It would do some of the noisy poor, who waste their time in low pot-houses talking of their rights—when all that a man has a right to is what he can get—good to look over such a place as Colney Hatch. There are pauper lunatics lodged in a palace, waited on by skilful male and female attendants, living in light and airy galleries, as clean as wax-work, with four meals a day, and with every want supplied. I am sure every Englishman must confess that our asylums and hospitals are the glory of our land. None can deny the active and practical character of the philanthropy of our days. You may depend upon it, nine-tenths of the men and women here were never so well fed, lodged, and cared for before. Their day commences at six, and terminates at eight. Such of them as can be usefully employed are, in cleaning the wards, and in various domestic duties; but they have plenty of spare time—the women for sewing or knitting, and the men for out-door exercise or reading. In one ward I found some good books on the table, such as Boswell’s Johnson, Gibbon’s Life, popular works on science, and _Punch_ and several magazines. The only woman I saw reading was an old one, with a Bible before her. The women are by far more troublesome than the men. Directly I went into one ward, a middle-aged woman advanced towards me, with one arm uplifted, exclaiming, “Here comes my husband, King John.” Another female, still plainer and more elderly, seemed inclined to address to me endearments of a still tenderer character. It was clear that they retained the instincts of their sex without its clearness. Yet there were some to whom the novelty of a stranger offered no excitement—who sat huddled up by the window, with scowling eyes and dishevelled hair, flesh-and-blood pictures of despair. This one had led a gay life—what a termination for a votary of pleasure! That one had become what she was by drinking; this one again by the grand passion, which underlies all history, past and present—all philosophy, objective or subjective—all religion, true or false. But, hark! it is a quarter to one, and that is the dinner bell. We enter the hall, a room capable of holding seven or eight hundred persons. Some enormous Yorkshire puddings, with some excellent beef, are borne by several eager assistants (patients) on to the tables in the middle of the room; they are immediately cut up, and each portion is enough for one person’s dinner. When the tables set apart for the women are served, the door opens, and in rush the poor creatures in a manner that shows they have not lost their relish for food. On the men’s side similar preparations are made, and then in they rush; and when all are seated, a blessing is asked, and dinner commences: it does not last long. As soon as the patients have cut up their pudding, the knives and forks are carefully removed—and in a very few minutes a signal is made; they all rise—thanks are returned, and the meal is over—such as have not had