the whole tune is suddenly let loose upon the soul! Blindness, methinks, I could endure and live,—but in deafness, my spirit would die within me, and I should pray for death. Shepherd.-Baith maun be sair trials, yet baith are cheerfully borne. The truth is, sir, that a Christian can bear onything-for ae moment's thought, during his repining, tells him whence the affliction comes-and then sorrow saftens awa' into resignation, and delight steals into the heart o' the maist desolate. North. The creature now singing away at her pleasant work, a few weeks ago lost her mother. There never was a more affectionate or more dutiful child,-yet as you said, James, Flora is now happy as a bird. Shepherd.-Yet perhaps, sir, were we to come upon her the noo-She has stopt singin' a' at once, in the very middle o' the tune-we micht see her sittin' idle amang the flowers, wi' a pale face, greetin' by hersell, as she keeps lookin' at her black gown, and thinkin' on that burial-day, or her father's countenance, that sin syne has seldom brichten'd. North. There is something most affecting in the natural sorrows of poor men, my dear Shepherd, as, after a few days' wrestling with affliction, they appear again at their usual work-melancholy, but not miserable. Shepherd. You ken a gude deal, sir, about the life and character of the poor; but then it's frae philosophical and poetical observation and sympathy-no frae art-and-part participation, like mine, in their merriment and their meesery. Folk in what they ca' the upper classes o' society, a' look upon life, mair or less, as a scene o' enjoyment, and amusement, and delicht. They get a' selfish in their sensibilities, and would fain mak the very laws o' natur obedient to their wull. Thus they cherish and encourage habits o' thocht and feeling, that are maist adverse to obedience and resignation to the decrees o' the Almighty-when these decrees dash in pieces small the idols o' their earthly worship. Shepherd.-Ane wad think that nae parents had ever lost a child aforeyet hoo mony a sma' funeral do you see ilka day pacin' alang the streets unheeded on amang the carts and hackney-coaches! North.-Unheeded, as a party of upholsterer's men carrying furniture to a new house. Shepherd.-There is little or naething o' this thochtless, this senseless clamor in kintra houses, when the cloud o' God's judgment passes ower them, and orders are gien for a grave to be dug in the kirkyard. A' the house is hushed and quate-just the same as if the patient were still sick, and no gaen awa'-the father, and perhaps the mother, the brothers, and the sisters, are a gangin' about their ordinary business, wi' grave faces nae doubt, and some o' them now and then dichtin', the draps frae their een ; but, after the first black day, little audible greetin', and nae indecent and impious outcries. North. The angler calling in at the cottage would never know that a corpse was the cause of the calm. Shepherd.-Rich folk, if they saw sic douce, composed ongoings, wad doubtless wonder to think hoo callous, hoo insensible were the poor! That natur had kindly denied to them those fine feelings that belonged to cultivated life! But if they heard the prayer o' the auld man at nicht, when the survivin' family were on their knees around the wa', and his puir wife neist him in the holy circle, they wad ken better, and confess that there is something as sublime, as it is sincere and simple, in the resignation and piety of those humble Christians, whose doom it is to live by the sweat o' their brow, and who are taught, almost frae the cradle to the grave, to feel every hour they breathe, that all they enjoy, and all they suffer, is dropt down from the hand o' God, almost as visibly as the dew or the hail,—and hence their faith in things unseen and eternal, is firm as their belief in things seen and temporal-and that they a' feel, sir, when lettin' doon the coffin into the grave! North.-Take another glass, my dear friend, of Mrs. Gentle's elderflower wine. Shepherd.-Frontignac! But, harken! There, again, the bit happy motherless cretur is beguiled into anither sang! Her ain voice, sir, brings comfort frae a' the air around, even as if it were an angel's sang, singin' to her frae the heart o' heaven! North.-From how many spiritual sources come assuagings of our most mortal griefs! Shepherd. It's a strathspey!canna understand the want o' an ear. When I'm alone, I'm aye either whistlin', or singin', or hummin,' till I fa' into thocht; and then baith thochts and feelings are swayed, if I'm no sair mista'en, in their main current by the tune, whether gay or sad, that your heart has been harpin' on; so, if I had na a gude ear, the loneliness o' the hills wad be unco wearisome, unvisited by involuntary dreams about indefinite things! Do folk aye think in words? North.-Generally, I suspect. Shepherd.-Yet the thocts maun come first, surely. I fancy words and thocts fly until ane anither's hauns. A thousan' thochts may be a' wrapt up in ae wee bit word-just as a thousand beauties in ae wee bit flower. They baith expand out into beauty-and then there's nae end to the creations o' the eye and the earfor the soul sits ahint the pupil o' the tane, and the drum o' the tither, and takin' a hint frae tone or hue, expawtiates ower the universe. North.-Scottish Music, my dear James, is to me rather monotonous. Shepherd. So is Scottish Poetry, sir. It has nae great range; but buman natur never wearies o' its ain prime elementary feelings. A man may sit a haill nicht by his ingle, wi' his wife and bairns, without either thinkin' or feelin' muckle; and yet he's perfectly happy till bed-time, and says his prayers wi' fervent gratitude to the Giver o' a' mercies. It's only whan he's beginnin' to tire o' the hummin' o' the wheel, or o' his wife flytin' at the weans, or o' the weans upsettin' the stools, or ruggin' ane anither's hair, that his fancy takes a very poetical flight into the regions o' the Imagination. Sae lang's the heart sleeps amang its affections, it dwalls upon few images; but these images may be infinitely varied; and, when expressed in words, the variety will be felt. Sae that, after a', it's scarcely correct to ca' Scottish Poetry monotonous, or Scottish Music, either, ony mair than you would ca' a kintra level, in bonnie gentle ups and downs, or a sky dull, though the clouds were neither mony nor multiform; a' depends upon the spirit. Twa-three notes may mak' a maist beautifu' tune; twa-three woody knowes a bonny landscape; and there are some bit streams amang the hills, without ony striking or very peculiar scenery, that it's no possible to dauner along at gloamin' without feelin' them to be visionary, as if they flowed through a land o' glamor. It's the same thing wi' faces. Little depends on the features; a' on the composition. There is a nameless something that tells, when the color o' the een, and o' the hair, and o' the cheeks, and the roundin' aff o' the chin rin until the throat, and then awa' aff, like a wave o' the sea, until the breast is a' harmonious as music; and leaves ane lookin' at the lasses as if they were listenin' to a melody that's sweetly play'd in tune!" Sensibility feels a' this; Genius creates it; and in Poetry it dwells, like the charm in the Amulet. APHORISMS ON INSANITY. BY THOMAS BAKEWELL. THE most important and positive good relating to insanity, is the cure of it; and therefore, any public or charitable institution for the insane, which does not provide the very best means of cure, may be highly injurious, and the evil done by it greatly overbalance the good. Insanity is, in almost every instance, a perfectly curable disease, if properly treated from its quite recent or incipient state; but from the power of habit on the functions of thought, there is no disease that becomes more certainly incurable from delay alone. The very best treatment for the cure of insanity is easy to be understood, and in practice it gives much less trouble than the necessary management does where the best means of cure are not in use; and taking the average term of human life, it may be fairly calculated, that under the worst treatment insanity occasions ten times the expense, and ten times the trouble, that it does under the best. It may be taken for granted, whether judging from a right theory of the disease, or a history of facts, that the very worst system of treatment which prevails for the cure of insanity, is that which has been provided for by a law of the land, and supported at an extremely heavy expense to the counties and parishes where it has been established. In the best treatment for the cure of insanity, the best comforts of the patients may be fully consulted and practised, with the exception of not giving indulgence to their particular hallucinations. As insanity is most assuredly occasioned by a morbid excitement of the nervous system, the treatment should as much as possible be what would be proper in cases of nervous disease, where no mental aberrations had been detected. In all confirmed cases of insanity, removal from home, and from all the irritations that may arise out of family intercourse, is absolutely necessary for the best chance of cure. On the removal of insane patients for the purposes of cure, great care should be taken, that they are not subjected to anything at all calculated to wound the feelings of a sane person, if placed in the same situation. Every institution for the cure of insanity, should be situated upon an healthy eminence, commanding views of various objects, and, of all things, be in sight of a road much travelled, or of a road for shipping. The building should be convenient for properly classing the patients, and assembling them upon proper occasions, and be fire-proof in all its parts. The medical treatment should be gentle, but almost unremitting; in reference to an almost constant tendency in the patients, particularly those of a melancholy or desponding cast, to a want of healthy tone in the digestive and secretive functions; and if this tendency is not timely counteracted, the mental disease is aggravated. The food should be light and nourishing, and in quantity ample, yet not in excess, but nothing stimulating or heating, or anything strong to drink, to be allowed. All external irritating applications, particularly topical bleedings, blisters, setons, and issues, should be positively avoided. Frequent exercises or employments in the open air, can by no means be dispensed with; and unremitting exertions are always required, and sometimes much patience is called for, in the treatment of the insane. The moral treatment of the insane presupposes a moral sense in the patient, and the disease is not, in its most general state, any deprivation of knowledge or memory, nor of the reasoning powers. It is simply a diseased excitement of the involuntary thoughts and mental feelings being partial and intermittent; so that at times, and upon a particular train of the ideas called the hallucination, it overpowers the suggestions of reason; but at intervals, or upon a change in the train of ideas, the exercise of the reasoning powers may be as perfect as they ever were, and this even in those that are in an incurable state of the disease, but much more so in those that are curable. It is there fore obvious, that patients under insanity should be treated as much as possible as rational beings, and have their reasoning powers exercised as much as possible on those subjects upon which they are correct, and avoiding those upon which they are found to be incorrect; this weakens the habit of the hallucination. The thoughts should be continually diverted by strong and pleasurable impressions upon the senses, particu larly upon the senses of seeing and hearing, with the careful avoidance of whatever is calculated to depress the spirits. Pleasing sights and sounds should often rouse the dormant or desponding thoughts to a correct exercise. The cordial of hope should be constantly administered, and the consolations of religion should afford her daily and choicest treasures; and in recent cases, where there is a tolerable share of bodily health, perfect and permanent recovery may be confidently anticipated. In cases where the disease is recent, lunatics, if all under process of cure, may become very proper associates for each other, but old cases never can. No one should undertake the superintendence of an hospital for the cure of insanity, who is not fully competent both in the medical and moral treatment. THE FLOWER GIRL. IF I beheld it in a dream, Its pale and wavering shadows strewed, Wild troop of wandering sprites. And leagued in scattered knots, the flowers, By the strong oak, or lady beech, Like noises of the human crowd, The growth and wreck of time; And with the finer sense was filled And blew in every gale. Quick through the wood, with airy spring, Came forth a maiden child; Her look was free and mild. Five summers' joys had stirred her breast, The rooks made known with clamors loud Her skin below the knee was seen, Like lonely voice of sage or bard, The sky laughed out at summer's birth, And sandals, knit of rushes green, Were twined her ankles round. To tufts of all the flowers that blow, I lived but in her look. And when her ministry was done, Fades from the darkened field away, Bright train and sure defence; Or scare thy innocence. The gorgeous wreath thy hand has culled, That earth from heaven receives. Of all so loved by thee; And not a leaf in field or wood Shall cheer and light the solitude, Or woo a pilgrim bee. But thou, fair child, while fades the prize Shall swell thy beauty's dower. No sweeter braid shall bind thy brow, But oh, how lovelier far shall be THE FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBANS. [This is the name of a work recently published in Edinburgh. It is a book of extravagant and supernatural romance, is splendidly imaginative, and contains many eloquent passages. Of the vivid style in which it is written, our readers will doubtless form a favorable opinion on being informed that it is by the author of the "First and Last" sketches, which have appeared in this volume of the Atheneum. We detach two short extracts, which will confirm this opinion.] THE IDIOT GIRL. ONE melancholy circumstance accompanied this night of mystery and panic. A poor idiot girl, about sixteen years of age, had been left in bed by her mother (who was of humble occupation), while she stole out to join the throng of anxious spectators. It was never known under what impulse, or in what way, this witless creature, with merely her night-clothes on, had wandered forth; but so it was; for on her return, the distracted mother found her gone, and the next morning she was found a corse, beneath the walls of the abbey. Whether she had strayed unobserved to the spot, beheld the strange scene of the night before, and fell a victim to terrors which she could only feel, but not express; or whether, having roamed beyond the knowledge of return, she, after awhile, laid her down to sleep, close by what she deemed a warming 60 ATHENEUM, VOL. 2, 3d series. fire, and so perished from cold, thinly clad as she was, could be nothing more than surmise. It was too true that the poor idiot died, and that her wretched self-accusing mother felt more than a mother's anguish for her death. She was her only child, and the very calamity which shut her out from all the rest of the world, made her tenfold more dear to her. "She could have borne her loss," she said, "had it pleased God to take her in the usual way; but she knew her poor Marian had gone in search of her, who had never left her thus before, and so she met her death; and that thought she could not bear." When Peverell reached his own house, his man Francis met him with a strangely mysterious look and manner. "Here is one within," said he, "that will not, by any dint of persuasion, go; though I have been two good hours trying my skill to that end." "Who is it?" inquired Peverell. "That, neither, can I discover," quoth Francis. "She knocked at the door-it might be something after eleven, perhaps near upon twelve-and when I opened it, she whips into the hall without saying a word, walks into every room in the house-I following her, as a beadle follows a rogue, till he sees him beyond the parish bounds and at last takes possession of your |