If I am rightly informed, this institution was chartered by the Legislature of the State of New York for the benefit of unfortunate persons who are actual lunatics, not for a penitentiary or prison-house.

If I am rightly informed by Judge R., the law to get a person into this institution lawfully, against his or her will, two physicians must examine the patient, and make oath that A. or B. is a lunatic or an insane person.

Secondly, these affidavits must be presented to the county judge, and he issues an order to take Mrs. A. or Mrs. B. to the asylum.

Amid all the opposition used to hinder me from this heart-burdened work, I have firmly resolved, by the grace of Him who delivered me from this inhumanly governed institution, to set forth and carry through the press, to the community at large, some of the most prominent transactions that came under my observation. So help me * * * *

MY CAPTURE AND RIDE TO THE ASYLUM.

Early in the morning of March 29, 1860, a posse of strong men surrounded my house, rushed into the hallway, and one into my room of sickness, sorrow and gloom, made no complaint of lawful authority, and ordered me to arise, saying he was going to send me to the Marshall Asylum by post-coach. Said I, "You had better send me in a box," choosing death rather than go, having been to Brattleborough Asylum four months previous.

No alternative, up drove the post-coach, in came the long-arm driver, F. Tarbal, who captured me and hurled me out of door and into the coach, while daughter clung to me in tears. He seated me by the side of Wm. Kelly, a State prison culprit, who took me by the arm. Extricating myself from him, said I, "You had better go back where you came from." R. Manchester remarked at the time, he don't like Silkworth's man.

No one can imagine the sorrow and anguish that filled my aching heart at this critical moment—one snatched from the bosom of the wife of his early choice, and from the embrace of an affectionate and lovely daughter; and, yea, more than that, I was numbered with transgressors.

And now for the unhappy ride. Snap went the whip, round went the wheels; and never was man so sad, for I can truly say, no person from this time saw me smile for ten long years.

We rode down the hill a few rods and added an extra horse, making a spike team; then drove to a Mr. Messers, took his wife and little burnt child aboard; drove next to H. Wardsworth's; here I tried to elope, but Vandenburg crowded me back. The die was cast. On and on we went; halted at Pittstown Four Corners; next, Raymertown; here we left the poor pole horse. "How many oats," says the hostler. "Four quarts," says Tarbal. Mail changed now for Haynerville, post-office in shoemaker's shop; next we halted at Brunswick Center to change mail; and next we halted in Troy, at the Northern Hotel, for dinner; but, mind you, I got none; no, not so much as the law allows a prisoner; not so much as a cup of cold water.

I very well remember what Tarbal said when we started from the Northern hotel and the reply I made him. "Come, Swan," says he, "let's go home." Said I, "I have no home," and followed him to the coach, when he immediately started off down street, made a halt at Judge Robertson's office. Says Tarbal to me, "get out and stay here in the post-office until I go down to the boat and get a box for Mrs. Brown." I was told, when a boy, the moon was made of green cheese, but I did not believe it, neither did I believe at the time that Judge Robertson's office was the post-office, although he is now postmaster, in 1874.

Here H. Rowland talked with the judge about receiving me into the asylum, passing papers to the judge and the judge to a boy to go and have recorded. Presently came Tarbal and ordered me into the coach, when N. Harwood, Rowland and myself were aboard, up Ida Hill and over across the stone bridge, we turned to the right and then drove to the asylum, which is situated between the Albia and the Hollow road. Making a halt at the office door we were met by Drs. Gregory and McLean. I was ordered to dismount. I soon found myself sitting in the doctor's office in the Marshall Lunatic Asylum. "Now," says Rowland, "you'll show us around." "Yes," was the response from the doctor.

After the post-coach and the Pittstown band left I was soon ushered into the back hall with many brute, beast-like creatures, to share the fate of poor Tray caught in bad company. As I entered this hall the first I noticed was John P. Bacon, handcuffed and bound to a stationary chair, on one side of the hall, and on the other, Patrick Mely, in the same way. There were others that I noticed at the time; John Beldon, Charles Barclay. I mention these men to show, by circumstantial evidence, that I was sensible at the time I entered this institution. (I conversed with John P. Bacon the 15th of April, 1874, he was in the upper or incurable house, doing drudgery under attendant William Anderson.) Soon after I was seated in this hall a man approached me, by the name of Smith, whose curly locks hung down his shoulders most beautifully. He said, "I will take your coat and hat." Soon after supper was announced, then I found J. Smith was the attendant on that hall. Although I had had no dinner I could not relish supper in a prison, for a prison I found it to be. Bedtime came and I was locked up in a cell three doors from the dead-house, on the left, or east, side of the south hall, the window was darkened by a heavy shutter and the door heavily lined on the inside; here I lay, upon a couch of straw or mattrass, many sleepless nights, listening to the screeches and yells of the inmates; permitted to walk out upon the hall through the daytime with some of the patients whose names I shall now record:

Some of the Main House Patients and Attendants.

March 29th, 1860, to July 3d, 1862:

Patients.—John P. Bacon, Patrick Mely, John Newbanks, John Beldon, William B. Gibbs, Sidney Betts, John Smawly, Capt. Lord, Mr. O'Donnel (destroyed Bible), Ebenezer Scott, Patrick Fitzgerald, Mr. Babcock (has lame foot), James Bolin, William Lewis, Alfred (the painter). William Anderson (helper), Isabella Anderson, helper (hanged herself March 16th, 1873).

From March 29th, 1860, to July 3d, 1862, then I was removed to the incurable house:

Attendants.—John Smith, Mr. Burr, Geo. Harrison, Charles Harrison, one, name unknown, Mr. Adkins (lunatic barber from Brattleborough asylum), Drs. McLean and Gregory; John Harrison, steward, Mrs Harrison, matron.

I am now writing a book for sane minds to read and peruse; and whether you judge the author sane or insane, he prays you may sympathize with the poor unfortunate beings herein mentioned who are still living. Some have gone to their long homes; and it is through the mercy of God that I am spared to make manifest things that I have seen and heard in this institution, and labor for the good of the poor.

"In a large house are many masters," so says the Bible.

At the present day lunatic asylums have become very popular; and it is granted by many that this Ida Hill Institution is well cared for, having twenty-six governors, and half as many doctors, to overlook, and a committee to inspect, and supervisors to visit. All this may be true. But where are these duty-bound men? One in the National Bank; another in the mayor's office; another in his flour store; another galloping through the city to attend to his own medical practice. All these are troubled about many things—the supervisors have their home cares also. These are governors without.

WHO GOVERNS THE INMATES?

But, says one, who governed these patients you have named within? This I can answer readily, though I had to learn it. Brattleborough and the Marshall institutions were high schools to teach human nature to me. I was on one of the halls of the Brattleborough asylum with thirty-seven patients, where blood was often shed; upon this hall was a patient by the name of Adkins, here I thought my attendants were lunatics, did not certainly know. But soon after I got into the Marshall institution, this same patient, Adkins, became attendant over me, I shall call him the Brattleborough lunatic barber, for he often ordered me into the shaving room and shaved me, and my Lord I was afraid to be shaved by a lunatic barber in a room alone, no alternative, be shaved I must. And when I was taken to the incurable house, Alfred and Thomas Haly, formerly patients, whom I shall speak of in future pages, became my attendants. These men had been self-abused; Alfred was a drunkard; the others were something else—they also knew how to abuse others; give such low, degraded men the keys, and a little authority, and their word is law, and they are lord of all. Such men govern within.

After suffering more than ten years in this institution, I graduated on the 13th day of October, 1870. If any one thinks that I have not got my diploma, please look at the accursed harness in the engraving that I bought in 1873 of Mr. Hogan of River street, Troy, similar to the accursed ones used in the Marshall Crazy House, to bind poor unfortunate men and women with, and then torture and strangle them. I have read of our Saviour casting out devils in kindness, and I have read of the devil being bound in everlasting chains, but it never came into my mind that such barbarous acts were practiced in these institutions, until I saw them with my own eyes and experienced to my sorrow.

I am governor of my own house, but if I do not rule it well, I shall be awfully accountable on the day of judgment. And I fear those twenty-six governors, doctors and inspectors, and all who have any thing to do in holding men and women in slavery in this institution will have a dread account to give at the judgment day.

March 29, 1860. After I had lodged in this dead-house hell many lonely nights, I made up my mind that I was considered a bad man by all who knew me, yet I was childlike and innocent. I had more than uncommon watch-care, for I greatly feared to do any thing wrong. Here I used much discretion and caution, shunning the paths of the inmates, for many of them were as ferocious as lions. At length I was removed from this cell to an opposite room on the same hall, and Patrick Fitzgerald was locked up in it, after which a John Beldon, a man who, it was said, killed his daughter in a passion. By this time I had learned this cell was used for wicked men, and I was numbered with transgressors in the asylum as well as in the post-coach at my door, when we first started. This, in addition to my own spiritual trouble, added greatly to my sorrows and tears. I was obliged to stay upon this hall with these lion-like men through the day-time, though in fear of my dear life. I was the whole time quiet and peaceable, although I groaned under my burden with groans that could not be uttered. Since I left the asylum I have often visited it, not because I felt it a sort of a home, neither because I was cured, by a course of medical treatment (for I had no medicine administered to me the first four years). I visited, not because I had any antipathy against the governors of this institution, doctors or inspectors. But I visited out of pure motive, for often the words of the Saviour came to mind, "The poor ye have always with you, and when you will you may do them good." On one of my visits to the asylum, I remarked to Dr. Lomax, "You have got a nice theater, now," said I, "you need one more house, separate from noise, to keep the quiet patients in." Although my advice may not be heeded, I suffered much for want of sleep by being disturbed by noisy inmates. I remained upon this dead-house hall most of the time till the war broke out, about that time I was removed to a small hall near the dining-room. I have said but little about the transactions I saw in that dead-house hall; many that pained my heart. Among the many was one most trying to see, a person walk up and down the hall like a roaring lion, and leaf after leaf torn from the Bible, and destroy it by chewing with his teeth. This Bible lay upon a stand at one end of the hall. Here was a mixed multitude of many nations, of high and low degree, of different faith and different belief, some mild and gentle, whilst others were lion-like and ferocious as tigers; here the quiet ones had to share the abuses of the ruffians, and the ruffians had to share the abuses of the attendants. I have seen patients that were bound with handcuffs upon this dead-house hall, taken by the throat by attendants, and their breath shut off. I have seen patients called by attendants to their assistance, who would thrash other patients to the floor most cruelly. These transactions, with many others, led me to remark to Doctor Lomax the necessity of having a house of quietude for quiet patients.

Had my father, when farming, put all his stock into one fold, such as the horses, the oxen, the swine, the lambs, and all the fowl kind, would not the strong and ferocious trample down and kill the weak and the innocent, as is done in these popular institutions at the present day? I am not recording such barbarous transactions to gratify a disordered mind, but to wake up sensibility and activity in sane minds to the subject of suffering humanity.

Neither am I setting forth the inward workings of this institution that it may be disannulled by the authority that chartered it, for the purpose of keeping the unfortunate and poor. I am aware that there are many innocent ones who are suffering in these institutions who are proper subjects for a prayer-meeting and not for a penitentiary. There are many received into these lunatic asylums that are more fit for State prison or penitentiaries than places like these, and these are they that cause so much bloodshed, as did Haly and Mrs. Anderson, in my case, being appointed attendants by the government of the asylum.

I have stated that about the time the civil war broke out I was placed upon a hall near the dining-room, the patients in this hall were more quiet at times. In the room that I occupied were three single beds, one was occupied by Charles Barclay a part of the time, at other times while I remained these were occupied by transient comers. At one time there was a patient came into this room bound with belt and handcuffs, locked up with me for a room companion. Now I was in a perilous situation, for he was a strong, muscular man, apparently unable to control his thoughts and acts. Many nights he would ramble about the room, climbing from bed to bed, and from window to window, while I lay mute in fear; he descended from his ramble to the floor, raised my bed from its foundation, and threw me prostrate on the floor. Mr. Burr, the attendant, hearing the noise, unlocked the door and hurled him out.

How many times I have thought of sweet home and friends once so dear, when locked up in these rooms with these brute-like men. And many has been the time when I have knelt upon my knees in silent prayer in this poorly governed institution and implored mercy and deliverance, and thanks be to Him who hears prayers, He delivered me and gave me peace, and brought me on my way home rejoicing.

MY WIFE'S FIRST VISIT TO THE ASYLUM.

We met for the first time in prison, as a husband and wife in friendship and love. But my troubles were so great that my love for wife or our cousin who came with her was barely manifest, here I had to learn for the first time how a husband's heart could bleed when visited by a wife, under such adverse circumstances; our first visit was short and I cannot say it was sweet to me, for I dreaded the parting time. Behold, it soon came. I followed her to the door, and took the parting hand, turning around, being overcome, I fell prostrate to the floor. Mrs. Swan remembers this to-day as we talk over our joys and sorrows around our own happy fireside. And I very well remember the question my careworn wife asked the attendant, Mr. Burr. "What," said she, "is the matter with him?" Said the attendant, "he is overcome"—no marvel to me that I was.

A WORD TO HUSBANDS AND WIVES.

Few there be, if any, outside of these walls that know the feelings of a husband or a wife, when visited by their friends in these places. I have seen husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, take the parting hand in these institutions and some never to meet again below the sun. I have seen young and old die in these places and no friend to smooth their dying pillow or wipe the cold sweat from their brow, or catch their dying words. O, Fathers! O, Mothers! keep your unfortunate sons and daughters from these places until a reform is brought about. You know but little how patients are treated by attendants and others. I have seen gentlemen and ladies visit this main house and walk through the hall adjoining the dining room, and remark how nice it looked, and so it did, but can such a one imagine how he or she would feel locked up in one of those side rooms as I was with a raving maniac? How mistaken are many who visit this place. Once there was a smart appearing genteel looking man walking through this hall who remarked (looking into a side room), "if I was sick I should rather be here than home." Thought I, poor deluded man you know but little about this place. In that same room I had lodged, upon the bed was a nice white spread, under the spread, to all appearance, a soft bed, but it was not so, deluded visitor. Would you like to be in that room to-day and be treated as one poor man was in the hands of two doctors and their attendant? One says, put the rope here, tie it up there, and a long struggle ensues between the parties, at length he gives a long moan, saying, "I shall have to give up."

This patient once had a kind mother and an affectionate father, but where is he now? Go visitor, to lunatic asylums as visitor, but until you go as a patient you will know but little about the secret workings of these institutions. Fathers and mothers, friends and neighbors, send your sick and unfortunate ones to these places, and you little know how they are treated and dealt with. I have learned to my sorrow how patients are treated, and I would say to one and all, know you are right before you transport any to an earthly hell.

Since I left the Ida Hill asylum, in 1871, I have often visited it, going through from center to circumference, being permitted so to do by Dr. Lomax, who was the resident medical superintendent, and is up to this time, 1874. Dr. Lomax is the only physician that I formed an intimate acquaintance with while a patient in this institution, and this acquaintance was first formed in the incurable house, and to do Dr. L. justice, in my opinion he is a gentleman. I found, in 1871, that he could not only reason, but that he was willing to hear others. After I had thoroughly weighed him in my own mind, I resolved to improve every opportunity of reasoning with him I had, for with him, I had learned, depended my permit to go home, and that I very well knew would not be until he thought me sane in body and mind. I often heard patients ask attendants if they could go home, "Ask the Doctor," was the get-off.

A few of my interviews with Dr. L. are in future pages.

APPARENTLY A GARDEN OF PARADISE.

When first I entered this house, situated upon Ida Hill, in 1860, on the west side lay a beautiful garden, inclosed with a gate on either side, east and west, from gate to gate, was the vineyard forming a shady walk, between the house and the garden was a thorny hedge, within this garden were many kinds of trees bearing fruit, and like Adam and Eve, our first parents, I saw Mr. and Mrs. John Harrison often walking in this asylum garden, in the cool of the day. Soon after I entered this house, I found a circular containing the rules and by-laws of this institution, and in it I learned that Mr. Harrison was steward, and Mrs. Harrison was matron. I also learned that there was a chapel in the building, and Mr. Harrison often read a chapter and prayed at the sacred desk, though for ten long years he has not spoken to me, neither had I been into the chapel, and no one had given me an encouraging word, however much I needed it. In 1870, I found a friend, who encouraged my heart, and assisted me to work out my own salvation with fear and trembling.

Since I left the asylum not a cloud has gathered o'er my mind to darken my hopes in regard to my future happiness and joys in a future state, which for more than ten years was the burden of my heart.

Like Paul, I have suffered, and that too for Christ's sake; like Paul I have been cruelly beaten, yea, and imprisoned, and my feet made fast in the stocks or straps. And like Job I have been delivered into the hands of the devil, all but my life apparently.

Whatever might have been the great design of the good Lord in my case, I can say, with Paul, our light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.

I believe the path of the righteous groweth brighter and brighter unto the perfect day, though they may have trials and afflictions to encounter; Jesus promised his grace shall be sufficient for them.

Again and again I have visited the asylum, and when I look for that once beautiful garden it is not there, it is gone, the hedge is removed, the vineyard is rooted up, the beautiful pear tree that was heavily loaded near the window was gone, the currant bush and the strawberry beds all removed. We ask the cause of this great change. Who hath sinned, this happy appearing pair or their children, or the twenty-six governors of the institution. We hope for the best, praying that change after change may take place, until lunatic asylums become what they were originally designed for, the benefit of the inmates and their weeping friends, and not for the benefit of slave holders in the first degree.

Like the garden, we shall all be changed in the twinkling of an eye.

THE GARDEN CONVERTED INTO SHADY WALKS.

During my stay in the incurable house from July 3, 1862, to October 13, 1871, the beautiful garden that lay west of the asylum was converted into pleasant walks, with paths and crosswalks overspread with beautiful shade trees of various kinds, and a beautiful croquet lawn, neatly arranged for the diversion of the patients.

In 1860 or 1861 I was met at the dining table by Wm. B. Gibbs, an old acquaintance, who accosted me in the following manner: "How do you do, Brother Swan, I am glad to see you here." Glad, thought I, and happy to see a brother shut up in a lunatic asylum. I was not made glad to see any one who did not try to help me to get home. In the main house I had but few calls from acquaintances. I will record the names of those: My wife, P. Stade, Pittstown; C. Pierce, do; Mrs. Norman Baker, do; Mr. Sprut, do; John Warren, do. Home, home sweet home, thought I.

This Wm. B. Gibbs have just come from Utica Asylum, having been there once and again many years, at this time somewhat ferocious and mischievous, became quiet, and his sister took him home about 1867, with whom he now lives in a low, melancholy state of mind.

N. B.—Sometimes a person's troubles arise from the abuses of others, and sometimes from self-abuse. Could self-abused persons say as did the penitent thief on the cross, all would be well.

MY TREATMENT IN THE MAIN HOUSE.

The first night I was locked up in the inner prison or cell heretofore alluded to, and this was enough to make a rational man crazy. What, said I, a lunatic asylum for my home, a cell for my dining room, a cell for my lodging, and a cell for my closet of prayer. Ah, friend, can you imagine how one feels, sick and in prison, friendless and hopeless.

The first night said I, no dear wife to smooth down my pillow, and no dear daughter to fan my fainting person, or to give a cup of cold water. Ah, what a deplorable situation, if I die I must die alone.

Main House. In this house I received no maltreatment from attendants (much from patients, Gibbs, and others). I remained in this house fifteen months without the opportunity to go out, even to the chapel. Not a particle of medicine was administered to me while in this house, not a book did I have to read after O'Donnel destroyed the Bible.

MY BOARD AND BEDDING.

As to my board in this house, I have no fault to find, in regard to myself I had enough and in good order, a few strawberries and grapes in their season and vegetables occasionally, also on thanksgiving and the holidays some nice meats from the poultry yard, this is customary. After I was taken from the dead-house cell or cell near the dead-house, I was changed from hall to hall and from bed-room to bed-room, and locked in by different attendants, treated roughly by room-mates, not by attendants personally, but inasmuch as they did not care they did it unto me. The bedsteads that I occupied were iron through, the beds were mattrasses; well supplied with suitable clothing; in this house, summer and winter, kept neat and clean (on my part) more so than of many others.

REMARKS.

There is a heaven where angels sing, there is an opposite where devils prowl. There is a paradise and there is a world of woe, and although a person be exalted to heaven in point of privilege he may be thrust down to hell. In this apparent paradise, my five Pittstown neighbors saw me once, and like the deluded man perhaps made up their minds this was the place for me. Be it known that I, Moses Swann, was never a proper subject for a lunatic asylum (only as a spy or for the sake of others), neither was the devil a christian when he met with the sons of God. Whoever complained against me or believed me a proper subject for such a lunatic asylum, was as greatly mistaken as I was in regard to my future happiness; ten years I was conscientiously mistaken, they might have been; our Saviour said first pull the beam out of thine own eye then thou canst see more clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother's eye. Many there are who know their neighbors in their own estimation better than they know their own hearts.

MY WIFE'S LAST VISIT TO THE MAIN HOUSE.

In the spring of 1861, my wife visited me; that year the war broke out in the south. As we sat in the dining room I said to her, "there is a war." "O, yes," said she, "and many of the stores are shut in Troy." Our hearts were too sad to talk much about home and past time, our visit was short, she inquired of me something about my fare, to her I never complained, knew she was too weak to bear my burdens, therefore I made the best of it to her.

The separation time drew near, she says to a patient, "let me out" (supposing him to be the attendant or turnkey), "not so" said I, calling George Harrison (for he was attendant then), we took the parting hand once more in a lunatic asylum.

Soon after we took the parting hand at this time, I was removed to the south or dead-house hallway, having been shaved by Adkins, the lunatic barber; I was now afraid I should be shaved to death by others. When I returned to this hall I was met by a large, robust, muscular man, his name I did not learn, English by birth. Not long after he came into my bed-room with patient Gibbs and ordered me to change my own suit for others, I knew not whose, I was very loth to do so, fearing I should never get them again, and so it is as yet, my trunk, overcoat, and all I carried there were retained, although I asked the steward for them when I left the institution in 1871, Oct. 13.

MY REMOVAL FROM THE MAIN HOUSE TO THE INCURABLE ONE.

On the morning of the 3d day of July, 1862, the attendant, above described, came into the hall and put an old white hat on my head; taking me by the arm, says, "Come, go up to the other house" (meaning the incurable one) "and stay a few weeks." "I don't want to go," said I. He then left me, and soon returned with George Harrison, who steps up to me and says, "You must go." The attendant again took me by the arm, and I stepped out door for the first time since I entered the institution. He led me on up the hill. By the way we were met by Wm. Anderson, who abruptly said, "You have got him then." (At this time Anderson was cow-boy and common helper.) On I marched, like a prisoner in the hands of a drunken policeman (for I could smell his whisky breath). Presently we came in sight of the old brick small-pox house, which is used as a branch asylum, or incurable house, to stow away poor unfortunate victims like myself. As we came to the south door we were met, not as at Endor by the great whore of Babylon, but by the great maiden Isabel Anderson, who bound me, as seen in the engraving.

The attendant now asks the Magdalene Isabel, "Where shall I put him?" "In the room where there is one man," said she. Up one flight of stairs we went, turning to the right. I was locked up with Ebenezer Scott, who assisted T. Haly to strangle me, when bound by Isabel. (See engraving.)

Though the reader may think it strange that I should know Isabel, the Magdalenish woman, when I entered the incurable house, and know it was the 3d of July, 1862, having had no almanac, yet, it is, nevertheless, true. How I knew it was the third, when I was removed from house to house, because the next day was celebrated as our American Independence, I saw the little boys with fire-crackers; I heard the loud cannons roar; I saw the fire-works or sky-rockets ascend high in the air from Troy and Albany, while looking out of the window in the evening. How I knew Isabel—saw her at the main house scouring the oil-cloth in the hall; saw her raking hay in the door-yard; saw her and Dr. Gregory stand out door looking into my window, when my wife and I were visiting quietly, alone, in a room near the dining room and kitchen; this was in the winter of 1860, the same year I entered the asylum.

Again. In my opinion, when Haly and Isabel bound me, she was a Magdalenian woman of the Cain family, possessed of seven devils, and, although the Troy Daily Whig would not publish for me against such treatment, because they got much gain from the institution on Ida Hill, still they caused the following to be published in their columns, namely, Isabel's suicidal and untimely death, which took place March 16, 1873—hanging to the same balusters whose stairs led to my room in the third story of the incurable house—same stairs she dragged Wm. Jefferson down.

SUICIDE AT THE MARSHALL INFIRMARY—A FEMALE NURSE HANGS HERSELF TO THE BALUSTERS—THE CAUSE A MYSTERY.

The inmates of Marshall Infirmary were greatly shocked on arising yesterday morning to discover that one of the nurses had hanged herself during the night. The facts are as follows:

Isabel Anderson, aged about fifty-four years, first entered the employ of the infirmary as a nurse some eight or ten years ago. She was assigned to take charge of the ward for female insane persons, but when the small-pox was epidemic, her ward was changed, and small-pox patients were put under her charge. At the disappearance of that disease she was again placed in her old position. She had been suffering from some obscure disease since January last, but within the last few days she had greatly improved, and when her husband (who has charge of the male insane ward) left her on Saturday night, she appeared to feel better and more cheerful than she had in some time.

A little before 1 o'clock, yesterday morning, her husband thought he heard her knock at the door, and consequently went to her room, but found every thing quiet. It is probable that the noise Mr. Anderson heard proceeded from some one of the insane patients who are more or less noisy all the time. After satisfying himself that every thing was right he returned to his room and went to sleep. On rising about 6 o'clock, he was descending to his wife's room, when he was horrified to see his wife suspended by the neck from the balusters on the third story. He immediately gave the alarm, and with assistance, cut down the body and laid it out in her room. Mrs. Anderson was a very fleshy woman, weighing over two hundred pounds, and the supposition is that she left her room between 1 and 6 o'clock, taking one of the sheets from her bed, and proceeding to the hallway on the third story, tied one end of it to her neck and the other to the balusters and then dropped over the rail. Owing to her great weight it is probable that she died almost immediately. Coroner Brennan was notified and took charge of the remains, and he will hold an inquest.

Mrs. Anderson will be buried to-morrow. She was a hard working, industrious woman, and by studied economy had saved considerable money and bought three or four houses up-town. Her husband was very devoted to her and feels his loss keenly. He cannot give any cause for her suicide, as she had never threatened any thing of the kind nor given any reason to suspect such an intention. It is but justice to say that the persons in charge of the infirmary are entirely blameless in the matter, as Mrs. Anderson was capable of attending to her duties as usual. We make this remark, as the public are often apt to blame the authorities of a hospital when any such occurrence takes place. Dr. Lomax, who is at present confined to his room, stated to a Whig reporter that the affair was an entire mystery to him. Mrs. Anderson was one of the most faithful, honest and industrious nurses ever employed in any hospital and had never shown any signs of insanity. Her sickness, however, may have caused her mind to be depressed, and perhaps during the night she may have been taken with some acute pains, and jumping out of bed, deliberately committed the act.

The above local news is an extract from the Troy Daily Whig, Monday morning, March 17, 1873.

I knew that Isabel Anderson was turnkey in the incurable house of the Marshall asylum more than nine years.

I know that Isabel Anderson was not honest. My wife brought me two flannel shirts, they were marked M. Swan, on the bosom, I wore them a few times and they were gone, and they were worn by Isabel and Haly that winter, and I had to go without all winter.

So much for the Troy Daily Whig.

M. Swan at home.

Isabel's maiden name was Miss Anderson, Dr. Lomax told me she was married after I went to the incurable house, in care of Haly and others. After Mrs. Isabel was married to William Anderson, he became an attendant over the male patients, and I came under his care; this was about 1866 or 1867.