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tion, saps the fortress of the intellect, and impresses upon the short remains of life the stamp of fatuity and of premature decay.

In considering the management of insanity, I shall limit my remarks to its moral character, whether the means to be employed are intended as prophylactic or preventive of the disease, or as curative agents; in both points the treatment is equally important, and may be readily made intelligible to the general reader.

During the existence of the disease, although kindness is essential, yet, it ought to be conjoined with firmness in the attendants, such as will not be turned from its object by the perverseness of the patient: but it should never assume the attitude of cruelty. When force is required, it should be sufficient to subdue at once the lunatic; an attempt to restrain him by inadequate means, merely tends to augment his violence. In the management of the insane, therefore, the most important measure is the obtaining attendants properly adapted to perform the various duties of the delicate and confidential situations, in which they are placed. It is a curious fact, that Pinel found that recovered insane patients have always proved the best keepers.

In the moral treatment of insanity, the first, the grand object is to secure the confidence of the lunatic; no severity nor restraint should be precipitately adopted; and kindness, under every shade of the disease, is more effectual than harshness. Maniacs are seldom so totally involved in the morbid associations of the malady, nor are their minds so brutalized, as to be insensible to the consolation derived from friendship and philanthropy. The moral treatment should not terminate with the disappearance of the symptoms which denote its presence. "Convalescents," remarks M. Esquirol, "require consolation, encouragement, agreeable conversation, mild attentions, and varied walks and exercises." The hopes of the patient must be judiciously awakened, and his return to society brightened by the assurance that his mind is fully adequate for the enjoyment of its pleasure, and the burden of his anxieties. Convalescents should never be allowed to remain in an asylum. Nothing is so likely to bring about a complete restoration to sound mind, as well as health of body, as travelling, where it can be afforded. The constant recurrence of new objects and scenes draws the mind, as it were, out of itself, and leaves to nature the full exercise of its restorative powers. It is to be lamented that, for the poor, no intermediate place exists betwixt the lunatic asylum and their own wretched abodes: no hospital to cherish and establish their convalescence. For this forlorn condition of the poor insane, notwithstanding the magnificence of county asylums, little has yet been done, although the necessity of doing something is generally acknowledged. The improvement, however, in the management of the insane, is gratifying in the highest degree; we cannot describe it more appropriately than by quoting the language of the Report of the Dundee Asylum for 1837-8:

"The hands that were formerly bound in chains are now handling the spade and the mattock; the mind that was once bewildered by the arts of false representations, is now soothed by the voice of truth; the solitude and rest which once benumbed the faculties, and rendered torpid all the energies, are now exchanged for the employments of social life; and the heart once sunk in the gloom of religious melancholy, is now gladdened by the sound of praise and the tidings of salvation." October 21, 1839.

A. T. T.

MATRIMONY:

A TALE.

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

"A something light as air—a look,
A word unkind or wrongly taken-
Oh! love that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken,
And ruder words will soon rush in,
To spread the breach that words begin:
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds-or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,

As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

Break into floods, that part for ever."-LALLA ROOKн.

"We had a very agreeable party to-day, and the Merringtons are really pleasant people. Their chef is a good artiste, and they always manage to draw around them people who suit each other, said Lord Henry Fitzhardinge to his young and fair wife, as they drove from Lord Merrington's mansion in Grosvenor-square.

Lord Henry Fitzhardinge, be it known to our readers, was just six weeks married; and the said six weeks had been passed in a sojourn at the lakes, where a picturesque dwelling on the banks of Windermere, had enabled the newly-wedded pair to enjoy all the privacy so much desired during the early days of marriage. This dinner at Lord Merrington's had been the first accepted engagement since their arrival in London, a few days before, and consequently was the first interruption to the tête-à-téte repasts to which they had lately been accustomed.

"But you are silent, Emily," resumed he, "did you not think the party an agreeable one?"

"Not particularly so," replied the lady.

"I wonder at that," rejoined Lord Henry, " for you sat next the Marquis of Allerton, who is considered a remarkably pleasant man."

"I am rarely delighted with utter strangers I confess," resumed Lady Emily; "but this is an old-fashioned peculiarity from which you seem to be exempt."

"Delighted is a strong expression, Emily, particularly as applied to utter strangers! But now do, like a dear, good girl, tell me what has gone wrong?"

So saying, he drew his wife tenderly towards his side, and stooped to impress a kiss on her delicate cheek.-Lady Emily shrank from his embrace, and turned her head in an opposite direction, a move

ment that excited the first symptom approaching to displeasure that she had ever caused in the mind of her husband.

Unwilling to indulge in this growing dissatisfaction towards his fair young wife, Lord Henry again addressed her, saying, "Pray, my sweet love, leave off this child's-play, and tell me why you are out of hu

mour?"

"Out of humour!" reiterated the lady; "well, if you designate unhappiness by the epithet of ill-humour, I had better conceal my feelings altogether."

It was now Lord Henry's turn to echo the words of his wife.

"Unhappiness!" repeated he; "why Emily, you really surprise, as well as mortify me. In Heaven's name, what cause for unhappiness can you have?"

By the light of the carriage-lamps, he now saw an embroidered handkerchief applied to the eyes of his wife, and plainly heard the rising sobs, that heaved the shawl which covered her beautiful bust. Again he wound his arm fondly round her symmetrical waist; and whispered, Emily, my own Emily, why do you weep? Indeed, you alarm and distress me."

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At this moment, the carriage stopped at the door of their mansion in Belgrave-square, which being thrown open, showed the well-lighted vestibule in which were ranged some half-dozen liveried domestics, headed by the maître d'hôtel and groom of the chambers, formally drawn up to receive their lord and lady. Each and all of the inquisitorial band stole furtive glances at the face of Lady Emily, on which the traces of recent tears were but too visible.

Not so,

She thought not of the prying eyes that marked her sadness, being engrossed wholly by the feelings that occupied her mind. however, Lord Henry: he observed that the attention of his servants was awakened, and experienced additional dissatisfaction from his apprehension of the comments they were likely to make on their lady's evident emotion.

He offered his arm to assist her to ascend the stairs; but she affected not to see that he did so, and held by the balustrade. The groom of the chambers, who preceded them, had no sooner thrown open the door of her ladyship's dressing-room, than Lady Emily hastily rang the bell for her femme de chambre; thus precluding the explanation which her mortified lord anxiously sought. The lady sank into a bergère, and gave free course to the tears suppressed while ascending to her room; and just as she was sullenly repelling the attempt of Lord Henry to wipe them from her cheek, Marabout her attendant entered.

"Oh, mon Dieu! vat miladi ail, miladi is eel, n'est-ce-pas? Vill I send for de doctors, de apotecaries, and every body?"

So saying, the bustling Frenchwoman ran to the toilet-table, and seized a flagon of eau d'Hongrie, which she held towards the nostrils of her weeping mistress.

"O miladi ave de asteriks; I see vell someting make miladi eel, or somebody vex her."

And this discreet conjecture, was followed by a suspicious glance towards Lord Henry, who was affectionately holding the little white hand, on the delicate fingers of which, he had placed the nuptial ring but six fleeting weeks before.

As he looked on the flushed cheeks, down which the tears were streaming from red eyes, he could hardly fancy that the being before him was the lovely creature whom, only a few hours previously, he led forth beaming with health and gaiety; and it must be confessed the change in her appearance, excited more ill-humour than pity in his heart; for candour compels us to declare that, malgré all the poets who have prated about the attraction of beauty in tears, we have never yet seen a single illustration in proof of their assertions on this point, nor met a single husband who did not shrink in distaste from the exhibition.

"What can be the matter with her?" thought Lord Henry. "This. is a pleasant commencement of the conjugal scenes that Mortimer used to describe! Well, I thought Emily was exempt from such folly; but all women it seems are alike.'

Though these unpleasant thoughts passed through his mind, he nevertheless checked the oppressive attentions of the bustling Marabout, poured out a glass of water, which he heldto the swollen lips of his wife, and applied some eau d'Hongrie to her flushed and throbbing

forehead.

During these operations, Marabout, deeply mortified, remarked with the acuteness peculiar to her class, and a satisfaction caused by her illwill towards Lord Henry, for having repulsed her troublesome petits soins, that her lady evinced a very unusual coldness towards her liege lord.

"Aha!" thought the soubrette, " de moon of oney is over; she cry, he look cross; she not say one vord of all de loaf she say to him at oder time-tant mieux, dey make me vexed vid deir too much loaf."

Lord Henry, finding that his presence afforded no relief to the inexplicable chagrin of his wife, at length withdrew to his dressing-room; and, truth to say, never before felt so little impatient to rejoin her. He passed in review all that had occurred at dinner and during the soirée at Lord Merrington's; but could discover no cause for the tears he had witnessed. They must have consequently proceeded from ill-humour; yet Emily had been so sweet-tempered ever since their marriage, that he could hardly bring himself to think that without any provocation she could be thus unreasonable. At length, his toilette de nuit completed (and he had taken more than thrice the ordinary time employed for the operation), he sought the dressing-room of his wife. Though prepared for bed, she had not dismissed Marabout, who stood beside her chair with a mingled look of consternation and pity, as if her lady was in imminent danger.

"Milor, madame is so eel, dat I tink it be very proper to send for one or two doctors."

"Do, for Heaven's sake, speak, Emily !" said Lord Henry; "are you

ill ?"

"I shall be better by and by," sobbed the lady; "but do not speak to me, I cannot bear it, indeed I cannot," and here she wept anew. "You may go, Marabout," said Lord Henry.

"Mais milor, si miladi-'

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Go," repeated Lord Henry, impatiently, "your presence is not required."

The femme de chambre having withdrawn, Lord Henry once more entreated his wife to acquaint him with the cause of her tears.

"Do not ask me, Henry, I'll try to forget it; but indeed, I have been so wounded, so-wretched, that," and a fresh burst of tears interrupted the completion of the sentence.

"But you really must tell me, Emily; why should you have any concealment from me?"

"How strange, how unfeeling, Henry, that you should not have guessed! Ah! this proves that there is little of that sympathy between us, that I foolishly fancied existed."

"Well, I assure you, Emily, however unfeeling it may appear, cannot even imagine what has distressed you; and as it is growing late, and you have occasion for repose, 1 entreat you will at once tell me?" "Can it indeed be possible, Henry, that you were not aware that my agitation proceeded from the attentions, ay, the marked attentions you lavished on that odious Lady Allerton, all the time of dinner?"

"Marked attentions, Emily! Why I swear, that nothing more than the ordinary politeness expected from every man towards the woman he sits by at dinner, was paid by me."

"Oh! Henry, how can you say so? when you know you talked to her all the time; yes, and you laughed with her too, when she was speaking of some book that she had read, and that you had read, but of which I don't know a page; and you were both so much amused at finding your tastes agreed, that neither of you seemed to think of any one else at table. Oh! she is an odious flirt, and I never shall like her, that I shan't, and so I let her see, when she said she would call on me."

"Good Heavens, Emily! is it possible that you can have been so absurd, as to offend a person, who is, in every respect, so desirable an acquaintance-a woman, universally considered to be one of the most distinguée in England?"

"And you, Henry, is it possible that you have the courage openly to display your entichement for her, even to my face? This is too cruel!” and here the tears of Lady Emily flowed afresh.

"You really provoke me, Emily; how can you be so foolish as to imagine for a moment, that an idea of paying any thing more than common politeness to Lady Allerton, ever entered my head?"

"Do you call it nothing more than common politeness, to look in her face each time you addressed her, or that she spoke to you? to offer to pour out water for her with such a softness of manner, as if it were me to whom you were speaking? me, whom you have a thousand times sworn that you adore. And all this attention to a person whom you have never seen above half-a-dozen times in your life!"

"Who ever heard of such folly? Emily, Emily, I never expected such absurd weakness from you! What is there more ill-bred, than to avert the eyes from the person with whom one converses? And really as to offering water in a soft tone of voice, I cannot help laughing at such a charge. I cannot conceive any one, with the pretensions to gentlemanlike manner, addressing a woman in any other than a gentle tone."

"There is a vast difference in the modes of looking at, or speaking to people, Henry, and you know it as well as I do, you positively looked with tenderness on that odious woman whom I shall always

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