Beneath us are the various buildings of the Asylum, glittering, like burnished gold, in the rays of the setting sun. To the north rise the graceful proportions of the Blind Institute, nestled in its grove of wide-spreading oaks; to the west are seen the heaven-pointing spires and beautiful residences of Staunton; to the east is the graveyard of the asylum, with its plain, upright marble slabs, marking the spot where slumber the remains of many a friendless maniac; to the south is one wide-extended view of sloping hills, smiling valleys, sunlit streams and snow-white cottages, dotted over the scene like stars in the blue canopy of heaven.
Who can look upon such a prospect and not feel his thoughts turn from nature to nature’s God?
“All things are calm and fair and passive; earth
Looks as if lulled upon an angel’s lap,
Into a breathless, dewy slumber: so still
That we can only say of things, they be.”—Festus.
The gathering darkness reminds us that we have trespassed too long on the kindness of the gentleman who has so cheerfully shown us through the many apartments of this truly noble institution, whose object is to ameliorate the condition of the suffering maniac.
We bid her, her directors and her officers “God-speed” in their noble enterprise, and earnestly pray that they may continue “blessing and being blessed” until the light of reason shall be shed abroad in the darkened intellect of every lunatic in our land.
There are many other points which we might mention; but they are of such a nature as only to sicken the heart, and we pass them by in silence, simply remarking that if there be one crowning blessing for which our hearts should ever be outgushing in grateful thanks to our Heavenly Father, it is REASON.
Philip Barrett.