relatives, and he returned to Paris, with embittered feelings and a clouded fancy that did not however incapacitate him for his office. He soon after fell in with the St. Simonians, attended their societies, imbibed their views, at which he eagerly grasped, as if they contained a solace and support for his fleeting intellect; they only augmented its delusions; and in a few months his family were obliged to convey him to the care of M. Esquirol. At the end of a year he was sent forth, cured; went to Paris, contrary to the advice of the former, and resumed his situation. The St. Simonians were ruined; Père Enfantin in prison ; and their extravagances no longer exposed to danger the restored maniac: but the far more dangerous excitement of politics was in full force, and beset him on every side: he again became the partisan. The day previous to our visiting the mansion, he went mad in the gardens of the Tuileries, in some political discussion, and was instantly conveyed by his friends to his former abode-perhaps for many years, for a second visitation or relapse is more difficult to heal than the first. He was now the orator of the madman's hall; his religious fanaticism seemed to be forgotten; it had never been so strong as his political, which was the sole theme of his declamation. Seated on a lofty bench that looked like a rostrum, his right hand gently waving, and two or three at intervals listening to his words, this unfortunate youth harangued slowly and distinctly on his favourite topics. His manner, not his matter, seemed to interest his companions. It is a sad and lonely feature in this mental malady that it has no companionship a deranged person, however calmly or even cleverly he may talk, can rarely interest any of his fellow-sufferers in his own loved subject-he cannot impart to them any sympathy in his own wild or wellsustained enthusiasm. This was the first morning of the returned Philippist in his desolate home. At times, in the midst of his declamation, his quick, anxious glances around seemed to denote a consciousness of his infirmity; yet it was evidently a luxury to him, though he spoke to careless ears, to talk about politics: the Spaniard, standing with folded arms at his side, alone listened with attention. "Has he been long thus ?" I asked of the latter. With a sweet smile the dark-eyed and calm Spaniard told the history of the other's derangement, how long he had formerly been here, &c. "And yourself," I said, "have you been long here?" "Six months ago," he answered, "I was afflicted with a complaint in the chest," (laying his hand gracefully on it,)" and came here on account of the great healthiness of the air; there is nothing else the matter with me." There was a young man of twenty years of age, with a mild and intelligent countenance, who walked continually up and down the hall, talking softly at times to himself, and making signs with his fingers on his forehead or in the air. Devoted by his parents from early life to the priesthood, he was sent very young from his home to be educated, made a rapid progress in his studies, and was contented with his destination, for he was very strictly brought up, and as yet knew nothing of the joys and allurements of the world. His parents congratulated themselves on their son's temper and prospects; they had two other sons, and could not afford to establish the youngest also in business or in a profession. The mother was what rarely now exists in French families, a devoted Catholic, cleaving to her faith rigidly and fondly; from his infancy she had dedicated her youngest-born and favourite child to the church. About two years ago he was allowed to come to Paris to pass a few weeks with his uncle: he formed an acquaintance with two or three young men who visited at the house; they accompanied him to the various sights and lions of the city. All was new, brilliant, and beautiful to the student, whose feet should never have been suffered by his parents to approach the walls; the warning of Esquirol to his convalescent patients to go not or tarry not in Paris would have saved the young recluse from inexpressible misery. His companions by degrees led him to scenes of gaiety and indulgence; by degrees. he loved them. He felt that the power of this world was greater within him than the powers of the world to come. It was helpless agony of mind, to which no one could minister. He returned to his home, and after a long conflict told his parents that he dared not become a priest, for he was sure he could not live a strict and holy life, and that it would never be in his power. They were astonished at these tidings, which did not, however, move them one jot from their purpose; the mother was even more inexorable than the father. It was strange how she strove, with tears, prayers, and warnings, to turn back his feelings and desires to their former course; and when she saw it could not be without a cruel violence to her son, she tormented him by her reproaches, and made the iron enter deeper into his soul. Pity, love, sympathy from those he loved might have done much; but they were not offered to him, or if offered, were so mingled with regrets and suspicions, that their balm was taken away. His countenance was ingenuous and candid, fresh coloured, with a light blue eye; it had nothing of the monk or of the cloister about it. The experience of a few weeks in Paris had taught him the secret of his own heart, which he had not known before. He had long looked forward with joy to a country life, to the duties of his charge, first as a curé, and then as a vicaire, for his family had influence in the church; he loved that life and those duties still, but he shrunk from the lonely, companionless lot. The anguish of his mind was more than he could bear; self-condemnation was not wanting; from his earliest life he had been the child of his faith, of its ceremonials, its terrors and its requirements; he could not cast them off at will-he could not wrench their long influence from his memory and fancy. Reason at last gave way, and the wretched mother saw her son taken to a mad-house. The internal strife still lasted; the constant restlessness of manner, the quick strides up and down the hall, and movements of the lips. This was not religious madness; but rather an intolerable longing after the world-a too sudden transition of the senses and feelings acting on great tenderness of conscience; and he was yet only twenty years of age. By the long and soft whisperings, and the frequent signs of the cross on his brow, it was evident that he held much communion with himself. In spite of his youth and healthy appearance, his case is perhaps the most desperate of any-far more so than that of the pale Spaniard, the relapsed Philippist, or the sad Englishman, because in his shattered mind there is remorse for the past and hopelessness for the future-fearful guests to bring to an asylum, even to so gay a one as that of Mons. E. On the opposite side of the room, seated at a long table, his head leaning on his right hand, was an English gentleman. All around him were either excited, cheerful, or calm; to all of them he was a striking contrast; Melancholy seemed to have marked him for her own; he never lifted his head or his look at the declamations of the Philippist, or seemed to notice the demeanour or movements of any fellow-madman. Abstracted from everything, his long pale face, worn thin by thought, was bent towards the table on which his eyes also were fixed. I addressed him; he lifted his head and looked at me with a sickly smile, and murmured that he should walk on the grounds presently; again he leaned his head on his hands, and sank into his quiet musing mood. He was the most forlorn-looking being there; it was a pitiable lot—a man of fortune evidently, from his demeanour and manner, torn from his family, and friends, and home, to be the associate of madmen, and yet not their associate-for he lived, and dreamed, and rambled in a world of his own—a silent, sad, almost speechless world. Yet this may be a hasty judgment. "The disorders of the brain," observed M. Esquirol, are a mystery though I have devoted half a century to their development they are still a mystery." And this poor Englishman, outwardly so forlorn, might at this very moment be feeding on absent things; precious imaginings of home might be flitting across his fancy, dear phantom memories. I shall never forget the trembling eagerness, the impassioned hope, with which a young woman ran up to the iron-railing of the grounds where she was walking, and implored me to use my influence that her three children might be brought to her that she might see them again; her cheek wildly flushed, and her eyes flashed-but it was with a mother's love. On leaving this apartment, an iron gate conducted to a pleasureground, allotted to the exclusive use of the persons we had just seen, and others in the same state, not convalescent, who walk here whenever they wish, each of them attended by his servant. The system of M. Esquirol encourages free exercise and fresh air as often as possible, as most salutary to the spirits and frames of the patients, to banish sullenness and loneliness, and keep them cheerful and in good temper. He is as averse to confinement and indolence as to severity and restraint. This pleasure-ground would tempt the sane as well as insane to walk often and long; it looks on the Seine, beautifully flowing in a broad stream; at this time its waters had inundated the fields and meadows, and looked like a lake, out of whose bosom trees and groves arose, and cottages seemed here and there like little isles. The gravel walks led down to some distance, a long and pleasant walk. In the middle of this ground, a green mound arose from its grassy bed, like a miniature and graceful hill; on its summit was a pleasurehouse that commanded a delightful and extensive view. Here the unfortunate patients often sat and surveyed the fine and animated scene; the Seine and the boats going from the interior to Paris; the villages on the shores, the plains and forests beyond. Surely the contemplation of such a scene must have a salutary influence on the imagination, even in its diseased state. Our host observed that in many of the asylums of England there was not sufficient space of gardens or grounds to exercise and amuse the patients; he considered a large, agreeable, and diversified area, that should resemble the country in freedom, and the garden in taste and luxury, was invaluable to an asylum. The air in this spot is remarkably salubrious; indeed, the aspect of the place was rather that of the park and grounds of a wealthy Englishman than that of a Maison des Fous. To the relatives of the inmates it must be consoling to reflect that so much enjoyment, taste, and comfort is mingled in the bitter cup they have to drink; debarred from no recreation, of music, of active and varied exercise, of books. A love of reading has, in general, little place within such walls; even men of well-cultivated minds are seldom very desirous to take up a volume, or peruse it more in form than reality. The mind of the deranged person seems to fly off from all attempts to concentrate it on any fixed subject, even the lightest. They require to be tempted to read by the materials being put in their way, and by a selection suited to their former tastes and vein of thought. Here all had books; in every room there were shelves, on which were many volumes of general literature: whatever kind of reading the patient might desire was provided; even political pamphlets were freely afforded. It may be thought that the latter were likely to minister to a malady begun by political excitement, that the Philippist or Carlist patient would but feed the fuel that inflamed him; but mental occupation of any kind is a blessed resource, and is here encouraged by every possible means. We saw several of the patients reading attentively: it was an interesting as well as singular sight, rarely perhaps beheld in our English asylums, private or public, where the employment of the mind is too much disregarded; books are deemed useless things in a madman's hands, and are seldom supplied. Why should this be? the resources of these poor people are so few, that it is a mercy to multiply them, as well as to divert, if possible, the thoughts but for a short time from the one fearful wound. The patients love to walk in these beautiful grounds, whose iron gate allows no other inmates, even the partially convalescent, to mingle with them. Many of them must be conscious of the beauties of nature, for they will often gaze long and with great apparent pleasure on the landscape before them. The pipe and snuff are allowed to those who are fond of them, or accustomed to their use: the Turkish lunatic, by his fountain side, was not half so luxuriously placed as these patients in their tasteful summer-house on the green knoll, with every charm of water, field, and wood on every side. But Mons. E- observed that he did not much approve of smoking, he found it sometimes too exciting to the patient. In this building was a suite of bathing-rooms, of which a copious use is prescribed in passing by, we perceived the billiard-player, who had so suddenly addressed us, reclining in a bath much at his ease, and holding a folio volume in both hands at about a foot from his face, to whose pages he was earnestly attentive. This man's case was incurable: he gave little trouble, dressed well, and could amuse himself; but there was a weakness in the nerves of the brain which no treatment could heal. We entered the apartment of a more interesting person, an English gentleman (not the sad one in the hall) of fortune, young, well-looking, stout, and well-made, and apparently in excellent health; the room was carpeted, and well-furnished; some volumes were on the table near the fire, and a chess-board, with which he often amused himself: he had just left the apartment. A few minutes after wards, passing by his bed-room, the door of which was open, we could not help pausing to look at him. He was well worth looking at the beau idéal of a mad Englishman; a man of taste even in sadness-a fashionable lunatic; but there was something deeper than fashion in his looks and manner; he seldom spoke, perhaps he was too proud-more probably he had a consciousness of his state, his eye seemed to say so, and there is nothing so appealing, so painful as the look of a man who knows that his intellect is departing. He was seated on a chair, a looking-glass was on the table beside him, in which he was contemplating his own features in a fixed attitude as he reclined in the chair. Perhaps those features awakened thoughts of the past, of his own better state, or of those who had loved to gaze on that face and trace a resemblance there he had a wife and two children in England in an affluent home. Is it possible that, even in derangement, there is not some communion of the spirit with those to whom it has cleaved, and still cleaves, in every interval of light and mercy that returns to it? He turned and looked fixedly at us: what proud sorrow was in that look! There was firmness mingled with its loneliness; gradually another expression came of a more equivocal kinda sad, dark, and malignant expression, as if he hated to be thus gazed on, and we were injuring him deeply. We understood afterwards that he was slowly recovering from his malady, was solitary, yet fastidious in his habits: would play chess for hours by himself, yet was evil-disposed, and of a gloomy temper. In some of the rooms are pianos for the more musically-disposed patients, on which they often amuse themselves for hours. There was another department in this interesting establishment which we also saw, and under the immediate guidance of its chief, on whose valuable time we had already trespassed too long. The dinner hour to all Paris drew near, but not to these unfortunate inmates, who have no fixed hour for their repast, which they never take in company, but separate, each at the hour he fancies. We next visited the edifice appropriated to the mad ladies, respecting which and its inmates an account may hereafter be given. SONNET. BY THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY CHARLOTTE BURY. YE chosen lab'rers of th' Almighty Lord, Who in his sacred vineyard, patient toil, |