We had letters to Dr. Conolly, with the kindness and gentleness of whose manners we were much struck.  He conducted us over the several wards of the Asylum.  We found in it a thousand persons of both sexes, not one of whom was in seclusion, that is to say confined because it was dangerous to allow him to go at large; nor were they subjected to any apparent restraint whatever.  Some were engaged in reading, some in exercises and games of skill; of the females some were occupied in sewing, others at work in the kitchen or the laundry; melancholic patients were walking about in silence or sitting gloomily by themselves; idiots were rocking their bodies backward and forward as they sat, but all were peaceable in their demeanor, and the greatest quiet prevailed.  No chastisement of any kind is inflicted; the lunatic is always treated as a patient, and never as an offender.  When he becomes so outrageous and violent that his presence can be endured no longer, he is put into a room with padded walls and floors where he can do himself no mischief, and where his rage is allowed to exhale.  Even the straight jacket is unknown here.

I said that the demeanor of all the patients with whom the Asylum was swarming was peaceable.  There was one exception.  On entering one of the wards, a girl of an earnest and determined aspect, as soon as she saw Dr. Conolly began to scream violently, and sprang towards him, thrusting aside the bystanders by main force.  Two of the female attendants came immediately up and strove to appease her, holding her back without severity, as a mother would restrain her infant.  I saw them struggling with her for some time; how they finally disposed of her I did not observe, but her screams had ceased before we left the ward.

Among the patients was one who, we were told, was remarkable for his extravagant love of finery, and whose cell was plastered over with glaring colored prints and patches of colored paper ornamentally disposed.  He wore on his hat a broad strip of tarnished lace, and had decorated his waistcoat with several perpendicular rows of pearl buttons.

“You have made your room very fine here,” said the doctor.

“Yes,” said he, smiling and evidently delighted, “but, my dear sir, all is vanity—­all is vanity, sir, and vexation of spirit.  There is but one thing that we ought to strive for, and that is the kingdom of heaven.”

As there was no disputing this proposition, we passed on to another cell, at the door of which stood a tall, erect personage, who was busy with a pot of paint and a brush, inscribing the pannels with mottoes and scraps of verse.  The walls of his room were covered with poetry and pithy sentences.  Some of the latter appeared to be of his own composition, and, were not badly turned; their purport generally was this:  that birth is but a trivial accident, and that virtue and talent are the only true nobility.  This man was found wandering about in Chiswick, full of a plan for educating the Prince of Wales in a manner to enable him to fill the throne with credit and usefulness.  As his name could not be learned, the appellation of “Chiswick” was given him, which he had himself adopted, styling himself Mr.  “Chiswick” in his mottoes, but always taking care to put the name between inverted commas.