I was greatly struck by a young man, evidently of respectable station and education, who was possessed by one fixed idea,--that he was a Stuart, and had therefore a lawful claim to the throne. I conversed with him for half an hour without being able to get him upon this subject. He always broke off cautiously, nay cunningly, and talked in a very interesting manner of other things, particularly of America, where he had travelled for a considerable time; nor did he exhibit the slightest trace of insanity. Speaking of Walter Scott's novels, I several times mentioned the Pretender, which I thought would excite him to speak; and at length said in a confidential tone, "I know you are a Stuart yourself." This seemed to alarm him; and laying his finger on his lips, he whispered, "We must not speak of that _here_; the triumph of justice can be brought about by time alone, but the light will soon shine forth." "I am going into Wales," replied I, (he is a native of the Principality,) "will you give me your father's address, that I may carry him your greetings?" "With the greatest pleasure," said he; "give me your pocket-book, and I will write it." I gave it him, and he wrote his real name, ---- ----; then pointing to it with a smile, he added, "That's the name under which my father passes there.--Adieu!" and with a gracious motion of the hand he left me. What a dreadful spectacle! One single inveterate idea converts the most agreeable man into an incurable lunatic, costs him his freedom, and condemns him to the society of vulgar madness for life. What is unhappy man in conflict with physical evil,--and where, then, is the freedom of his will? There was a foreign patient, whose conceits were more ridiculous,--if those of madness can ever be so;--a German pedant and writer of tours, who joined me in looking about the house, of which he was a constant inmate. He was incessantly taking notes. He addressed each of the patients at great length, and carefully committed their answers to paper, though they were often any thing but complimentary to him. Scarcely had he observed my conversation with the young man I have mentioned, when he came up to me, and besought me pressingly to let him see what that gentleman had written in my pocket-book. I told him. "Oh excellent--singular," said he, "perhaps a real Stuart! I must inquire into it immediately,--a secret of state perhaps,--who knows? Very remarkable. _Ich empfehle mich unterthänigst._" So saying, he strutted away, with an awkward, silly air, yet perfectly satisfied with himself. On my way home I met a number of funerals, which indeed in a gulf like London, where Death must be ever at work, is no wonder; and yet I must always regard it as a bad omen, even though the superstition that deems it so belong rather to Bedlam than to a reasonable head.--With me it has some foundation.