Let us see how this matter stands; they that like it are sane men, and those who dislike it are insane. I know a man who likes the institution, who has been in it as a patient for fifteen years; this man is known very widely, in Utica, in Hoosick and elsewhere; his name is Mosely. Is he a sane man? What does he say? He says: “It is the best institution on the globe, and that Dr. Gray and himself and his Bible, and the State of New York, the asylum, his farm in Hoosick, and his new house, are all one thing; that they all perfectly agree, and that it is the best institution on the globe.” Now who can resist such an argument as this? Such are the kind of sane men who like the institution. That there are men who work in and around the institution, and have for years, who see nothing very exceptionable in any of its departments, may be all true. So there may be men who are employed in and around State prisons, who see nothing very exceptionable in them. But this proves nothing at all. There is a vast difference between skinning or being skinned. Let those who have been in and around the institution, and think they know all about it, let them go in as patients, let them go through all the degrees of initiation, until they get a diploma, then ask them whether they can recommend it to the world as the best institution on the globe? As I wish to give credit for every good thing which happened during my stay in the asylum, and as I have passed over one thing, I wish, before I enter upon my last summer's history; to notice it. The thing referred to, which was passed over in its proper connection, was our Thanksgiving dinners of 1863 and 1864. I was on the fourth hall at the dinner of 1863. I think it was about the 20th of November. I thought it a grand dinner; fifty turkeys were dressed, stuffed and cooked for that dinner for the patients. I took a kind of philosophical view of it when it came on the table. The first thought was, after taking a glance at the whole thing, _what a contrast_. Now it must be understood that our common every day fare was a very stereotyped edition. It was bread and meat, and meat and bread, with a little butter, twice a day, and cheese, pickle, and pie, Sundays only; and I was always glad when Sunday came, for the sake of the pickle and cheese, though the cheese was a very small piece. I am not fault finding, only noticing the contrast. There was a fine roasted turkey on each end of the table, bread, butter, cheese, pickle, pie of the richest kind, roast beef; then came on nuts, confectioneries in abundance, with raisins and apples.