The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went round with us.

“Do you know”—­he broke out all at once—­“why they don’t take steppes in Tartary for establishing Insane Hospitals?”

We both confessed ignorance.

“Because there are nomad people to be found there,” he said, with a dignified smile.

He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates.  The first was a middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a Webster’s Dictionary and a sheet of paper before him.

“Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?” said the Superintendent.

“Three or four only,” said Mr. Mowzer.  “Will you hear ’em now,—­now I’m here?”

We all nodded.

“Don’t you see Webster ers in the words cent_er_ and theat_er_?

“If he spells leather lether, and feather fether, isn’t there danger that he’ll give us a bad spell of weather?

“Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow u to rest quietly in the mould.

“And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his text, is that any reason why Mr. Webster’s publishers should hitch one on in their appendix?  It’s what I call a Conntect-a-cut trick.

“Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven?  Because it is under bread.

“Mowzer!” said the Superintendent,—­“that word is on the Index!”

“I forgot,” said Mr. Mowzer;—­“please don’t deprive me of Vanity Fair, this one time, Sir.

“These are all, this morning.  Good day, Gentlemen.  Then to the Superintendent,—­Add you, Sir!”

The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man.  He had a heap of block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, without saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them on the table.  They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of transposing the letters of the words employed without addition or subtraction.  Here are a few of them:—­

  TIMES.  SMITE! 
  POST. STOP!

  TRIBUNE.  TRUE NIB. 
  WORLD.  DR. OWL.

  ADVERTISER. (RES VERI DAT. 
               (IS TRUE.  READ!

  ALLOPATHY.  ALL O’ TH’ PAY. 
  HOMEOPATHY.  O, THE—!  O!  O, MY!  PAH!

The mention of several new York papers led to two or three questions.  Thus:  Whether the Editor of the Tribune was H.G. really? If the complexion of his politics were not accounted for by his being an eager person himself?  Whether Wendell Fillips were not a reduced copy of John Knocks? Whether a New York Feuilletoniste is not the same thing as a Fellow down East?

At this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us, evidently waiting to take a part in the conversation.

“Good morning, Mr. Riggles,” said the Superintendent.  “Anything fresh this morning?  Any Conundrum?”