system, seem to think that there is nothing so
common, nothing so completely to be counted
upon, as the recovery of the criminal from the
disease called crime.

But what is to be done then? Is the case
hopeless? By no means. Only it is necessary
to be infinitely less sanguine than we have been,
more mistrustful of the patient's recovery, more
fearful of his relapse, more watchful against the
first indication of a return of the bad symptoms.
And this brings us to a consideration of the
practical side of the question before us. What
is the right treatment for our moral patients—
how are we to regulate those hospitals called
Houses of Correction, where the fever of crime
is specially dealt with?

First of all, then, we should be most particularly
careful that the patient is not " discharged"
before he is thoroughly cured; and next, that in
all serious cases he should, even after his
discharge, be looked upon as an out-patient, should
be watched very carefully, should be required to
report himself continually to the hospital authorities,
should at the very first hint of a relapse
be promptly brought back to hospital, and put
through the " cure" again. Nay, more: after
one or two such relapses, he should be
consigned to an asylum for moral incurables from
which there is no release. Of the regulations of
that same asylum something may, perhaps, be
said hereafter.

The analogy between moral and physical
disease is tolerably close. The small attacks
of illness which most persons are liable to
at some time or other, may be got over with
a little trouble, and leave little serious injury
behind them; but the great diseases are
different. These require vigorous professional
treatment; they are hard to cure, they
leave the constitution terribly weakened, and
there is often great peril to the sufferer even
after his cure is thought to have been effected.
And we may go a step further, and say with
some confidence that after a certain number of
attacks and so many relapses the patient may
be pronounced—a terrible doom—altogether
incurable.

It was the fortune of the present Small-Beer
Chronicler to know a certain family living some
years since in the west of England. Among
the servants attached to this household was one
who, though little more than forty years old,
went by the name of " Old Stephen"—a name
which had attached to him, or at least the
qualifying adjective had done so, partly from the
antiquated appearance of the man, and partly
because he was a great favourite, and the word
old is generally to be considered a term of
endearment. "Old Stephen" had, however, one
great defect—he was given to drinking, and
sometimes when the bell rang, which it was his
business to answer, somebody else had to
respond to the summons, and to explain in an
under tone that " Old Stephen" was not very
well, and had betaken himself to his bed. Still
the man was borne with. His good qualities
were many, his attachment to the family
was fervent and deep. He was reprimanded,
scolded, reasoned with. From time to time he
would hold out for a week or two, but not for
longer.

Now, a time came when disaster overtook this
family. The head of it was removed by death,
and before long the daughters of the house were
left in a foreign country with little other protection
than that which " Old Stephen" could afford
them. From the moment when that sense of
responsibility first impressed itself on the old
servant's mind, when he first felt that a time
had come when his late master's children were in
a measure dependent on his care, and when the
time had also come when he could give a proof
of the attachment which he felt towards them—
from that moment " Old Stephen" came to
perceive that he MUST give up drinking. He did
so. Wherever he went with those young ladies
under his charge—abroad, or in his own country
among strangers or with his old associates—the
man was resolute. The change was radical.
The reformation was complete. The man had
thrown off the disease which hung upon him.
But then the constitution was a good one.
It was a single fault, the nature was sound and
fine.

A man such as this, with a good and a strong
character disfigured by one vice, is pre-eminently
capable of reforming: yet we little know what
he must have gone through, before his victory
was complete. The greatest strength of the
cable is at its weakest point, and it must have
been at his moments of greatest weakness that
the real strength of " Old Stephen's" principle
must have come out. Tired and worn out after a
journey, in low spirits from the loss of an
habitual stimulant to which his constitution had
become accustomed, conscious that a "drop"
would set him all right again, did it not require
an almost superhuman force to resist the temptation?
Or surrounded by the companions of
many an ancient revel, sitting by while they
caroused, urged on by every well-known voice to
return to the old convivial life, jeered at for
his self-denial; to hold out at such a time was
surely little short of pure heroism. But the
men who can engage successfully in such a
warfare as this, are not so numerous as
philanthropists could wish, and I fear but a few
specimens of them will be found among the
hardened inmates of a convict prison.

We should still consider the great analogy
between crime and disease. Suppose we were
to send a man with a fever upon him, to the
hospital, with directions that on a certain day he
was to be discharged whether he were recovered
or not. Such conduct would be looked upon as
sheer insanity. Yet this is what we do with the
criminal. At the expiration of his sentence we
open the gates of the prison and he goes forth.
He is not cured of his disease. As the jailer
watches his retreating figure he can see him
making for the old haunts where the infection
lies, and where it is a dead certainty that he will
fall sick again.

The old haunts! Is it possible that such