The first Sabbath came the 23d of August. I had seen nothing of the institution as yet, only what I had seen from this hall. I could only look out of a north window, and see the hills afar off, the valley of the Mohawk stretching east and west as far as the eye could reach; could see the cars passing up and down the valley, and the canal, with its loaded crafts slowly but constantly passing by. I could also see fine carriages constantly passing by, going in and out of the city. I could also see the beautiful lawn lying at my feet, and stretching away to the street passing out of the city. While I stood at my window and saw all this, and then turned and looked at myself, shut up and confined with bars and bolts, I then began to think that I could now conceive how those poor creatures felt whom I had often seen crowding to prison windows to catch a glimpse of passers-by, through their iron grates.

I recollect, while thus employed and thus philosophising, of crying out, that “my life is a failure.” I had never realized before the sweets of liberty, and finally came almost to the conclusion that I must have committed some crime, or I never should have been thus confined and shut out from society; yet I had no knowledge that I had violated the law in any sense.

Yes, this was a lonely Sabbath; yet I felt that while I remained in that institution, I had no desire to go out or to form any acquaintances. I could not get rid of the idea that the whole process of proceedings in putting me into the asylum was deception from end to end. First, they were deceived as to the cause of my trouble; secondly, they were deceived in regard to my real condition. I did not wish to look any man in the face, outside of the asylum, for the reason that I supposed all within its walls were regarded as insane and unfit to mingle in society.

I learned that there was service in the chapel that evening, but nothing was said to me about attending; and I did not mention it, for fear I should be denied the privilege of attending.

A day or two more passed away, and I had not, as yet, put off my best clothes. I was thinking of it, and then I thought again—“Why should I care about the future? And if I lay off this suit I shall never see it again.” These were thoughts that came into my mind; and I thought I might as well wear out my best clothes as to let others have them.

While these thoughts were revolving in my mind, Mr. Jones, the attendant, came to me and said—“You had better lay off that suit of clothes, and put on a poorer one, to wallow on the hall in.” So I made the change, as I had a number of poorer suits in my trunk. This suit that I laid off was a very fine one and valuable. Time went on, and in about six weeks I was removed to the fourth floor. This was a short hall on the first floor, extending west from the main building; but the same suit of clothes that I laid off, a few days after I entered the asylum, I never saw again. I was never fully satisfied what became of them.

The State Fair was held in Utica that fall, and I was invited to ride on to the grounds, with others, in an omnibus. I did not care to go, yet I did not think it best to refuse; I consented and called for my coat; a coat was brought me, but it was not mine; it was much smaller, shorter sleeves, and much worn; it was not worth ten dollars; mine was worth thirty.

I made this known, but all the satisfaction I got was to be told that I was mistaken. I soon called for my pants and vest which belonged to that coat, and was told by the attendant on that hall, that I never had such a pair of pants and vest as I described—a fine pair of doeskins, and a satin vest; and he told me if I persisted in it, he would report me to higher authority; he even threatened me. I knew I was right, yet I became afraid of my safety, as this attendant on the fourth hall was an old Irishman who had been a sailor, whose principles were very bad; he was not a man of truth or honesty; so I was obliged to let the matter drop. I once thought of stating the matter to Dr. Gray, but the attendants put on their veto, and I let it rest, but have never doubted but this same old Irishman had my vest, for I am sure I saw him wear it. As to the pants, I never saw them again. I know I am not mistaken about the coat, vest and pants; I got an old coat in its stead which I still keep to show.

Cold weather soon came on, and I was thinly clad. I missed my thick pants, and though I had a good shawl, which I kept my eye upon, yet I had no overcoat. I one day said to the supervisor that I wished I had my overcoats from home; that I had two at home—one new and a very fine one, the other a coarse one, but a good coat for common wear.

A very few days after this my coats both came; I knew them well, by special marks. The best one was taken and put away; the other I was allowed to keep in my room to throw on when we went out in the field. It was not long before I called for my best overcoat, as I was going to walk out. A coat was brought me, but on examination, I found it was not my coat; it was much smaller, cut in a different fashion; was not the same kind of cloth; yet it was a black coat, and had a velvet collar like mine; mine was worth at that time fifty dollars; this was not worth twenty. I have never worn the coat much since. I got me a new one and keep this also to exhibit, to show that I am not mistaken about the clothing.

My hat was also changed for one much poorer; this might have been done by accident. A new black silk cravat was taken, and an old one given me in its stead. Now all these things might have been done through mistake, and not by design, yet, I have never doubted but all was done by design; knowing the attendants, I am obliged to come to this conclusion.

It will be observed that, for the sake of giving a history of my lost clothing, the reader was brought down from the third to the fourth floor; as I had not proceeded through an entire week with my history of that hall, we will now return to that narrative. I had been there about a week when I was permitted to go out in the yard with the patients; and in walking in the yard, I soon became acquainted with men from other halls, with whom I could converse, and I found, on comparison, that those on the third were not as sane as many from other halls; indeed, there were none on that hall that could converse rationally for any length of time; yet I did not desire to change my place by being removed to another floor. After being there about a month, however, the doctor hinted to me that I was to be removed to some other floor. This I somehow dreaded, not knowing where I was to be sent, and not knowing the difference between one hall and another; I begged to stay where I was, choosing the sufferings I then had, to those I knew not of.

After being there about two weeks, I one day said to the attendant, that I wished him to understand that if my plate was always found emptied of its contents, at the close of every meal, it was not because I had eaten it all. I then told him it was very annoying to me to have men snatching my food from my plate every chance they could get, and that I was obliged to guard my plate in order to get enough to eat, and the moment I finished, my plate was immediately swept clean of all it contained. He said I should sit there no longer; so he removed me to the table where he sat, and placed me by his side, and I sat there until removed to another hall.

As I have said, I was on this third hall about six weeks. I have noticed but few incidents connected with this hall, not because I could not, but because I wish to make my narrative as short as possible. Should I record all the thrilling and ludicrous incidents which happened upon this hall, and others during my stay there, they would fill an octavo of a thousand pages. My object is not to give a history of the institution, but simply my own narrative, noticing, perhaps, now and then, a circumstance which may fall in my way concerning other patients; and while I am on this subject, I will simply say, that I made the acquaintance of a number of gentlemen in that institution whose names I remember with pleasure, and should perhaps make mention of them if I thought it would be pleasing to them, but knowing the delicacy of such a subject, I shall forbear making mention of any except those who I know cannot be affected by it.

I was now placed upon the fourth hall, and assigned to a room containing three beds; this was about the first of October. The inmates of this room were more agreeable than on the third floor, though one of them, at times, was very annoying. He would be up and down all night; would disarrange all the clothes of his bed; would scold and worry, and complain of ill treatment, if any one attempted to assist him; until at length he was removed on to some other hall and died there.

From this hall I was suffered to walk out with other patients, guarded by attendants. We would sometimes walk a mile through the back fields attached to the institution. I shall never forget that the first day I entered this hall, I saw, walking the hall, a delicate, well dressed, fine looking gentleman, of middle age and very long beard. There seemed to be an air of aristocracy about him that attracted my attention, and led me to inquire who he was. I found he was from Albany; that his name was Root; they called him Colonel Root. He had done business in Albany; married there into a good family and rich. He lived rather too fast to suit his friends, in traveling through Europe and America, and drinking wine and brandy, so they threw him into the asylum. No one could detect in him any marks of insanity; but the way he would curse his friends for running him into that institution, was a caution. He was not the most gentle and docile patient to manage in the whole institution. Being a private patient, he had what is called his extras in food. He was often changed from one hall to another, until, running down rapidly in health, he died on the sixth hall, long before I left the institution.

I liked the fare better on this hall than on the third; it was a short hall, containing about twenty patients. I soon discovered that on this hall were a good many invalids; I have seen as many as ten confined to their beds on this hall at once; I regarded it a kind of hospital. There was a hospital attached to the institution, but I found, of late, it had not been used much for that purpose; that the sick were allowed to remain on the halls with the well. This I regarded an improvement.

At this time, frequent changes were made on the halls in attendants; it was war time, and young men were called into the field; I suppose they had to take such as they could get. A young man came on to the fourth hall, as first attendant, soon after I entered it, by the name of John Subert; a young man of a good deal of self-conceit; was very ignorant withal, and evidently felt that he was highly promoted in having a kind of charge over a few poor inmates of a lunatic asylum.

Doctor Gray is the sole superintendent of the asylum. He has generally three physicians under him, who watch over the wants of the patients, and prescribe for them. Next comes a supervisor, who takes the general charge of four or five halls, and is at the same time an attendant on one of these four or five. This John Subert was an attendant on the fourth hall, under a supervisor; he was, in fact, nothing more nor less than a servant waiter; yet he sometimes assumed a good deal of authority. He at one time called me to come and sit down by his side, and began to talk to me very gravely, and told me whenever I got into any trouble and wanted anything, to come to him and he would give me good advice. This, certainly, would have been very kind, had it come from Doctor Gray or even from a supervisor; but coming from a waiter, and a young man not much over twenty, and one so ignorant that he could not converse intelligently five minutes on any subject, and withal very wicked, using much profane language, the idea of his giving me good advice was most ludicrous.

I once asked this young gentleman for a coverlid, as the weather was getting cold. He brought me an old straw bed tick, very dirty. I looked at it and then at him, and asked him what he meant, to offer me that dirty bed tick for a covering. I saw he was mad. He said I was the damnedest man he ever saw; would sew me up in the tick. He then asked me if he should knock me down. I told him yes, if he pleased. He said he thought he would not begin with me, as he had never knocked a man down. I have never doubted but it was best that he did not knock me down, or attempt it, for I had regained my strength at that time.

And here I am happy to say that during the two years and four months that I was in the institution, I never received a blow from attendant or patient, while many were knocked headlong by both patients and attendants. I was always on the watch to keep out of the way of danger, and when I found an ill-natured patient, or an ill-natured attendant, had as little to say to them as possible.

It is true, that there are times that a man will pass through scenes that will stir his blood, that perhaps he would not let pass unnoticed out of that place; yet, I found the best way to get along, was to bear all things with a kind of stoicism.

I can never forget a small circumstance which happened on this hall. After I had eaten all that I desired, John Subert presented me with a bowl of soup which he had left. I hesitated; told him that I did not need it. He said I should eat it; to save trouble I ate what I could, and stopped; he ordered me to eat the rest, and said I should eat it. I was in a strait; I felt that I could not swallow another spoonful; he threatened; I ate a spoonful or two and stopped; found it impossible to swallow any more. At this point I felt unmanned; I groaned bitterly; I felt that I had rather die than be governed by such a gladiator. I knew he did it only to show his authority. I never knew why he took such a course with me. Had I refused to eat my regular meals, as some did refuse, and had shown a suicidal spirit to starve myself, as some did, then the case would have been altered, and the attendant would have been justified in forcing me to eat. But I was well and hearty; my appetite was craving, caused by the medicine forced down me daily, and I found that I generally ate more than was for my good; yet I did not eat more than other patients; it was thought I did not generally eat as much.

At another time, they had molasses and some kind of pudding as a dessert. I ate all I wanted and moved back; he had ate and left a quantity of molasses and pudding; he moved it before me and ordered me to eat it; molasses I never eat unless obliged to; I tried to beg off, but he was inflexible; I considered the matter and complied; I thought it better to eat his leavings than to have war at the table. I considered that he was a low-bred wretch, and a man of no principle. I have often wondered if he would not like to see me now, and talk up these matters, and show me that it would be best for me to ask his advice, and to eat his leavings. I have no doubt but he would deny that these things ever happened. I would deny them if I were him. This is the way such men get out from such charges. They have been in the habit of abusing patients, and when charged with the wrong, deny it to the doctor, charging it to the insanity of the patient. Many other small matters in themselves might be related that will be passed over, which would be very trying to a man of good breeding.

When the patients of that institution can be used as patients should be, and not as criminals, prisoners or slaves, then, and not till then, will it become a blessing to the State of New York instead of a curse.

I remained on the fourth hall until about the first of December, when I was removed to the first hall. I begged with all my skill to stay on the fourth hall through the winter, but all was in vain. The reasons why I wanted to stay on the fourth hall were, that it was warmer, and I did not wish to become a gazing stock for the multitude of visitors who daily flocked to the asylum, take a walk through the first hall, gaze on the patients as they would look upon wild animals in a managerie, and then depart. I found the arrangement on the fourth hall for bathing as it should be; each man had his bath by himself of clean water. This became a luxury rather than a dread, as upon the third floor. It is, however, due to Mr. Jones, the attendant on the third, to say that after two or three of the first baths I took there, he gave me clean water, and always used me like a gentleman. The little Dutchman who gave me my first bath, seemed to shun me after I had learned the ropes a little better.

My medicine was kept up while on the third and fourth halls without interruption three times a day, always just before eating; and soon after I came to the fourth hall, another dose was added. This was some kind of spirits; whether it was brandy or some other kind of liquor I do not know; one thing I do know, that it would fly into my head, my face would feel hot and would be as red as fire; it alarmed me at first, and I begged to have it taken off, but it was of no use; perhaps I was foolish in thinking that they meant to make me drunk.

After a week or two this beverage was taken off, and strong beer or porter was substituted; this I hated; I always hated it. I hate it still, though I was made to drink it daily for more than a year, and had I been like some men, I should now be a drunkard; but I have not tasted a drop of ardent spirits or beer since I left the asylum, and never shall, unless it is forced down my throat as it was there. My opinion is, however, that the beer I drank there never injured me, but the other medicine I thought did.

Four months had now gone by since I entered the asylum. I was now on the first floor. This is a spacious hall, two hundred and fifteen feet long, with bed-rooms ranged on each side of it to contain about forty patients. The patients on this hall are mostly those who have been on other halls, and are either cured or convalescent; but few on this hall are ever seen to show marks of insanity.

To judge of the inmates of the asylum, and the workings of the institution by inspecting this hall, would be a deception. All things here are in order, with a fine library and reading room, with bureaus and looking glasses in all the bed-rooms.

When I came on to the first hall, I little understood what was before me; I did not know that I was to remain on this floor for two years longer, confined by iron grates and locks; but such was the fact, though I was in as good health the day I entered it as when I left it, but was not in as good spirits.

For the first three months I occupied a bed in one of the dormitories where there were four beds, and during this time I took care of my own bed, and helped others in the room who were weaker than myself. I had a warm place to sleep, and had the privilege of managing my own clothing. Our cast-off clothing at night were not left out in the hall, as on other halls; yet the patients here are all locked into their rooms at night as on other halls; and instead of retiring at seven o'clock, the time of retiring is half past eight. This to me was a great relief.

This was a very hard winter; the cold was intense; the hall was much colder than any house I had ever been accustomed to during my whole life. My clothing was thinner than I had been accustomed to for thirty years, and we were not allowed to put on an overcoat, or wear a shawl in the house, yet my health was good during the whole winter.

The halls were heated with hot air thrown in through pipes from the engine-house on the opposite side of the court yard. The reading room was always comfortable, but I did not stay in it perhaps six hours during the whole winter.

One circumstance connected with my captivity, I cannot pass over. I found when I arrived at Utica that I had no glasses, and although they were in my trunk, I did not know it, as they had taken charge of my trunk, with all its contents, which I never saw again until it was brought down at the time I finally left. I asked for glasses, that I might occupy my time in reading. This was denied me, and the doctor forbade my reading anything whatever. I thought this a hard case. I could not see the point, inasmuch as I saw others reading who were not half as strong as I was—patients who were confined to their beds had their books and papers to read, while I was waiting on them. I came to the conclusion that it was done to punish me, or to let me know that I must obey orders. So I spent the winter the best I could, straining my eyes to read whenever I could get out of the sight of the attendants, that they might not report me to the doctor; and it was quite remarkable that I could read so well without glasses.

Six months perhaps passed away before I was furnished with glasses. I then took to reading, asking no questions, and no one forbade me. Many a volume, could they speak, in that library, could testify that I searched their contents.

Soon after I went to the first hall I commenced walking out with the patients, accompanied by an attendant. It was our custom to go into the street that leads from Utica to Whitesborough, and follow up that road until we came to the bridge which crosses the canal, a distance of about a mile and a half; here we would stop a few minutes and walk back. This we repeated almost every day through the winter.

After I went on to the first hall, I was a constant attendant at church, either in the chapel in the asylum, or in the city, or both. I generally attended the State Street Methodist Episcopal Church in the city. The services in the chapel are generally Episcopal, Dr. Gibson, of Utica, being the chaplain. I confess that I did not enjoy public worship while in the asylum as I have since I left it.

There was one idea that constantly haunted my mind during the most of the time that I was in the asylum: that was, that I should never get away from that place alive, and this I often expressed to others. This, perhaps, may be regarded by others as a freak of insanity, but I could not help it—I had my own reasons for thinking so.

I never saw the day, from the time I entered the asylum until I left it, but I would have been willing to have crawled upon my hands and feet a hundred miles, and lived on bread and water, could I by that means have got away; and yet I was resolved that I would never run away if I died in the institution. Here I think I was in an error; I have no doubt but a man is justifiable in running away when he sees and knows he is receiving no benefit from staying there. I think it would be very difficult to keep me there again as long under the same circumstances. Why should a man feel any conscientious scruples about leaving a place into which he is forced against his will, especially if he was not sent there for crime?

My conscientious scruples about running away from that place, is to me one of the strongest evidences that I can think of, that my mind, some of the time, was not right.

At the time I was changed to the first hall, I was placed at the table by the side of Dr. Noise, who had been in the institution for three or four years. He carried the keys of the house, went in and out at his will, and served as usher to the asylum. I supposed he was employed by the doctor as an helper in the institution, and had no idea that he was a patient. I observed he acted very independently, and was quite dictatorial.

I did not take pains to make his acquaintance, so I said nothing to him for perhaps two weeks. In the meantime I had learned his history—that he was a patient, and that in consequence of his being an active kind of a man, and being a physician at the same time, and not much, if any, insane, was granted privileges that but few patients enjoyed.

I observed that he wanted a great deal of room at the table, and took it without consulting the convenience of his next neighbor. I found myself much cramped for room, and his course became quite annoying to me. He would spread himself out, lay his arms on the table, slop over his tea and coffee on the table-cloth, throw his meat and potatoes off of his plate if he did not want to eat them, and had very much to say to other patients while eating. On one occasion he took his seat at the table before I did, spread himself out as usual, and laid his arm on my knife. I took my seat as usual, and sat awhile to see if he meant to remove his arm off of my knife. I saw that he did not mean to do so. I did not understand his object, but I soon found it was to draw me out in conversation, as I had not as yet spoken to him, and he began to feel annoyed about it. I at length asked him to remove his arm that I might take my knife.

He turned and looked daggers at me. “What,” he said, “have you spoken? I have sat by you two weeks, and you have not spoken to me; you need not try to play possum with me?” “What do you mean,” I said, “by playing possum?” He gave his definition of the saying. I then said, “Doctor, I feel under no obligations to you; I know no reason why I should make conversation with you more than others.” This offended him; he lifted up his voice and said, “He did not wonder I was in the asylum—that my folks could not live with me at home, so they had to bring me to the asylum.”

I admitted all his slang to be true, and said, “Yes, yes, doctor, that's so—you and I are here for the same reason, our folks could not live with us at home, so they sent us here.” This roused the lion—and he could roar terribly when roused—but I said no more, and as my reply got the laugh of the table on him, he cooled off, but he never tried me on again. Whether he thought he had caught a tartar, or whether he thought I was a fool and not worth minding, he did not inform me; but one thing I do know, that ever after this he treated me with respect, and died in the asylum in about two years from that time.

As I have already noticed, this is called the first hall on the gentlemen's side, and is on the first floor above the basement. Between this, and what was then called the fourth hall, now I believe called the second, is a billiard room. The patients amuse themselves at this game, and some of them are expert players. I never took any interest in it; I never even took the stick in my hand to strike a ball while there,—neither did I ever elsewhere.

Chess, checkers, backgammon and dominoes, were the principal games played in the asylum, but in none of these did I take any interest; indeed, I never learned to play them. I think if all these games could be confined to lunatic asylums it would be just as well for the world.

As the time of retirement on this floor is just half-past eight in the evening, there is considerable time during the long nights of winter for some kind of exercise between dark and bed-time. So after the hall is lighted up, the patients betake themselves to such kinds of recreation as suits them best—some to reading, some to walking the hall in pairs, which is a good exercise, others engage in the different games practiced on the hall, while some will always sit looking blank, as though all the world besides them were asleep or dead.

There is a state of mind in that institution which I have thought would not be moved if the house were on fire. I once saw it demonstrated on the fourth hall. A young man was brought on to that hall by his friends from the city of Utica, subject to epileptic fits; these fits had injured his mind very much; yet he was as harmless as a child, and a greater mistake never happened than to take a child to the lunatic asylum who has fits, thinking they can be benefited by it; but if it is done to get the child out of their sight, and to throw the care of them on to other hands, why then, that alters the case; but if that were my object, I certainly should not send them there; I would sooner send them to the county poor-house.

But to return to my story. He was sitting at the table; I think it was breakfast; we had all commenced eating; in a moment he fell backward chair and all, with a terrible groan, foaming at the mouth, and uttering most horrible groans; I started up as by instinct; my knife and fork dropped from my hands, and I was about to take hold of him to take him up, when two attendants took him up and carried him to his room. But I observed that more than half of those at the table never looked up nor stopped eating. I made up my mind that if they had been asked after breakfast, what happened at the breakfast table this morning, the would have said, “nothing that they knew of.” That was the state of mind I wanted to be in when I entered the asylum; then I should have had no trouble by anything I saw or heard. I do not wish the reader to understand that I now wish that to have been my state of mind.

Though it may seem a digression from the subject designed in this chapter, yet, while I am on the subject of epileptic fits, I wish to relate a fact which has come under my observation within a few weeks past. I was in a town in the northern part of Saratoga county about the 25th of June, 1868; and while there I was told that one of their neighbors was about to take their son to the Asylum at Utica, who was subject to epileptic fits, and they asked my advice. The brother of the young man who had fits was present. They did not know, that I am aware of, that I had any knowledge of the asylum. I asked them why they were going to take him to the asylum? I saw that he hesitated to answer. He finally said they thought it would be best. I asked him if they thought the doctors there could help one with fits better than other doctors?

I then told him just what I thought, “that many had been deceived by supposing they could cure epileptic fits at the asylum, and that they would miss it if they took him there for that purpose.” They were entire strangers to everything pertaining to the asylum, yet I saw they were intent upon taking the young man there. They started with him the next morning, and took him to the asylum.

After the young man, the brother of the patient, had left, the family where I stopped explained to me the probable reasons why they were going to send him to the asylum. The young man had become of age, and was not capable of supporting himself; they were afraid he was getting, or would get, suicidal; he was getting to be a burden to the family.

His own mother was dead, and he had a step-mother. If they put him in the asylum they would get rid of the trouble of looking after him, and would save his support by throwing him into the asylum as a county charge. Yet they were not poor. There can be no doubt but many are sent there for similar reasons.

I was greatly surprised to find children in the asylum not more than six or seven years old. I saw two little boys there, one from Rondout, of about that age. Poor things, how I pitied them. They were very sprightly little fellows, but it was said they had epileptic fits. I would think it much more appropriate to send a child there that had the measles, or one troubled with worms, than to send one there troubled with fits, for, I think likely, they might cure the measles, and I am sure they would give medicine enough to kill the worms.

I will now return to the first hall, and give a description of the patients on that floor. I have already said that generally there are about forty patients on this hall, perhaps a little less; there are constant changes on this hall of patients. When patients are first brought in they are seldom left on this floor, though some are. Some come on this hall and never go to any other. They come and stay from three months to a year, and sometimes longer, as the case may be, and leave almost entirely ignorant of the general state of things in the asylum. And some of this class are well pleased with the asylum; this depends much on who they are, and what the state of their body and mind was in while there.

But the great majority first have a schooling on other halls, and, if very insane, are quite likely to be sent on the old eleventh, which, I believe, is now changed to some other number, but the hall is the same. This hall is the most like hell, in my judgment, so far as we have any knowledge of what hell is, of any other place on earth. I recollect when I was there, I used to fear and tremble, lest I should be sent on to the eleventh; and it was a common thing for attendants to scare patients, by telling them they would report them to the doctor and have them sent on to the eleventh hall.

This is a low small hall, on the ground floor, in the west end of the wing, made of brick, and, I think, but one story high. Here men are bound in fetters and laid in irons! Many of them are so crazy they are obliged to be kept bound, some in cribs, some hand-cuffed, some tied down in seats, some with muffs, and many of them in strait jackets. I am not censuring anybody for this, unless it be the patients themselves, who have brought themselves to this state by imprudence and debauchery. As to the treatment of these, I have no knowledge, only by hearsay. I have often heard many hard stories concerning their treatment, but there can be no doubt, that means that would seem to be rash has to be sometimes used, to bring to bearings some of these raving maniacs.

Their food, I understand, is as good as in any other department in the institution, but the manner of eating it is different. They are not allowed knives and forks, but eat with spoons; their food being prepared and put on their plates by the attendants. As these patients improve, they are changed to other halls more appropriate to their state, until some of them finally get to the first hall. Not that all come on to the first hall who get well and are discharged from the asylum, yet many come on the first hall from other floors, and many are discharged from the first hall and go home, making constant changes on that floor. I visited the asylum in April last, and found eight persons on the first floor, who were there three years ago, when I left; some of these seem to be fixtures. I could give the names of these, but perhaps they would regard it a freedom which I had no right to take; so I will forbear. There is a kind of mystery attached to the history of some of these men. One of them, a well, hearty man of about forty, who has been there about six years, and he told me he had not taken a dose of medicine since he entered the institution; and no man would think of charging him with insanity; and I have often said, and say now, that a man must be made of stern stuff that can remain shut up there for six years, in the prime of life, amidst the howlings and babblings of five hundred maniacs, and not become insane!

There are a number of others who have been there from ten to fifteen years, who show but slight marks of insanity; if any, perfectly harmless. There are many out in the world doing business quite as crazy as they. These, I know, are all groaning to get free, but their friends prefer to keep them there, and as property doubtless has much to do with the matter, they will be likely to die in the institution. Were they county patients, they would long before now have been set at liberty.

There is one case in the asylum that I will venture to name, because I am quite sure he would prefer to have me do so. This case is Frank Jones. He has been there a number of years. He is troubled with epileptic fits; these fits have somewhat impaired his mind. He is as harmless as a child; is capable of doing considerable business of a certain kind. He has his liberty to go about where he pleases; he does a great many chores for the doctor; goes into the city daily, to the post-office and stores; dresses very neatly, is perfectly honest and truthful, and can be trusted in any matter. He occupies the first hall; is a private patient, and is the son of Mrs. Jones, the owner of the Clarendon House at Saratoga Springs—one of the best houses in that place.

I have often had talk with Frank on the subject of his being in the asylum; he seems to feel bad at times that his mother chooses to keep him in the asylum. I had the opportunity of watching him for two years. I have seen him have his fits; he is very little trouble to any one when he has them; he generally so manages as to have them in his room on his bed.

It is true that this is not my business, but were he my son, and knowing what I know of asylum life, I should remove him to some private family, where he could enjoy the comfort of social life, if I did not want the trouble of looking after him myself; it could not cost any more than to keep him in the asylum.

There is one more man in the institution of which I will say a word in this connection. His room is on the old fourth hall, now called the second; this is Esq. Bebee. He was in the old asylum at Hudson, I am told, before the one at Utica was established; and on the opening of the one in Utica, in 1842, he was removed there, and I think has been there ever since. He was a lawyer of superior talents. I understood he fell from a horse and fractured his skull, that a portion of his brains ran out, and they were preserved.

He is a very eccentric man, and has a very lofty bearing. I have heard him speak a number of times, and have heard him make some of the most able and thrilling speeches I have ever heard from any man. He keeps his room the most of the time; has his liberty; goes where he pleases, but will doubtless die in the institution. He frequently shows marks of insanity, not by any low or foolish expression, but by some sudden outburst of eloquence, or some ludicrous and eccentric act.

He is always very tenacious about having any one come into his room. I once saw a poor fellow who hardly knew what he was doing, step into Bebee's room just as he was coming out. Bebee met him at the door, and with a lofty swagger, exclaimed, with a good deal of energy, “Scoundrel, many a man has been shot for a less offence than that.” The poor fellow sneaked off without saying a word. One day he went to the city, I was told, and while out lost his brains, which he had always carried carefully done up in his pocket. On his return he said, “I have lost my brains out of my pocket—the people now won't believe that I have any brains, as I can no longer show them.”

I recollect that during the time I was on that hall, Bebee went out on a visit to see his friends, and was gone some three weeks. It has always been a mystery to me why he should stay there. There is no doubt but he would have been discharged long ago, had he been a county patient.

I will venture to name another particular case with which I deeply sympathize, trusting that he will not be offended that I have made mention of his name. This is Alexander Hamilton Malcrum, a grandson of old Gen. Schuyler, and nephew of the celebrated Alexander Hamilton. He has been in the asylum quite a number of years—is a man of good education, having been educated at Hamilton College, and is not insane. It is true he is a little eccentric, and so are many other men out of the asylum. He is groaning to be set free—is capable of doing business—is middle aged. I regard it a great cruelty that he is kept there so long. I have had long and frequent talks with him on the subject. He has property. I think his brother at Oswego would interest himself to get him away could he know the real facts as to asylum life.