One of the earliest of the Gospel stories is that which tells how the Saviour healed the man possessed with devils. It is only of late that we have learned to imitate His example. For hundreds of years society has gone on torturing the mad, hardening the hardened, depraving the depraved. We are now retracing our steps; we are atoning nobly for sins of omission and commission on the part of our ancestors. It would do good to 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 earn, to look over such places as Hanwell and Colney Hatch, where pauper lunatics are lodged in a palace, waited on by skilful male and female attendants, spend their days in light and airy rooms as clean as wax-work, have four meals a day, and every reasonable want supplied. I have no doubt that many a careworn City man, as he has been hurried backwards and forwards past such places by the train, has often wished that in some such stately pile he had a niche where he could come of a night, after the day’s work was over, to breathe the fresh air, to tread the fresh grass, and to smell the fresh flowers. I propose to gratify this wish,—come with me, respected reader, and in the twinkling of an eye you will find yourself in Colney Hatch. It is on Sunday, a day when the asylum is closed to the public. Far and near this bright sunshiny afternoon there seems resting over all a Sabbath calm. On the neighbouring rails no trains are running; the doors of the Station Hotel are shut; no traffic occupies the road and distracts your attention. You gaze on fields as yet yellow with no ripening corn, meadows as yet uncarpeted by flowers, trees as yet leafless. Farther off on the distant ridge we see lofty mansions. “All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.”