“_September 7, 1852_, 7 a.m. Lancinating pain in the eyes, acute suffering in the eyelids. Pressure on the temples, principally on the left, eyes constantly watering, larynx contracted; a horrible, never-ceasing devouring hunger, which seems to make me start. I am seized by an anger which makes me seem mad in the eyes of others. If I could still cry out, that would relieve me; I am boiling over with anger, and I look wild. It is as though I had a little saw inside my head. Always this motion of sawing--of a wheel which keeps turning and carries me with it. My bones feel to me like dead wood which burns like logwood. “_September 8, 1852._ The whole day without having been able to do anything. My forehead seemed encircled with a tight iron band. I went to bed with a feeling of deep depression. Fear overpowers me--sometimes a feeling of hatred--a very little excusable jealousy of those who can act freely and work. I have in my back something like little strings pulling in all directions, making music like an accordion. It is torturing. The strongest man would fall dead with terror, if he could see the reality of a person in my state of health.... And they laugh at me.... The doctors refuse to believe in my sufferings. There are moments when all that I have ever seen in my life is before my eyes at once. I feel myself lifted into the air or up to the roofs; I feel a horror of myself. It is like an old painting by Rembrandt etched in _aqua fortis_. “_Dreams._--Dead horses, headless, dismembered--horrors of all kinds.... Then there are members of my family who appear to me; but everything I see is distorted and reduced in size; there is, as it were, a _camera obscura_ in me, and the reflector shows me everything in miniature. I admit that I may be insane--but you, too, must admit at least that I am very ill,” &c. It is known, says Paulhan,[295] that with some dementia patients, certain faculties remain intact; they can, for instance, play at cards or draughts, though their mind in general may be quite disorganized. The same is found to be the case with idiots. Griesinger saw, in the Earlswood Asylum, a young man who had made, all by himself, a remarkable model of a man-of-war. This individual’s intelligence was very limited; he had no idea whatever of numbers. “It more frequently happens,” adds the author, “that complete idiots execute fairly good work in drawing or painting. In such cases, it is, of course, only a mechanical talent.”