“But suppose I had a brother, now, or a relative, might I not hesitate to place him in an establishment conducted on principles which I condemn?”

“As to that, sir,” replied the fellow, who, expecting a patient, feared that he had gone too far, “our system is an adaptable one; at least, our application of it varies according to circumstances.  As our first object is cure, we must necessarily allow ourselves considerable latitude of experiment until we hit upon the right key.  This being found, the process of recovery, when it is possible, may be conducted with as much mildness as the absence of reason will admit.  We are mild, when we can, and severe only where we must.”

“Shuffling scoundrel!” thought the stranger.  “I perceive in this language the double dealing of an unprincipled villain.—­Would you have any objection, sir,” he said, “that I should look through your establishment?”

“I can conduct you through the convalescent wards,” replied the doctor; “but, as I said, we find that the appearance of strangers—­which is what I meant by the contiguity of reason—­is attended with very bad, and sometimes deplorable consequences.  Under all circumstances it retards a cure, under others occasions a relapse, and in some accelerates the malady so rapidly that it becomes hopeless.  You may see the convalescent ward, however—­that is, if you wish.”

“You will oblige me,” said the stranger.

“Well, then,” said he, “if you will remain here a moment, I will send a gentleman who will accompany you, and explain the characters of some of the patients, should you desire it, and also the cause of their respective maladies.”

He then disappeared, and in a few minutes a mild, intelligent, gentlemanly man, of modest and unassuming manners, presented himself, and said he would feel much pleasure in showing him the convalescent side of the house.  The stranger, however, went out and brought old Corbet in from the carriage, where he and the officers had been sitting; and this he did at Corbet’s own request.

It is not our intention to place before our readers any lengthened description of this gloomy temple of departed reason.  Every one who enters a lunatic asylum for the first time, must feel a wild and indescribable emotion, such as he has never before experienced, and which amounts to an extraordinary sense of solemnity and fear.  Nor do the sensations of the stranger rest here.  He feels as if he were surrounded by something sacred as well as melancholy, something that creates at once pity, reverence, and awe.  Indeed, so strongly antithetical to each other are his first impressions, that a kind of confusion arises in his mind, and he begins to fear that his senses have been affected by the atmosphere of the place.  That a shock takes place which slightly disarranges the faculty of thought, and generates strong but erroneous impressions, is still more clearly established by the fact that the visitor, for a considerable time after leaving an asylum, can scarcely rid himself of the belief that every person he meets is insane.