In one of those vast piles of building a short distance down the main
line of a great railway, a strange-looking elderly man, and one whose
dress bespeaks the clergyman, are passing from ward to ward upon a
visit. The man with them, in his quiet livery, raises the brass-chained
key he carries to open lock after lock--one key for hundreds--and they
pass on by sights of the most sorrowful; for they are amongst those of
their fellows in whom the light of reason burns but dimly or is extinct.
At last they stand by a window looking upon an extensive yard, where
some fifty patients clothed in grey serge walk about for exercise--some
hurriedly, some talking, some excited, others calm. And now one visitor
lays a trembling hand upon his companion's arm as, nearing the window,
comes a portly, grey, smiling man, rolling solemnly along with imposing
gait, wearing a stiff white-paper cravat, with a card snuff-box in his
hand and a straw-plait chain meandering over his grey serge vest. Quiet
and harmless, he goes about the yard feeling the pulses of his
fellow-patients, and nods at them and smiles encouragement.
"Is there any prospect of his recovery?" says the clergyman to the
warder, who is looking unconcernedly on.
"Whose, sir?" says the attendant. "His? the doctor's? O no, sir, not
the least. Stark mad!"
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