(Written by Mr, Moncrieff, for the Mirror.) COMFORT! truly English feeling, Other lands know not thy name, Rapture is too brief a bliss, But, Comfort! thou'st, for all a balm, Comfort! this with thee we win, To sit our own fire-sides about, With wife and children, friends and kin, Whilst loud the tempest roars without. Peace and plenty at our board, Circling round the sparkling wine, Comfort! thou'st, for all, a balm, Then be still my bosom's guest. 'Tis thine to keep old customs up, Nor in the world a foeman fear, To give the poor the welcome cup, And make it wassail all the year. Let France for glory play her part, Let pride the Spaniard's bosom thrill, Let Italy reign first in art, Give us our English comfort, still. TO A LADY WEEPING, Ah, lady, why that tear !-can thy young heart The sympathies 'tis only thine to know! Thy soul should meet the love that never dies! ANECDOTES OF THE INSANE.* IN insanity, all the faculties are not deranged. There may be merely an absurd belief upon some one point;-the patient being in his senses with respect to other subjects. Many who are deranged will read, and understand what they read. They will paint, exhibit skill in mechanical contrivances, work, and talk rationally on many subjects; and some will even shew extreme sagacity in accomplishing their mad purposes, in concealing their mad impressions, and convincing others of the truth of their mad notions. In a case of insanity tried at Chester, before Lord Mansfield, the patient was so clever, that he evaded questions in court the whole of the day; and seemed to every body perfectly sane. Dr. Batty, however, came into court; and, knowing the point of the man's derangement, asked what had become of the princess, with whom he had been in the habit of corresponding in cherry-juice. The man instantly forgot himself; and said it was true he had been confined in a castle; where, for want of pen and ink, he had written his letters in cherry-juice, and thrown them into the stream below; where the princess received them in a boat. This, however, is not all; for patients often have some of their mental faculties increased by insanity. Dr. Rush says he had. a deranged female patient, who composed and sang hymns and songs delightfully; although she had previously shewn no talent for music or poetry. There was here an excitement of one part of the brain; while another part was going wrong. Dr. Rush also knew two cases of insanity, in which great talent was shewn for drawing. Dr. Willis had a patient, who, in the paroxysms of insanity, remembered long passages of Latin authors, and took extreme delight in repeating them; but not at other times. Dr. Cox mentions a musician, who talked madly on all subjects but music; for which his talent appeared increased. His performances on the violin were strikingly singular and original. Dr. Rush mentions the case of a gentleman who was deranged; but who often delighted and astonished the rest of the patients, and the officers of the Institution, by his displays of oratory when preaching. Pinel, a celebrated French physician, mentions the case of a man who was very vulgar at other times; but who, in his paroxysms of insanity, while standing upon a table in the Hospital, discoursed very eloquently upon the French Revolution; and with the dignity and propriety of language of the best educated man. Circumstances similar to these have been seen in fever. When the brain is la * Continued from page 70; and extracted from Dr. Elliotson's Lectures on Medicine, edited by Dr. Rogers. bouring under the excitement of fever, a person who has previously shewn but little talent for singing, may sing very correctly; and sometimes, although an individual may he delirious, he will speak very eloquently on certain subjects. This is a state which does not last long. So much with respect to the intellectual faculties: But the propensities and sentiments are frequently disturbed in insanity. Some are so far disturbed as to be very superstitious; some are very respectful; while some, again, are very impious. Some are thievish; some are modest; some are quite the opposite; some are very silly; some are very cheerful; some are melancholy; some are fearful. Some have felt an impulse to kill themselves; and some to kill others. When I was at the University (Cambridge), there was a person who was said to have attempted, three times, to set the College on fire. It was ascertained that, when he was young, he had attempted to drown a child; yet nobody ever suspected him of being mad. You may recollect the instance of a man, who murdered a very excellent gentleman and his lady (Mr. and Mrs. Bonar) at Chiselhurst, in Kent. The murderer was a footman in the family; and, one night, he left his room, went up stairs to the apartment of his master and mistress, and beat their brains out with a poker. He was asked his reason; but could give none. He said he had always been treated by them with the greatest kindness; but he felt suddenly in the night a desire to kill them; and he supposed the devil had prompted him to the act. No other symptom of insanity was detected in him; and he was hanged. Dr. Gall mentions the case of a person at Vienna, who went to witness an execution; and was seized with a propensity to kill. At the same time, he had a clear consciousness of his situation. He expressed the greatest aversion to such a crime. He wept bitterly; struck his head; wrung his hands; and cried to his friends to take care, and get out of the way. He felt the inclination; regretted it; and entreated every one to prevent his doing mischief, by putting him into prisor. Pinel mentions the case of a man, who exhibited no unsoundness of intellect; but who confessed he had a propensity, in spite of himself, to commit murder; and his wife, notwithstanding the tenderness he really felt for her, was near being murdered by him ;--for he had only time to warn her to fly. In the interval he expressed the same remorse; felt disgusted with life; and attempted, several times, to put an end to his existence. In a work by Mr. Hill, you will read of a man who was tried at Norwich, in 1805, for wounding his wife, and cutting his child's throat. He had been known to tie himself with ropes for a week, to prevent his doing mischief to others. One of the members of a family in London, is said to have used these words:- Do, for God's sake, get me confined; for if I am at liberty, I shall destroy myself and wife! I shall do it unless all means of destruction are removed; and therefore do have me put under restraint! Something from above tells me I must do it; and I shall!" Arsenic was put into a pudding; and the maid-servant was executed for it; but many persons were perfectly convinced of her innocence. Dr. Gall mentions having seen a person in prison at Friburg, who had set fire to his house four times in succession; and who, after he had set fire to it, tried to put it out. Some have an irresistible desire to steal;without any other mark of insanity. Gall says, that the first king of Sweden was always stealing trifles. Instances are mentioned of a German, who was constantly pilfering; and of another who, having the desire to steal, entered the army;-hoping that the severe discipline there would restrain him. But he gave way to the propensity even there; and was very near being hanged. He then became a friar, with the same hope; but he still felt the same desire, and carried all the things he could to his cell; but as he could get only trifles, he was not noticed. Gail also mentions that a person at Vienna, in the habit of stealing, hired a lodging in which to deposit his thefts; and when he got a stock, he sold them. He stole only household matters. The wife of a celebrated physician at Leyden, never went into a shop to buy anything without stealing; and a countess at Frankfort had the same propensity. Ancther lady, notwithstanding all the care with which she had been brought up, had the same desire to pilfer. You will find it related of a physician, that his wife was always obliged to examine his pockets in the evening, and restore to his patients the things she found there. He always took something, as well as his fee. Meritz speaks of a criminal who, at the moment he was about to be executed, stole the confessor's snuff-box. Dr. Burner, who was one of the physicians to the king of Bavaria, speaks of a person who enjoyed abundance, and had been well educated; but who, notwithstanding, was always stealing; and was made a soldier by his father, and at last got hanged. The son of a celebrated and learned man,―himself very clever, and respectably connected in every respect,— could not resist this propensity; and I could go on to furnish you with instances without end, of individuals who acted thus (as it would appear) from insanity;-not from any criminal motives; but from a blind desire too strong for them to resist. At this period, the small and barren island of Rona was the hiding-place of Captain M'Donald, a younger brother of the chief of Moidart, and one of those daring spirits who had rendered themselves particularly obnoxious to the government, by their activity in fomenting the rebellion, and afterwards, in facilitating the escape of the prince. He had been some weeks on the island, under the protection of Rory M'Allister, his foster-father, who, with his wife, was the only inhabitant of this barren rock, when, to his great joy, he one evening descried a ship, carrying the private signal of his party, standing off to the westward. He immediately answered the signal, and anxiously awaited the approach of night. The day was closing with every appearance of a coming storm; and Rory M'Allister's practised eye could discover, that the brave bark, which had ventured into the very jaws, as it were, of the British ships of war, was closely reefed, as it passed between him and the fiery disk of the sun just disappearing in the western waters. At any other time, Captain M'Donald would have hailed the approach of a storm with pleasure, as it would have afforded him an opportunity of leaving his cold, desolate retreat, to enjoy in security the comparative comfort of his humble friend's fire-side-a luxury he dared not venture upon, while the little island was accessible to the boats from the men of war. Two parties had been already despatched on different occasions to pay domiciliary visits to Rory, on suspicion of his harbouring his foster-son; but a very slight search sufficed to convince the pursuers that no human being could be concealed on the premises, viz., a mud cabin, containing one apartment; and the barren rock, surrounded, for the most part, by perpendicular cliffs, appeared very little better calculated to afford shelter. Rory had, however, discovered a place of concealment which he thought would defy the most active vigilance of his foster-son's enemies, and had accordingly carried him thither from the main-land. It was a cave opening into the face of the rock, a little above low-water mark, and rising in numerous shelves and compartments to the very brow of the cliff, where it ended in an aperture sufficiently large to admit light and air, but not ingress or egress to a full-grown person. In this cave, then, did Captain M'Donald pass the three weeks previous to the commencement of the present narrative, except him from all chance of a surprise. He somesuch intervals of stormy weather as secured times descended, with the assistance of his faithful friend, by ropes let down the face of the rock, and at other times, when the wea ther permitted, was carried round the island in Rory's skiff. It will be observed that the refugee's hiding-place became a prison during a portion of the time, owing to the rising of the tide, and, on such occasions, he received his scanty sustenance through the aperture at the top. Captain M'Donald was too much excited by the hope of escape, to retire to his strong-hold on the evening in question; but as the storm increased, his hopes began to vanish. Towards midnight it blew a hurricane, and, although it was impossible for any boat to effect a landing, yet he continued to look out at intervals, through the pitchy darkness, in the forlorn hope of seeing or hearing a friendly signal. Soon after midnight, a gun was heard to windward, and, notwithstanding the apparent uselessness of such a step, he proceeded in the direction of the cave, which was at the western extremity of the island. He had not been long there, when he distinctly heard another report, and saw a flash at no great distance. It was now evident that those guns were fired by a ship in distress, and as it was to windward, and probably not aware of the dangerous vicinity, its fate was but too likely to be soon decided. It was impossible to warn the ill-fated vessel of its danger; Captain M'Donald, therefore, could only await in painful anxiety the fearful catastrophe which, in all human probability, must inevitably occur. There was every reason to fear that the distressed ship was that which had been seen on the previous evening, a circumstance which greatly added to the intensity of his anxiety, as not only was his own escape rendered impossible for the present, but the lives of the brave men who had attempted to save him were likely to be sacrificed. The storm still raged with unabated fury, when Rory observed to his foster-son, that he fancied he could distinguish the sound of voices amidst the raging of the elements. Just at this instant a vivid flash of lightning burst through the surrounding gloom, and exhibited to their view for a moment a ship within an hundred yards of the cliff. In a few seconds a crash was heard-it had struck on a ledge of low rocks, about a cable's-length from the island. A confused cry of wild despair, rose for a moment above the warring elements, and then all was silent, save the thundering roar of the breakers dashing against the rock, which shook to its foundation. As the tide was low at the time, M'Donald determined to descend the face of the cliff, in the hope of rendering assistance, much against the advice of his friend, who remonstrated on the folly and madness of such an attempt, but in vain. He reached the mouth of the cave in safety, and, advancing to the edge of the lower rock, observed a dark mass left by the receding wave within a few feet of the spot where he stood. He made a dash at the object, and, pulling it beyond reach of the breakers, discovered a large dog, much exhausted, but still holding in its teeth the clothes of a child which he had evidently brought ashore. The brave Highlander carried the childa girl, as appeared from her garments, into the cave, and returned to the beach, but without further success. It was impossible to ascend with the child, which now gave signs of returning animation, by the same way he had descended; he therefore proceeded to the aperture at the top of the cavern, and succeeded, after some difficulty, in handing it to Rory M'Allister, enjoining him, at the same time, to hasten with it to his hut, and use every means to restore life. Before he could return, the advancing tide had driven the faithful dog into the cave, and cut off his own retreat for the present. Rory and his wife, having used every means in their power to restore warmth to the frozen limbs of the child so providentially saved from the waves, had the satisfaction of seeing her open her large dark eyes-fixed and meaningless, indeed, but still beautiful; they only wanted the familiar objects that were wont to meet their waking gaze, to light them up with conscious expression. But, alas! she had been rudely separated from those objects-from all, except the faithful dog, probably, the last of her old friends and left floating on the wild ocean, from which she was only saved to float on the ocean of life, the more dangerous of the two to a beautiful, but friendless orphan girl. Her scattered senses were, by degrees, recalled, and she began to speak, but in a language unknown to her kind attendants; nothing, therefore, could be learnt from her, concerning the ill-fated ship. By the time the tide had receded so far as to allow Captain M'Donald to leave his hiding place, the morning was far advanced, and the storm had entirely subsided. As he approached the mouth of the cavern, a melancholy scene presented itself: several human bodies, horribly disfigured, were lying on ledges of the rock, or jammed into crevices; a considerable portion of the fore-part of the wreck was still to be seen on the rock on which it first struck, and the remainder floated about in the little bay in front of the He was roused from the contemplation of this heart-sickening scene, by the appear cave. ance of one of the government cruizers rounding the island a little to the southward. He immediately retreated to his place of concealment, where he had not been long when he became seriously alarmed for his safety on seeing a boat put off from the man-of-war towards the wreck, which had attracted its attention. As the boat, in which were five persons, boarded the wreck, the noise roused the dog which had hitherto remained in the cave, and dashing into the water, he made for the rock. The unfortunate rebel's situation now appeared desperate; he had no doubt his hiding-place would be explored; to fly was impossible, and to offer resistance madness; he had, therefore, almost made up his mind to submit quietly, when he recollected a large fragment of rock which had frequently attracted his notice, in his descents into his stronghold. It was a huge mass, which some convulsion had deposited on a projecting point of the rock, on the southern verge of the cavern, about twenty feet above low water mark, and immediately overhanging the narrow passage which led to the only landing. place, which was on the opposite side. Although this fragment had been accidentally poised with such mathematical exactness as to resist the violence of the frequent storms to which it was exposed, yet a little mechanical force judiciously applied was capable of dislodging it. The idea of overwhelming his enemies by the removal of this rock, no sooner occurred to Captain M'Donald, than, with that promptness peculiar to minds familiarized to danger, and, clambering along the side of the cave, he seized a handspike belonging to the wreck, this time, rapidly approaching him, and had took his station behind it. The boat was, by reached the fatal point just as the powerful Highlander had applied his lever to the fragment, and concentrated all his strength for one desperate effort. The brave soldier felt a momentary pang of regret at the steru necessity that impelled him to such an act, even towards those who would have shown him no mercy. It was but for a moment-in the next instant the rock fell with a tremendous crash, scattering the boat and its devoted crew into a thousand pieces. Turning with pain from this scene of destruction, he ascended the cliff by the rope, which had not been removed since the previous night, and, hastening to join his friend, proposed, as the only course left open, that they should all leave the island immediately. This was readily agreed to by Rory, who had every reason to fear the vengeance of the enemy for the part he had taken in the affair. They reached the mainland in safety; and Captain M'Donald soon afterwards escaped to France, and Rory continued to evade the vigilance of his pursuers among the wilds of his native mountains, till his offences had been forgotten; while his wife, and the child that had been saved from the wreck, found shelter and protection with the Lady of Moidart. This child, whose parentage could never be traced, afterwards became the grand-daughter of the Lady of Moidart; and, on the restoration of the family estates, was the honoured mistress of those halls which she had entered a friendless orphan, and where she had been long known by the title of the beautiful "Maid of Rona." M. Manners and Customs. SKETCHES OF PARIS. The Morgue. As the visitor crosses the Pont St. Michel, he will perceive, in the centre of the Marché Neuf, a small square building, with stuccoed walls, and about the size and shape of the station houses on our rail-roads. It is called the Morgue, and it serves as a receptacle for the bodies of unknown persons, who are found drowned, or have met with accidental or sud den death in the streets. On entering, he will find on his left hand three large windows, guarded by a rail, and looking into a cham ber where the bodies are exposed to public view, in order that they may be claimed. There are eight marble slabs in the room, on which they are deposited, furnished with brass tablets to raise the head and shoulders upon. They are arranged in two rows, the first of which is for those whose death has been recent, and the second for any who may have arrived at a later stage of decomposition, and over these last, a stream of water is constantly playing. The clothes belonging to each are hung round the room, as a further means of recognition. Altogether, it is a sad mournful place, and few can look unmoved at the melancholy spectacle it presents. The gloomy and fearful days of the middle ages have passed away. The Tour de Nesle no longer overhangs the river, with its blood-stained walls, nor are the mangled corpses of all the brave and beautiful of "la jeune France" found beneath its windows-the infamous Marguerite, the dark Buridan, and the too confiding Philippe, and Gaulthier Daulnay, are no more, and their memory lives only in the traditions of the present age; but the Seine still gives up its daily victims, to the curious gaze of the people of Paris. It is not, however, the mere sight of the dead body which touches you, but there is some sad history, some fearful struggle, be tween the angels of good and evil, connected with most of those, whose remains are exposed there. It is presumed the majority are suicides, and a gloomy image of long-borne sorrow, and lonely misery, is awakened in us by that thought. Let us picture to ourselves the death of that poor creature, whose body they have just brought in, followed by a gaping crowd of idlers from the market. The corpse is that of a man, whose care-worn visage, and emaciated limbs, betoken much suffering, mental and bodily, while his decent apparel shows that he belonged to the better classes. Let us imagine the night he left his home for the last time: he has, perhaps, quitted the dwelling of years, and he will not enter it again, but cold and dead. It is a clear and bright evening, and the moon is calmly shining over the great city, and throwing a mellow and soothing light upon its noble edifices, but he heeds it not, for misery has so changed and warped all his better feelings, that the world has little to move him now, either by its beauty, or its sorrow. He has gone through fearful trials, and long ago enrolled himself among the number of sad and lonely hearts that are daily breaking around us ; but his griefs have become too much for him to strive against, and he cannot bear up against them as formerly, for his mind has lost its elasticity, like the spring-toy which we destroy by overstraining. He crosses the Pont Neuf, and descending the staircase, near the statue of Henri IV., arrives at the edge of the river beneath the arches. He has not been observed, and if he had, there is little sympathy to be found in the crowded thoroughfare of a great city, where each moves in the world of his own affairs, and is too much engaged with his own difficulties to notice those of others. He does not hesitate or quail in his fatal purpose, but he delays an instant, while he places his hat on the bank, and deposits in it a pocket-book. containing a few lines addressed to some former friend. He has untied a black ribbon from his neck, to which the portrait of one whom he had deeply loved in early life is attached. They had been engaged for some time, but cold and calculating interest broke the tie, and when all the presents on either side were returned, he kept that portrait as a remembrance of past and happier days. He has run on a wild and sad career since then, and there are few degrees of vice and debauchery that he has not arrived at; but as he looks, for the last time, at the picture, a train of long-slumbering ideas are conjured up, and scenes rise up of times long since past away, and sensations that he has long been a stranger to. Sad and heavy years have rolled on since that period, but he sees again the green trees and pastures of his home; the smooth turf of the forest, and its fair and leafy coverts, where they were accustomed to wile away the summer days together: the little village, and its modest church-and he stands absorbed in these reveries, until the hoarse tones of the great bell of Notre Dame booming heavily over the river, recall him from his visions, and they give place again to the |