A few years ago I had occasion to visit our country lunatic asylum, a hideous barrack-like building occupying a prominent position at the head of the main street of L - . Long before I had made a promise that when the opportunity occurred I would look up one of the inmates of the institution, a poor cripple from our remote village on the coast. His infirmity rendering him unfit for the active life of field and sea, his too ardent temperament had recourse to the world of books. Every piece of printed matter that found its way to Glenalee was seized by him and devoured, until his mind at last became a confusion of distracted and inconsequent knowledge, a knowledge which induced a kind of mental arrogance peculiar to the peasant-scholar, and finally resulted in a perilous isolation of interests. In his loneliness he attempted to find relief in writing a novel. I saw some chapters of it, the veriest pompous twaddle, yet the mental effort required for its conception was sufficient to turn the poor fellow's excitable brain and he was removed to L - .<br><br>And now at last I found myself in the town, the bearer of a thousand messages from his very numerous relatives and friends, all of which I had engaged to deliver without fail.