AN INSANE PHILOSOPHER.
A visitor to the Hanwell Insane Asylum, in England, will have his attention directed to one of the inmates who is at once the "pet," the peer, the philosopher, and the poet of that vast community. No one can long enjoy the privilege of his company without perceiving that he has received a first-rate classical education. His mind is remarkably clear-visioned, acute, severe, logical, and accomplished. His manners usually display the refinement, polish, and urbanity of a well-bred gentleman, though at times, it is said, they are tinged with a degree of aristocratic pride, austerity, and hauteur, especially when brought into contact with the ignorant and vulgar. In conversation, though impeded by a slight hesitation of utterance, he displays clearness and breadth of intelligence in all his views, and pours forth freely from the treasures of a well-stored memory abundance of information, anecdote, and fact. His physiognomy and physical structure are well adapted to enshrine a mind of such a calibre. In stature he is tall, rather slender, but firmly knit. The muscular development of the frame denotes considerable strength—a quality which he claims to possess in a pre-eminent degree. He boasts, probably with considerable truth, of having no equal, in this respect, in the asylum. His head, beautifully formed, after a fine intellectual type, is partially bald—the few surviving locks of hair that fringe its sides being nearly gray. The keen, twinkling, gray eye; the prominent classic brow; the boldly-chiseled aquiline nose; the thin cheeks, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;" the sharp features, together with the small, firmly-compressed mouth, plainly bespeak him a man of reflection, and strong purpose. In age, he appears to have weathered about fifty stormy winters. The term of his residence in this rendezvous of afflicted strangers is somewhere about six years. His real name, his early history, his human kindred, his former social status—in fact, all the antecedents of his life, previous to his admission to the asylum—are utterly unknown. On all these matters he preserves the silence of a sphinx. No remarks, so far as we know, have ever escaped his lips, calculated to afford any certain clew for the elucidation of the mystery that enshrouds him. Surmise and conjecture have of course been busy with their guesses as to his probable extraction; and the organ of wonder has been sorely taxed in an effort to account for the marvelous fact, that a gentleman of such apparent distinction, it may be of noble birth and fortune, should have been lost to his friends for a space of six years, and no earnest inquiries been made to discover his fate. That he is of aristocratic descent, appears to be the general impression among the officers and inmates of the asylum—an impression justified by his elegant manners, his superior attainments, his extensive acquaintance with noble families, and many significant allusions found in his painted chamber, upon the walls of which he has faithfully daguerreotyped the images, the feelings, the recollections, and the cherished sentiments of his inner man. The fictitious name by which he is known at present is that of Mr. Chiswick—a name commemorative of the scene of that sad event which has overshadowed the afternoon, and which threatens to darken the evening, of his earthly existence. But the reader will be anxious to learn under what strange conjunction of circumstances this mysterious being—without father or mother, brothers or sisters, kinsfolk or acquaintances, and without even a local habitation or a name—obtained an introduction to this strange home. We will at once state such facts as we have been able to collect.
On one Sabbath-day, about six years ago, a congregation had gathered together, as was their wont, for the celebration of divine worship, in the small country church of Turnham Green, near Chiswick. The officiating clergyman and the worshiping assembly had jointly gone through the liturgical services without the occurrence of any unusual event. As soon as the robed minister had ascended the sacred desk, and commenced his discourse, however, the eyes of a portion of the audience were attracted toward a gentleman occupying a somewhat conspicuous position in the church, whose strange and restless movements, wild and excited air, and occasional audible exclamations, indicated the presence of either a fanatic or a lunatic. These symptoms continued to increase, until, at length, as if irritated beyond endurance by some sentiment that fell from the lips of the preacher, he gave way to a perfect paroxysm of frenzy, under the influence of which he seized his hat, and flung it at the head of the minister. Of course, the service was suspended until the offender was expelled. It was soon discovered that the unhappy author of this untoward disturbance was suffering under a violent fit of mania. When borne from the church, no person could recognize or identify him. He was a total stranger to all residing in the neighborhood, so that no clew could be obtained that would enable them to restore him to the custody and surveillance of his friends. Under these circumstances, he was taken to the adjoining work-house at Isleworth, where he was detained for some weeks under medical care, during which period the most diligent inquiries were instituted with the view of unraveling the mystery of the stranger's kinship. But without avail. No one claimed him; and even when pressed himself to impart some information on the subject, he either could not or would not divulge the secret. Finding, at length, that all efforts to identify the great Incognito were ineffectual, he was removed to Hanwell, the asylum of the county to which he had thus suddenly become chargeable, and where he has ever since remained.
Mr. Chiswick is treated by the magistrates and officers with great kindness and consideration. His employments are such as befit a gentleman. No menial or laborious tasks are imposed upon him. He is allowed, to a great extent, to consult his predilections, and these are invariably of a tasteful and elegant description. His time is divided chiefly between reading and painting, in which occupations he is devotedly industrious. He is an early riser, and intersperses his more sedentary pursuits with seasons of vigorous exercise. To this practice, in conjunction with strictly temperate habits, he attributes his excellent health and remarkable prowess. To a stranger, no signs of mental aberration are discernible. His aspect is so calm and collected, and his ideas are so lucidly expressed, that, if met with in any other place besides an asylum, no one would suspect that he had ever been smitten with a calamity so terrible. He would simply be regarded as eccentric. So satisfied is he of his own perfect saneness, and of his ability to secure self-maintenance by the productions of his own genius, that confinement begins to be felt by him as intolerably irksome and oppressive. The invisible fetters gall his sensitive soul, and render him impatient of restraint. On our last visit but one, he declared that he had abandoned all thoughts of doing any thing more to his painted room; he aspired to higher things than that. He was striving to cultivate his artistic talents, so that by their exercise he might henceforth minister to his own necessities. Who his connections, and what his antecedents were should never be known—they were things that concerned no one; his aim was to qualify himself, by self-reliant labor, to wrestle once more with the world, and to wring from it the pittance of a humble subsistence. As soon as he felt himself competent to hazard this step, he intended to demand his immediate release; "and, should it then be refused," said he, with the solemn and impressive emphasis of a man thoroughly in earnest, "they will, on the next day, find me a corpse." To the superintendent in the tailoring department, he likewise remarked, a short time since, when giving instructions for a new garment: "This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you. I intend shortly to quit the asylum; for if they do not discharge me of their own accord, in answer to my request, I will discharge myself."
On the occasion of our second visit to the asylum, we were received by Mr. Chiswick with great courtesy, and were favored with a long conversation on a variety of topics. Besides the exercise of his brush and pencil, his genius manifests itself in other ways, some of them being rather amusing and eccentric. Among these, is that of making stockings, and other articles of apparel in a very original manner. His mind, as we have remarked, is well replenished with anecdotes and illustrations suitable to whatever topic may happen to be on hand. On the present occasion, upon offering us a glass of wine, we declined his hospitality, on the true plea that we had fasted since eight o'clock in the morning, and it was then nearly five in the afternoon. Upon this, he produced a piece of sweet bread, saying, "Take that first, and then the wine will not hurt you. You remember the anecdote of the bride? Soon after her marriage, her mother inquired,'How does your husband treat you, my dear?' Oh, he loves me very much, for he gives me two glasses of white wine every morning before I am up.' 'My dear child,' said the mother, with an air of alarm, 'he means to kill you. However, do not refuse the wine, but take a piece of cake to bed with you at night, and when he is gone for the wine in the morning, do you eat the cake, then the wine will not hurt you,' The bride obeyed the mother's advice, and lived to a good old age."
Having sat down by the fire in the ward with a number of the patients, Mr. Chiswick took out his pocket-book to show us a letter which he had received from some kind but unknown friend, who had visited the asylum, and also that he might present to us a piece of poetry, which had just been printed at the asylum press. In looking for these, he accidentally dropped a greater part of the contents of his pocket-book on the floor; and when one of the lunatics hastened to scramble for some of the papers, Mr. Chiswick, quick as thought, pulled off the officious patient's hat, and sent it flying to the other end of the ward, bidding its owner to run after it. We offered to assist in picking up the scattered papers, but he would not allow us to touch them. "You act," we remarked, "on the principle of not allowing others to do for you any thing that you can do yourself." "Exactly so," said he, "and I will tell you a good anecdote about that. There was once a bishop of Gibraltar, who hired a valet; but for some time this valet had nothing to do: the bishop cleaned his own boots, and performed many other menial tasks, which the servant supposed that he had been engaged to do. At length he said—'Your lordship, I should be glad to be informed what it is expected that I should do. You clean your own boots, brush your own clothes, and do a multitude of other things that I supposed would fall to my lot.' 'Well,' said the bishop, 'I have been accustomed to do this, and I can do it very well; therefore, why should you do it? I act upon the principle of never allowing others to do what I can do myself. Therefore, do you go and study, and I will go on as usual. I have already had opportunities to get knowledge, and you have not; and I think that will be to do to you as I should wish you to do to me.'"