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.