The first Sabbath came the 23d of August. I had seen nothing of the institution as yet, only what I had seen from this hall. I could only look out of a north window, and see the hills afar off, the valley of the Mohawk stretching east and west as far as the eye could reach; could see the cars passing up and down the valley, and the canal, with its loaded crafts slowly but constantly passing by. I could also see fine carriages constantly passing by, going in and out of the city. I could also see the beautiful lawn lying at my feet, and stretching away to the street passing out of the city. While I stood at my window and saw all this, and then turned and looked at myself, shut up and confined with bars and bolts, I then began to think that I could now conceive how those poor creatures felt whom I had often seencrowding to prison windows to catch a glimpse of passers-by, through their iron grates.
I recollect, while thus employed and thus philosophising, of crying out, that “my life is a failure.” I had never realized before the sweets of liberty, and finally came almost to the conclusion that I must have committed some crime, or I never should have been thus confined and shut out from society; yet I had no knowledge that I had violated the law in any sense.
Yes, this was a lonely Sabbath; yet I felt that while I remained in that institution, I had no desire to go out or to form any acquaintances. I could not get rid of the idea that the whole process of proceedings in putting me into the asylum was deception from end to end. First, they were deceived as to the cause of my trouble; secondly, they were deceived in regard to my real condition. I did not wish to look any man in the face, outside of the asylum, for the reason that I supposed all within its wallswere regarded as insane and unfit to mingle in society.
I learned that there was service in the chapel that evening, but nothing was said to me about attending; and I did not mention it, for fear I should be denied the privilege of attending.
A day or two more passed away, and I had not, as yet, put off my best clothes. I was thinking of it, and then I thought again—“Why should I care about the future? And if I lay off this suit I shall never see it again.” These were thoughts that came into my mind; and I thought I might as well wear out my best clothes as to let others have them.
While these thoughts were revolving in my mind, Mr. Jones, the attendant, came to me and said—“You had better lay off that suit of clothes, and put on a poorer one, to wallow on the hall in.” So I made the change, as I had a number of poorer suits in my trunk. This suit that I laid off was a very fine one and valuable. Time went on, and in about six weeks I wasremoved to the fourth floor. This was a short hall on the first floor, extending west from the main building; but the same suit of clothes that I laid off, a few days after I entered the asylum, I never saw again. I was never fully satisfied what became of them.
The State Fair was held in Utica that fall, and I was invited to ride on to the grounds, with others, in an omnibus. I did not care to go, yet I did not think it best to refuse; I consented and called for my coat; a coat was brought me, but it was not mine; it was much smaller, shorter sleeves, and much worn; it was not worth ten dollars; mine was worth thirty.
I made this known, but all the satisfaction I got was to be told that I was mistaken. I soon called for my pants and vest which belonged to that coat, and was told by the attendant on that hall, that I never had such a pair of pants and vest as I described—a fine pair of doeskins, and a satin vest; and he told me if I persisted in it, he would report me to higher authority;he even threatened me. I knew I was right, yet I became afraid of my safety, as this attendant on the fourth hall was an old Irishman who had been a sailor, whose principles were very bad; he was not a man of truth or honesty; so I was obliged to let the matter drop. I once thought of stating the matter to Dr. Gray, but the attendants put on their veto, and I let it rest, but have never doubted but this same old Irishman had my vest, for I am sure I saw him wear it. As to the pants, I never saw them again. I know I am not mistaken about the coat, vest and pants; I got an old coat in its stead which I still keep to show.
Cold weather soon came on, and I was thinly clad. I missed my thick pants, and though I had a good shawl, which I kept my eye upon, yet I had no overcoat. I one day said to the supervisor that I wished I had my overcoats from home; that I had two at home—one new and a very fine one, the other a coarse one, but a good coat for common wear.
A very few days after this my coats bothcame; I knew them well, by special marks. The best one was taken and put away; the other I was allowed to keep in my room to throw on when we went out in the field. It was not long before I called for my best overcoat, as I was going to walk out. A coat was brought me, but on examination, I found it was not my coat; it was much smaller, cut in a different fashion; was not the same kind of cloth; yet it was a black coat, and had a velvet collar like mine; mine was worth at that time fifty dollars; this was not worth twenty. I have never worn the coat much since. I got me a new one and keep this also to exhibit, to show that I am not mistaken about the clothing.
My hat was also changed for one much poorer; this might have been done by accident. A new black silk cravat was taken, and an old one given me in its stead. Now all these things might have been done through mistake, and not by design, yet, I have never doubted but all was done by design; knowing the attendants, I am obliged to come to this conclusion.
It will be observed that, for the sake of giving a history of my lost clothing, the reader was brought down from the third to the fourth floor; as I had not proceeded through an entire week with my history of that hall, we will now return to that narrative. I had been there about a week when I was permitted to go out in the yard with the patients; and in walking in the yard, I soon became acquainted with men from other halls, with whom I could converse, and I found, on comparison, that those on the third were not as sane as many from other halls; indeed, there were none on that hall that could converse rationally for any length of time; yet I did not desire to change my place by being removed to another floor. After being there about a month, however, the doctor hinted to me that I was to be removed to some other floor. This I somehow dreaded, not knowing where I was to be sent, and not knowing the difference between one hall and another; I begged to stay where I was,choosing the sufferings I then had, to those I knew not of.
After being there about two weeks, I one day said to the attendant, that I wished him to understand that if my plate was always found emptied of its contents, at the close of every meal, it was not because I had eaten it all. I then told him it was very annoying to me to have men snatching my food from my plate every chance they could get, and that I was obliged to guard my plate in order to get enough to eat, and the moment I finished, my plate was immediately swept clean of all it contained. He said I should sit there no longer; so he removed me to the table where he sat, and placed me by his side, and I sat there until removed to another hall.
As I have said, I was on this third hall about six weeks. I have noticed but few incidents connected with this hall, not because I could not, but because I wish to make my narrative as short as possible. Should I record all the thrilling and ludicrousincidents which happened upon this hall, and others during my stay there, they would fill an octavo of a thousand pages. My object is not to give a history of the institution, but simply my own narrative, noticing, perhaps, now and then, a circumstance which may fall in my way concerning other patients; and while I am on this subject, I will simply say, that I made the acquaintance of a number of gentlemen in that institution whose names I remember with pleasure, and should perhaps make mention of them if I thought it would be pleasing to them, but knowing the delicacy of such a subject, I shall forbear making mention of any except those who I know cannot be affected by it.
I was now placed upon the fourth hall, and assigned to a room containing three beds; this was about the first of October. The inmates of this room were more agreeable than on the third floor, though one of them, at times, was very annoying. He would be up and down all night; would disarrange all the clothes of hisbed; would scold and worry, and complain of ill treatment, if any one attempted to assist him; until at length he was removed on to some other hall and died there.
From this hall I was suffered to walk out with other patients, guarded by attendants. We would sometimes walk a mile through the back fields attached to the institution. I shall never forget that the first day I entered this hall, I saw, walking the hall, a delicate, well dressed, fine looking gentleman, of middle age and very long beard. There seemed to be an air of aristocracy about him that attracted my attention, and led me to inquire who he was. I found he was from Albany; that his name was Root; they called him Colonel Root. He had done business in Albany; married there into a good family and rich. He lived rather too fast to suit his friends, in traveling through Europe and America, and drinking wine and brandy, so they threw him into the asylum. No one could detect in him any marks of insanity; but the way he would curse his friends forrunning him into that institution, was a caution. He was not the most gentle and docile patient to manage in the whole institution. Being a private patient, he had what is called his extras in food. He was often changed from one hall to another, until, running down rapidly in health, he died on the sixth hall, long before I left the institution.
I liked the fare better on this hall than on the third; it was a short hall, containing about twenty patients. I soon discovered that on this hall were a good many invalids; I have seen as many as ten confined to their beds on this hall at once; I regarded it a kind of hospital. There was a hospital attached to the institution, but I found, of late, it had not been used much for that purpose; that the sick were allowed to remain on the halls with the well. This I regarded an improvement.
At this time, frequent changes were made on the halls in attendants; it was war time, and young men were called into the field; I suppose they had to take such as theycould get. A young man came on to the fourth hall, as first attendant, soon after I entered it, by the name of John Subert; a young man of a good deal of self-conceit; was very ignorant withal, and evidently felt that he was highly promoted in having a kind of charge over a few poor inmates of a lunatic asylum.
Doctor Gray is the sole superintendent of the asylum. He has generally three physicians under him, who watch over the wants of the patients, and prescribe for them. Next comes a supervisor, who takes the general charge of four or five halls, and is at the same time an attendant on one of these four or five. This John Subert was an attendant on the fourth hall, under a supervisor; he was, in fact, nothing more nor less than a servant waiter; yet he sometimes assumed a good deal of authority. He at one time called me to come and sit down by his side, and began to talk to me very gravely, and told me whenever I got into any trouble and wanted anything, to come to him and he would give me goodadvice. This, certainly, would have been very kind, had it come from Doctor Gray or even from a supervisor; but coming from a waiter, and a young man not much over twenty, and one so ignorant that he could not converse intelligently five minutes on any subject, and withal very wicked, using much profane language, the idea of his giving me good advice was most ludicrous.
I once asked this young gentleman for a coverlid, as the weather was getting cold. He brought me an old straw bed tick, very dirty. I looked at it and then at him, and asked him what he meant, to offer me that dirty bed tick for a covering. I saw he was mad. He said I was the damnedest man he ever saw; would sew me up in the tick. He then asked me if he should knock me down. I told him yes, if he pleased. He said he thought he would not begin with me, as he had never knocked a man down. I have never doubted but it was best that he did not knock me down, or attempt it, for I had regained my strength at that time.
And here I am happy to say that during the two years and four months that I was in the institution, I never received a blow from attendant or patient, while many were knocked headlong by both patients and attendants. I was always on the watch to keep out of the way of danger, and when I found an ill-natured patient, or an ill-natured attendant, had as little to say to them as possible.
It is true, that there are times that a man will pass through scenes that will stir his blood, that perhaps he would not let pass unnoticed out of that place; yet, I found the best way to get along, was to bear all things with a kind of stoicism.
I can never forget a small circumstance which happened on this hall. After I had eaten all that I desired, John Subert presented me with a bowl of soup which he had left. I hesitated; told him that I did not need it. He said I should eat it; to save trouble I ate what I could, and stopped; he ordered me to eat the rest, and said I should eat it. I was in a strait; I felt thatI could not swallow another spoonful; he threatened; I ate a spoonful or two and stopped; found it impossible to swallow any more. At this point I felt unmanned; I groaned bitterly; I felt that I had rather die than be governed by such a gladiator. I knew he did it only to show his authority. I never knew why he took such a course with me. Had I refused to eat my regular meals, as some did refuse, and had shown a suicidal spirit to starve myself, as some did, then the case would have been altered, and the attendant would have been justified in forcing me to eat. But I was well and hearty; my appetite was craving, caused by the medicine forced down me daily, and I found that I generally ate more than was for my good; yet I did not eat more than other patients; it was thought I did not generally eat as much.
At another time, they had molasses and some kind of pudding as a dessert. I ate all I wanted and moved back; he had ate and left a quantity of molasses and pudding; he moved it before me and orderedme to eat it; molasses I never eat unless obliged to; I tried to beg off, but he was inflexible; I considered the matter and complied; I thought it better to eat his leavings than to have war at the table. I considered that he was a low-bred wretch, and a man of no principle. I have often wondered if he would not like to see me now, and talk up these matters, and show me that it would be best for me to ask his advice, and to eat his leavings. I have no doubt but he would deny that these things ever happened. I would deny them if I were him. This is the way such men get out from such charges. They have been in the habit of abusing patients, and when charged with the wrong, deny it to the doctor, charging it to the insanity of the patient. Many other small matters in themselves might be related that will be passed over, which would be very trying to a man of good breeding.
When the patients of that institution can be used as patients should be, and not as criminals, prisoners or slaves, then, and nottill then, will it become a blessing to the State of New York instead of a curse.
I remained on the fourth hall until about the first of December, when I was removed to the first hall. I begged with all my skill to stay on the fourth hall through the winter, but all was in vain. The reasons why I wanted to stay on the fourth hall were, that it was warmer, and I did not wish to become a gazing stock for the multitude of visitors who daily flocked to the asylum, take a walk through the first hall, gaze on the patients as they would look upon wild animals in a managerie, and then depart. I found the arrangement on the fourth hall for bathing as it should be; each man had his bath by himself of clean water. This became a luxury rather than a dread, as upon the third floor. It is, however, due to Mr. Jones, the attendant on the third, to say that after two or three of the first baths I took there, he gave me clean water, and always used me like a gentleman. The little Dutchman who gaveme my first bath, seemed to shun me after I had learned the ropes a little better.
My medicine was kept up while on the third and fourth halls without interruption three times a day, always just before eating; and soon after I came to the fourth hall, another dose was added. This was some kind of spirits; whether it was brandy or some other kind of liquor I do not know; one thing I do know, that it would fly into my head, my face would feel hot and would be as red as fire; it alarmed me at first, and I begged to have it taken off, but it was of no use; perhaps I was foolish in thinking that they meant to make me drunk.
After a week or two this beverage was taken off, and strong beer or porter was substituted; this I hated; I always hated it. I hate it still, though I was made to drink it daily for more than a year, and had I been like some men, I should now be a drunkard; but I have not tasted a drop of ardent spirits or beer since I left the asylum, and never shall, unless it is forced down my throat as it was there. Myopinion is, however, that the beer I drank there never injured me, but the other medicine I thought did.
Four months had now gone by since I entered the asylum. I was now on the first floor. This is a spacious hall, two hundred and fifteen feet long, with bed-rooms ranged on each side of it to contain about forty patients. The patients on this hall are mostly those who have been on other halls, and are either cured or convalescent; but few on this hall are ever seen to show marks of insanity.
To judge of the inmates of the asylum, and the workings of the institution by inspecting this hall, would be a deception. All things here are in order, with a fine library and reading room, with bureaus and looking glasses in all the bed-rooms.
When I came on to the first hall, I little understood what was before me; I did not know that I was to remain on this floor for two years longer, confined by iron grates and locks; but such was the fact, though I was in as good health the day I entered itas when I left it, but was not in as good spirits.
For the first three months I occupied a bed in one of the dormitories where there were four beds, and during this time I took care of my own bed, and helped others in the room who were weaker than myself. I had a warm place to sleep, and had the privilege of managing my own clothing. Our cast-off clothing at night were not left out in the hall, as on other halls; yet the patients here are all locked into their rooms at night as on other halls; and instead of retiring at seven o'clock, the time of retiring is half past eight. This to me was a great relief.
This was a very hard winter; the cold was intense; the hall was much colder than any house I had ever been accustomed to during my whole life. My clothing was thinner than I had been accustomed to for thirty years, and we were not allowed to put on an overcoat, or wear a shawl in the house, yet my health was good during the whole winter.
The halls were heated with hot air thrown in through pipes from the engine-house on the opposite side of the court yard. The reading room was always comfortable, but I did not stay in it perhaps six hours during the whole winter.
One circumstance connected with my captivity, I cannot pass over. I found when I arrived at Utica that I had no glasses, and although they were in my trunk, I did not know it, as they had taken charge of my trunk, with all its contents, which I never saw again until it was brought down at the time I finally left. I asked for glasses, that I might occupy my time in reading. This was denied me, and the doctor forbade my reading anything whatever. I thought this a hard case. I could not see the point, inasmuch as I saw others reading who were not half as strong as I was—patients who were confined to their beds had their books and papers to read, while I was waiting on them. I came to the conclusion that it was done to punish me, or to let me know that I must obey orders.So I spent the winter the best I could, straining my eyes to read whenever I could get out of the sight of the attendants, that they might not report me to the doctor; and it was quite remarkable that I could read so well without glasses.
Six months perhaps passed away before I was furnished with glasses. I then took to reading, asking no questions, and no one forbade me. Many a volume, could they speak, in that library, could testify that I searched their contents.
Soon after I went to the first hall I commenced walking out with the patients, accompanied by an attendant. It was our custom to go into the street that leads from Utica to Whitesborough, and follow up that road until we came to the bridge which crosses the canal, a distance of about a mile and a half; here we would stop a few minutes and walk back. This we repeated almost every day through the winter.
After I went on to the first hall, I was a constant attendant at church, either in thechapel in the asylum, or in the city, or both. I generally attended the State Street Methodist Episcopal Church in the city. The services in the chapel are generally Episcopal, Dr. Gibson, of Utica, being the chaplain. I confess that I did not enjoy public worship while in the asylum as I have since I left it.
There was one idea that constantly haunted my mind during the most of the time that I was in the asylum: that was, that I should never get away from that place alive, and this I often expressed to others. This, perhaps, may be regarded by others as a freak of insanity, but I could not help it—I had my own reasons for thinking so.
I never saw the day, from the time I entered the asylum until I left it, but I would have been willing to have crawled upon my hands and feet a hundred miles, and lived on bread and water, could I by that means have got away; and yet I was resolved that I would never run away if I died in the institution. Here I think I was inan error; I have no doubt but a man is justifiable in running away when he sees and knows he is receiving no benefit from staying there. I think it would be very difficult to keep me there again as long under the same circumstances. Why should a man feel any conscientious scruples about leaving a place into which he is forced against his will, especially if he was not sent there for crime?
My conscientious scruples about running away from that place, is to me one of the strongest evidences that I can think of, that my mind, some of the time, was not right.
At the time I was changed to the first hall, I was placed at the table by the side of Dr. Noise, who had been in the institution for three or four years. He carried the keys of the house, went in and out at his will, and served as usher to the asylum. I supposed he was employed by the doctor as an helper in the institution, and had no idea that he was a patient. I observed he acted very independently, and was quite dictatorial.
I did not take pains to make his acquaintance, so I said nothing to him for perhaps two weeks. In the meantime I had learned his history—that he was a patient, and that in consequence of his being an active kind of a man, and being a physician at the same time, and not much, if any, insane, was granted privileges that but few patients enjoyed.
I observed that he wanted a great deal of room at the table, and took it without consulting the convenience of his next neighbor. I found myself much cramped for room, and his course became quite annoying to me. He would spread himself out, lay his arms on the table, slop over his tea and coffee on the table-cloth, throw his meat and potatoes off of his plate if he did not want to eat them, and had very much to say to other patients while eating. On one occasion he took his seat at the table before I did, spread himself out as usual, and laid his arm on my knife. I took my seat as usual, and sat awhile to see if he meant to remove his arm off of my knife.I saw that he did not mean to do so. I did not understand his object, but I soon found it was to draw me out in conversation, as I had not as yet spoken to him, and he began to feel annoyed about it. I at length asked him to remove his arm that I might take my knife.
He turned and looked daggers at me. “What,” he said, “have you spoken? I have sat by you two weeks, and you have not spoken to me; you need not try to play possum with me?” “What do you mean,” I said, “by playing possum?” He gave his definition of the saying. I then said, “Doctor, I feel under no obligations to you; I know no reason why I should make conversation with you more than others.” This offended him; he lifted up his voice and said, “He did not wonder I was in the asylum—that my folks could not live with me at home, so they had to bring me to the asylum.”
I admitted all his slang to be true, and said,“Yes, yes, doctor, that's so—you and I are here for the same reason, our folks could not live with us at home, so they sent us here.” This roused the lion—and he could roar terribly when roused—but I said no more, and as my reply got the laugh of the table on him, he cooled off, but he never tried me on again. Whether he thought he had caught a tartar, or whether he thought I was a fool and not worth minding, he did not inform me; but one thing I do know, that ever after this he treated me with respect, and died in the asylum in about two years from that time.
As I have already noticed, this is called the first hall on the gentlemen's side, and is on the first floor above the basement. Between this, and what was then called the fourth hall, now I believe called the second, is a billiard room. The patients amuse themselves at this game, and some of them are expert players. I never took any interest in it; I never even took the stick in my hand to strike a ball while there,—neither did I ever elsewhere.
Chess, checkers, backgammon and dominoes, were the principal games played inthe asylum, but in none of these did I take any interest; indeed, I never learned to play them. I think if all these games could be confined to lunatic asylums it would be just as well for the world.
As the time of retirement on this floor is just half-past eight in the evening, there is considerable time during the long nights of winter for some kind of exercise between dark and bed-time. So after the hall is lighted up, the patients betake themselves to such kinds of recreation as suits them best—some to reading, some to walking the hall in pairs, which is a good exercise, others engage in the different games practiced on the hall, while some will always sit looking blank, as though all the world besides them were asleep or dead.
There is a state of mind in that institution which I have thought would not be moved if the house were on fire. I once saw it demonstrated on the fourth hall. A young man was brought on to that hall by his friends from the city of Utica, subject to epileptic fits; these fits had injured hismind very much; yet he was as harmless as a child, and a greater mistake never happened than to take a child to the lunatic asylum who has fits, thinking they can be benefited by it; but if it is done to get the child out of their sight, and to throw the care of them on to other hands, why then, that alters the case; but if that were my object, I certainly should not send them there; I would sooner send them to the county poor-house.
But to return to my story. He was sitting at the table; I think it was breakfast; we had all commenced eating; in a moment he fell backward chair and all, with a terrible groan, foaming at the mouth, and uttering most horrible groans; I started up as by instinct; my knife and fork dropped from my hands, and I was about to take hold of him to take him up, when two attendants took him up and carried him to his room. But I observed that more than half of those at the table never looked up nor stopped eating. I made up my mind that if they had been asked after breakfast,what happened at the breakfast table this morning, the would have said, “nothing that they knew of.” That was the state of mind I wanted to be in when I entered the asylum; then I should have had no trouble by anything I saw or heard. I do not wish the reader to understand that Inowwish that to have been my state of mind.
Though it may seem a digression from the subject designed in this chapter, yet, while I am on the subject of epileptic fits, I wish to relate a fact which has come under my observation within a few weeks past. I was in a town in the northern part of Saratoga county about the 25th of June, 1868; and while there I was told that one of their neighbors was about to take their son to the Asylum at Utica, who was subject to epileptic fits, and they asked my advice. The brother of the young man who had fits was present. They did not know, that I am aware of, that I had any knowledge of the asylum. I asked them why they were going to take him to the asylum? I saw that he hesitated to answer.He finally said they thought it would be best. I asked him if they thought the doctors there could help one with fits better than other doctors?
I then told him just what I thought, “that many had been deceived by supposing they could cure epileptic fits at the asylum, and that they would miss it if they took him there for that purpose.” They were entire strangers to everything pertaining to the asylum, yet I saw they were intent upon taking the young man there. They started with him the next morning, and took him to the asylum.
After the young man, the brother of the patient, had left, the family where I stopped explained to me the probable reasons why they were going to send him to the asylum. The young man had become of age, and was not capable of supporting himself; they were afraid he was getting, or would get, suicidal; he was getting to be a burden to the family.
His own mother was dead, and he had a step-mother. If they put him in the asylumthey would get rid of the trouble of looking after him, and would save his support by throwing him into the asylum as a county charge. Yet they were not poor. There can be no doubt but many are sent there for similar reasons.
I was greatly surprised to find children in the asylum not more than six or seven years old. I saw two little boys there, one from Rondout, of about that age. Poor things, how I pitied them. They were very sprightly little fellows, but it was said they had epileptic fits. I would think it much more appropriate to send a child there that had the measles, or one troubled with worms, than to send one there troubled with fits, for, I think likely, they might cure the measles, and I am sure they would give medicine enough to kill the worms.
I will now return to the first hall, and give a description of the patients on that floor. I have already said that generally there are about forty patients on this hall, perhaps a little less; there are constantchanges on this hall of patients. When patients are first brought in they are seldom left on this floor, though some are. Some come on this hall and never go to any other. They come and stay from three months to a year, and sometimes longer, as the case may be, and leave almost entirely ignorant of the general state of things in the asylum. And some of this class are well pleased with the asylum; this depends much on who they are, and what the state of their body and mind was in while there.
But the great majority first have a schooling on other halls, and, if very insane, are quite likely to be sent on the old eleventh, which, I believe, is now changed to some other number, but the hall is the same. This hall is the most like hell, in my judgment, so far as we have any knowledge of what hell is, of any other place on earth. I recollect when I was there, I used to fear and tremble, lest I should be sent on to the eleventh; and it was a common thing for attendants to scare patients, by telling them they would report them to the doctorand have them sent on to the eleventh hall.
This is a low small hall, on the ground floor, in the west end of the wing, made of brick, and, I think, but one story high. Here men are bound in fetters and laid in irons! Many of them are so crazy they are obliged to be kept bound, some in cribs, some hand-cuffed, some tied down in seats, some with muffs, and many of them in strait jackets. I am not censuring anybody for this, unless it be the patients themselves, who have brought themselves to this state by imprudence and debauchery. As to the treatment of these, I have no knowledge, only by hearsay. I have often heard many hard stories concerning their treatment, but there can be no doubt, that means that would seem to be rash has to be sometimes used, to bring to bearings some of these raving maniacs.
Their food, I understand, is as good as in any other department in the institution, but the manner of eating it is different. They are not allowed knives and forks, buteat with spoons; their food being prepared and put on their plates by the attendants. As these patients improve, they are changed to other halls more appropriate to their state, until some of them finally get to the first hall. Not that all come on to the first hall who get well and are discharged from the asylum, yet many come on the first hall from other floors, and many are discharged from the first hall and go home, making constant changes on that floor. I visited the asylum in April last, and found eight persons on the first floor, who were there three years ago, when I left; some of these seem to be fixtures. I could give the names of these, but perhaps they would regard it a freedom which I had no right to take; so I will forbear. There is a kind of mystery attached to the history of some of these men. One of them, a well, hearty man of about forty, who has been there about six years, and he told me he had not taken a dose of medicine since he entered the institution; and no man would think of charging him with insanity; and I haveoften said, and say now, that a man must be made of stern stuff that can remain shut up there for six years, in the prime of life, amidst the howlings and babblings of five hundred maniacs, and not become insane!
There are a number of others who have been there from ten to fifteen years, who show but slight marks of insanity; if any, perfectly harmless. There are many out in the world doing business quite as crazy as they. These, I know, are all groaning to get free, but their friends prefer to keep them there, and as property doubtless has much to do with the matter, they will be likely to die in the institution. Were they county patients, they would long before now have been set at liberty.
There is one case in the asylum that I will venture to name, because I am quite sure he would prefer to have me do so. This case is Frank Jones. He has been there a number of years. He is troubled with epileptic fits; these fits have somewhat impaired his mind. He is as harmless as a child; is capable of doing considerablebusiness of a certain kind. He has his liberty to go about where he pleases; he does a great many chores for the doctor; goes into the city daily, to the post-office and stores; dresses very neatly, is perfectly honest and truthful, and can be trusted in any matter. He occupies the first hall; is a private patient, and is the son of Mrs. Jones, the owner of the Clarendon House at Saratoga Springs—one of the best houses in that place.
I have often had talk with Frank on the subject of his being in the asylum; he seems to feel bad at times that his mother chooses to keep him in the asylum. I had the opportunity of watching him for two years. I have seen him have his fits; he is very little trouble to any one when he has them; he generally so manages as to have them in his room on his bed.
It is true that this is not my business, but were he my son, and knowing what I know of asylum life, I should remove him to some private family, where he could enjoy the comfort of social life, if I did notwant the trouble of looking after him myself; it could not cost any more than to keep him in the asylum.
There is one more man in the institution of which I will say a word in this connection. His room is on the old fourth hall, now called the second; this is Esq. Bebee. He was in the old asylum at Hudson, I am told, before the one at Utica was established; and on the opening of the one in Utica, in 1842, he was removed there, and I think has been there ever since. He was a lawyer of superior talents. I understood he fell from a horse and fractured his skull, that a portion of his brains ran out, and they were preserved.
He is a very eccentric man, and has a very lofty bearing. I have heard him speak a number of times, and have heard him make some of the most able and thrilling speeches I have ever heard from any man. He keeps his room the most of the time; has his liberty; goes where he pleases, but will doubtless die in the institution. He frequently shows marks of insanity, not byany low or foolish expression, but by some sudden outburst of eloquence, or some ludicrous and eccentric act.
He is always very tenacious about having any one come into his room. I once saw a poor fellow who hardly knew what he was doing, step into Bebee's room just as he was coming out. Bebee met him at the door, and with a lofty swagger, exclaimed, with a good deal of energy, “Scoundrel, many a man has been shot for a less offence than that.” The poor fellow sneaked off without saying a word. One day he went to the city, I was told, and while out lost his brains, which he had always carried carefully done up in his pocket. On his return he said, “I have lost my brains out of my pocket—the people now won't believe that I have any brains, as I can no longer show them.”
I recollect that during the time I was on that hall, Bebee went out on a visit to see his friends, and was gone some three weeks. It has always been a mystery to me why he should stay there. There is no doubt buthe would have been discharged long ago, had he been a county patient.
I will venture to name another particular case with which I deeply sympathize, trusting that he will not be offended that I have made mention of his name. This is Alexander Hamilton Malcrum, a grandson of old Gen. Schuyler, and nephew of the celebrated Alexander Hamilton. He has been in the asylum quite a number of years—is a man of good education, having been educated at Hamilton College, and is not insane. It is true he is a little eccentric, and so are many other men out of the asylum. He is groaning to be set free—is capable of doing business—is middle aged. I regard it a great cruelty that he is kept there so long. I have had long and frequent talks with him on the subject. He has property. I think his brother at Oswego would interest himself to get him away could he know the real facts as to asylum life.
The holidays of 1863 came, and I saw that the attendants, and many of the patients of the first floor, were busily engaged in dressing up the hall, the billiard room and the chapel, with evergreens. The chapel is in the fourth story of the center building, and is reached by three long flights of stairs from the lower floors, rendering it very hard for old and infirm people to reach it. At times I found it very difficult, on account of lameness, to ascend these stairs.
Above the chapel, in the fifth story, is a theater; this was fitted up the first year I was in the institution. This I suppose was done for the amusement of the patients, and during my stay there quite a number of scenes were acted, on the merits of which I am not able to give any opinion, as I am not acquainted with theatrical performances,having never attended one before I went to an insane asylum. I made up my mind, however, from what I saw, that they were very appropriate to a lunatic asylum, and that it is quite likely that in the first instance they were got up for the sole purpose of cheering and amusing disordered minds, and that by some unaccountable means they made their escape from the lunatic asylum, and have ever since been running at large through the world.
I think it would be one of the most humane and charitable acts that our country could perform, to pass an act to place all the theaters back into insane asylums, where they appropriately belong.
The first performance of the kind I ever saw, I think, was in January of 1864. The supervisor, Mr. Butler, said to me I must prepare myself to go down to Mechanics' Hall, in the city, as some performances were to be acted there that afternoon and evening. I begged to be excused, but there was no use in talking; so I got ready. I recollect that about a score of us poorlunatics, were marched off to the city. I shall never forget how I felt when I reached there. It seemed to me that all eyes were turned upon us, as they knew we came from the asylum; perhaps I was a little too sensitive on this point. I looked on, or pretended to look on, but I did it mostly with my eyes shut. I took no interest in the whole matter. I only went to obey orders; but I was a good deal like the horse who would not drink after he was led to the water. If there is any sanitive power in knowing we must obey, then I suppose I was benefited; so I walked down the hill, and walked up again. So we were a privileged people; we could go to the theatre, dance, play at billiards, attend church, drink whiskey or porter, and all sanctioned by law.
On this hall there is something of a library, containing, perhaps, five or six hundred volumes, besides papers, both daily and weekly, that are brought on to the hall; so that all who desire reading can have it. Patients from other halls frequentlycome down and get books, read and return them.
As to religious service, it is regular once a week, every Sabbath evening, so that all who desire to attend church can have the privilege in the chapel. Besides this, there are quite a number, such as the doctor pleases to select, who have the privilege of going into the city to church, accompanied by an attendant, who goes to see that they keep orderly and return home at the close of service.
I observed that people of all creeds were in the institution—Episcopalians, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, Roman Catholics, Quakers, Unitarians, Universalists and Swedenburghers, so that no one denomination can boast that their members are never insane. I judge, however, that there are more Roman Catholics, compared with their numbers, than any others in the asylum.
Another inquiry arose in my mind while in the asylum, viz.: What class of the inhabitants form the majority in that institution?This is rather a hard question; yet, perhaps, we can arrive at something near the truth on the subject. In doing this I will divide society into four classes, as follows: first, professional men and men of study; secondly, business men, who have much care on their minds; thirdly, the common laboring class, which compose the great majority of mankind; fourthly, that floating unsettled class of men, who live as they can catch it, with no settled business, and indulge in drinking and in other loose habits of life.
Some of each and all of these classes are found in the asylum—doctors, lawyers and ministers of the gospel, with students from colleges, are often found in the asylum; yet their number appears small compared to the other classes, but it must be remembered that this is by far the smallest of the four classes of community. I judge that this class is as about one to fifty of the second and fourth class, and as about one to two hundred of the third or laboring class, so that if ten professional men arefound in the asylum, with three hundred of the other classes, it would show a large proportion of professional men in the asylum. But I do not think that this class will average more than six to three hundred of the other classes; this is giving a very large proportion of professional men to the asylum compared to other classes. I think, perhaps, I have the numbers too high. All I can say of this class then is, that education and study is not a safe-guard to insanity, but sometimes may produce it; yet it is thought very strange by some, that a man of mind, study and education, should ever become insane.
There are some men who need never fear of becoming insane—their minds are not sufficiently active—they will never rack their minds with study—in a word, they have not brains enough to become insane. As to the second class, they are quite liable to overtax the mind with the burthen of their business. I judge this from their numbers found in the asylum. I cannot say, however, that I have seen as many of thisclass in the asylum, according to their numbers, as I have of the first class.
Of the third, or laboring class of community, there are a great number in the asylum. Many of these suffer in various ways, and from various causes. Some, by overwork, undermine their constitutions; some, by exposure to all weathers, become prostrated, and their nerves unstrung. And many in this class, as well as in others, have greatly injured their nervous system by the excessive use of coffee, tea and tobacco. It is a remarkable fact that but few men are found in the asylum who are not users of tobacco; and the universal cry of the patients through all the asylum for tobacco, is proof of this fact. I think there are five to one of this class in the asylum compared to the other classes; yet, perhaps, they number ten to one of all the other classes.
The fourth class is that reckless and unsettled portion of community that never look beyond present gratification, whatever it may cost. Rum, tobacco and idleness,constitute their chief study; habits unfixed; system in living never enters their thoughts; and though this is not the larger class of community, I doubt not but two to one of this class are found in the asylum to any other class of society.
It is a given fact that a great number in the asylum were brought there by their dissipation. It is not strange that many of all the classes mentioned should be found in the asylum, but to see the imbecile and driveling idiot thrown into a lunatic asylum, carriesprima facieevidence with it, that the object in placing them there was not to prevent their doing injury to themselves or others, nor for their recovery from their unfortunate state, for many of these were born so. If the parents or guardians of these unfortunate cases are not able to support and take care of them, let these turn them over to the county where they belong, for it would be much better for such to be in the county house, than to be shut up in a lunatic asylum.
There is a striking fact that will appearto any observer who will take the trouble to read the printed statistics of the number of patients in the asylum at Utica, and the counties to which they belong. He will find that some of the remote counties send one, some two, and some none, while those near by will send scores. I presume that the large cities of the State, such as New York, Brooklyn, Albany, Troy, Buffalo and Rochester, that all these cities do not send as many patients to the asylum as is sent by the little city of Utica, which does not contain over 25,000 inhabitants! This may seem a startling assertion, but I have known at one time in the asylum sixty patients from the city of Utica.
Can it be proved that the above named cities ever had sixty patients in that asylum at any one time? It would take a hundred such asylums to take all that the State of New York would furnish if each county should send as many as the city of Utica, according to their number of inhabitants.
Perhaps it will be said that this fact isall in favor of the institution; that Utica knows better the worth of the institution than places more remote, and this is the reason why so many more are furnished from Utica. I am fully satisfied that the citizens of Utica know no more about the private workings of that institution than the inhabitants of Clinton and Essex counties; and living near by renders them more liable to be deceived, and in the following manner: It is known by all the inhabitants of that region of country round about Utica, that the asylum is open every day at certain hours, for the reception of visitors. It is also understood by the managers and attendants at the asylum, that visitors are expected every day, more or less; so that all things are put in order before visitors come; every unsightly thing is put out of the way; all is still and clean as a ladies' parlor on the first halls, on both sides of the house; the time comes; the usher is at the door; the visitors are led through the first halls, look at the pictures and leave. What do they know by this runningvisit about the asylum? It is true, they have seen the neatness and order of the two lower halls—the lovely flower garden—the beautiful lawn spread out from the out-stretched and towering walls of the asylum, to the archway that leads to the street below; the view is lovely.
My daughter visited me in my prison-house after I had been there ten months, and she is a lover of the beautiful—she exclaimed, after she had feasted her eyes on all around in full bloom in the month of July, “O pa, it is a paradise; I should like to live here.” Tears filled my eyes, though I had not shed one tear for a year; my grief had been too deep for tears. “Poor child,” thought I, “I hope you will never be undeceived by being placed here as a patient.”
No, it is not because the people of Utica know better about the institution than others that they send so many there. It is true they know the managers of the institution, the steward, and Dr. Gray. But Dr. Gray himself does not know one-halfthat is done in that place of deception. If I thought he did, and tolerated it, I should have far less respect for him than I now have.
I know a gentlemen living not far from Utica, of prominence and standing in community—a man of wealth and large business—has held the highest office in his town for years, and had often visited the asylum, and walked through its halls, and had boasted of the value and utility of such an institution, and was proud that he had taken an interest in the erection of so magnificent a pile—who does not feel now as he then felt—and why? Why? for the very plain reason, that since that time he has been initiated into the secrets of the institution. This man is no other than D. J. Millard, Esq., of Oneida County.
He was, like myself, unfortunately thrown into that institution as a patient. I saw him the day he entered it. I saw he was a man of more than ordinary ability; he was one of those business men I have described in this chapter; I formed his acquaintancein the asylum; he was not insane, his health became poor; his business lay heavily upon his mind, and he partially sunk down under the burthen. Difficulties magnified in his mind beyond what were the real facts. But an insane asylum was not the place to cure him; it was the very worst place, in my judgment, that could have been chosen for the relief of his mind.
Encouragement and cheerful greetings was what he needed, instead of imprisonment and seclusion from his business and his family. But he lived in spite of all these opposing influences, and came out of his troubles a wiser, and no doubt, a better man, for his sufferings. Would he recommend a friend to place one of his family in that institution?
He is not a man who is carried away by low and petty prejudices—he sees things in a broad and philosophical light; he believes that such an institution could be, and should be, a blessing to the State and Nation, and that it would be, were it conducted as it should be; but as it is, and as ithas been managed for a few years past, he regards it a curse to the land, and unless reformed, will one day fall by its own weight.
The light is already breaking in through its dark and massive walls, and when men can be placed over it who can feel for suffering humanity, instead of glorying in a little power over helpless invalids, and seeking how they can make the most profits at the expense of the sufferings of their fellow beings, then, and not till then, will the darkness and gloom, which has so long hung over that prison house of death, roll off, causing the tongue of the dumb to sing, and many a bleeding heart to rejoice.
As to the nationality of the inmates of that institution, it may almost be said, that they are from all nations, tongues and languages. There is the American of the Anglo-Saxon race, the Welshman, the Scotchman, the Irishman, the German, the Swede, the Frenchman, the North American Indian, the African and the Jew. I have thought it partook very largely of the Irish race—I think so still; so that that institutionmay be said to be the world in miniature.
There are the rich and the poor—the black and the white—the wise and the ignorant—the learned and the unlearned—the Devil and the Saint—the Christian and the infidel—the drunkard and the man of temperance—the libertine and the man of chastity—the thief and murderer—the man of honesty and kindness—the child and the man of gray hairs.
The winter of 1863 and 1864 had nearly worn away, and I heard nothing from any of my friends, nor had I seen but one person that I ever knew before I entered the asylum. What winter clothing I had left were worn nearly out; my vest was very ragged; my pants were quite thin; as yet I made out very well for coats, such as they were. I forgot to say, that besides the broadcloth coat that I had taken from me, I had also a farmer's satin coat taken about the same time, and another given in its stead. This I regarded as an insult, for the one given me was old, rusty, cut in an other form, and quite too small, my arms extending some distance beyond the ends of the sleeves. I could not help laughing when I put it on. I never wore it three days while there, I keep it yet as a curiosity.
On thinking over all these matters, and looking at my ludicrous plight, I felt that Heaven and earth had turned against me. I then thought that could I have had a friend to whom I could have spoken freely, to whom I could have poured out the feelings of my heart, I could have got relief, but I had no such friend. What I had already said about my loss of clothing had only caused a sharp rebuke; no one would hear my story and pretend to believe it; so I was dumb.
I had been ordered into the dining room to assist in doing up the work after meals. This was awkward business for me at first. I had never been in the habit of washing dishes, but I commenced my apprenticeship feeling quite indifferent whether I succeeded in learning the trade or not.
After preparing myself for the work, by laying off my coat, and putting on an apron, as the custom was, I could not help comparing my present condition with my former one, ten months before. To say that I felt humbled and even crushed, areno words to describe my feelings at that time.
Soon after this, when in this condition, dressed in my apron, with sleeves rolled up and dish-cloth in hand, I was called to step into the side hall; I did so, and who did I meet but an old friend and parishoner, now living in Albany—his name was Hoxsie. He was very neatly dressed, but I observed he looked sad as he looked upon me, in my shirt sleeves, apron on, pants ragged, and my vest worn all out. I was not glad to see him while in this plight, for he had never seen me before only in the capacity of a Pastor, decently dressed. I know I appeared very much embarrassed and eccentric when we met. I did not know what to say or do. Many things rushed upon my mind which I wanted to say to him, which I could not, for I knew we were watched by an attendant, and every word would be marked and reported. I knew he did not understand all this; and besides this, I knew he had a right to expect that what I did say would discover traits ofinsanity, for all are supposed to be insane who are in the asylum.
I recollect the first thing I said to him was to ask him about my family, whether they were well, and where they were? He could give no information about them. I told him this was a horrible place; that he could know nothing about it by such a visit. I asked him what the people were going to do with me. I saw he looked embarrassed; he did not take my meaning. I meant he should take the hint, that I wanted my friends to interest themselves in getting me away. I pointed him to my pants, and asked him if I could not have a new pair. I doubt whether I said anything about the loss of my clothes, as we were watched. He made me an indifferent reply when I spoke to him about the pants. I saw I should get no help from that direction.
He seemed to be in a hurry, so he rose and left. He is a fine and good man, and if he ever sees this, he will know more about my feelings at that time than he then knew.
It was not long after this before the doctorordered the supervisor to take me to the city, and get me a suit of clothes. We went down, but I felt a great reluctance in going; not that I did not need the clothes, but I felt somehow that I did not want any new clothes got me while there. I wanted to get away, and I feared if I got a new suit that I should stay until they were worn out, and my fears were realized.
It was left with me to choose such a suit as I pleased. I selected a strong, common suit instead of a fine one; in this I was right, as I stayed there until it was about worn out. I now appeared to a little better advantage on the hall. The patients are expected to dress a little better on this hall than they are required to do on the back halls.
April now came, and quite a number of patients, who had been on the hall through the winter, now left for home. I had made the acquaintance of these, and to some of them was warmly attached; when they left my spirits sunk down for a season. I was left behind, and some of those who left hadcome into the asylum subsequently to my entering it. There was one Dr. Brown, from New York city, who left; he was a Quaker; a fine fellow, but subject to depression, having had some trouble, perhaps, of a domestic character. I was surprised a year after to see him through the window in the yard with raving maniacs. He saw me and hailed me. He had been in the asylum a number of weeks at this time; he soon came on to the first hall, stayed a few weeks, and left for home for the second time, long before I left.
One fact was quite observable in relation to patients, to illustrate: A man or woman comes into the institution a raving maniac, hand-cuffed, and hair dishevelled, foaming at the mouth and uttering hideous yells; they are ordered on the old eleventh, for instance. Nothing more is heard from them perhaps for three or six months, when all at once, they are introduced by the doctor, or the supervisor, to the patients on the first floor; they are sober and in their rightmind; they stay a few weeks longer and return home.
But these, I find, are liable to a relapse, and often return the second, and third, and even the fourth time. These are excitable temperaments, and when their nerves become unstrung, there is no holding them, so they are brought to the asylum. They only want rest, and to be kept clear from excitement; any other place would be as good as the asylum if they could be controlled. Another comes into the asylum gloomy and sober, with his head down; is still and harmless; talks to none; shows no marks of insanity; except, perhaps, you hear him groan or sigh occasionally; he sets down alone. He stops perhaps on the first hall when he first comes to the institution; stays there three months, and perhaps a year; when he is found to be no better, but worse, he is finally placed on some of the back halls; gets no better, is changed from one hall to another, till finally is pronounced demented; he lingers on, and eitherbecome a fixture in the asylum or dies there! Such is asylum life.
I know one man, a dentist, who has been in the asylum ten times at least. There is a young man by the name of Bouck, from Schoharie, who has often been in the asylum. He comes under a high pressure of excitement; stays a few months and leaves. But while there, is regarded the lion of the establishment; fears nothing; is a giant in strength; will dash out windows with iron grates as though they were made of cobwebs; will climb on the side of the wall where no sane man would dare to venture. For such a case, perhaps the asylum is of some value.
As the spring of 1864 had now opened, I looked out with surprise that I had lived through the winter. I confess that when winter set in, I did not expect to see the leaves put forth again. Not that I was sick, but I did not believe that I could bear up under the pressure that lay upon my mind. There was some cause for this. A little before I left the fourth hall in December,I had a weak turn; I would attempt to rise in the morning after a sleepless night, and would fall back faint and weak upon my bed. Had I been anywhere but in a lunatic asylum, I should have lain down quietly until my strength had rallied, but I dared not do it, (I confess I feared the attendants' ire), so I would rally all my energies and get up, dress me and make my bed the best I could, concealing my weakness from the attendants, for I knew to make it known would not help me.
One morning when I was making my bed, the attendant stepped into my room. I then took occasion to tell him my feelings, and said that I did not know but I should be unable to rise in the morning with the rest, and if it should happen I wished him to treat me as favorably as he could. He replied that all the treatment I should get in that case, would be that he would wait for me just ten minutes after the signal was given for getting up. I replied that I should do the very best I could, and then must suffer the consequences.But by the blessing of God, I was ever after that able to get up, dress and make my bed, while I remained in the institution.
The impression was indelibly fixed on my mind, that for me to become helpless in that institution, would be the same to me as death. I was, soon after this, removed to the first hall. As the spring opened I went out with the men to work on the lawn. The first work I did out door was to rake the old dead grass off the lawn into heaps. It was then drawn off with hand-carts. I had had a broken arm the year before, which crippled my right hand so that I was not able to do much; besides this, I had not been used to work since I was a young man, and to be ordered about by an ignorant attendant boy, did not go down very smoothly; however, I tried to make the best of it. I suppose the main reason why I did not leave the institution without liberty was, that I knew the authorities had power to take me back without a neworder, and hold me until legally discharged or released by the doctor.
Summer came, and I went into the field with other patients to work; the weather was hot. I recollect of looking about me and seeing a motley group of lunatics, some cursing, some yelling, while others were keeping up a constant ribaldry of blackguarding and obscene language.
I though of home and of friends; I compared my present state with the past; I could hardly believe this was a reality. I thought I would have given a world, if I had it, to have impressed on the minds of my friends at home, and the doctors there, my thoughts and feelings.
I thought of the convicts of a State prison that I had seen in the fields at work, guarded by attendants, as we were, some with chain and ball attached to their ankles. The only real difference I could see between us was, that they were not insane, and they were there for a definite period of time, and could look forward to that point with a certainty of being liberated, if they liveduntil that time; we were there to stay until doomsday, for ought we knew.
I recollect coming in from the field one day at noon. I was called to the supervisor's room; he took down a bottle and poured out a table spoonful of some kind of liquid, as white as water, and ordered me to drink it. I had learned before this, to ask no questions when anything was given me to drink. I drank it down; he repeated the dose, and I took it. He saw that I writhed under it. He said I must come to his room three times a day before eating, and take two table-spoonfuls of the contents of this bottle, until it was all taken up.
It was a large case bottle, holding, perhaps, a little more than a quart. I judged it to be the decoction of quassia wood; at all events, I had never taken anything before that compared with it for bitterness. Said nothing, but a strange feeling came over me. I was taking other medicine, as usual, besides this. I felt for the moment that they, seeing that I was doing well andgaining my flesh, took this course to kill me, by over-dosing me with medicine. It seemed to me that I could never live to take all that with my other doses, but I did take it and live.
But I did not believe then, neither do I now, that the doctors thought I needed this in addition to the beer and the other medicine I was taking three times a day. I have always believed it was given me to see if I would not resist. I had never once resisted taking anything offered, and never meant to, live or die, for I knew it would be forced down me if I did; I had frequently seen the operation performed on others, and I did not covet the luxury.
Perhaps this conclusion of mine will be regarded by many as unjust and unreasonable, who are unacquainted with matters in that institution, and of course will be laughed at by those who ordered the medicine. I would laugh at it too if I were they; it is the best way for them to dispose of the matter. Yet my opinion will be the same; I have my reasons for this. If I hadbeen running down in health and appetite, confined to my room or to my bed, such a course might have seemed justifiable, but I was well, eating very heartily, working in the field every day with others.
July came, and I had heard nothing from my friends, and nothing had been said to me about writing to them. I had once asked the privilege of writing to the man that took me there, but had been denied.
I was sitting in the reading room one Sabbath afternoon in July; my anguish of mind was very intense, as I was considering my condition—that my present life was worse than a blank, shut out as I was from all knowledge of the outer world, and yet in a free country. I was not aware that I had forfeited my liberty by any crime, yet I was confined by bolts and bars, and if I was permitted to go outside, was guarded and watched by a set of ignorant, unprincipled hirelings. Such were my meditations, when all of a sudden the newsboyannounced to me that my daughter had come and wanted to see me.
I was paralyzed—I could hardly believe it—I thought it must be some one else, for I knew she lived a thousand miles off. I rose without speaking and left the hall and went to the sitting room in the center, and lo it was my daughter. I shall never forget that meeting.