I think it was in the spring of 1865 that I saw a man walking up the
hall, who I recognized as an old friend from Fort Plain; we had been
warm friends for a number of years; I had once been stationed there,
as their pastor. Anticipating what he might think of my state of mind,
I said to him the very first word, that I wanted him to look upon me
as the same man that I used to be, and not to talk to me as though he
thought I were insane.
The meeting was affecting to both of us. He took dinner with me. He had
a talk with Dr. Gray about the propriety of my leaving the institution
soon. I accompanied him to the depot when he left, and I am sure he was
satisfied that I was not insane. Since I left the institution I have
visited him twice, and once spent with him an agreeable Sabbath, in
preaching in the same house that I did in 1850 and 1851.
August came, and the 23d of August came. Two years had now rolled round
since I entered the asylum. I had said nothing about leaving since
my daughter left, which was now more than a year before. My general
impression had been, ever since I entered the asylum, that I should
never leave it alive; but, for a month or two before the two years had
elapsed, hope had begun to spring up in my mind; and when the two years
were ended I hoped the doctor would tell me I could leave. But no such
welcome message came, till at length, about the 23d of August, I said
to the doctor that two years had now passed since I came there, and if
I were ever to leave, I though the time had fully come. He replied very
promptly, that “the two years had nothing to do with it; that when I
got well I should go.” “Get well!” I replied, “if I am to wait for that
I do not know when it will be, for I did not know that I was sick.” I
then said: “Doctor, do you think I shall ever get away from here?” He
answered, “Yes; there are some things we do know, and we know you will
go away.” I said, “Yes, I know, too, that I shall get away, either dead
or alive; but how long, doctor, do you think it will be before I can
go?” He answered, “Two or three months, if you get well, and your folks
come after you.” I said no more, but I stuck a pin down there. “Two or
three months,” I repeated to myself; it seemed short to think of.
I now felt that I had some grounds to hope; the time was limited to
two or three months. Time now began to hang more lightly upon me.
Mr. Harvey visited me during this fall, this is the man who was my
attendant, when I went to the asylum. He observed that I was more like
myself, that I appeared more life-like. And why should I not appear
more like living? the medicine was taken off, the time was limited to
three months, that I was to have my liberty once more and go where I
pleased.
There was a man by the name of Fenton, a patient who used to accompany
me in my rambles this fall, through the forests, fields and city. He
was one of those eccentric, poetic, wiry, excitable creatures that
would astonish you with his outbursts of wit and humor, making a very
agreeable companion to help while away the gloomy hours spent in an
asylum.
I left him in the menagerie, as he used to call the asylum, when I
left; but I learnt that he soon after got away, and has written me two
or three times since, sending me some of his poetic productions, which
will compare well with our best American poetry.
As the time drew nigh for me to leave, the steward took me down to the
city and told me to select just such a suit of clothes as I chose. I,
of course, got me a good suit, with hat and boots. I was now prepared
to leave, so far as I was concerned, with the exception of money.
When the three months were out, which brought it to the 20th of
November, I reminded the Doctor of his promise. “Yes, yes,” he said,
“I have written to your son to come after you from Illinois; when he
comes you can go.” I thought of the matter. I wrote to my folks to not
come after me. I felt indignant that my friends should be required to
come a thousand miles and spend a hundred dollars to accompany me back,
when I knew I was just as capable of traveling alone as I ever was.
I sent to a friend for money. He sent me a draft. I told the Doctor
my friends were not coming after me; that I was capable of traveling
alone, and that I must start by the 20th of December, as I did not want
to stay through another winter. Besides, I wanted to be with my friends
during the holidays. He tried to prevail on me to stay another week.
I told him my clothes were packed in my trunk; that I had written to
my friends that I should be there about that time, and I could see no
reason why I should stay longer. I told the steward I must go to the
city and get a few things before I started. I did so.
The last supper was now ended that I ever expected to eat in that
house, as I was to start at eleven o'clock that evening for the west.
At the close of the supper, a call was made for a speech from me before
I left. The call was sudden and I was embarrassed, as I had not spoken
in public in two years and six months. My own voice was strange to me.
I rose and addressed the company, about forty in number, they all
seated at the table, with a few impromptu remarks. I referred to
the length of time I had been there; that I had sat just two years
in the same place at table, the changes that had taken place, the
trials we had passed through, and encouraged them to hope on for their
deliverance. I bade them all good-bye, with the best and most kindly
feelings of sympathy, I trust, on both sides.
When the hour to depart arrived, the supervisor and house steward
accompanied me to the depot, carrying with them a box of the choicest
kinds of eatables for my accommodation on my journey. A sleeping-car
was engaged, the signal was given to move; I shook my old keepers
heartily by the hand, bidding them good-bye with unfeigned good
feeling, and shot out of their sight—took my berth, and waked up in the
morning in Buffalo.
I continued my journey through Ohio, around the lake to Chicago, and
from thence on the great Central to the place of my destination, and
found my family and friends in good health. But, oh, the change! To sit
down in a private room by the side of a stove, with my own children,
once more to eat with them at the table, to retire when I pleased
without hearing that old stereotyped sound—“_Bed time, gents_;” to
go out and in as I pleased, furnished grounds for the most profound
gratitude to him, who had so mysteriously preserved me without harm
through all my dangers and fears, and who had brought me safe to
once more see my loved ones, and enjoy their society without fear of
interruption.
And now, in the close, I have only to say, that, though it may be
humiliating to spread abroad the knowledge that I have been an inmate
of a lunatic asylum, yet, if by publishing this sketch, the people in
general shall become better informed of the true character of asylum
life, and thereby prevent the suffering of some poor, unfortunate
victim to mental disease, I shall be amply compensated for all my
humiliation.
* * * * *
P.S. Although my history is closed, yet there are a few things of a
miscellaneous character, that I ought to notice, to make the narrative
complete.
One is, that very much was said about the violation of the rules of the
institution; patients were continually admonished not to violate the
rules. I was very fearful that I might, by some mistake or oversight,
violate the rules; I therefore sought to find out just what these rules
were, that I might know the law. In doing this I became perplexed. I
could find no code of laws or rules that were fixed, that could be
possibly violated. I found a law, or rather a custom that amounted to
law, which was fixed and unalterable, and there was no danger of this
being violated. This was, that the patients must retire at just such
an hour and rise at just such a time in the morning; that they must
eat at just such a time, take medicine at just such a time, and no man
would dare to violate these rules unless he loved punishment.
As to all other rules, I found them as variable as the circumstances
of the patients were various. What one could do with impunity, I found
was a violation of the rules by another. I was at first perplexed with
this, yet the patients were constantly warned not to violate the rules.
All the rules there were was the will and word of the doctor, who made
rules and changed them just as he saw fit.
There was another thing held up very prominently to the patients, and
also to outsiders. This was, that patients are not obliged to work
either in the house or in the field, unless they chose to do so, and
that no coercion is used either by the attendants or superintendents.
And this doctrine some believe; and indeed it is true with a
qualification, but that qualification spoils it. The fact is simply
this, that if a patient is told to do a thing whether it is to work in
the house or in the field, that if that patient does it, all is well—if
not, the patient must take the consequences, perhaps that patient is
changed to some other hall, provided he or she is on the first, or some
other lower hall; but suppose a patient is on the ninth or tenth or the
old eleventh hall, and is told to do something and refuses?
Perhaps they would not be removed, for to remove them would be no
punishment; but would the attendants on these halls submit to it? No
one had better believe this. It is precisely in the asylum as it was in
a certain school in this country; a boy was punished for violating the
rules of the school, the teacher punished him; the boy made complaint
to his father; his father told him he need not obey the rules of the
school unless he chose to, but must go back to school.
The boy returned the next day and was punished again; he again made
complaint to his father, the father still told him that he need not
obey the teacher unless he chose to do so, but must return to school,
he went the third day and was punished as before, he again made
complaint to his father. His father then told him that he need not
obey the rules of the school unless he chose to do so, if he preferred
punishment, rather them to obey, but to school he must go.
By this time the boy waked up; he saw it was punishment or obedience;
so with patients in the asylum, they are not obliged to work unless
they choose to do so. But it is a base deception to pretend that
patients are not obliged to work in the asylum.
I would recommend that all men who are sent to the asylum be permitted
and advised to let their beards grow, and not shave at all during
their stay there, especially on any other hall except the first, for
the attendants do all the shaving; the patient is not permitted to
shave himself, except on one or two of the halls, and so far as my
experience goes, it is more like skinning than shaving; the razors are
horrible things, as one of the attendants said to me “he should get
it off unless the handle of the razor broke.” I then understood the
saying, “that it is easier to skin than to be skinned.”
While confined in my prison-house my mind was continually haunted with
the “Lament of Tasso,” and that the outside world may have a faint idea
of my feelings while there, I will append a few extracts from that
work:[D]
[D] Lord Byron, in his travels, found in the library at Ferrara the
letters of Tasso, and saw the cell in the hospital at St. Ann's, where
Tasso was confined. His enemies charged him with insanity, and threw
him into this prison. The manner of treating insane persons in the Old
World has been awfully cruel, so far as history gives any clue to the
subject. Byron's Lament of Tasso is, no doubt, correct; but this is no
reason why in this enlightened age, in a Christian country like ours,
that lunatics should be treated as you would treat a mad dog or mad
bear.
“Long years of outrage, calumny and wrong;
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,
And the mind's canker in its savage mood,
When the impatient thirst of light and air
Parches the heart; and the abhorred grate,
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade,
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain,
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain;
And bare, at once, captivity displayed,
Stands scoffing through the never-opened gate,
Which nothing through its bars admits save day
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone,
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone;
And I can banquet like a beast of prey,
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave,
Which is my lair, and it may be—my grave.
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear,
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair;
For I have battled with mine agony,
And made me wings wherewith to overfly
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall.
I weep and inly bleed,
With this last bruise upon a broken reed.
What is left me now?
For I have anguish yet to bear—and how?
I know not that, but in the innate force
Of my own spirits shall be found resource.
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse,
Nor cause for such—they called me mad—and why?
Oh, my judges! will not you reply?
Above me, hark! the long and maniac cry,
Of minds and bodies in captivity,
And hark! the lash and the increasing howl,
And the half inarticulate blasphemy!
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul,
Some who do still goad on the o'er labored mind,
And dim the little light that's left behind,
With needless torture, as their tyrant will
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill;
With these, and with their victims, am I classed,
'Mid sounds and sights like these, long years have passed.
'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close;
So let it be—for then I shall repose.
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell
In this vast lazar-house of many woes?
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thoughts the mind,
Nor words a language, nor even men mankind;
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows,
And each is tortured in his separate hell—
For we are crowded in our solitude—
Many, but each, divided by the wall,
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods;
While all can hear, none heeds his neighbors call—
None! save that one, the veriest wretch of all,
Who was not made to be the mate of these,
Nor bound between distraction and disease.
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here?
Who have debased me in the minds of men,
Debarring me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in best of its career,
Branding my thoughts, as things to shun and fear?
Would I not pay them back those pangs again,
And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan?
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress,
Which undermines our stoical success?
No! still too proud to be vindictive, I
Have pardoned tyrant's insults, and would die
Rather than be vindictive—yes, I weed all bitterness
From out my breast; it hath no business there.
I once was quick in feeling—that is o'er—
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd
My brains against these bars, as the sun flash'd
In mockery through them—if I bear and bore
The much I have recounted, and the more
Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie
Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame
Stamp madness deep into my memory,
And woo compassion to a blighted name,
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim.
No, it shall be immortal!—and I make
A future temple of my present cell.”
TESTIMONIALS.
This is to certify that the Rev. Hiram Chase, a supernumerary member
of the Troy Annual Conference of the M.E. Church, resided at Saratoga
Springs for one year preceding the spring of 1867; that at the session
of his Conference, held that spring, he took an effective relation,
and, at the request of the Catharine Street church, Saratoga Springs,
was appointed its pastor, and that he faithfully and efficiently
discharged the duties of his pastorate—facts, these, which speak for
themselves regarding both his mental and his moral status.
SAMUEL MEREDITH,
P.E., Albany District, Troy Conference.
ALBANY, N.Y., Aug. 12, 1868.
* * * * *
ALBANY, Aug. 4, 1868.
I have this day listened attentively, and not without as deep emotion
as my nature is susceptible of, to Rev. H. Chase's two years and four
months in the asylum. I regard said narrative as the unvarnished
statement of facts as they occurred during his residence there. I
have enjoyed a pleasant acquaintance with the Rev. H. Chase for the
last thirty years, and have ever known him to be the same truthful,
ingenuous and trustworthy friend, faithful and successful minister of
Christ, and a Christian gentleman of more than ordinary culture and
refinement. It is an occasion of most devout thanksgiving to Almighty
God that he has been mercifully preserved during the past and restored
again to his family and many friends, to the fellowship of the church
in which he has spent half a century of sacrifice and toil, to her
pulpits and altars, and a large place in the best affections of
thousands of brethren and fellow-laborers in the church of the living
God.
In my opinion the narrative should be printed and widely circulated.
CHAS. DEVOL, M.D.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
What appeared to be clear typographical errors were corrected; any
other mistakes or inconsistencies were retained.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
The original publication did not include a _Table of Contents_, it was
added in this ebook for ease of use.