In the spring of 1863, I was appointed by the proper authorities of the church, as the pastor of the M.E. Church in the town of Kinderhook, for the third year, having served that people the two previous years. I commenced my new year in good health and fine spirits; all went on favorably, so far as I knew, until about the first of June, when the first shock which I felt which terminated in my downfall, was but a small affair in itself, and at first affected me very slightly, but continued to wear upon me, until another circumstance, arising from a little gossip in the village of Kinderhook, added to my former trial, threw me into a diseased state of body.

The circumstances were as follows: As I had been in the charge the two previous years, the rules of the church did not admit of my being returned the third year, and yet the official board petitioned to have me returned to them the third year. To effect this, and to make it legal for me to return, some alteration or change must be made in the name of the charge. This was effected in the following manner: This charge contained the villages of Kinderhook and Valatie, lying one mile apart, each having a church, and each having preaching every Sabbath. This charge also embraced the little village of Stuyvesant, near the Kinderhook depot. The first year I had Valatie alone; the second year, Kinderhook, which had been a separate station, was taken in or connected with Valatie, both now making but one charge. To effect my return and make it legal, the authorities at the Conference dropped the name of Valatie off from the minutes, and inserted in its stead Stuyvesant, making the charge now read “Kinderhook and Stuyvesant,” instead of Valatie and Kinderhook.

This change of names was observed by some of the friends in Valatie, and they were highly dissatisfied. I explained the cause, and told them that the name would be restored at the end of the year. This did not satisfy some of them, so the fire was kept up; not that any change was made in the work; each had the same service that they had the previous year. I finally told them I was sorry I had returned to them, as they felt so bad about the change of the name of the charge, as it was done solely that I might return to them. I told them it was not my doings; they had asked for my return, and to effect it this change had to be made.

So matters went on for a month, and I supposed all was quiet, and had never heard a lisp but all were satisfied with me, when all at once one of the official board told me that two or three private members of the church had met to consult on the propriety of having me removed from the charge; mixing a little gossip with this, which was studiously kept from me, until this kind brother revealed it to me. I was not moved by it at first; I knew all the official men of the church were in my favor, and they told me not to mind what these two or three had said. This was the first friction I had ever felt in my ministry.

The leaven continued to work in my mind; my health began to give way. The official board visited me, gave me great encouragement, and offered me money; said I could rest, and they would get the pulpits filled until I was better: they did so. My mind became more and more excited; friends came from a distance to comfort me, but all was in vain; little things were magnified to mountains; I knew that I was unmanned, and could not tell why; I imagined things took place that never existed; my mind took a strange turn; I imagined I was the worst of beings, and that thousands must suffer on my account.

I soon became exceedingly restless; wanted to be constantly on the go; wanted to be constantly doing something, and hardly knew what. I felt in a great hurry to have something done. It is true that I knew at the time what I wanted to do, but when I attempted to do it, I would either find opposition by some one or a strange inability to do what I wanted done. I did not give up preaching until the 28th of June. I shall never forget that day; it was Sabbath; I preached in Kinderhook, and, I think, had the Sacrament; it was a day of great gloominess and trial.

The next day being Monday, my wife took me to Hillsdale to see our friends, hoping a change of place and scenery would help me. But O, how restless I was when I got there; I could not be persuaded to stay any length of time; it seemed as though I must go back; and when I got home I was more wretched than ever. I was sorry I went home. We visited the parish the following week, but none knew where we went; my feelings all seemed a wreck. I did not feel sick during all this time. I laid all my feelings at this time to outward circumstances; I suffered them to prey upon my mind. I had always kept clear of all difficulties; was very tenacious about my standing in society. But I thought I now saw that I was liable to suffer as a minister, and also in my moral character as a Christian; and somehow my hands seemed tied. If I resolved on any particular given course, I seemed to have no power or ability to carry it out. I ceased to write in my diary about the middle of July. If I attempted to write anything I could not find words to say what I wanted to, and if I wrote anything I was not satisfied with it, and would tear it out; so I ceased to write altogether.

About this time I took my room and wished to be alone, and yet I wanted my wife near me all the time, and wanted to talk to her constantly upon the same subject. I knew it was a great annoyance to her, and yet it seemed to me that I could not help it. I knew that I was wearing her out by my course, yet I had no control over myself. It seemed to me that she could help me out of all my troubles, at least I acted so, and yet my judgment told me she could not. I groaned much; my appetite now entirely failed; I did not want to eat for days. Sleep entirely left me, and a night seemed an eternity. I prevailed on my wife to take a separate room to prevent my wearing her out with my groanings. I felt now that I did not want to eat, sleep, or drink anything; my flesh seemed to dry down to my bones. It was at this stage of my condition that I felt that I was the worst being in the world. I shall never forget that I thought Jeff. Davis was a saint compared to me; yet I knew all that passed; my mind was as clear to reason as at this moment, but I viewed everything in a most extravagant light.

It was Sunday, about the first of August, that I lay on my bed; I think some of the family were gone to church; I was in great trouble of mind; all that I ever did that was wrong seemed to rush upon my mind, and though I did not have the consolations of religion to comfort me, as I had been accustomed to, yet I wanted to do all things right, and leave nothing undone that I ought to do. I felt that it was probable that I should not live long, and I wanted to die. At that moment, I thought of some nitrate of silver and corrosive sublimate that I had been using for certain purposes, that I had set away rather carelessly, without labeling. Fearing that some of the family might get hold of them, mistaking them for medicine, I sprung from the bed, took the bottle of nitrate of silver, ran out door with it, made a hole in the ground, and meant to empty the contents of the bottle into this hole; but all at once I thought that some animal might get it and be killed by it. I hesitated, ran back with the bottle, then resolved again to bury it. The day was very hot, and I was running about with this bottle in my hand, undecided what to do with it. At that moment my family came in; wanted to know what I had. I told them; they did not believe me, of course, for I had never told them what was in this bottle they snatched it from my hand, and threw it somewhere, I could not see where. I thought I had as much trouble before as I could bear, but this seemed worse than all the rest put together; I imagined that some animal or human being would get hold of that nitrate of silver and be killed, and I should be charged with their death.

The next day I brought out the corrosive sublimate and meant to have buried it, but my wife snatched it from me and threw it into the cook stove; this, too, alarmed me, fearing some one would be poisoned with it, and even warned them all not to eat the food cooked on the stove, lest they should be poisoned. It will be seen that all these things were evidences that my mind had given way and that I was a prostrated man; yet I knew all that passed.

Boils at this time came out on my face and head; they were very painful; I have no knowledge of ever suffering so much pain before as I did with these boils. At this time the rain fell in torrents, with much thunder and lightning; it rained for many days. This rendered the scene to me much more gloomy and dismal.

My physician now gave me medicine, and after a day or two I felt as well as I ever did in my life; got up, my head feeling clear; dressed and went into the garden, and tried to work a little, but I was too weak to do much; discouragement came over me and I gave it up. Friends had called during the last two weeks, but I had refused to see them; I wanted to be alone. From the middle of August until the 19th, I was feeling much better, and my appetite began to come; medicine had had a good effect.[A]

On the 19th of August, my physician with another came in, and I was called up to see them; as I walked out, my physician left the house, leaving the other to converse with me. He commenced conversation; I did not understand his object; my wife told me to ask him about the nitrate of silver and corrosive sublimate, and hear what the doctor would say about it. I told him the story as it was, and asked him if he thought any damage could proceed from it. He said no, he thought not; that it might kill the grass, perhaps, where it was thrown, and that would be all. I thought no more of his call; he left, and I have never seen them since. They went immediately to Hudson, I understood, and got a warrant from the judge to take me to the asylum at Utica.

These doctors were Benson and Talmage; their mission was now ended, and I suppose they calculated they had done a great good to their country. It is not a supposable case that men who can coldly deprive a man of his liberty when he is harmless, would ever enquire after his welfare, or send him a word of comfort; of course I never expected it of these men, and I have no doubt, if the truth could be known, that they would have greatly preferred to have had me die in the asylum than to have had me live and come out again.

The next day, the 20th of August, 1863, about 9 o'clock in the morning, I was called out of my room to dress and take a ride as far as the depot. I rose, dressed and went out. I perceived they seemed in a hurry; I got into the wagon with three men besides myself; these were George Harvey, J. Snyder and Rev. A. Farr. As I got into the wagon and saw my trunk, I enquired where they were going. Mr. Harvey told me I was going to the asylum in Utica.

I have always thought until this day that those three men supposed that what I said and did when I was told where I was going, was a sudden outburst of insanity, but I knew as well what I said, and what I did, as they knew; yet I said some things which I ought not to have said. I knew that I was getting better fast; I knew that I had had a terrible time of it; I had felt much better for a few days past; my mind was not as much agitated as it had been. At a glance I took in the whole scene before me. I saw that I had been deceived; that I was torn from home without my consent; was to be shut up with raving maniacs, and probably to die with them. I saw how cold and unfeeling men could be when a little power was given them; I felt that the world and the church had turned against me. I rose in the wagon in despair and indignation; I said strong things; I knew who had been the chief instruments of my imprisonment. I begged to go anywhere else rather than to Utica; when this was denied me, and I was told by Mr. Snyder to sit down, I announced that I should consider myself no longer a member of the Methodist E. Church; that my connection was dissolved. This was an outburst, it is true, and a foolish one, but I knew what I said, and at the time I meant it. I felt that I was forsaken by God and man; I also confessed that I was a bad man, given over by the Almighty, and had no hope. This was the substance of the confession. This was also wrong; even if it had been true, no one could be benefited by such a confession. I knew what I said and I know too what reply was made by Mr. Farr.

I know that these expressions of mine were marks showing that my mind had been racked. I could not control my mind as usual; yet my memory and reasoning powers were not broken; I ought not to have been sent to an insane asylum.

My attendants soon found that there was no need of fetters or handcuffs to get me to Utica; so one after another fell off, leaving me but with one man, and he not much of a giant. When he told me that he had all the papers in his pocket for my commitment, I made up my mind to be a law and order man, and I have never heard that he had any trouble in getting his patient within the bolts and bars of that humane institution, as some are disposed to call it.[B]

We arrived there the same day, and I was locked up in the third story of the building, with about forty raving maniacs. Others must judge of my feelings when I sat down and looked around me and saw where I was, among entire strangers, and all these disfranchised like myself. One of my first thoughts, after I arrived there, was: “Would to God that I were crazy—so crazy that I could not realize where I am, or what I am, or what will be my future.”

But more of this in its appropriate place. I now wish to appropriate a chapter to a particular subject, viz.: to the manner in which patients are sent to the asylum, and the laws of the State of New York on that subject.