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, are no 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 of insanity, 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 doctor ordered 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 had come 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 right mind; 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 either become 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 new order, 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 lived until 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 and gaining 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 had been 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 newsboy announced 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.
When she left us more than a year before, for the far west, I was in
good health, and all was prosperity with us, and I was a _man_ in the
world like other men, and a father that she was not ashamed to own. Now
we meet in a lunatic asylum.
I shall never forget my first words to her, even before I had enquired
after the family, putting my face to hers, and pressing her to my
bosom, I said, in a whisper, for we were watched—“for Gods sake never
send one of the family to this place what ever the consequences may
be.” I doubted whether she took in my full meaning at first, from the
reply she made, but afterwards I explained to her what I meant.
I have never doubted, but this visit was the means of prolonging my
life, and of my final release from that prison. She remained two or
three days in the city and visited me daily while she stayed.
I was permitted to walk out with her in the garden and through the
grounds, I learned from her that the rest of the family were all in
good health. This was a great relief to me. I told her many things, and
explained to her the workings of the institution, as far as I thought
it advisible.
I pledged her to keep me advised of all matters at home, and if
possible to get me out of this place. I knew, however, that if she did
write me, that all would depend upon the will of the doctor whether I
ever received her letters. It is not very pleasant to know that a third
person has the power to intercept all letters received from, or sent to
friends.
She talked with Dr. Gray, and he made her believe it was best for me to
remain in the asylum. I was permitted to visit with her in the city,
and when she was about to leave, I applied to Dr. Gray to let me leave
the institution, and go home with her. He was very decided,—and said,
“as a state officer, he could not let me go.” My heart sunk down.
The time came for her departure; I went to the city with her; she had
her little boy, her only child with her, of nine or ten years old.
When the moment came for separation, she and my only grandchild, to go
to her mother, and I to go back to the asylum, my heart nearly died
within me. I bade her and the child good by, and gave them my blessing.
But, O God! What a moment was that to me, as I gazed after my two only
children as long as I could catch a glimpse of them! and then said to
myself, “shall I ever see them again?” None but a father can know how
I felt at that moment. Ah, none but a father in like circumstances
can know how I felt! An ordinary parting of parents and children is
touching; but one of this kind is beyond description.
If a man is insane, no such thing moves him; he can see his children
go and come unmoved and unaffected, he can see his children die and not
be moved, all things are alike to him.
I returned to the asylum with a heavy heart, yet comforted that I had
seen my only beloved children, and thanked God for the opportunity. By
the coming of my daughter, I formed an acquaintance with some friends
in Utica, who called occasionally at the asylum to see me.
I have passed over a circumstance which I will notice in this place.
While on the fourth hall, in about the month of November, I observed
a thick, stout built man brought in from one of the back halls, and
introduced to the attendant. He had come from the eleventh hall; he was
a bold and naturally a good feeling man, and, I perceived, a man of
strong impulses; and of some cultivation, he attracted my attention,
and I perceived he was highly gratified with his change. On further
acquaintance I found he was a preacher from the New York Conference;
his name I shall withhold.
He had been thrown into the asylum by his friends, I learned, in
consequence of the high state of excitement his mind got into by
over-working and much care. He was first put on one of the back halls,
and soon got on to the eleventh. There they have rough work sometimes.
He was under a high excitement when carried there.
Mr. Vallerly, the attendant, a strong Irishman, and not overstocked
with patience, took charge of him. The Reverend gentleman supposed he
understood his own business, and, therefore, was not very prompt in
obeying the strict and iron rules of the attendant, upon which the
Hibernian drew his fist and knocked him to the floor, in the meantime
giving him a terrible black eye, which he brought on to the fourth hall
with him.
This Vallerly had the name of being a perfect gladiator, and this,
I suppose, is the reason why he was placed on the eleventh as an
attendant. I ever after that was afraid of Vallerly. This hall is
greatly dreaded by the patients; is regarded as a whipping post. I
confess I always had fears of being put there. This Reverend gentleman
expressed his high gratification in being removed from the eleventh
hall, saying he felt raised at least fifty per cent.
He was free to talk of his being a minister of the Gospel; he observed
that I said but little about my being a preacher; I told him I did not
care to say much about it while in the asylum, not that I was ashamed
of the Gospel of Christ, but thought it was a disgrace to the ministry
to have one of its members thrown into a lunatic asylum. So deeply did
this matter affect me that the prefix Rev. to my name on some of my
clothing annoyed me very much. Was this one mark of my insanity?
There were two or three things which used to cause me to suspect
sometimes that my mind was not right, that I was a little insane—yet
these things haunted me more or less for the most of the time I was
there. One of these was the fear of being put on to the eleventh, or
some one of the back halls—another was that I should never get away
alive, and that the life of a patient was counted of no value in the
asylum, especially by some of the attendants, and that many were put
out of the way here; that no one out of the institution knew, or ever
would know how they came to their end.
Now I confess that if these things are proof that I was insane, I
shall have to bear the charge, for I could not help coming to these
conclusions from what I had seen and heard. And if these things are
proof that I was insane then, they are proof that I am insane now, for
so far as the two last things noticed are concerned, my mind has not
been changed, viz.: that the life of a patient in that institution is
counted of no value, and that many pass away from that place, that the
manner of their coming to their end will never be known in this world
by the people out of that institution.
This may seem like a most reckless and slanderous charge; but when it
is confirmed by testimony that cannot be reasonably disputed, that
unprincipled attendants, have frequently knocked down feeble and
insane patients, kicked them unmercifully—dragged them by force to
the bath room, when weak and feeble, plunged them into a cold bath,
and scrubbed them with a broom-corn broom, throwing on soft-soap
which would come in contact with raw flesh caused by blistering or
other sores—trying to hold their heads under water to punish them for
struggling against such harsh treatment.
Besides this, choking patients until black in the face in forcing
medicine down them—locking up patients, however sick they may be,
leaving them alone through the long night to shift for themselves the
best way they can. If all these things can be proved to be true—and for
myself I have not a doubt but they can be, will it be urged that the
lives of patients in that institution are valued as they are elsewhere?
If such treatment as this can be proved to be true, is it difficult to
come to the conclusion that many under such treatment sink down and
die? That some patients are treated with great care and tenderness, is
not doubted. The _circumstances of the man_ makes all the difference
in the world. Acts of violence and cruelty have been related to me by
those who were eye witnesses, that would compare well with the most
cruel treatment in Andersonville prison. But these witnesses were
patients, and because they were patients, their testimony will be
disputed. It is true they were patients, but not insane at the time
they told me these things, neither were they ever insane in a way to
rob them of their reasoning powers; I have no reason to doubt their
testimony.
I will here give a few instances as the facts have been related to me,
and the reader must judge whether they are true or false. A young man
had been a patient in the asylum, and was, when I entered it, a young
man of veracity and standing, the son of a clergyman; he lives not far
from Utica. The name of the young man I shall withhold. He visited the
asylum perhaps six months after he was discharged. He was now in good
health, and was doing business.
While there he related to me the following circumstances which took
place while he was in the institution as a patient, on some one of
the upper halls; I do not recollect the number of the hall. He said:
“There was a poor skeleton of a man on the hall as a patient, who did
not weigh more than about seventy pounds; that this patient was ordered
into the bath by the attendant; that he hesitated, and struggled to
prevent going in; that the attendant called him to his aid; that he did
help the attendant to put this poor creature into the bath; that some
force had to be used.”
And as I understood him the water was cold; “they there washed and
scrubbed him as the custom was, that the man went into spasms and
died in four hours.” This young man said, “he was sorry he helped the
attendant.” Will this relation be said to be false?
Another case was: that a poor patient was ordered to do something;
he did not instantly obey; he was thrown down by the attendant;
he struggled and showed resistance, as the most of men would, and
especially one insane; the attendant fell upon the breast of the
patient with his knees and broke in his breast-bone, and he died!
While I was on the fourth hall, there was a man brought there as a
patient, who they called Major Doolittle, a gentlemanly kind of a man;
I became acquainted with him; he told me he was uncle to C. Doolittle,
Esq., of Utica, a celebrated lawyer of that place. I left this man on
the fourth when I went to the first hall. I observed he began to run
down in health about the time I left the hall.
I could never discover that he was insane; I could never conceive why
he should come to that place; I had a hint that property had something
to do with it, as I heard he was rich, but of this I have no certain
knowledge. He continued to run down slowly; he was an old man, and
I observed was quite notional, not more than the most of old people
generally are, however.
He became at length quite helpless, and the attendant had to assist him
into the bath. There was an attendant on that hall at that time by the
name of Smith, from North Carolina, as John Subert had now left. This
Smith was as cruel as an Arab. I was told many things which he did;
among the rest, he would throw Major Doolittle into the bath and scrub
him with soft soap, until he would groan horribly, while Smith would
laugh. Suffice it to say the major died in the asylum. I understood the
cruelty of Smith was the cause of his dismissal soon after. I know he
left the place, but as to the cause I know nothing, only by hearsay.