Never a month passes but some convict is brought up to the hospital to
be kept under observation to determine whether he is insane or faking
insanity.
The warden and the keepers always suspect prisoners of faking sickness
or feigning insanity. As a rule the convicts do not like to stay very
long in the hospital, as they are not allowed to smoke, and the time is
very slow and tedious without any kind of work.
A small, stocky, bearded, wild-looking Italian was brought over from the
Tombs before his trial. He would not touch food, and the Tombs keepers
were afraid that he might die on their hands.
It took six men and one doctor, sitting on his arms, legs and stomach,
to feed him a glass of milk by a rubber tube through his nostrils. It
was a nauseating performance, and luckily it was not repeated.
We have to dress and undress him every morning and night. About six
o'clock every morning he starts walking up and down from the bathroom to
the bay window, a distance of about twenty-five paces; and he continues
it all day long, without rest or pause, until nine o'clock at night.
Every fifteen minutes or so he calls out in a sing-song, southern
dialect: "Oh! Giorgio Washington! Warden of this great prison! My dear
wife! My beautiful little children!" And then he looks up at the clock
and adds: "And the Holy Ghost of the clock!"
After he has been put to bed he covers his head with the bed sheets, but
every hour he sticks his head out and like a cuckoo bird in a Swiss
clock he repeats his monotonous story.
Everybody is kept awake, the patients as well as the keepers. The first
night an old keeper who was on watch tried to hush him up, but without
success; so he stood at the head of the bed watching for the moment when
the man would uncover his head again and sing out.
We waited breathlessly, looking forward to the expected minute. Suddenly
the head appeared and the old keeper swiftly hit it a stinging whack
with a wet towel, which cut the "Giorgio Washington" in two; the head
went right back under the bed sheets for the rest of the night.
After two weeks the man was finally sent back to the Tombs. Although he
had eaten only once in that time, it took half a dozen sturdy men to
dress him up and turn him over to the sheriff.
Once in a moment of lucidity he asked me to get him some food, for which
he was willing to pay. Then he begged me to write to his wife, and when
the letter was written and addressed, he became mad again and tore it to
little bits, and resumed his peripatetic, insane round.
A young Pole, about twenty-five years old, is brought over from the
workhouse. His face is blue and his lips are bleeding from blows. We
have to dress and undress him also like a child. Whenever food is
brought, and he is told to eat, he weeps; whenever anybody speaks to him
he weeps; and he whines and carries on like a frightened baby in a
strange place. He has the body of a powerful longshoreman and the
mentality of a new born baby.
There is a convict here afflicted with suicidal mania. Those in the
hospital who are not insane have been told to watch him and prevent him
from harming himself. He is the same man who tried to drown himself by
jumping into the river. We have to keep the medicine closet locked and
the bread knife hidden.
One night he waited until everybody was asleep, then, sneaking into the
bathroom, he took a bottle of medicine which had been left standing on
top of the ice box, and gulped a great quantity before the bottle was
torn from his lips. He was quite sick for two days. Luckily the bottle
only contained "Cascara Sagrada," a powerful cathartic.
Another time he tried even to push the razor into his throat while a
convict barber was shaving him. And yet, every time the barred door is
locked or unlocked, he seems to be in mortal fear that somebody is
coming to shoot him.
The other evening he sat near me while I was reading and suddenly he
leaned over and, with quivering nostrils and in a hoarse terrified
whisper, asked me, in German, if I was his friend.
"Certainly," I answered. "What can I do for you?"
"They are going to shoot me to-night!" he said. "Get me the bread knife
so that I can cut my throat, or some poison to kill myself."
I tried to pacify him, but he was in a state of abject terror. So,
thinking it best to do so, I offered him what he imagined to be poison.
He drank it quickly and with great relish, waiting impatiently, with
gleaming eyes and a sickly, malicious grin, for the death that was to
come. But death did not come; the medicine was only a strong dose of
salts. This second cathartic potion cured him effectively of his
suicidal mania, for thus he came finally to the conclusion that all the
alleged poisons in the hospital were only snares and delusions.
After a few months two men with papers came over from the asylum of
Matteawan and plied him with questions, his answers to which one of the
men wrote down. The poor German cobbler was scared stiff, answering the
queries as if his life depended on his replies.
Among other things, he was asked why he had jumped into the river.
"To learn shwimming," was his quick retort.
While we were getting him ready to be taken to the insane asylum he was
blubbering and sputtering, frightened and inarticulate; and the tears
streamed down his round, fat, childish face.