The winter of 1863 and 1864 had nearly worn away, and I heard nothing from any of my friends, nor had I seen but one person that I ever knew before I entered the asylum. What winter clothing I had left were worn nearly out; my vest was very ragged; my pants were quite thin; as yet I made out very well for coats, such as they were. I forgot to say, that besides the broadcloth coat that I had taken from me, I had also a farmer's satin coat taken about the same time, and another given in its stead. This I regarded as an insult, for the one given me was old, rusty, cut in an other form, and quite too small, my arms extending some distance beyond the ends of the sleeves. I could not help laughing when I put it on. I never wore it three days while there, I keep it yet as a curiosity.

On thinking over all these matters, and looking at my ludicrous plight, I felt that Heaven and earth had turned against me. I then thought that could I have had a friend to whom I could have spoken freely, to whom I could have poured out the feelings of my heart, I could have got relief, but I had no such friend. What I had already said about my loss of clothing had only caused a sharp rebuke; no one would hear my story and pretend to believe it; so I was dumb.

I had been ordered into the dining room to assist in doing up the work after meals. This was awkward business for me at first. I had never been in the habit of washing dishes, but I commenced my apprenticeship feeling quite indifferent whether I succeeded in learning the trade or not.

After preparing myself for the work, by laying off my coat, and putting on an apron, as the custom was, I could not help comparing my present condition with my former one, ten months before. To say that I felt humbled and even crushed, are no words to describe my feelings at that time.

Soon after this, when in this condition, dressed in my apron, with sleeves rolled up and dish-cloth in hand, I was called to step into the side hall; I did so, and who did I meet but an old friend and parishoner, now living in Albany—his name was Hoxsie. He was very neatly dressed, but I observed he looked sad as he looked upon me, in my shirt sleeves, apron on, pants ragged, and my vest worn all out. I was not glad to see him while in this plight, for he had never seen me before only in the capacity of a Pastor, decently dressed. I know I appeared very much embarrassed and eccentric when we met. I did not know what to say or do. Many things rushed upon my mind which I wanted to say to him, which I could not, for I knew we were watched by an attendant, and every word would be marked and reported. I knew he did not understand all this; and besides this, I knew he had a right to expect that what I did say would discover traits of insanity, for all are supposed to be insane who are in the asylum.

I recollect the first thing I said to him was to ask him about my family, whether they were well, and where they were? He could give no information about them. I told him this was a horrible place; that he could know nothing about it by such a visit. I asked him what the people were going to do with me. I saw he looked embarrassed; he did not take my meaning. I meant he should take the hint, that I wanted my friends to interest themselves in getting me away. I pointed him to my pants, and asked him if I could not have a new pair. I doubt whether I said anything about the loss of my clothes, as we were watched. He made me an indifferent reply when I spoke to him about the pants. I saw I should get no help from that direction.

He seemed to be in a hurry, so he rose and left. He is a fine and good man, and if he ever sees this, he will know more about my feelings at that time than he then knew.

It was not long after this before the doctor ordered the supervisor to take me to the city, and get me a suit of clothes. We went down, but I felt a great reluctance in going; not that I did not need the clothes, but I felt somehow that I did not want any new clothes got me while there. I wanted to get away, and I feared if I got a new suit that I should stay until they were worn out, and my fears were realized.

It was left with me to choose such a suit as I pleased. I selected a strong, common suit instead of a fine one; in this I was right, as I stayed there until it was about worn out. I now appeared to a little better advantage on the hall. The patients are expected to dress a little better on this hall than they are required to do on the back halls.

April now came, and quite a number of patients, who had been on the hall through the winter, now left for home. I had made the acquaintance of these, and to some of them was warmly attached; when they left my spirits sunk down for a season. I was left behind, and some of those who left had come into the asylum subsequently to my entering it. There was one Dr. Brown, from New York city, who left; he was a Quaker; a fine fellow, but subject to depression, having had some trouble, perhaps, of a domestic character. I was surprised a year after to see him through the window in the yard with raving maniacs. He saw me and hailed me. He had been in the asylum a number of weeks at this time; he soon came on to the first hall, stayed a few weeks, and left for home for the second time, long before I left.

One fact was quite observable in relation to patients, to illustrate: A man or woman comes into the institution a raving maniac, hand-cuffed, and hair dishevelled, foaming at the mouth and uttering hideous yells; they are ordered on the old eleventh, for instance. Nothing more is heard from them perhaps for three or six months, when all at once, they are introduced by the doctor, or the supervisor, to the patients on the first floor; they are sober and in their right mind; they stay a few weeks longer and return home.

But these, I find, are liable to a relapse, and often return the second, and third, and even the fourth time. These are excitable temperaments, and when their nerves become unstrung, there is no holding them, so they are brought to the asylum. They only want rest, and to be kept clear from excitement; any other place would be as good as the asylum if they could be controlled. Another comes into the asylum gloomy and sober, with his head down; is still and harmless; talks to none; shows no marks of insanity; except, perhaps, you hear him groan or sigh occasionally; he sets down alone. He stops perhaps on the first hall when he first comes to the institution; stays there three months, and perhaps a year; when he is found to be no better, but worse, he is finally placed on some of the back halls; gets no better, is changed from one hall to another, till finally is pronounced demented; he lingers on, and either become a fixture in the asylum or dies there! Such is asylum life.

I know one man, a dentist, who has been in the asylum ten times at least. There is a young man by the name of Bouck, from Schoharie, who has often been in the asylum. He comes under a high pressure of excitement; stays a few months and leaves. But while there, is regarded the lion of the establishment; fears nothing; is a giant in strength; will dash out windows with iron grates as though they were made of cobwebs; will climb on the side of the wall where no sane man would dare to venture. For such a case, perhaps the asylum is of some value.

As the spring of 1864 had now opened, I looked out with surprise that I had lived through the winter. I confess that when winter set in, I did not expect to see the leaves put forth again. Not that I was sick, but I did not believe that I could bear up under the pressure that lay upon my mind. There was some cause for this. A little before I left the fourth hall in December, I had a weak turn; I would attempt to rise in the morning after a sleepless night, and would fall back faint and weak upon my bed. Had I been anywhere but in a lunatic asylum, I should have lain down quietly until my strength had rallied, but I dared not do it, (I confess I feared the attendants' ire), so I would rally all my energies and get up, dress me and make my bed the best I could, concealing my weakness from the attendants, for I knew to make it known would not help me.

One morning when I was making my bed, the attendant stepped into my room. I then took occasion to tell him my feelings, and said that I did not know but I should be unable to rise in the morning with the rest, and if it should happen I wished him to treat me as favorably as he could. He replied that all the treatment I should get in that case, would be that he would wait for me just ten minutes after the signal was given for getting up. I replied that I should do the very best I could, and then must suffer the consequences. But by the blessing of God, I was ever after that able to get up, dress and make my bed, while I remained in the institution.

The impression was indelibly fixed on my mind, that for me to become helpless in that institution, would be the same to me as death. I was, soon after this, removed to the first hall. As the spring opened I went out with the men to work on the lawn. The first work I did out door was to rake the old dead grass off the lawn into heaps. It was then drawn off with hand-carts. I had had a broken arm the year before, which crippled my right hand so that I was not able to do much; besides this, I had not been used to work since I was a young man, and to be ordered about by an ignorant attendant boy, did not go down very smoothly; however, I tried to make the best of it. I suppose the main reason why I did not leave the institution without liberty was, that I knew the authorities had power to take me back without a new order, and hold me until legally discharged or released by the doctor.

Summer came, and I went into the field with other patients to work; the weather was hot. I recollect of looking about me and seeing a motley group of lunatics, some cursing, some yelling, while others were keeping up a constant ribaldry of blackguarding and obscene language.

I though of home and of friends; I compared my present state with the past; I could hardly believe this was a reality. I thought I would have given a world, if I had it, to have impressed on the minds of my friends at home, and the doctors there, my thoughts and feelings.

I thought of the convicts of a State prison that I had seen in the fields at work, guarded by attendants, as we were, some with chain and ball attached to their ankles. The only real difference I could see between us was, that they were not insane, and they were there for a definite period of time, and could look forward to that point with a certainty of being liberated, if they lived until that time; we were there to stay until doomsday, for ought we knew.

I recollect coming in from the field one day at noon. I was called to the supervisor's room; he took down a bottle and poured out a table spoonful of some kind of liquid, as white as water, and ordered me to drink it. I had learned before this, to ask no questions when anything was given me to drink. I drank it down; he repeated the dose, and I took it. He saw that I writhed under it. He said I must come to his room three times a day before eating, and take two table-spoonfuls of the contents of this bottle, until it was all taken up.

It was a large case bottle, holding, perhaps, a little more than a quart. I judged it to be the decoction of quassia wood; at all events, I had never taken anything before that compared with it for bitterness. Said nothing, but a strange feeling came over me. I was taking other medicine, as usual, besides this. I felt for the moment that they, seeing that I was doing well and gaining my flesh, took this course to kill me, by over-dosing me with medicine. It seemed to me that I could never live to take all that with my other doses, but I did take it and live.

But I did not believe then, neither do I now, that the doctors thought I needed this in addition to the beer and the other medicine I was taking three times a day. I have always believed it was given me to see if I would not resist. I had never once resisted taking anything offered, and never meant to, live or die, for I knew it would be forced down me if I did; I had frequently seen the operation performed on others, and I did not covet the luxury.

Perhaps this conclusion of mine will be regarded by many as unjust and unreasonable, who are unacquainted with matters in that institution, and of course will be laughed at by those who ordered the medicine. I would laugh at it too if I were they; it is the best way for them to dispose of the matter. Yet my opinion will be the same; I have my reasons for this. If I had been running down in health and appetite, confined to my room or to my bed, such a course might have seemed justifiable, but I was well, eating very heartily, working in the field every day with others.

July came, and I had heard nothing from my friends, and nothing had been said to me about writing to them. I had once asked the privilege of writing to the man that took me there, but had been denied.

I was sitting in the reading room one Sabbath afternoon in July; my anguish of mind was very intense, as I was considering my condition—that my present life was worse than a blank, shut out as I was from all knowledge of the outer world, and yet in a free country. I was not aware that I had forfeited my liberty by any crime, yet I was confined by bolts and bars, and if I was permitted to go outside, was guarded and watched by a set of ignorant, unprincipled hirelings. Such were my meditations, when all of a sudden the newsboy announced to me that my daughter had come and wanted to see me.

I was paralyzed—I could hardly believe it—I thought it must be some one else, for I knew she lived a thousand miles off. I rose without speaking and left the hall and went to the sitting room in the center, and lo it was my daughter. I shall never forget that meeting.

When she left us more than a year before, for the far west, I was in good health, and all was prosperity with us, and I was a man in the world like other men, and a father that she was not ashamed to own. Now we meet in a lunatic asylum.

I shall never forget my first words to her, even before I had enquired after the family, putting my face to hers, and pressing her to my bosom, I said, in a whisper, for we were watched—“for Gods sake never send one of the family to this place what ever the consequences may be.” I doubted whether she took in my full meaning at first, from the reply she made, but afterwards I explained to her what I meant.

I have never doubted, but this visit was the means of prolonging my life, and of my final release from that prison. She remained two or three days in the city and visited me daily while she stayed.

I was permitted to walk out with her in the garden and through the grounds, I learned from her that the rest of the family were all in good health. This was a great relief to me. I told her many things, and explained to her the workings of the institution, as far as I thought it advisible.

I pledged her to keep me advised of all matters at home, and if possible to get me out of this place. I knew, however, that if she did write me, that all would depend upon the will of the doctor whether I ever received her letters. It is not very pleasant to know that a third person has the power to intercept all letters received from, or sent to friends.

She talked with Dr. Gray, and he made her believe it was best for me to remain in the asylum. I was permitted to visit with her in the city, and when she was about to leave, I applied to Dr. Gray to let me leave the institution, and go home with her. He was very decided,—and said, “as a state officer, he could not let me go.” My heart sunk down.

The time came for her departure; I went to the city with her; she had her little boy, her only child with her, of nine or ten years old. When the moment came for separation, she and my only grandchild, to go to her mother, and I to go back to the asylum, my heart nearly died within me. I bade her and the child good by, and gave them my blessing. But, O God! What a moment was that to me, as I gazed after my two only children as long as I could catch a glimpse of them! and then said to myself, “shall I ever see them again?” None but a father can know how I felt at that moment. Ah, none but a father in like circumstances can know how I felt! An ordinary parting of parents and children is touching; but one of this kind is beyond description.

If a man is insane, no such thing moves him; he can see his children go and come unmoved and unaffected, he can see his children die and not be moved, all things are alike to him.

I returned to the asylum with a heavy heart, yet comforted that I had seen my only beloved children, and thanked God for the opportunity. By the coming of my daughter, I formed an acquaintance with some friends in Utica, who called occasionally at the asylum to see me.

I have passed over a circumstance which I will notice in this place. While on the fourth hall, in about the month of November, I observed a thick, stout built man brought in from one of the back halls, and introduced to the attendant. He had come from the eleventh hall; he was a bold and naturally a good feeling man, and, I perceived, a man of strong impulses; and of some cultivation, he attracted my attention, and I perceived he was highly gratified with his change. On further acquaintance I found he was a preacher from the New York Conference; his name I shall withhold.

He had been thrown into the asylum by his friends, I learned, in consequence of the high state of excitement his mind got into by over-working and much care. He was first put on one of the back halls, and soon got on to the eleventh. There they have rough work sometimes. He was under a high excitement when carried there.

Mr. Vallerly, the attendant, a strong Irishman, and not overstocked with patience, took charge of him. The Reverend gentleman supposed he understood his own business, and, therefore, was not very prompt in obeying the strict and iron rules of the attendant, upon which the Hibernian drew his fist and knocked him to the floor, in the meantime giving him a terrible black eye, which he brought on to the fourth hall with him.

This Vallerly had the name of being a perfect gladiator, and this, I suppose, is the reason why he was placed on the eleventh as an attendant. I ever after that was afraid of Vallerly. This hall is greatly dreaded by the patients; is regarded as a whipping post. I confess I always had fears of being put there. This Reverend gentleman expressed his high gratification in being removed from the eleventh hall, saying he felt raised at least fifty per cent.

He was free to talk of his being a minister of the Gospel; he observed that I said but little about my being a preacher; I told him I did not care to say much about it while in the asylum, not that I was ashamed of the Gospel of Christ, but thought it was a disgrace to the ministry to have one of its members thrown into a lunatic asylum. So deeply did this matter affect me that the prefix Rev. to my name on some of my clothing annoyed me very much. Was this one mark of my insanity?

There were two or three things which used to cause me to suspect sometimes that my mind was not right, that I was a little insane—yet these things haunted me more or less for the most of the time I was there. One of these was the fear of being put on to the eleventh, or some one of the back halls—another was that I should never get away alive, and that the life of a patient was counted of no value in the asylum, especially by some of the attendants, and that many were put out of the way here; that no one out of the institution knew, or ever would know how they came to their end.

Now I confess that if these things are proof that I was insane, I shall have to bear the charge, for I could not help coming to these conclusions from what I had seen and heard. And if these things are proof that I was insane then, they are proof that I am insane now, for so far as the two last things noticed are concerned, my mind has not been changed, viz.: that the life of a patient in that institution is counted of no value, and that many pass away from that place, that the manner of their coming to their end will never be known in this world by the people out of that institution.

This may seem like a most reckless and slanderous charge; but when it is confirmed by testimony that cannot be reasonably disputed, that unprincipled attendants, have frequently knocked down feeble and insane patients, kicked them unmercifully—dragged them by force to the bath room, when weak and feeble, plunged them into a cold bath, and scrubbed them with a broom-corn broom, throwing on soft-soap which would come in contact with raw flesh caused by blistering or other sores—trying to hold their heads under water to punish them for struggling against such harsh treatment.

Besides this, choking patients until black in the face in forcing medicine down them—locking up patients, however sick they may be, leaving them alone through the long night to shift for themselves the best way they can. If all these things can be proved to be true—and for myself I have not a doubt but they can be, will it be urged that the lives of patients in that institution are valued as they are elsewhere?

If such treatment as this can be proved to be true, is it difficult to come to the conclusion that many under such treatment sink down and die? That some patients are treated with great care and tenderness, is not doubted. The circumstances of the man makes all the difference in the world. Acts of violence and cruelty have been related to me by those who were eye witnesses, that would compare well with the most cruel treatment in Andersonville prison. But these witnesses were patients, and because they were patients, their testimony will be disputed. It is true they were patients, but not insane at the time they told me these things, neither were they ever insane in a way to rob them of their reasoning powers; I have no reason to doubt their testimony.

I will here give a few instances as the facts have been related to me, and the reader must judge whether they are true or false. A young man had been a patient in the asylum, and was, when I entered it, a young man of veracity and standing, the son of a clergyman; he lives not far from Utica. The name of the young man I shall withhold. He visited the asylum perhaps six months after he was discharged. He was now in good health, and was doing business.

While there he related to me the following circumstances which took place while he was in the institution as a patient, on some one of the upper halls; I do not recollect the number of the hall. He said: “There was a poor skeleton of a man on the hall as a patient, who did not weigh more than about seventy pounds; that this patient was ordered into the bath by the attendant; that he hesitated, and struggled to prevent going in; that the attendant called him to his aid; that he did help the attendant to put this poor creature into the bath; that some force had to be used.”

And as I understood him the water was cold; “they there washed and scrubbed him as the custom was, that the man went into spasms and died in four hours.” This young man said, “he was sorry he helped the attendant.” Will this relation be said to be false?

Another case was: that a poor patient was ordered to do something; he did not instantly obey; he was thrown down by the attendant; he struggled and showed resistance, as the most of men would, and especially one insane; the attendant fell upon the breast of the patient with his knees and broke in his breast-bone, and he died!

While I was on the fourth hall, there was a man brought there as a patient, who they called Major Doolittle, a gentlemanly kind of a man; I became acquainted with him; he told me he was uncle to C. Doolittle, Esq., of Utica, a celebrated lawyer of that place. I left this man on the fourth when I went to the first hall. I observed he began to run down in health about the time I left the hall.

I could never discover that he was insane; I could never conceive why he should come to that place; I had a hint that property had something to do with it, as I heard he was rich, but of this I have no certain knowledge. He continued to run down slowly; he was an old man, and I observed was quite notional, not more than the most of old people generally are, however.

He became at length quite helpless, and the attendant had to assist him into the bath. There was an attendant on that hall at that time by the name of Smith, from North Carolina, as John Subert had now left. This Smith was as cruel as an Arab. I was told many things which he did; among the rest, he would throw Major Doolittle into the bath and scrub him with soft soap, until he would groan horribly, while Smith would laugh. Suffice it to say the major died in the asylum. I understood the cruelty of Smith was the cause of his dismissal soon after. I know he left the place, but as to the cause I know nothing, only by hearsay.