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SECOND DAY.

DEAR FRIEND: -- I can't get out. The lock and key of St. Power is over me. I came here yesterday a visitor, and I gave you what a visitor's eye takes in of life in an Asylum. "The eye," says a modern Transcendental, "sees what it brings." -- "To Newton, or Newton's dog Diamond, how different the universe!" Yesterday I saw a bower of bliss. Who could refuse to be happy here? So many comforts, such beautiful occupations, such good company! But, today -- the poetry of Asylum life has faded before the near vision of stern reality. Yet, it is a gala day and all are engaged in preparation for its exhibition. It's like the day of a party at home. Robes of pink and blue are seen floating in one room -- mantua-makers are fitting in another -- here are plumes and flowers congregating and nod to each other o'er ladies' caps and bonnets -- vases are filling with the flowers of nature from the green-house -- bouquets are admired in the stand. The looking-glass is consulted, and fashion with taste appealed to -- in its power woman rules.

Now comes the power of man, with his scaffoldings and hammer sounds. I try to pass his boundary and my fate is declared. The master, man, makes me a lunatic in these walls. He will not let me pass his door. I declare myself a free woman; he pays me no heed, but hammers in his nail the stronger and the louder. I am not insane -- yes; but in Rome we must do as Romans do, and here insane I must be; it's my only prerogative -- I call for my attendant, and her key gives me the freedom of an hour to range amid the flowers of Asylumia. There were brilliant exotics arranged for me to view; but I am not free, I cannot see Paradise to-day. I would not be a slave. Give me the will to choose and the mind to perform my allotted work. My task is given me by master minds, who have not consulted mine, for I would have a key to unlock the door from Asylum-life. What bitter feeling is engendered by the fact, "I can't get out!" I see no beauty in these flowers ranged before my eye -- its demon throws an ebony hue over them. I turn to the free air without, it brings to my ear appeals to get out. I would set the poor captives free. I look for a champion knight. The Doctor is the champion knight here, and his process is one of bitter pills. I would walk beyond these bounds. You must ask the Doctor. The Doctor! I did not come here to be ruled by the Doctor. I came here a visitor. It was very pleasant to bow to the Doctor's smiling attention yesterday; to obey as a patient his mandates of to-day is another matter. I am insane now; a host of demons are to be quelled into a reasonable submission. For this I seek in my own room a physician's help, who holds a key over all state powers. To him is given the bow of deep submission, the noise and tumult of demons subside, and in quiet self-possession I am free. True, the wall of sense is around me, but it falls before the master's touch, and the spirit power. No miracle is this, but a stern command has been obeyed, and in deep submission -- the spirit of love has been imparted to the performance of duty. It has set the prisoner free to enjoyments which sense and heaven alike bestow. Again we see. Reviewing the beauty of yesterday, we seize it -- in our acceptance, find reason's gift restored. Again, with my eye I ask you to view the life within the hall, and be caught with me in the fact of preparation. I am in the toils of a lady of industry, with needle and with brush, with pen and pencil scarce note the hours in their flight.

Seven o'clock. -- The hall is lighted, the ladies dressed, the platform over which I walked insane this morning is now an inviting parlor, with carpet spread and curtains of blue festooned around. Underneath one of their graceful folds is a seat prepared for the goddess of sweet sound, and the piano keys invite her skill. She is arrayed in green, and looks like a bright flower perched within. Her fashionable basque has caught my eye and suits it well. A lady can see nothing but a pretty dress. I grant that power to the sex, and prize it. Say what you will, sirs, of the dress, behind it lies many a bright thought. It is an idea; there is poetry in dress, and philosophy too, but this will be the subject for another day. I now take the seat of a spectator, and in rows of seats arranged in front of the scene find my place; a red curtain is before me, a strain of music is heard, the curtain rises, and the green lady with guitar in hand regales our eye and ear.

The actors appear, and in different scenes exhibit and satirize life out of the Asylum. The insane who live by borrowing, the benevolent who insanely lend, were exhibited in the Pettigrew scenes. There was an allegory personifying the village gossip, and the fantastic dress of the actors made it a crazy performance, and many like it we have figured in among the gossips. Housewifery and its cares, with the plague from Paddies to puddings, were well depicted. Music and dance closed the scene, the curtain falls, and Dr. M. gives poetic thanks, which all admire. We close another day of life, bringing together its good and ill. Kind sympathy in the social feeling of the hall has been imparted from those drawn here from scenes of life where lock and key is out of sight. They cheat us, in the semblance of liberty, and I this night retire to rest. I shall sleep in the semblance of sanity. Adieu till the morning.