The vagaries of the insane are sometimes amusing to witness; and not unfrequently there is a “method in their madness” that would not be amiss in those who are on the outside of lunatic asylums. Many years ago in Philadelphia, a patient in the insane asylum of that city fancied himself to be the Redeemer of the world; and his talk and actions were always in keeping with the character, save that he exacted a rigid deference to his person and his divinely-derived power. But one day another patient arrived, whose idiosyncrasy it was, that he was the Supreme Being. A little while after his entrance into the institution, he met in one of the halls, as he was passing, the imagined representative of the Son; who, not liking his bearing, reminded him who he was: “Yes, you are the Son, but know from this time henceforth, that you have seen the Father, and must obey him!” “And strange enough,” said the keeper of the institution to the friend who gives us the particulars, “from that day forward, all power was given unto the latter; and at length the fancied Son’s ‘air-drawn’ vision melted away, and he left the establishment a perfectly sane man.”
Some twelve or fifteen years ago there was in the lunatic asylum at Worcester, Massachusetts, a kind of crazy David Crockett, who fancied that he could do any thing that could be done, and a little more. One day a good many visitors were walking slowly through the halls, examining them, and occasionally saying a word or two to the patients. After a very courteous reception of a gentleman, who mentioned that he had come from South Carolina, the crazy man interrupted him abruptly with:
“Have you felt any of my earthquakes down there lately?”
One of the visitors replied: “No, we’ve had nothing of the kind, where I live.”
“I thought so! I knew it!” returned the patient, frowning. “I have an enemy. Ice! Ice! Why, I ordered one of my very best earthquakes for your part of the country! It was to have ripped up the earth, and sent the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. Look here!” he continued, pointing to a crack in the plastering, “that’s one of my earthquakes! What do you think of that? I’ve got more orders for earthquakes than I can attend to in a year. I’ve got four coming off, up north this afternoon—two in Vermont!”
That was a good story that was told of an occurrence which took place in a stage-coach one morning many years ago in the western part of this State. A young, conceited fellow, who had been monopolizing almost all the conversation of the company, consisting of some sixteen passengers, had been narrating the wonderful exploits he had performed, the prodigies of valor of which he had been the hero, and the wonderful escapes of which he had been the subject. At least he related one adventure in which he was the principal actor, which was so perfectly astounding, that a low whistle of incredulity was a simultaneous demonstration on the part of the passengers. An old gentleman, with a solemn visage, and an ivory-headed cane, sitting in the back corner of the stage, here observed:
“That last adventure of yours, my young friend, is a very extraordinary one—very extraordinary. One could hardly believe it without having seen it. I didn’t see it; but I can relate a circumstance which happened in my family, and in which I was for a time deeply interested, which is almost as remarkable, and I believe quite as true. Will you hear it?”