Your letter of July eleventh arrived yesterday. It was the third I have
received from home, and, indeed, is all I have received from any source
since I came to the Asylum. And the one you received from me is all I have
sent from here. I thank you for writing so often. I shall be happy to
answer all letters from you, if you desire it, as I see you do, by your
last. I like anything to relieve the monotony of my daily routine. * * *
Dr. McFarland told me, after I had been here one week, "I do not think you
will remain but a few days longer." I suspect he found me an unfit
subject, upon a personal acquaintance with me. Still, unfit as I consider
myself, to be numbered amongst the insane, I am so numbered at my
husband's request. And for his sake, I must, until my death, carry about
with me, "This thorn in the flesh--this messenger of Satan to buffet me,"
and probably, to keep me humble, and in my proper place. God grant it may
be a sanctified affliction to me! I do try to bear it, uncomplainingly,
and submissively. But, O! 'tis hard--'tis very hard. O, may you never know
what it is to be numbered with the insane, within the walls of an insane
asylum, not knowing as your friends will ever regard you as a fit
companion or associate for them again, outside its walls.
O, the bitter, bitter cup, I have been called to drink, even to its very
dregs, just because I choose to obey God rather than man! But, as my
Saviour said, "the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink
it?" O, yes, for thy sake, kind Saviour, I rejoice, that I am counted
worthy to suffer the loss of all things, for thy sake. And thou hast made
me worthy, by thine own free and sovereign grace. Yes, dear Jesus, I
believe that I have learned the lesson thou hast thus taught me, that "in
whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."
Yes, content, to sit at a table with twenty-four maniacs, three times a
day, and eat my bread and meat, and drink my milk and water, while I
remember, almost each time, how many vegetables and berries are upon my
own dear table at home, and I not allowed to taste, because my husband
counts me unworthy, or unfit, or unsafe, to be an inmate at his fireside
and table. I eat, and retire, and pray God to keep me from complaining. My
fare does not agree with my health, and so I have begged of our kind
attendants, to furnish me some poor, shriveled wheat, to keep in my room,
to eat raw, to keep my bowels open. This morning, after asking a blessing
at the table, I retired to my own room, to eat my raw, hard wheat alone,
with my pine-apple to soften it, or rather to moisten it going down. Yes,
the berries I toiled so very hard to get for our health and comfort, I
only must be deprived of them at my husband's appointment. The past, O,
the sad past! together with the present, and the unknown future. O, let
oblivion cover the past--let no record of my wrongs be ever made, for
posterity to see, for your sake, my own lawful husband.
O, my dear precious children! how I pity you! My heart aches for you. But
I can do nothing for you. I am your father's victim, and cannot escape
from my prison to help you, even you--my own flesh and blood--my heart's
treasures, my jewels, my honor and rejoicing.
For I do believe you remain true to the mother who loves you so tenderly,
that she would die to save you from the disgrace she has brought upon your
fair names, by being stigmatised as the children of an insane mother, whom
your father said he regarded as unsafe, as an inmate of your own quiet
home, and, therefore, has confined me within these awful enclosures.
O, may you never know what it is to go to sleep within the hearing of such
unearthly sounds, as can be heard here almost at any hour of the night! I
can sleep in the hearing of it, for "so he giveth his beloved sleep." O,
children dear, do not be discouraged at my sad fate, for well doing. But
be assured that, although you may suffer in this world for it, you may be
sure your reward will come in the next. "For, if we suffer with him, we
shall also reign with him."
O, do commit your souls to him in well-doing for my sake, if you dare not
for your own sake, for I do entreat you to let me be with you in heaven,
if your father prevents it on earth.
I may not have much longer to suffer here on earth. Several in our ward
are now sick in bed, and I give them more of my fruit than I eat myself,
hoping that, when my turn comes to be sick, some one may thus serve me.
But if not, I can bear it, perhaps better than they can, to be without any
solace or comfort in sickness here, such as a friend needs. I have nothing
to live for now, but to serve you, as I know of. But you can get along
without me, can't you? Pa will take care of you. Do be kind to him, and
make him as happy as possible. Yes, honor your father, if he has brought
such dishonor upon your name and reputation.
I will devote my energies to these distressed objects around me, instead
of attending to your wants, as a mother should be allowed to do, at least,
so long as she could do so, as well as I could, and did, when I was taken
from you. I know I could not, for lack of physical strength, do as much
for you as I once could, still I was willing, and did do all I could for
you. Indeed, I find I am almost worn out by my sufferings. I am very weak
and feeble. Still, I make no complaints, for I am so much better off than
many others here.
Do bring my poor lifeless body home when my spirit, which troubled your
father so much, has fled to Jesus' arms for protection, and lay me by my
asparagus bed, so you can visit my grave, and weep over my sad fate in
this world. I do not wish to be buried in Shelburne, but let me rise where
I suffered so much for Christ's sake.
O, do not, do not, be weary in well doing, for, did I not hope to meet you
in heaven, it seems as though my heart would break!
I am useful here, I hope. Some of our patients say, it is a paradise here
now, compared with what it was before I came. The authorities assure me,
that I am doing a great work here, for the institution.
When I had the prospect of returning home in a few days, as I told you, I
begged with tears not to send me, as my husband would have the same reason
for sending me back as he had for bringing me here. For the will of God is
still my law and guide, so I cannot do wrong, and until I become insane, I
can take no other guide for my conduct. Here I can exercise my rights of
conscience, without offending any one.
Yes, I am getting friends, from high and low, rich and poor. I am loved,
and respected here by all that know me. I am their confident, their
counsellor, their bosom friend. O, how I love this new circle of friends!
There are several patients here, who are no more insane than I am; but are
put here, like me, to get rid of them. But here we can work for God, and
here die for him.
Love to all my children, and yourself also. I thank you for the fruit, and
mirror. It came safe. I had bought one before.
I am at rest--and my mind enjoys that peace the world cannot give or take
away. When I am gone to rest, rejoice for me. Weep not for me. I am, and
must be forever happy in God's love.
The questions are often asked me, "Why were you sent here? you are not
insane. Did you injure any one? Did you give up, and neglect your duties?
Did you tear your clothes, and destroy your things? What did you do that
made your friends treat such a good woman so?" Let silence be my only
reply, for your sake, my husband. Now, my husband, do repent, and secure
forgiveness from God, and me, before it is too late. Indeed, I pity you;
my soul weeps on your account. But God is merciful, and his mercies are
great above the heavens. Therefore, do not despair; by speedy repentance
secure gospel peace to your tempest-tossed soul. So prays your loving
wife,