, as well as the equally abwhich there is so much freedom from restraint surd belief that the moon was possessed of power as is to be found on Blackwell's Island. An to induce it. The name "lunacy,” which arose impartial description, however, requires a notice from this foolish notion, is therefore wholly inof the defects as well as of the excellences of appropriate, the Institution. The principal are its over. It is impossible to form a just idea of the great crowded state, and a want of sufficient land for reform produced by Pinel in this department of agricultural and horticultural purposes. All phy- medical science, except by a comparison of the sicians who have made the subject of insanity a former condition of the insane with the treatment specialty, concur in the opinion that farm labor which at present prevails in lunatic asylums. The is not only of great service as a remedial meas- frightful prison of the Bicêtre furnishes the best ure in the restoration of the reason, but that it is evidence of the great change which has been efin many cases absolutely indispensable. There fected in this particular, though it is doubtful are but few of the insane who refuse to work, whether it was worse than the great English asyand many who are apt to complain of want of lum so well known by the singular title of “ Bedoccupation. One of the greatest arguments that lam.” In the Bicêtre the general practice was to can be urged in favor of the employment of the load the patients with heavy chains, which remaininsane is, that it relieves the mind from the hal-ed on during their whole lifetime, and to immure lucinations which are generally fostered by a them in dark, unwarmed, unventilated cells. In state of idleness. While engaged at work their the year 1792, Pinel, after having frequently urged delusions and fancied wrongs are forgotten for the French government to allow him to unchain the time being, and much is thus effected in the the maniacs at the Bicêtre in vain, went himself removal of one of the most prominent causes of to the authorities, and with much earnestness and the disease. In addition to this, the system is warmth advocated the removal of this monstrous strengthened by manual labor, and the supera- abuse. Couthon, a member of the Commune, bundance of vis nervosa is expended on the yielded to Pinel's arguments, and agreed to meet muscles instead of on the brain. It is only ne- him at the Bicêtre. On his arrival, he interrocessary to state, as a proof of the beneficial con- gated those who were chained, but the abuse he sequences resulting from this treatment, that it received, and the confused sounds, cries, and vohas in numerous instances .been attended with ciferations, the clanking of chains, and the filthy, the complete restoration of all the mental facul- damp cells in which they were lodged, at the same ties. When the overcrowded state of the Asy- time that it shocked his feelings, made him relum on Blackwell's Island is considered, it is coil from Pinel's benevolent proposition to release surprising that the Governors of the Alms-house them. have not taken the necessary steps to procure al “You may do what you will with them, howfarm near the city, on which the male patients ever," said he, “but I fear you will become their could be employed. The present condition of victim.” With this permission Pinel instantly the building, which contains one hundred and commenced his undertaking. There were about fifty more patients than any similar institution in fifty who be considered might, without danger to the country, proves the necessity for this. In- | the others, be unchained ; and he began by resanity is rapidly on the increase, and ere long leasing twelve, with the sole precaution of having the city of New York will require as extensive previously prepared the same number of strait accommodations for this afflicted class of the waistcoats, with long sleeves, which could be tied community as are afforded by the two celebrated behind the back if necessary. The first man on institutions for the insane in France, the Salpé- whom the experiment was to be tried was an Entrière and the Bicêtre, the former for females and glish captain, whose history no one knew, as he the latter for males.

had been in chains forty years. He was thought The actual existence of a village of lunatics has to be one of the most furious among them, and for many years afforded convincing proof of the his keepers approached him with caution, as he benefits of farm labor. The manner in which this had in a fit of fury killed one of them upon the institution was founded possesses more than or spot with a blow of his manacles. He was chaindinary interest even for those who are not in any ed more rigorously than any of the others. Pinel

entered his cell unattended, and calmly said to i FAITHFUL MARGARET. him,

MHE moonlight was lying broad and calm on « Captain, I will order your chains to be taken 1 the mountains and the lake, silvering the fir off, and give you liberty to walk in the court, if trees massed against the sky, and quivering you will promise me to behave well, and injure through the leaves of the birch and the ash, as no one.”

they trembled in the light air which could not “ Yes, I promise you," said the maniac; “but move the heavy horse-chestnut growing by them. you are laughing at me--you are all too much | The call of the corncraik from the meadow, and afraid of me."

the far-off barking of a sheep-dog on the fells, "I have six men,” Pinel answered, “ready to were the only sounds that broke through the evenenforce my commands, if necessary. Believe me, ing stillness; except whenever now and then the then, on my word, I will give you your liberty if | plash of oars in the lake, and the subdued voices you will put on this waistcoat."

of men and women gliding by, recalled to the listHe submitted to this willingly, without a word; eners standing on the balcony, that other hearts his chains were removed, and the keepers re- were worshiping with them before the holy shrine tired, leaving the door of his cell open. He raised of nature. himself many times from the seat, but fell back They had been on the balcony for a long time. again, for he had been in a sitting posture so long looking out on the scene before them ; Horace that he had for the time lost the use of his legs. resting against the pillar, and Margaret standing In a quarter of an hour, however, he succeeded near him. A curtain of creeping plants hung far in maintaining his balance, and with tottering down, and their leaves threw Horace into deep steps came to the door of his miserable abode. | shadow ; but the moonlight fell full and bright His first look was at the sky, and he cried out en over the woman by his side ; yet not to show any thusiastically, “How beautiful !” During the rest thing that art or fancy could call lovely. A grave of the day he was constantly in motion, walking and careworn face, with nothing but a pair of dark up and down the staircases, and uttering excla eyes lying beneath the shadow of a broad brow, mations of delight. In the evening he retired of and a mass of raven hair resting heavy on her his own accord to his cell, where a better bed than cheek, to redeem it from absolute ugliness; a tall he had been accustomed to was prepared for him, lean figure, not even graceful in its movements, and he slept tranquilly. During the two succeed nor fine in its proportions; and hands with fingers ing years which he spent at the Bicêtre he had no so long and thin they were almost transparentreturn of his previous paroxysms, but even ren- ill-formed, and ungainly too ; a mode of dress that dered himself useful, by exercising a kind of au- was not picturesque, and most certainly was not thority over the insane patients, whom he ruled fashionable, scanty, black, and untrimmed-all after his own fashion.

this made up an exterior which the most facile The earliest account we have of madhouses is admiration could not admire. And few in the in the twelfth century. At this time there was passing world care to discover the spiritual beauty one at Bagdad, called “ Dar al Maraphtan,” which which an outward form of unloveliness may hide. literally means the abode of those who require to No, Margaret stood in the moonlight by the side be chained. The oldest asylum in England is the of an artist of high poetic temperament-a man noted Bedlam, which was first occupied by the in- who lived in the sunniest places of human hapsane in 1547, it having been used three hundred piness—a woman shut out from all the beauty of years previously as a monastery. Since that time life ; a woman who had never been fair, and who it has been twice rebuilt. Many of the asylums was now no longer young, to whom hope and love now in use in Europe were at first erected for are impossible; the handmaid only to another's churches or monasteries, but the reforms which happiness, mistress of none herself. Was she have since taken place in the treatment of the in- | thinking of the difference between herself and the sane, have led to corresponding changes in the stars as she looked at them shedding light on the structure of the buildings. In our own country black rocks and the barren fells? Was she measthere are at present about forty asylums for the uring the distance between her and her fate, her insane, the majority of which are in the Northern desires and her possessions, as she watched the States. In all of these institutions the treatment waves striving to reach the soft cool moss upon is of the most humane and successful character. the bank, to be thrust back by shingles and the The large number of cures which have been pro- stones? Or was she dreaming of a possible fuduced by the form of treatment at present pur- ture, when the rocks should be beautiful with sued by the respective superintendents constitute flowers, and the fells golden with furze, and when a much greater percentage on the admissions than the waves would have passed that rough bar, and is generally supposed, ranging from thirty to six- have crept peacefully to the foot of the mossy ty, as the cases may be of recent or of longer du- | bank ? Was she dreaming of happiness, or was ration. The number of patients admitted to the she learning to suffer? Narrowing her heaven to Asylum on Blackwell's Island during the last seven within the compass of the earth, or losing earth in years was 3160, of which 2381 were foreigners, the heaven of nobleness and sacrifice? Who could and 779 natives. The whole institution is under tell? Thoughts are but poorly interpreted by eyes, the care of Dr. M. H. Ranney, whose treatment and a sigh gives no more than the indication of a of the insane has been attended with the most feeling. marked success..

"Let us go on the lake, Margaret, and take

Ada with us,” said Horace, suddenly rousing him-, est cynic must have praised, the sternest stoic self from his reverie, and leaving the shadow in must have loved. which he had been standing.

"What a child! What a lovely child !" said “Yes,” said Margaret, in a low voice, and with Horace, half to himself, turning from ber and yet the start of one awakened out of a sleep in which still holding her hand against his shoulder. “You she had been dreaming pleasantly. “Ada will are repaid now, Margaret," he added, tenderly, enjoy that!"

“ for your long years of thought and care. Your She turned her face to the window where Ada life is blessed indeed ; far more so than many sat, poring over a book of pictures by the lamp- which have more the appearance of fulfillment." light, her little head hidden under its weight of “Yes," said Margaret," raising her dark eyes ringlets, like an apple-blossom spray bent down full into his. “My life is very, very happy now, with flowers.

Horace.' Nothing is wanting to it, nothing. A "Child, will you come to Lily Island with home, a child, a friend; what could I ask of fate Horace and me?” she said, caressingly. * Your that I have not got ?" vase is empty, and the old enchanters used to say He looked at her affectionately. “Good, unthat flowers should be gathered when the moon- selfish Margaret !” he said. Boon and blessing light is upon them, if they were to have any spell. to your whole world! Without you, at least two And you know you said you wished to enchant lives would be incomplete your sister's and mine. Horace. Will you come ?"

We should be desolate wayfarers, without a guide She smiled and held out her hand caressingly and without a light, if you were not here. I can

The girl flung her book on the floor with a lit- not say that you are needful to us, Margaret: you tle cry of pleasure. “Oh, that will be delightful!" | are much more than needful.” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It was so A smile of infinite happiness wandered over stupid, Margaret, in here all alone, with nothing Margaret's face as she repeated softly, “ Am I but those wearisome old pictures that I have seen then needful to you, Horace ?" and her eyes hundreds of times before. I was wondering when lighted up with such love and fervor, that for a you and Horace would be tired of talking philos moment she was as absolute in youth and beauty ophy together, for you are always wandering away as little Ada herself. Even Horace looked at her among minds and stars-far out of my depth.” again, as at a face he did not know; but the smile Which, perhaps, would not have been difficult to and the glance faded away as they had come, and any one who could wade deeper than the hom- the gloom of physical unloveliness clouded over book.

her face thick and dark as ever. All the time Ada was chattering thus, she was “Margaret is very good; she is true and nogathering up from the sofa her gloves, shawl, and ble; but she is fearfully plain !" Horace thought bonnet ; losing vast quantities of time in search to himself. “My father, who was so fond of ing behind the pillars for her shawl pin, which beauty, would have said she was sinfully ugly. she did not find after all. For the sofa was Ada's What a pity, with such a fine nature !” And he toilet-table and unfathomable well generally, serv- looked from her to Ada. ing various kinds of duties. “We will go, Mar- Ada was all impatience to set off; and Mar. garet,” she continued, running through the room garet must go in for her shawl and bonnet withon to the balcony, her shawl thrown on to her out a moment's delay. Smiling at her little sisshoulders awry, and holding her straw bonnet by ter's impetuous sovereignty, Margaret went into its long blue strings. “ Remember, I am to crown the house, like a patient mother with a favorite you like a naiad, and Horace is to be your triton. child; shaking her head, though, as she passed Are those words pronounced properly, Horry?" the little one, standing there in her woman's And she put her arms round the artist as a child beauty and her child's artlessness; and saying, might have done, and looked into his face pret “ You are spoilt, my darling," conveyed by look tily.

and accent, “I love you better than my own life," “You are to do just as you like, fairy Ada," instead. said Horace, fondly, patting her round cheek. “Come to me, Ada," said Horace, as Margaret “You are too childish to contradict, and not wise went into the house. “Your hair is all in disenough to convince; so you must even be in order. Careless child! at seventeen you ought dulged for weakness' sake if not for love." This still to have a nurse." was to correct his flattery.

“Now leave me alone, Horace, and never mind But it was not flattery after all; for she was my hair,” said Ada, escaping from him to the like a fairy, hanging round him and caressing other end of the balcony. “You never see me bim so childishly; her little feet falling without without finding fault with my hair; and I am sure echo as they glanced restlessly from beneath her it is not so bad. What is the matter with it !" wide flounces, and her yellow hair hanging down She shook it all over her face, and took up the like golden strands. She was like one of those ringlets one by one, to examine them; pouting a flowers in fairy books from whose heart flows out little, but very lovely still. an elfin queen; like a poet's vision of a laughing Horace was not to be coaxed nor frightened. nymph; a wandering peri masked for a while in He caught her in her retreat, and drew her to him, human features; like a dewdrop sparkling in the giving her a lecture on neatness that was rather sun; a being made up of light, and love, and against his instincts. But no matter ; it served laughter; so beautiful and innocent that the cold-its purpose. Part of those yellow ringlets had been caught among the blue cornflowers under | am not steady enough to guide myself; still, less, the bonnet she had perched on the top of her head, others !” And she almost cried, which was a and part had been folded in with her awkward common manifestation of feeling with her, and shawl. They were all in a terrible condition of looked so distressed that Margaret took her face ruffle; and Horace made her stand there before between her hands and kissed her forehead for him like a child, while he smoothed them back comfort. deftly enough, scolding her all the time, but very “Don't be downcast, my child," she said tenderly. Then, impelled by a sudden impulse, gently; “ we all make mistakes sometimes, and that seemed to overmaster him, he bent down close seldom any so venial as all-but running the May to her, and whispered something in her ear, so Fly on the rocks. Go and comfort Horace, and low that the very swallows sleeping under the ask him if he sprained his wrist in that strange eaves could not have dreamed they heard its echo; Venetian manœuvre of his. I am sure you have and when he ended he said, "Do you, Ada ?" as been quarreling on the balcony, Ada-you look if his very soul and all his hopes had been center- so shy of him!” And she laughed pleasantly, ed in her answer.

“Oh, no-no!” cried Ada, trying to look in“ Yes-no-ask Margaret," cried Ada, strug- different, but unsuccessfully. Then, with a sudgling herself free; and then she added with a den shake of her head, as if shaking it clear of ringing laugh, “Oh, it is only a jest. You are fancies, she ran over the thwarts and sat down not serious, Horace?" rushing almost into Mar- by Horace frankly ; but terribly in his way for garet's arms as she stepped through the open the sweep of an oar. She leaned on his shoulder window.

and played with his hair, in her old familiar man“What is it all about ?" asked Margaret, look ner; asking him " if he were cross yet?--what ing from Ada with her burning cheeks, to Horáce, made him so grave ?" pale and agitated. “Have you been quarreling "Not cross at any time with you," he said, ever since I left you?

bending his head to her hands. “Sometimes Neither spoke for a moment; and at last, Hor- thoughtful—and about you." ace said with a visible effort : “I will speak to His grave voice made Ada pause. "Are you you alone of this, Margaret. You alone can de- unhappy ?" she said ; and her hand stole gently cide it ;" grasping her hand warmly.

to his forehead. They went down the balcony steps, through “No. I am very happy at this moment,” he the garden, and then through the shrubbery of said. "At the worst of times only in doubt." rhododendrons and azalias, and then through the He looked at Margaret as he spoke wistfully, little wicket gate that opened upon the shingly " In doubt of what, Horace?" she asked. bay, where the May Fly lay moored in Ada's har- “Whether sisterly affection might ever take a bor-just under the shadow of the purple beech. dearer name; or whether a niche might be reAda sprang into the little skiff first, as usual, in served for me in the temple of a beloved life." sisting on steering; an art about which she knew The boat was floating through the water-lilies as much and attended to as carefully as if a as he spoke. They touched the shore of the islproblem of Euclid had been before her. But she was generally allowed to have her own way; and “Now sermonize together!” cried Ada, springthey pushed out of the harbor, Ada at the helm, ing on shore and rushing away into the wood. murmuring a love-song about a Highland Jeanie She was going to look for mosses, she said, and tried and true,"chanting to the nixies," Horace ferns for the rockwork in her garden ; for Horace said—as she bent over the gunwale and looked and Margaret were best alone. into the water. Margaret's face was turned up | A rustic bench or chair had been placed in the ward, and Horace-his fine head almost idealized green knoll just above the landing-place, and in this gentle light-sat gazing at the two sisters, there Horace and Margaret seated themselves ; while the tender moon flowed over all; flooding watching the stars in the lake, and waiting until Ada's golden curls with a light as gay as laugh- their darling should return to them again. ter, and losing itself in the thick braids of Mar- “Your life has been an anxious one for many garet's hair, like life absorbed in death.

years, Margaret," said Horace, after another of “Ada means to shipwreck us," cried Horace their long intervals of silence had fallen like a suddenly, avoiding Dead Man's Rock only by a dark cloud over them. He was agitated; for his skillful turning of the oar, as the Venetian boat- voice trembled, though his face was hidden by men had taught him.

his slouched hat, and Margaret could not see it. Margaret' caught the tiller-string and drew it “Yes,” she answered quietly ; "since my home, and the little boat glanced off, just grazing dear father's death, when Ada was left to my her keel as she scudded over the furthest point of care-I so young and she a mere infant—I have the sunken rock.

had many hours of care and anxious thought. " Ada, child, are your thoughts so far from But I have come out into the calm and sunshine earth that you can not see Death when he stands now. My darling has grown up all that the tenin the way? What were you thinking of, love, derest mother could demand for her child ; and I when you nearly gave a plural to Dead Man's am more than repaid by the beauty of the nature

which perhaps I helped to form, by the power of “Oh, nothing-nothing. But do you take the my own love and the sacrifice of my whole life." holm, Mar," Ada exclaimed, half in tears.. “Il “Ah, Margaret !" cried Horace, warmly


Rock ?"

"queen in soul as well as in name; queen of all | and shall I not always love you and be near you? womanly virtues and of all heroic powers, my | Horace will not separate us." heart swells with gratitude and love when I think A shudder ran through Margaret. This blindof all that you have been to Ada; of how you ness and unconscious egotism shocked and chillhave fed her life with your own, and emptied ed her. A moment more, and the pain was your cup of happiness into her's. Dear Mar-pressed back with a strong hand : the sacrifice garet! - friend more than sister --what do we was accepted with a firm heart. She raised her not owe you of boundless love, of infinite re- | head and looked up, saying, “ God be with you, turn !"

dear ones, now and ever!” as she joined their Margaret did not speak. Her heart was beat-hands, tears slowly filling her dark eyes, and falling loud and fast, and her eyes, heavy with joy, ing hot and heavy over her face. were bent on the ground. But the lashes and Nothing could be done without Margaret. the black brows were portals which suffered no Every inch of the way, to the steps of the altar, meaning to pass beyond them; and Horace did she must walk hand in hand with Ada, the little not read the revelation written in those eyes, one never dreaming of the fiery ordeal her love which else might have arrested, if it had not and childish weakness caused that suffering changed, the future.


spirit to endure. And even when she had de“And now, Margaret," continued Horace, scended the altar-steps by the side now of an“you know how dear you are to me. You know other guide, Margaret was still her support, and that your happiness will be my chief care, and to her counsel the favorite rule of her conduct. honor and cherish you my joy as well as my The loving gentle child !- frightened somewhat duty." Margaret's thin hands closed convul- at the new duties she had undertaken, and feel. sively on each other ; she bent nearer to him un- ing that she could not fulfill them without Mar. consciously--her head almost on his shoulder. garet's help: believing that she could not eren “ You know how much I have loved you and please Horace unless Margaret taught her how. our fairy child there, and how this love has grad-When her sister remonstrated with her, and enually closed round the very roots of my heart, till deavored to give her confidence in herself, and now I can scarcely distinguish it from my life, told her that she must act more independently and would not esteem my life without it. Tell now, and not look for advice in every small affair, me, Margaret, you consent to my prayer. That but study to win her husband's respect as well you consent to deliver up to my keeping your very as to preserve his love, Ada's only answer was a heart and soul, the treasure of your love and the weary sigh, or a flood of tears, and a sobbing passion of your life. Will you make me so complaint that “Margaret no longer loved her, blessed, Margaret-dearest Margaret !"

and if she had known it would have changed her She turned her eyes upon him, dark with love, so she would never have married-never!" and moist and glad. Her arms opened to re- What could the sister do? What only great ceive him and to press him close upon her heart ; | hearts can do-pity ; be patient, and learn from and her lips' trembled as she breathed softly, sorrow the nobleness not always taught by hap“Yes, Horace, yes, I will give you all.” piness. Ada was too young for her duties; and

“Dearest !-best! he cried. “ Friend, sister, Margaret knew this, and had said so; daring to beloved Margaret ! how can I thank you for your be so brave to her own heart, and to rely so trust in me-how reward your gift? Ada -my wholly on her truth and singleness of purpose, Ada !" and his voice rang through the island, tbe as to urge on Horace her doubts respecting this little one coming at its call. “Here, to me, marriage, telling him she feared that its weight child adored !” he continued, snatching her to would crush rather than ennoble the tender child, him ; “ here to your home ; to your husband's and advising him to wait, and try to strengthen, heart, first thanking your more than mother there before he tried, her. Advice not much regarded, for the future, which, my love, infinite as Heaven, how much soever it might be repented of hereafshall make one long day of joy and happiness to ter that it had not been more respected, but fall. you. Thank her, Ada—thank her! for she has ing, as all such counsels generally do fall, on given me more than her own life.”

ears too fast closed by love to receive it. All that “Horace !” groaned Margaret, covering her Margaret could do was to remain near them, and face with her hands. “This is a pain too great ; help her sister to support the burden of her exa sacrifice too hard. My heart will break. God, istence; drinking daily draughts of agony no one do Thou aid me!”

dreamed of, yet never once rejecting the cup as The passionate agony of that voice checked too bitter or too full. She acted out her life's even Horace in his joy. It was too grieving, too tragedy bravely to the last, and was more heroic despairing, to be heard unmoved. The man's in that small domestic circle than many a martyr eyes filled up with tears, and his lip quivered. dying publicly before men, rewarded by the “ Poor Margaret !” he said to himself, “ how she knowledge that his death helped forward Truth. loves her sister. I have asked too much of her. With Margaret there was no excitement, no reYet she shall not lose her."

ward, save what suffering gives in nobleness and “No, Margaret,” whispered Ada, crying bit worth. terly, one hand on her lover's shoulder and the Horace fell in with this kind of life naturally other round her sister's waist, “it shall be no enough. It was so pleasant to have Margaret pain, no sacrifice. Will you not still love me, always with them to appeal to her strong sense

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