I think it was in the spring of 1865 that I saw a man walking up the hall, who I recognized as an old friend from Fort Plain; we had been warm friends for a number of years; I had once been stationed there, as their pastor. Anticipating what he might think of my state of mind, I said to him the very first word, that I wanted him to look upon me as the same man that I used to be, and not to talk to me as though he thought I were insane.

The meeting was affecting to both of us. He took dinner with me. He had a talk with Dr. Gray about the propriety of my leaving the institution soon. I accompanied him to the depot when he left, and I am sure he was satisfied that I was not insane. Since I left the institution I have visited him twice, and once spent with him an agreeable Sabbath, in preaching in the same house that I did in 1850 and 1851.

August came, and the 23d of August came. Two years had now rolled round since I entered the asylum. I had said nothing about leaving since my daughter left, which was now more than a year before. My general impression had been, ever since I entered the asylum, that I should never leave it alive; but, for a month or two before the two years had elapsed, hope had begun to spring up in my mind; and when the two years were ended I hoped the doctor would tell me I could leave. But no such welcome message came, till at length, about the 23d of August, I said to the doctor that two years had now passed since I came there, and if I were ever to leave, I though the time had fully come. He replied very promptly, that “the two years had nothing to do with it; that when I got well I should go.” “Get well!” I replied, “if I am to wait for that I do not know when it will be, for I did not know that I was sick.” I then said: “Doctor, do you think I shall ever get away from here?” He answered, “Yes; there are some things we do know, and we know you will go away.” I said, “Yes, I know, too, that I shall get away, either dead or alive; but how long, doctor, do you think it will be before I can go?” He answered, “Two or three months, if you get well, and your folks come after you.” I said no more, but I stuck a pin down there. “Two or three months,” I repeated to myself; it seemed short to think of.

I now felt that I had some grounds to hope; the time was limited to two or three months. Time now began to hang more lightly upon me. Mr. Harvey visited me during this fall, this is the man who was my attendant, when I went to the asylum. He observed that I was more like myself, that I appeared more life-like. And why should I not appear more like living? the medicine was taken off, the time was limited to three months, that I was to have my liberty once more and go where I pleased.

There was a man by the name of Fenton, a patient who used to accompany me in my rambles this fall, through the forests, fields and city. He was one of those eccentric, poetic, wiry, excitable creatures that would astonish you with his outbursts of wit and humor, making a very agreeable companion to help while away the gloomy hours spent in an asylum.

I left him in the menagerie, as he used to call the asylum, when I left; but I learnt that he soon after got away, and has written me two or three times since, sending me some of his poetic productions, which will compare well with our best American poetry.

As the time drew nigh for me to leave, the steward took me down to the city and told me to select just such a suit of clothes as I chose. I, of course, got me a good suit, with hat and boots. I was now prepared to leave, so far as I was concerned, with the exception of money.

When the three months were out, which brought it to the 20th of November, I reminded the Doctor of his promise. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I have written to your son to come after you from Illinois; when he comes you can go.” I thought of the matter. I wrote to my folks to not come after me. I felt indignant that my friends should be required to come a thousand miles and spend a hundred dollars to accompany me back, when I knew I was just as capable of traveling alone as I ever was.

I sent to a friend for money. He sent me a draft. I told the Doctor my friends were not coming after me; that I was capable of traveling alone, and that I must start by the 20th of December, as I did not want to stay through another winter. Besides, I wanted to be with my friends during the holidays. He tried to prevail on me to stay another week.

I told him my clothes were packed in my trunk; that I had written to my friends that I should be there about that time, and I could see no reason why I should stay longer. I told the steward I must go to the city and get a few things before I started. I did so.

The last supper was now ended that I ever expected to eat in that house, as I was to start at eleven o'clock that evening for the west. At the close of the supper, a call was made for a speech from me before I left. The call was sudden and I was embarrassed, as I had not spoken in public in two years and six months. My own voice was strange to me.

I rose and addressed the company, about forty in number, they all seated at the table, with a few impromptu remarks. I referred to the length of time I had been there; that I had sat just two years in the same place at table, the changes that had taken place, the trials we had passed through, and encouraged them to hope on for their deliverance. I bade them all good-bye, with the best and most kindly feelings of sympathy, I trust, on both sides.

When the hour to depart arrived, the supervisor and house steward accompanied me to the depot, carrying with them a box of the choicest kinds of eatables for my accommodation on my journey. A sleeping-car was engaged, the signal was given to move; I shook my old keepers heartily by the hand, bidding them good-bye with unfeigned good feeling, and shot out of their sight—took my berth, and waked up in the morning in Buffalo.

I continued my journey through Ohio, around the lake to Chicago, and from thence on the great Central to the place of my destination, and found my family and friends in good health. But, oh, the change! To sit down in a private room by the side of a stove, with my own children, once more to eat with them at the table, to retire when I pleased without hearing that old stereotyped sound—“Bed time, gents;” to go out and in as I pleased, furnished grounds for the most profound gratitude to him, who had so mysteriously preserved me without harm through all my dangers and fears, and who had brought me safe to once more see my loved ones, and enjoy their society without fear of interruption.

And now, in the close, I have only to say, that, though it may be humiliating to spread abroad the knowledge that I have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, yet, if by publishing this sketch, the people in general shall become better informed of the true character of asylum life, and thereby prevent the suffering of some poor, unfortunate victim to mental disease, I shall be amply compensated for all my humiliation.

P.S. Although my history is closed, yet there are a few things of a miscellaneous character, that I ought to notice, to make the narrative complete.

One is, that very much was said about the violation of the rules of the institution; patients were continually admonished not to violate the rules. I was very fearful that I might, by some mistake or oversight, violate the rules; I therefore sought to find out just what these rules were, that I might know the law. In doing this I became perplexed. I could find no code of laws or rules that were fixed, that could be possibly violated. I found a law, or rather a custom that amounted to law, which was fixed and unalterable, and there was no danger of this being violated. This was, that the patients must retire at just such an hour and rise at just such a time in the morning; that they must eat at just such a time, take medicine at just such a time, and no man would dare to violate these rules unless he loved punishment.

As to all other rules, I found them as variable as the circumstances of the patients were various. What one could do with impunity, I found was a violation of the rules by another. I was at first perplexed with this, yet the patients were constantly warned not to violate the rules. All the rules there were was the will and word of the doctor, who made rules and changed them just as he saw fit.

There was another thing held up very prominently to the patients, and also to outsiders. This was, that patients are not obliged to work either in the house or in the field, unless they chose to do so, and that no coercion is used either by the attendants or superintendents.

And this doctrine some believe; and indeed it is true with a qualification, but that qualification spoils it. The fact is simply this, that if a patient is told to do a thing whether it is to work in the house or in the field, that if that patient does it, all is well—if not, the patient must take the consequences, perhaps that patient is changed to some other hall, provided he or she is on the first, or some other lower hall; but suppose a patient is on the ninth or tenth or the old eleventh hall, and is told to do something and refuses?

Perhaps they would not be removed, for to remove them would be no punishment; but would the attendants on these halls submit to it? No one had better believe this. It is precisely in the asylum as it was in a certain school in this country; a boy was punished for violating the rules of the school, the teacher punished him; the boy made complaint to his father; his father told him he need not obey the rules of the school unless he chose to, but must go back to school.

The boy returned the next day and was punished again; he again made complaint to his father, the father still told him that he need not obey the teacher unless he chose to do so, but must return to school, he went the third day and was punished as before, he again made complaint to his father. His father then told him that he need not obey the rules of the school unless he chose to do so, if he preferred punishment, rather them to obey, but to school he must go.

By this time the boy waked up; he saw it was punishment or obedience; so with patients in the asylum, they are not obliged to work unless they choose to do so. But it is a base deception to pretend that patients are not obliged to work in the asylum.

I would recommend that all men who are sent to the asylum be permitted and advised to let their beards grow, and not shave at all during their stay there, especially on any other hall except the first, for the attendants do all the shaving; the patient is not permitted to shave himself, except on one or two of the halls, and so far as my experience goes, it is more like skinning than shaving; the razors are horrible things, as one of the attendants said to me “he should get it off unless the handle of the razor broke.” I then understood the saying, “that it is easier to skin than to be skinned.”

While confined in my prison-house my mind was continually haunted with the “Lament of Tasso,” and that the outside world may have a faint idea of my feelings while there, I will append a few extracts from that work:[D]

[D] Lord Byron, in his travels, found in the library at Ferrara the letters of Tasso, and saw the cell in the hospital at St. Ann's, where Tasso was confined. His enemies charged him with insanity, and threw him into this prison. The manner of treating insane persons in the Old World has been awfully cruel, so far as history gives any clue to the subject. Byron's Lament of Tasso is, no doubt, correct; but this is no reason why in this enlightened age, in a Christian country like ours, that lunatics should be treated as you would treat a mad dog or mad bear.