and asylums vie in architectural magnificence
with the mansions of the rich and great. When
the intelligent foreigner is making his way
towards London by the South Eastern Railway,
and sees on every side magnificent buildings
rising majestically from woods and gardens rich
in stately timber, and glowing with rare plants
and flowers, he is apt to inquire the names of
the great English milords who own those splendid
seats. This Italian palace on the left, with
the British flag floating proudly from its summit.
Surely this must be the residence of a royal
prince?

No, monsieur, it is the residence of some
two or three hundred poor creatures who
are suffering from incurable diseases. It is an
hospital—this mansion on the right with broad
terraces, sparkling fountains, and velvet lawns.
The ancestral seat of a duke? No, it is but
an asylum for idiots. By-and-by a bright château
rising from among the rich dark woods—a home
for orphan children. Anon, a castle of glittering
granite, surrounded by trim grounds and
highly cultivated fields. The stronghold of a
proud English baron, of all the barons, perhaps,
come down from Magna Charta and taken up
house together? Nay, a reformatory for criminal
children, distinguished inheritors of evil ways
and vicious habits. The intelligent foreigner
may well listen in mute astonishment. The
reflections which arise even in the mind of a
native are perplexing enough. Down by the
sides of the railway, on the brink of ditches and
stagnant pools, away in the open fields among
reeking brick-fields and festering manure-heaps,
huddled together in damp and muddy villages,
and by-and-by in the pent and stifling streets of
the murky city, he sees the homes of the honest
hard-working poor—homes that are but pig-
sties in comparison with the magnificent
hospitals and asylums which British charity has
raised for the idiot, the lunatic, and the
criminal.

At first sight the contrast presents itself
as a strange anomaly. It would almost seem
that, in this country, to be unfortunate is to
be fortunate, to be poor is to be rich; that,
for the advantage of physical comfort, it is
better to be mad than sane; better to be an
idiot than to have the full use of one's faculties;
better to be a youthful criminal than an
honest, hard-working, well-behaved boy. And,
indeed, it is not too much to say that these
lunatics, idiots, and young criminals, are the
only persons in the whole community who are
enabled fully to enjoy the comfort, the cleanliness,
the wholesome diet, and the regularity of
habits which make up the great and sovereign
recipe, according to all wisdom and experience,
for ensuring health and the capability for happiness.

These reflections, and many others in the same
strain, arose in my mind with irresistible force
the other day, when I paid a visit to the Idiot
Asylum at Earlswood. Driving down from the
Reigate station in a handsomely appointed
carriage that I found waiting for me, I conceived
the idea that I was proceeding on a visit to some
wealthy landowner. This idea was further
increased and strengthened, when, after a rapid,
dashing drive of twenty minutes or so, the
carriage turned sharply through an archway, and
entered the gates of a large and beautiful
mansion, situated on a commanding elevation,
overlooking broad terraces with flights of stone
steps, leading down to the green lawns, studded
with shrubs and trees and intersected by
parterres of many-coloured flowers. Still dwelling
upon the idea of the landowner, it occurred
to me that my host could be nothing less than
a duke. Nor did I quite lose this impression
when I noticed some hundreds of men, women,
and children, many of them obviously of the
poorer class, disporting themselves on the grass,
or marching in procession, preceded by a band of
music. No doubt his grace the duke was
giving a fête to his tenants and humble
dependents. It was, indeed, some considerable
time before I entirely lost sight of the noble and
princely proprietor. There he was with the
duchess at his side, on the steps of the grand
entrance waiting to receive me; and when he
had condescendingly given me his august hand,
and kindly introduced me to the duchess, he
handed me over to the major-domo, a magnificent
and imposing personage, six feet two in his
stockings, who forthwith conducted me to the
banqueting-hall. Here, in a delightfully cool
apartment, large and lofty, with a triple window
of great plate-glass panes, looking out upon the
beautiful garden, and a wide extent of richly
wooded country, I enjoy a substantial, but
at the same time an elegant repast, while a neat-
handed, soft-footed nymph in white garments
stands behind my chair and waits upon me, wafting
upon my sense, as she passes to and from
the sideboard, a gentle breeze, redolent of clean
frock. At home in my own house—it may be
in Belgrave-square—I have viands richer than
these; I have a finer carpet, as white a table-
cloth, as attentive a servitor; but I have not this
light, this air, this odour of cleanness, this
palpable scent of pure country health. I
imagine that it must be his grace the duke's best
room; his company room, his grand salon de
reception. But, as I pass down the corridor,
on my way to the grounds, I notice many such
rooms, all large, light, airy, clean and cheerful.
Happy idiots!

Descending from the noble terrace by a flight
of stone steps, I come upon the whole of the
inmates of the Asylum, disporting themselves
upon the lawn. They number in all three
hundred and sixty-five, two hundred and sixty
being males, and one hundred and ten females.
They are of all ages, ranging from a grey-haired
old lady of sixty, to a child of five years; and of
all ranks, from the sons of prosperous merchants,
it may be noblemen, down to the children of
poor clerks and petty tradespeople. The Asylum
at Earlswood is not absolutely a charity. All
who can afford it, pay for their maintenance, and
in some instances pay handsomely. Those who
cannot afford to pay are elected by the votes of