he time I dreaded commitment, it was the best possible thing
that could befall me. To be, as I was, in the world but not of it, was
exasperating. The constant friction that is inevitable under such
conditions--conditions such as existed for me in the home of my
attendant--can only aggravate the mental disturbance. Especially is
this true of those laboring under delusions of persecution. Such
delusions multiply with the complexity of the life led. It is the
even-going routine of institutional life which affords the
indispensable quieting effect--provided that routine is well ordered,
and not defeated by annoyances imposed by ignorant or indifferent
doctors and attendants.

My commitment occurred on June 11th, 1901. The institution to which I
was committed was a chartered, private institution, but not run for
personal profit. It was considered one of the best of its kind in the
country and was pleasantly situated. Though the view was a restricted
one, a vast expanse of lawn, surrounded by groups of trees, like
patches of primeval forest, gave the place an atmosphere which was not
without its remedial effect. My quarters were comfortable, and after a
little time I adjusted myself to my new environment.

Breakfast was served about half-past seven, though the hour varied
somewhat according to the season--earlier in summer and later in
winter. In the spring, summer, and autumn, when the weather was
favorable, those able to go out of doors were taken after breakfast for
walks within the grounds, or were allowed to roam about the lawn and
sit under the trees, where they remained for an hour or two at a time.
Dinner was usually served shortly after noon, and then the active
patients were again taken out of doors, where they remained an hour or
two doing much as they pleased, but under watchful eyes. About
half-past three they returned to their respective wards, there to
remain until the next day--except those who cared to attend the
religious service which was held almost every afternoon in an endowed
chapel.

In all institutions those confined in different kinds of wards go to
bed at different hours. The patients in the best wards retire at nine
or ten o'clock. Those in the wards where more troublesome cases are
treated go to bed usually at seven or eight o'clock. I, while
undergoing treatment, have retired at all hours, so that I am in the
better position to describe the mysteries of what is, in a way, one of
the greatest