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TEN DAYS IN A MAD-HOUSE;
OR,
Nellie Bly’s Experience on Blackwell’s Island.
FEIGNING INSANITY IN ORDER TO REVEAL ASYLUM HORRORS.
_THE TRYING ORDEAL OF THE NEW YORK WORLD’S GIRL CORRESPONDENT._
_Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by Norman L.
Munro, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER,
24 AND 26 VANDEWATER ST.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHY ARE
THE MADAME MORA’S CORSETS
[Illustration]
=A MARVEL OF COMFORT AND ELEGANCES=
=Try them, and you will Find=
=WHY= they =need no breaking in=, but feel easy at once.
=WHY= they are liked by Ladies of =full figure=.
=WHY= they do =not break down over the hips=, and
=WHY= the celebrated =French curved band= prevents any wrinkling or
stretching at the sides.
=WHY= dressmakers delight in fitting dresses over them.
=WHY= merchants say they give better satisfaction than any others.
=WHY= they take pains to recommend them.
Their popularity has induced many imitations, which are frauds, high
at any price. Buy only the genuine, stamped =Madame Mora’s=. Sold by
all leading Dealers with this
GUARANTEE:
that if not perfectly satisfactory upon trial the money will be
refunded.
L. KRAUS & CO., Manufacturers, Birmingham, Conn.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION.
Since my experiences in Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum were published
in the _World_ I have received hundreds of letters in regard to it. The
edition containing my story long since ran out, and I have been
prevailed upon to allow it to be published in book-form, to satisfy the
hundreds who are yet asking for copies.
I am happy to be able to state as a result of my visit to the asylum and
the exposures consequent thereon, that the City of New York has
appropriated $1,000,000 more per annum than ever before for the care of
the insane. So I have at least the satisfaction of knowing that the poor
unfortunates will be the better cared for because of my work.
[Illustration: Nellie Bly]
TEN DAYS IN A MAD-HOUSE.
CHAPTER I.
A DELICATE MISSION.
On the 22d of September I was asked by the _World_ if I could have
myself committed to one of the asylums for the insane in New York, with
a view to writing a plain and unvarnished narrative of the treatment of
the patients therein and the methods of management, etc. Did I think I
had the courage to go through such an ordeal as the mission would
demand? Could I assume the characteristics of insanity to such a degree
that I could pass the doctors, live for a week among the insane without
the authorities there finding out that I was only a “chiel amang ’em
takin’ notes?” I said I believed I could. I had some faith in my own
ability as an actress and thought I could assume insanity long enough to
accomplish any mission intrusted to me. Could I pass a week in the
insane ward at Blackwell’s Island? I said I could and I would. And I
did.
My instructions were simply to go on with my work as soon as I felt that
I was ready. I was to chronicle faithfully the experiences I underwent,
and when once within the walls of the asylum to find out and describe
its inside workings, which are always so effectually hidden by
white-capped nurses, as well as by bolts and bars, from the knowledge of
the public. “We do not ask you to go there for the purpose of making
sensational revelations. Write up things as you find them, good or bad;
give praise or blame as you think best, and the truth all the time. But
I am afraid of that chronic smile of yours,” said the editor. “I will
smile no more,” I said, and I went away to execute my delicate and, as I
found out, difficult mission.
If I did get into the asylum, which I hardly hoped to do, I had no idea
that my experiences would contain aught else than a simple tale of life
in an asylum. That such an institution could be mismanaged, and that
cruelties could exist ’neath its roof, I did not deem possible. I always
had a desire to know asylum life more thoroughly—a desire to be
convinced that the most helpless of God’s creatures, the insane, were
cared for kindly and properly. The many stories I had read of abuses in
such institutions I had regarded as wildly exaggerated or else romances,
yet there was a latent desire to know positively.
I shuddered to think how completely the insane were in the power of
their keepers, and how one could weep and plead for release, and all of
no avail, if the keepers were so minded. Eagerly I accepted the mission
to learn the inside workings of the Blackwell Island Insane Asylum.
“How will you get me out,” I asked my editor, “after I once get in?”
“I do not know,” he replied, “but we will get you out if we have to tell
who you are, and for what purpose you feigned insanity—only get in.”
I had little belief in my ability to deceive the insanity experts, and I
think my editor had less.
All the preliminary preparations for my ordeal were left to be planned
by myself. Only one thing was decided upon, namely, that I should pass
under the pseudonym of Nellie Brown, the initials of which would agree
with my own name and my linen, so that there would be no difficulty in
keeping track of my movements and assisting me out of any difficulties
or dangers I might get into. There were ways of getting into the insane
ward, but I did not know them. I might adopt one of two courses. Either
I could feign insanity at the house of friends, and get myself committed
on the decision of two competent physicians, or I could go to my goal by
way of the police courts.
[Illustration: NELLIE PRACTICES INSANITY AT HOME.]
On reflection I thought it wiser not to inflict myself upon my friends
or to get any good-natured doctors to assist me in my purpose. Besides,
to get to Blackwell’s Island my friends would have had to feign poverty,
and, unfortunately for the end I had in view, my acquaintance with the
struggling poor, except my own self, was only very superficial. So I
determined upon the plan which led me to the successful accomplishment
of my mission. I succeeded in getting committed to the insane ward at
Blackwell’s Island, where I spent ten days and nights and had an
experience which I shall never forget. I took upon myself to enact the
part of a poor, unfortunate crazy girl, and felt it my duty not to shirk
any of the disagreeable results that should follow. I became one of the
city’s insane wards for that length of time, experienced much, and saw
and heard more of the treatment accorded to this helpless class of our
population, and when I had seen and heard enough, my release was
promptly secured. I left the insane ward with pleasure and
regret—pleasure that I was once more able to enjoy the free breath of
heaven; regret that I could not have brought with me some of the
unfortunate women who lived and suffered with me, and who, I am
convinced, are just as sane as I was and am now myself.
But here let me say one thing: From the moment I entered the insane ward
on the Island, I made no attempt to keep up the assumed _role_ of
insanity. I talked and acted just as I do in ordinary life. Yet strange
to say, the more sanely I talked and acted the crazier I was thought to
be by all except one physician, whose kindness and gentle ways I shall
not soon forget.