ng
man, that he wished me to remain in the hospital, and be taken care of.

The reader may at once perceive the art of this communication: I, having
no idea why I was confined, would of course continue to style myself by
my true name; and as long as I did this, so long would I be considered
in a deranged state. The reader must not therefore be surprised when I
tell him, that I remained in Bedlam for one year and eight months. The
doctor called upon me for two or three days, and finding me quiet,
ordered me to be allowed books, paper, and ink, to amuse myself; but
every attempt at explanation was certain to be the signal for him to
leave my apartment. I found, therefore, not only by him, but from the
keeper, who paid no attention to anything I said, that I had no chance
of being listened to, or of obtaining my release.

After the first month, the doctor came to me no more: I was a quiet
patient, and he received the report of the keeper. I was sent there
with every necessary document to prove that I was mad; and, although a
very little may establish a case of lunacy, it requires something very
strong indeed, to prove that you are in your right senses. In Bedlam I
found it impossible. At the same time I was well treated, was allowed
all necessary comforts, and such amusement as could be obtained from
books, etcetera. I had no reason to complain of the keeper--except that
he was too much employed to waste his time in listening to what he did
not believe. I wrote several letters to my sister and to O'Brien during
the first two or three months, and requested the keeper to put them in
the post. This he promised to do, never refusing to take the letters;
but, as I afterwards found out, they were invariably destroyed. Yet I
still bore up with the hopes of release for some time; but the anxiety
relative to my sister, when I thought of her situation, my thoughts of
Celeste and of O'Brien, sometimes quite overcame me; then, indeed, I
would almost become frantic, and the keeper would report that I had had
a paroxysm. After six months I became melancholy, and I wasted away. I
no longer attempted to amuse myself, but sat all day with my eyes fixed
upon vacancy. I no longer attended to my person; I allowed my beard to
grow--my face was never washed, unless mechanically, when ordered by the
keeper; and, if I was not mad, there was every prospect of my soon
becoming so. Life passed away as a blank--I had become indifferent