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TWO YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS
IN A
LUNATIC ASYLUM,


From August 20th, 1863,
To December 20th, 1865.


BY REV. H. CHASE.


SARATOGA SPRINGS:
1868.




VAN BENTHUYSEN & SONS' STEAM PRINTING HOUSE.




TABLE OF CONTENTS


                   Pg.
  Preface.           3
  Chapter I.        11
  Chapter II.       26
  Chapter III.      39
  Chapter IV.       59
  Chapter V.        99
  Chapter VI.      114
  Chapter VII.     140
  Chapter VIII.    168
  Testimonials.    183




PREFACE.


I have been urged ever since I left the Asylum, by friends, to write my
history of those two unfortunate years, and give it to the public. This
I did purpose to do while I was in the asylum, as soon as I left it,
while all things would be fresh in my memory. But after leaving that
place, and mingling again with the world and with my friends, the very
thought of the subject sickened me, for I desired to think and talk as
little about the matter as possible.

Besides this, in eighteen months after I left the asylum I entered upon
the regular work of the ministry again, and did not wish, while in the
effective work of the ministry, to mix with it the history of those two
unhappy years, of which I knew, the public had no adequate conception;
and which, if I should write out faithfully, would develop facts which
many would disbelieve, while others would only laugh at them, as freaks
of my insanity, and not as sober truths.

Another reason which has deterred me from giving to the world the
history of those two years, is the fact, that a number of inmates of
lunatic Asylums in this country have given to the public their views
of asylum life, and one especially, who was in the asylum at Utica,
and discharged just before I entered it. I could not help noticing the
effect these productions produced on society. In many instances the
history was read only to laugh, and pity the insanity of the writer.
This case referred to, was a lady from Syracuse.

The object she had in view in writing her narrative was evidently lost,
excepting the profit she expected to derive from the sale of the work,
which I judge could not have been great. She was very unfortunate in
writing this narrative; marks of insanity stand out prominently through
all the work in the language she uses, in the low scurrilous manner in
which she attacks all who differ from her in opinion, her bitterness
to the Church, and its ministers, and especially her low ribaldry
concerning the doctors of the institution.

On reading this pamphlet, I saw the difficulty attending the writing a
narrative of asylum life by a patient, however truthful it might be;
for, notwithstanding all the objections that can be raised to the work
above referred to, it nevertheless contains many truths of an alarming
character—truths which every sane inmate can testify to. And by the
way, it must not be supposed that every patient in that institution is
insane; far from it; but more of this in its proper place. And though
very much, if not all that is related in that pamphlet concerning the
institution, is strictly true, yet the manner and spirit in which it is
told, detracts very much from its merits.

Considering all these facts, with some others that I need not name, I
hesitated, and at one time thought that I would never write one word on
the subject. But notwithstanding all the objections that have crowded
themselves upon my mind to such an undertaking, I confess I felt myself
urged onward to write the facts as they presented themselves to me; and
this work I have undertaken, hoping that by this means the public mind
may become somewhat, at least, disabused in relation to lunatic asylums
in general, and especially in regard to the State Lunatic Asylum at
Utica, N.Y.

About three years have elapsed since I left that institution. Since
that time I have mingled with society as formerly, have ever since I
left preached Christ and the Resurrection as a regular minister in the
church of Christ, have done a little worldly business, and am still
employed in worldly matters in connection with preaching about every
Sabbath. I would state still further that I have been a minister of
Christ more than forty years, and more than forty years have been a
member of the Troy Conference of the M.E. Church; and I am positive
that during that long period no charges or complaints have ever been
made against me for immorality, imprudence, or heresy.

I have been thus particular in describing my present standing, to show
the public that I have not entered upon this subject as a mad-man,
or a man broken down in society. I am not aware that anybody, in or
out of the church, looks upon me otherwise than before I went to that
institution.

I wish to also state to the public, to the praise of God, that I have
not had a sick day since I left the asylum. And what will perhaps
appear more strange to the reader, is, that I am prepared to say, and
even to prove, that during the two years and four months I was in the
institution, I never had a sick day—never lost one meal, but went to
the table three times each and every day of the two years and four
months; and though over sixty years old when I entered the asylum, I
am positive that I never laid down ten minutes upon the bed in the day
time during the whole of that time; yet, there were times in which it
would have given me great relief from my rheumatic pains, could I have
done so, but it was not the good pleasure of the doctors to allow this
privilege to me.

I wish to also say, before I enter upon the rather painful work of
narrating the events of my captivity, (for I can call it by no other
name so appropriate,) that before I went to the asylum as a patient,
I was totally ignorant of the character of these institutions. I had
never heard them described, except in one instance, and that by a
man who was so unfortunate as to be carried there by force by his
neighbors, as most patients are carried there. He gave me a most
horrible description of his treatment, while in the asylum; how he was
dragged by his hair, beaten and bruised, and how he finally made his
escape and went home. I heard his sad and tragical tale, but I disposed
of it as most men do, by regarding the whole story as imaginary, the
effect of a disordered mind, believing that such things could never be
tolerated in a Christian country.

It is true that at the time he related this to me, he was sober and
in his right mind, and was one of the best of men; yet, I regarded
the story at the time, as the wild freak of a disordered mind. I now
believe he told me the truth. He afterwards died in the asylum.

To show the general impression on the minds of the outer world on the
management of such institutions, and the treatment of their inmates, I
was once conversing with a man whose neighbor's wife was an inmate of
the Asylum at Utica, and had been for years. I asked him his opinion
on the propriety of keeping one so many years in the asylum. He gave
it as his opinion that in such public institutions the doctors were
the most wise and skillful men in the world; that the nurses and
attendants were well skilled in the business; that great care and
patience were exercised over the patients, and that no stone was left
unturned to soothe and comfort these unfortunate victims of insanity.
This certainly was a very charitable view to take of an institution got
up professedly for the purpose of relieving that unfortunate class of
society. I cheerfully gave my assent to his relation of supposed facts,
and went away feeling gratified that we had in our State so noble and
so humane an institution.

But the sequel will tell how near right he was in his conclusions,
and how near right the public mind is generally, concerning the most
of public or State institutions, got up ostensibly for the purpose
of relieving suffering humanity. Before my narrative will close, the
reader will have the opinion of one, at least, whether State lunatic
asylums are a blessing or a curse to our country.

I wish to farther say, before I close my preparatory remarks, that I
have no selfish motive to induce me to lay open my experience during
those two eventful years. It is not for money, of course, that I do it,
for in this respect I shall expect to be the loser; and it certainly
cannot be to let the world know that I have been an inmate of a lunatic
asylum. I do it for the purpose of opening the eyes of the people of
the State of New York, that they may enquire more strictly into the
nature and workings of the institutions of benevolence, so called,
under their control and patronage; to warn the good people of the
State of New York to never send their wives, their children, or any of
their dependants to a State institution for the cure of any disease
of body or mind, where the patient is confined by bolts and bars by
legal sanction, and where the sole power over the patient is vested in
one man, whose word is law, and whose commands are as imperious as the
Sultan's of Turkey. Such is the fact in relation to the Lunatic Asylum
in Utica.

Whatever he orders must be done, and as one of the supervisors once
said to me, to show the absoluteness of his word, “That if Dr. Gray
should order him to carry me out doors head downwards he should most
certainly do it, for his word was law.” I replied, “All right; so if
the doctor should order you to kill me you would do it.” He hesitated
a moment and said, “No; I don't think I should do that.” The idea
advanced, however, was, that the patients must understand that the word
of one man _is the law_ of this institution, and whoever comes within
its walls must bow to this scepter. And though this institution is
under the supervision of eight or nine managers, it is also true, that
one man, the superintendent or commander-in-chief, has the sole and
undisputed control over all the patients as soon as they are received
as patients.

Enough, perhaps, has been written to prepare the way for the particular
history of the time I was in that institution, so far at least as
my experience and observation is concerned; and though three years
have passed away since I left the asylum, yet almost everything that
happened within my observation seems to be indelibly written on my
mind, so that they are as fresh in my recollection as if they had
happened but yesterday.

    H. CHASE.




TWO YEARS IN THE ASYLUM.




CHAPTER I


In the spring of 1863, I was appointed by the proper authorities of the
church, as the pastor of the M.E. Church in the town of Kinderhook,
for the third year, having served that people the two previous years.
I commenced my new year in good health and fine spirits; all went on
favorably, so far as I knew, until about the first of June, when the
first shock which I felt which terminated in my downfall, was but a
small affair in itself, and at first affected me very slightly, but
continued to wear upon me, until another circumstance, arising from a
little gossip in the village of Kinderhook, added to my former trial,
threw me into a diseased state of body.

The circumstances were as follows: As I had been in the charge the
two previous years, the rules of the church did not admit of my being
returned the third year, and yet the official board petitioned to
have me returned to them the third year. To effect this, and to make
it legal for me to return, some alteration or change must be made in
the name of the charge. This was effected in the following manner:
This charge contained the villages of Kinderhook and Valatie, lying
one mile apart, each having a church, and each having preaching every
Sabbath. This charge also embraced the little village of Stuyvesant,
near the Kinderhook depot. The first year I had Valatie alone; the
second year, Kinderhook, which had been a separate station, was taken
in or connected with Valatie, both now making but one charge. To effect
my return and make it legal, the authorities at the Conference dropped
the name of Valatie off from the minutes, and inserted in its stead
Stuyvesant, making the charge now read “Kinderhook and Stuyvesant,”
instead of Valatie and Kinderhook.

This change of names was observed by some of the friends in Valatie,
and they were highly dissatisfied. I explained the cause, and told them
that the name would be restored at the end of the year. This did not
satisfy some of them, so the fire was kept up; not that any change was
made in the work; each had the same service that they had the previous
year. I finally told them I was sorry I had returned to them, as they
felt so bad about the change of the name of the charge, as it was done
solely that I might return to them. I told them it was not my doings;
they had asked for my return, and to effect it this change had to be
made.

So matters went on for a month, and I supposed all was quiet, and had
never heard a lisp but all were satisfied with me, when all at once one
of the official board told me that two or three private members of the
church had met to consult on the propriety of having me removed from
the charge; mixing a little gossip with this, which was studiously kept
from me, until this kind brother revealed it to me. I was not moved
by it at first; I knew all the official men of the church were in my
favor, and they told me not to mind what these two or three had said.
This was the first friction I had ever felt in my ministry.

The leaven continued to work in my mind; my health began to give way.
The official board visited me, gave me great encouragement, and offered
me money; said I could rest, and they would get the pulpits filled
until I was better: they did so. My mind became more and more excited;
friends came from a distance to comfort me, but all was in vain; little
things were magnified to mountains; I knew that I was unmanned, and
could not tell why; I imagined things took place that never existed;
my mind took a strange turn; I imagined I was the worst of beings, and
that thousands must suffer on my account.

I soon became exceedingly restless; wanted to be constantly on the go;
wanted to be constantly doing something, and hardly knew what. I felt
in a great hurry to have something done. It is true that I knew at the
time what I wanted to do, but when I attempted to do it, I would either
find opposition by some one or a strange inability to do what I wanted
done. I did not give up preaching until the 28th of June. I shall never
forget that day; it was Sabbath; I preached in Kinderhook, and, I
think, had the Sacrament; it was a day of great gloominess and trial.

The next day being Monday, my wife took me to Hillsdale to see our
friends, hoping a change of place and scenery would help me. But O, how
restless I was when I got there; I could not be persuaded to stay any
length of time; it seemed as though I must go back; and when I got home
I was more wretched than ever. I was sorry I went home. We visited the
parish the following week, but none knew where we went; my feelings
all seemed a wreck. I did not feel sick during all this time. I laid
all my feelings at this time to outward circumstances; I suffered them
to prey upon my mind. I had always kept clear of all difficulties;
was very tenacious about my standing in society. But I thought I now
saw that I was liable to suffer as a minister, and also in my moral
character as a Christian; and somehow my hands seemed tied. If I
resolved on any particular given course, I seemed to have no power or
ability to carry it out. I ceased to write in my diary about the middle
of July. If I attempted to write anything I could not find words to say
what I wanted to, and if I wrote anything I was not satisfied with it,
and would tear it out; so I ceased to write altogether.

About this time I took my room and wished to be alone, and yet I wanted
my wife near me all the time, and wanted to talk to her constantly upon
the same subject. I knew it was a great annoyance to her, and yet it
seemed to me that I could not help it. I knew that I was wearing her
out by my course, yet I had no control over myself. It seemed to me
that she could help me out of all my troubles, at least I acted so, and
yet my judgment told me she could not. I groaned much; my appetite now
entirely failed; I did not want to eat for days. Sleep entirely left
me, and a night seemed an eternity. I prevailed on my wife to take a
separate room to prevent my wearing her out with my groanings. I felt
now that I did not want to eat, sleep, or drink anything; my flesh
seemed to dry down to my bones. It was at this stage of my condition
that I felt that I was the worst being in the world. I shall never
forget that I thought Jeff. Davis was a saint compared to me; yet I
knew all that passed; my mind was as clear to reason as at this moment,
but I viewed everything in a most extravagant light.

It was Sunday, about the first of August, that I lay on my bed; I think
some of the family were gone to church; I was in great trouble of mind;
all that I ever did that was wrong seemed to rush upon my mind, and
though I did not have the consolations of religion to comfort me, as
I had been accustomed to, yet I wanted to do all things right, and
leave nothing undone that I ought to do. I felt that it was probable
that I should not live long, and I wanted to die. At that moment, I
thought of some nitrate of silver and corrosive sublimate that I had
been using for certain purposes, that I had set away rather carelessly,
without labeling. Fearing that some of the family might get hold of
them, mistaking them for medicine, I sprung from the bed, took the
bottle of nitrate of silver, ran out door with it, made a hole in the
ground, and meant to empty the contents of the bottle into this hole;
but all at once I thought that some animal might get it and be killed
by it. I hesitated, ran back with the bottle, then resolved again to
bury it. The day was very hot, and I was running about with this bottle
in my hand, undecided what to do with it. At that moment my family
came in; wanted to know what I had. I told them; they did not believe
me, of course, for I had never told them what was in this bottle they
snatched it from my hand, and threw it somewhere, I could not see
where. I thought I had as much trouble before as I could bear, but
this seemed worse than all the rest put together; I imagined that some
animal or human being would get hold of that nitrate of silver and be
killed, and I should be charged with their death.

The next day I brought out the corrosive sublimate and meant to have
buried it, but my wife snatched it from me and threw it into the cook
stove; this, too, alarmed me, fearing some one would be poisoned with
it, and even warned them all not to eat the food cooked on the stove,
lest they should be poisoned. It will be seen that all these things
were evidences that my mind had given way and that I was a prostrated
man; yet I knew all that passed.

Boils at this time came out on my face and head; they were very
painful; I have no knowledge of ever suffering so much pain before as
I did with these boils. At this time the rain fell in torrents, with
much thunder and lightning; it rained for many days. This rendered the
scene to me much more gloomy and dismal.

My physician now gave me medicine, and after a day or two I felt as
well as I ever did in my life; got up, my head feeling clear; dressed
and went into the garden, and tried to work a little, but I was too
weak to do much; discouragement came over me and I gave it up. Friends
had called during the last two weeks, but I had refused to see them;
I wanted to be alone. From the middle of August until the 19th, I was
feeling much better, and my appetite began to come; medicine had had a
good effect.[A]

[A] My bowels had been obstinately constipated for ten or twelve days;
when the medicine operated, I was better.

On the 19th of August, my physician with another came in, and I was
called up to see them; as I walked out, my physician left the house,
leaving the other to converse with me. He commenced conversation; I did
not understand his object; my wife told me to ask him about the nitrate
of silver and corrosive sublimate, and hear what the doctor would say
about it. I told him the story as it was, and asked him if he thought
any damage could proceed from it. He said no, he thought not; that it
might kill the grass, perhaps, where it was thrown, and that would be
all. I thought no more of his call; he left, and I have never seen them
since. They went immediately to Hudson, I understood, and got a warrant
from the judge to take me to the asylum at Utica.

These doctors were Benson and Talmage; their mission was now ended, and
I suppose they calculated they had done a great good to their country.
It is not a supposable case that men who can coldly deprive a man of
his liberty when he is harmless, would ever enquire after his welfare,
or send him a word of comfort; of course I never expected it of these
men, and I have no doubt, if the truth could be known, that they would
have greatly preferred to have had me die in the asylum than to have
had me live and come out again.

The next day, the 20th of August, 1863, about 9 o'clock in the
morning, I was called out of my room to dress and take a ride as far as
the depot. I rose, dressed and went out. I perceived they seemed in a
hurry; I got into the wagon with three men besides myself; these were
George Harvey, J. Snyder and Rev. A. Farr. As I got into the wagon and
saw my trunk, I enquired where they were going. Mr. Harvey told me I
was going to the asylum in Utica.

I have always thought until this day that those three men supposed
that what I said and did when I was told where I was going, was a
sudden outburst of insanity, but I knew as well what I said, and what
I did, as they knew; yet I said some things which I ought not to have
said. I knew that I was getting better fast; I knew that I had had
a terrible time of it; I had felt much better for a few days past;
my mind was not as much agitated as it had been. At a glance I took
in the whole scene before me. I saw that I had been deceived; that I
was torn from home without my consent; was to be shut up with raving
maniacs, and probably to die with them. I saw how cold and unfeeling
men could be when a little power was given them; I felt that the world
and the church had turned against me. I rose in the wagon in despair
and indignation; I said strong things; I knew who had been the chief
instruments of my imprisonment. I begged to go anywhere else rather
than to Utica; when this was denied me, and I was told by Mr. Snyder to
sit down, I announced that I should consider myself no longer a member
of the Methodist E. Church; that my connection was dissolved. This was
an outburst, it is true, and a foolish one, but I knew what I said, and
at the time I meant it. I felt that I was forsaken by God and man; I
also confessed that I was a bad man, given over by the Almighty, and
had no hope. This was the substance of the confession. This was also
wrong; even if it had been true, no one could be benefited by such a
confession. I knew what I said and I know too what reply was made by
Mr. Farr.

I know that these expressions of mine were marks showing that my mind
had been racked. I could not control my mind as usual; yet my memory
and reasoning powers were not broken; I ought not to have been sent to
an insane asylum.

My attendants soon found that there was no need of fetters or handcuffs
to get me to Utica; so one after another fell off, leaving me but with
one man, and he not much of a giant. When he told me that he had all
the papers in his pocket for my commitment, I made up my mind to be a
_law and order man_, and I have never heard that he had any trouble
in getting his patient within the bolts and bars of that _humane
institution_, as some are disposed to call it.[B]

[B] I shall never forget that, while on our way to Utica on the cars,
between Schenectady and Utica, Mr. Harvey tried to divert my mind
from the subject of going to the asylum. He first referred to the
case of Gerrit Smith, who had been in the asylum, to show that it was
no disgrace to go there; that did not comfort me. He next called my
attention to the case of Major Lee, of Sandy Hill, who had recently
died, and to the disposition of his property. I knew he did this to
divert my mind; I was indifferent to all this, as I knew what it was
done for.

We arrived there the same day, and I was locked up in the third story
of the building, with about forty raving maniacs. Others must judge of
my feelings when I sat down and looked around me and saw where I was,
among entire strangers, and all these disfranchised like myself. One of
my first thoughts, after I arrived there, was: “_Would to God that I
were crazy_—so crazy that I could not realize where I am, or what I am,
or what will be my future.”

But more of this in its appropriate place. I now wish to appropriate a
chapter to a particular subject, viz.: to the manner in which patients
are sent to the asylum, and the laws of the State of New York on that
subject.




CHAPTER II.


It must not be understood that the same mode of operation is practiced
in all cases in sending patients to an insane or lunatic asylum. It
must be understood also that we are speaking of a State institution,
like the one at Utica.

Some patients are supported in that institution solely by the county to
which the patient belongs; others are supported partly by the county
and partly by the friends of the patient, or by the patient himself or
herself, as the case may be; while others, called private patients, are
supported wholly by themselves or by their friends.

When a patient is entered as _private_, it is not necessary to consult
doctors, judges or jurors. Suppose it to be a wife, a husband, or a
child. The patient is taken to the asylum, terms of entrance are fixed
upon with the superintendent, bonds are given or money in advance as
security, and the patient is received. In the most of cases the patient
is not consulted in the matter. In some cases, however, the patient
is consulted, and consents to go; is made to believe that the asylum
is like any other infirmary or hospital, where patients are taken to
be nursed and cared for, and cured if possible. In the most of cases,
perhaps, there is a kind of dread and horror attending a patient taken
to the asylum, and very many go against their will. This opposition is
generally attributed to their insanity, and is too generally received
as evidence that such an one is a fit subject for a lunatic asylum.
Should this dread and fear of going to an asylum be made the criterion
by which to determine the sanity or insanity of the patient, I have no
doubt but more than three-fourths of the people of the State of New
York would be adjudged insane.

Another mode of getting a subject into the asylum—the laws of the State
having fixed this mode—is as follows: Two physicians are consulted,
and if in their judgment the subject is insane, they so represent the
case to the judge of the county, and he issues his order to commit this
subject to the asylum, and the order is obeyed. This mode of operation
covers a vast number of cases, ranging through all the different grades
of what physicians may be pleased to call insanity, from acute mania
down through melancholia and epilepsy to the dull, moping, driveling
state of idiocy, taking, in its sweep, dotage and childishness of old
age.

Here a grand field is opened for operation for designing men and women
and for speculation. If the subject begins to be a care and burden
to the younger portion of the family—if the subject shows some marks
of eccentricity—if the patient discovers marks of dotage in the loss
of memory which causes frequent questions on the same subject, and
especially if a large property lies between the subject and his or her
children or relatives—it is an easy matter, in such cases, and very
convenient, to place such subjects in a place away from excitement and
care, where they will be well used, and nursed as they could not be at
home, and at the same time the family relieved of a great burden. The
matter is talked up; the good of the patient is only held out to view;
the real cause and reasons for this change are concealed. Doctors are
consulted, and by the kind and careful representations of the friends
of the patient, the doctors are easily made to believe that the subject
is no longer fit to manage his or her affairs, and that ease and quiet
would greatly contribute to their comfort—especially if they could be
removed away and out of sight of home and their business—and so they
come to the conclusion that the lunatic asylum would be the appropriate
place for them; and so they all come to the conclusion that it would
be best to try it for awhile at least. But to make all safe, an order
would be best from the judge; then none could complain that oppression
had been practiced.

An order is easily obtained, as the patient perhaps is not to be a
county charge, but supported out of his or her own money. I have in
my mind at this time a number of such cases, with which I have been
acquainted; some of them are now in the asylum; others have died there,
as most if not all of this class will do. And why should they not die
there? They are not placed there to be cured of old age, nor their
state of dotage, nor of a suicidal or revengeful spirit. These were
not charged upon them, for they were harmless as children; they were
placed there for the relief of other minds, and to lessen the cares of
those who owe to them their lives and their tenderest watch-care in
their declining years! Will such friends or relatives be anxious to
know how the old gentleman or lady fares, away from home, locked up as
in a prison, and confined by iron grates and bolts? Do such ones care
whether their victim, who has always had his liberty, be locked into a
cell at night alone, or whether he is locked in with a half dozen of
raving mad men? Will such ones inquire whether he suffers with cold,
or whether his food is suited to his appetite, and such as he has been
used to at his own full board?

Could the beams of these prison houses speak out, and could the stones
cry out of the walls of some of those upper back halls in the asylum
at Utica, the revelations of the woes and sufferings of humanity would
so shock and astonish the outward world, that instead of classing this
institution with the _humane_ and _benevolent_ institutions of the
country, it would be classed with those ancient Bastilles which have
furnished a history of the most cruel and bloody tragedies ever acted
under the sun!

I never conceived or realized, until on my way to Utica under keepers,
on what a slender thread hangs the liberty of the people of the State
of New York. Only the day before, I was feeling that the spell that
had lain upon me for more than a month, was broken; all things began
to appear more natural; my appetite became strong, though I was weak
in body; I looked haggard, but I believed my system was thoroughly
cleansed. I know now, and I knew then, that I understood my own case
better than others. I only needed a word of encouragement and comfort
to set me all right, instead of censure and cold neglect.

My words of self-reproach, and confession of moral delinquency, had
been taken advantage of, to charge me with crimes of which I was never
guilty. It is true that I felt that I was a great sinner in general;
that I never had done anything as I ought to have done it; yet when
asked to define what I meant, and name the particulars in which my
great sins consisted, I recollect how dumb and vacant my mind would be,
and wondered why I could not frame an answer to their questions.

It finally resolved itself into this, that I had done just nothing at
all, all my days, and yet had been supported by the people for doing
nothing, and that for this I should be damned.

Yet, I say, that all these thoughts were giving way to a more calm
and steady state of mind, instead of that fear and haste which had
haunted me for more than a month; I began to be more indifferent also
to outward circumstances.

Being in my own house, I thought I could act out my feelings without
fear of consequences. I never once thought of the danger of getting
into the asylum. I had never thought such a thing possible, for I knew
that insanity was never known in one of my family. Could I have had one
hint that my restlessness was leading to this, I think I could have
prevented it, and should have done so.

But I wish here to enter my protest against the manner that thousands
are rushed into the asylum, by those who have no knowledge of asylum
life and but little if any knowledge of the philosophy of the human
mind. Many have been sent there who had been ill but a few days, and
were soon over it, and could they have been left at home a week longer,
all would have been right; whereas, by being sent to the asylum, they
have been kept there confined for two years—for when once in the
asylum, it is no easy matter to get away in a short time, unless they
run away.

I know men in the asylum who were thrown in there by their friends,
under some peculiar influence, who have been there from six to fifteen
years; and they are the same now as when they entered it, not insane,
but perhaps a little eccentric, or may entertain some notions on
religion or philosophy that are not regarded orthodox. They are in good
health, perfectly harmless, and, so far as I could judge, would make
better inhabitants than one-fourth of the people that are at large.

The question now arises—“What would you have done to remedy the evil
of putting men and women in the asylum that should never go there?”
My answer is, that I would so change the laws that two inexperienced
quack doctors could not govern the destinies of the people of a whole
county. I would first require that those men who are to decide on the
fate of their neighbors should be men of experience and discretion,
and that there should be at least five of them in a county, chosen by
the people for that purpose; I would also require that the patient be
brought before a jury of twelve men, who shall decide the matter after
the five doctors have examined the patient and given their opinions.

I would require that those five doctors should make themselves
acquainted with asylum life; I speak now of State asylums, not private
ones. I would have them know how patients are treated, as to medicine,
diet, &c. For how can a jury or doctors recommend and decide that the
asylum is the proper place for the patient, when they know nothing of
its character, only that it is called a State Lunatic Asylum?

I would annihilate that argument so often used to induce the ignorant
and the innocent to become willing to go to that den of death! The
argument is, that many great and noted men have been inmates of the
asylum, such as Gerrit Smith, Esquire W., General B. and Judge C.
This was the argument used on me while on my way to the prison. I
would go still further. I would require that the managers of such
an institution should not leave to one man the destinies of so many
hundreds of souls; that they should be required to see for themselves
all the internal workings of the institution, that its evils may not
become chronic and incurable. I would also require that patients be
treated as men and women, and not as dumb beasts, in the manner of
doctoring them; that the doctors should conform to the same rules that
they would out of the institution in doctoring free agents. That is
to say, that, when a patient is cured of a certain disease for which
medicine is given, the medicine so given shall be taken off or stopped,
and not continued for weeks and months after the end is gained for
which the medicine is given. To illustrate what I mean: The doctor
orders a certain kind of medicine to a patient; it is a strong tonic,
for instance, to give strength and an appetite; the patient takes it
three times a day for three months; at the end of three months the
patient finds himself well, with a strong appetite, and works hard
every day. The patient now says to the doctor, that he feels well,
has a good appetite, and thinks the medicine had better be taken off,
as it begins to act too heavily upon the system. The doctor replies,
“that the medicine must not be taken off; that he must take it as long
as he lives, and ask no questions.” Would any one, out of such an
institution, employ such a physician? Now we all know that anywhere
but in a lunatic asylum, medicine is not given except in cases of
necessity, and when the object is gained for which the medicine is
given, the medicine is taken off or withheld. Is this so in the asylum?
Every man in that institution, who is sane enough to know the current
events of the asylum, knows this is not so. I am a witness, with
hundreds besides me, that medicine once ordered will be continued three
times a day for two years, without interruption, and no questions asked
the patient by the doctors about the effect of that medicine. I know
it was so in my case, and no argument or remonstrance could induce the
doctor to even change the medicine. I shall have occasion to say more
on this subject in another place. I would have this matter regulated.

I have not a doubt, that if all these matters were fully and rightly
investigated and controlled, a much smaller number would be sent to the
asylum, and those who were sent would have less reason to complain. I
do not mean that that institution or any other could be so conducted
that none would complain of ill treatment; this perhaps would be
impossible; but it could be so conducted that there would be far less
suffering there than now exists.




CHAPTER III.


I will now return to the narrative of my two years in the asylum. I
never can forget my feelings when I got out of the carriage and walked
up the stone steps and into the centre of that mammoth building. The
very thought that I was brought to a lunatic asylum, as a patient, was
sufficient to take all the man out of me. I glanced my eyes around upon
the massive walls, and high ceilings, and sat down. The doctor came,
and my case was introduced to him by my attendant; a very few words
passed between the doctor and me; I begged to not be left; I knew not
what was before me; I had not formed the least idea of the construction
of the building, nor of the manner in which patients were managed.

My attendant, Mr. Harvey, gave me over into the hands of Dr. Gray, the
superintendent of the asylum, and seemed to be in haste to get out
of my sight; at least it seemed so to me. I asked him how long he was
going to leave me here; he replied “perhaps about two months; when your
folks get settled they will send for you.” But instead of coming to
take me away in two months, it was ten months before I heard one word
from any person I had ever known before I went to that place, though I
often enquired. I finally came to the conclusion that my wife must be
dead, or I should have heard from her.

The first intimation I received concerning any of my family, was a
visit from my daughter from Illinois, ten months after I entered the
institution; this to me was as a visit from an angel from Heaven.

But to return to the thread of my narrative. I said but little to the
doctor; my spirits were crushed, and I doubt not but I showed it; I
was worn to a skeleton; I was well dressed, excepting one thing, and
that was invisible. In my haste in the morning in dressing I left off
my suspenders, as I was urged to hurry, and supposed I was only going
to take a short ride. I observed this when I got to Utica, and got out
of the cars; and having left my porte-monnaie at home with my watch, I
had no money to purchase a pair. So I ventured to state the fact to the
man that accompanied me to Utica, and asked him to buy me a pair; he
looked blank and cold towards me, as though he thought I did not know
what I asked for, and made me no reply. I felt grieved; I never doubted
but he thought it was a freak of madness that caused me to ask for the
suspenders. I thought I would not repeat my request, but often thought
that at some subsequent time I would show him that I knew what I asked
for, and tell him how I felt when he treated the matter so coldly; but
I have never mentioned the subject to him since, and should not have
mentioned it now, only to show, that no incident happened at that time,
however small, but is still fresh in my recollection.

I bade my friend who took me there good bye, with a heavy heart, and
the doctor ordered me taken on to the third hall, which was the third
story of the building from the ground floor. There I found about forty
patients, the majority of which were very insane. I was afraid as I
entered the room; I took a seat on a row of benches fastened to the
floor. I have already stated that I at this period wished myself as
insane as the rest; I then should not be afraid. I saw that they were
reckless, raving, and knocking each other. I looked round among the
patients to see if I could see any that looked intelligent and sane; I
saw a little old white-headed man that looked the most like a sane man
of any on the hall. I approached him and spoke to him; I found his name
was Francis; a brother of the editor of the Troy Times; he has since
died in the asylum.

A small incident took place a few minutes after I entered the hall,
that, though small in itself, was nevertheless most annihilating to my
feelings. Mr. Jones, one of the attendants of the hall, approached me
and said he must search my pockets. So he went into all my pockets,
and as good luck would have it, he found nothing but a few pennies;
these he said he must take. I said, “very well, take them.” He never
mentioned it afterwards to me. I have never doubted but many things are
taken from the patients in that way that they never get again. I regard
it no less a crime than highway robbery, only more low and cowardly.

It must be understood that the patient's word is not received in
evidence if it is contradicted by the attendant. An attendant might
take anything from a patient, and if complaint should be made by the
patient to the superintendent, the attendant has only to deny it, and
then woe to that patient, if the attendant pleases to chastise him.

Patients had better suffer than to reveal anything against an
attendant, for suffer he will if he does reveal it to the doctor. I
shall, perhaps, have occasion to speak of this hereafter, in relation
to the loss of my clothing.

I will here state that as the doctors have a name for every degree and
kind of mental derangement, mine was termed by them _melancholy_—a
state of gloominess that some would term hypochondria. I believe none
ever charged me with being wild and incoherent in my expressions, and
though it is proverbial in the institution, among the patients and
attendants, that if a man says he is not insane it is a sure sign that
he is, so in consequence of this saying, I was careful to say nothing
about my own mental condition, only to ask the attendants and doctors,
at times, whether they observed marks of insanity in me.

I once asked one of the doctors this question, and he said he did
see marks of insanity in me. I expected this answer, for we were
disagreeing about the manner in which they were doctoring me. So he
gave me to understand that his word was law, and whatever I thought
or whatever I said would make no difference; that I must obey his
directions, and would often lay his hand on his mouth, thereby
indicating to me that I must not speak unless I was spoken to. I
pitied the doctor more than I blamed him, for I saw in him positive
and decided marks of tyranny that were in his organization: A dark
countenance, low built, short neck, a low forehead, not broad, and
eyebrows nearly or quite meeting; a peculiar side glance of his eyes,
as though he was looking wondrously wise at times; was subject to a low
criticism of words; nothing noble and manly about him.

These remarks may seem to the reader not only too severe but uncalled
for. I do not doubt but it does so appear, but I cannot help it; and I
confess there was nothing I dreaded so much as to see this doctor come
on the hall, and it was always a relief to me when he left.

But to return to my first day's experience in the asylum. In two or
three hours, supper was announced by the ringing of a bell; all rushed
to the end of the hall, and through a doorway into the dining room,
where two long tables were set that would seat forty boarders. I was
seated between two very insane men—one an Irishman and the other
I think a German. The victuals were all on the plates when we sat
down, and the tea, or whatever the drink might be called, was already
prepared in large pitchers, and poured out in small punch bowls, which
were used as a substitute for tea cups and saucers. This was a kind of
tea, very weak, prepared with milk and sugar before being turned into
the bowls. I tasted it, but it being so different from what I had been
used to drinking, as I had never used sugar in my tea, it produced a
most sickening influence.

The supper consisted of a couple of pieces of bread, one of wheat, and
the other what they called brown or Graham bread—the best I thought
I ever had seen—a small piece of butter and a small square piece of
gingerbread. As I sat nibbling a little, for I did not eat much the
first meal, my Irish companion on the right reached to my plate and
took my bread. I looked at him, but he did not notice me; next he
reached and took my butter, not seeming to act as though he had done
anything out of order. An Irishman on the opposite side of the table
reached and took the remainder of my bread and cake, so that when
supper was ended, it appeared that I had eaten very heartily, for when
I sat down there was enough on my plate to satisfy any hungry man. It
was astonishing to see with what rapidity some of those lunatics would
devour their food.

When supper was over, one of the attendants came round to every man's
plate, took up the knives and counted them, to see if any were missing.
This was done to prevent any evil from those who might be suicidal or
otherwise evil disposed. At a given signal, all arose and went out. I
observed, however, that a number of patients staid in the dining room
to help in clearing off the table, washing up, and setting the table
again for breakfast.

As soon as this was ended, I heard a sound ringing through the whole
length of the hall, “_Bed time gents_.” I thought it very strange, as
the sun was yet an hour high. The attendant came to me and told me I
must retire. I said, “this is earlier than I am used to retiring.” He
made no reply, but led me into a large dormitory, at the end of the
hall, containing five beds. One of these was assigned to me; the others
were occupied by two Irishmen, and two Americans—one from Saratoga
Springs, by the name of Burnham, the other from Hartford, N.Y., whose
name I do not now recollect. Burnham and one of the Irishmen were very
crazy. The Irishman would get out of bed, wrap himself in his sheet,
walk the room, or stand and look out the window, keeping up, in the
meantime, an incoherent jingle of words, mixing it with cursings on all
Protestants, threatening to scald them to death with hot water; while
Burnham would damn him and pour upon him the most bitter curses.

I tried to appease them by flattery. So the night wore away, and in
consequence of the novelty of the scene, being locked up in a room
with four crazy men, our clothing left out in the hall, the quarreling
of my room-mates, with now and then a wild yell from some other
apartment, were not very favorable accompaniments to sleep or rest.
Sleep entirely departed; I did not feel the least sensation of sleep
during the whole night.

No one, unless placed in the same condition with myself, can imagine
with what pain and anguish I passed that first night of my captivity.
I had already seen that patients were treated more like prisoners than
like innocent men and invalids. I had been in bed about an hour, it
being now about sundown, when one of the attendants, a gladiatorial
looking German, entered the dormitory bearing in his hand a tray of
medicine, arranged in rows in little white earthen mugs, each holding
perhaps a half of a gill; he came to my bed side and held out one of
these mugs to me, and said in broken English, “_trink tis_.” I had seen
enough already to know that resistance or remonstrance was of no use,
so drank the nostrum but a more nauseous dose I never took. In half an
hour more another dose was presented of another kind, I knew not what.
I began to think by this time that if a man could live through all
this, he must be made of stern stuff.

The morning came, and I was glad to see the light and to get out of
that inner prison, where I could have a little wider liberty in walking
the hall, which was about two hundred feet long by ten or twelve feet
wide, with bed-rooms ranged on each side. After adjusting matters in my
sleeping room, making beds and sweeping—as every patient is expected to
make his or her own bed, unless unable to do so by physical or mental
inability—I was introduced to a wash room. In this room there were
barely accommodations to wash by forty patients washing out of about
two tin wash dishes, one after another, till all had finished, and then
all wipe on about two towels hanging on the wall. No looking glass,
combs or brushes were furnished for patients on this hall. I did not
see my face in a glass until I left that hall and went to another,
which was six weeks from the time I entered the asylum.

Breakfast was announced by the same ringing of the bell. The men were
soon in their places; I lingered a little, and was urged forward. I was
no sooner in my old place by the side of my agreeable companions, than
the Irishman on my right snatched at my bread on my plate; I turned
his arm aside, but he seemed determined to seize the whole contents
of my plate, which consisted of bread, potato, a piece of cold baked
beef and a small piece of butter. Instead of tea, it was called coffee,
prepared in the same manner of the tea. I could not drink it at first,
but finally by degrees worked myself up to the point. A most wonderful
drink is this for sick folks!

As to the diet, so far as I was concerned, all was well enough; they
make use of a vast amount of meat; and it was amusing to hear Dr. Gray
philosophise on the utility of the patients eating so much meat. This,
perhaps, was all well enough, but in no place but in a lunatic asylum
would such doctrines be urged, expecting the people would indorse them,
as a diet for invalids, and especially for invalids whose disease
is supposed to be mostly of the mind. It is generally supposed, by
reasoning beings, that less meat and more variety in lighter food,
would be more appropriate to such constitutions as the asylum is made
up of. But concerning this matter, I must give no decided opinion; I
consider it of minor importance, compared with other things.

The second day had now come; it was Friday, the 21st day of August. I
took the medicine in the morning, and after breakfast set myself to
learning all I could of the institution by observation. I noticed that
in some of the rooms were cribs in which were confined patients by a
lid or cover, locked down; these I regarded as men who were not safe
to have their liberty and to lie on ordinary beds, and I found this
was so. I noticed also that food was carried to these, of a very light
nature, as farina or a little soup, and sometimes a small piece of
toast. I wondered how men could live on so very little as they seemed
to give them, but perhaps they had all that was necessary.

I noticed one among these, of a manly and noble bearing, when he would
rise out of his crib; and on inquiry, I found his name to be Maulby,
Doctor Maulby, who had been in the institution for many years; and
before I left the institution he died there. He was a man, I was
informed, of superior talents, and at times was very insane.

In one end of this hall, I observed a large wardrobe or closet, in
which all the clothing of the patients was kept for this hall. No
patient on this hall is allowed to keep his clothing in his own room;
and indeed this is the case with every other hall in the building,
except the first hall, which is used mostly for cured patients and the
convalescent.

On the gentlemen's side of the house, there are about twelve halls
occupied by patients, making in all about three hundred; and as many
on the opposite side of the building occupied by females, averaging in
all, perhaps, as a general thing, about six hundred.

About nine o'clock in the morning of this my second day in the asylum,
I observed a rush of all the patients around a large basket which had
been brought out, containing their hats and caps. It was the hour of
going out to walk and take the air in the yard, an enclosure attached
to the building, of two or three acres, guarded on two sides by the
building and on the other two by a high board fence. This yard was
beautifully laid out in walks, and covered with grass, trees, and
shrubbery.

I supposed I must go out with the rest of the lunatics, so I walked
up to take my hat, but I was told I could not go. I could not see the
point at that time, but afterwards learned that no patients, when they
first come, are allowed to go out until they have been there a number
of days. I was glad of this, for I preferred staying in alone to going
out with that motley group of maniacs. Not only from this hall did
patients go into this yard, but from all the halls, except the first,
second and fourth, and sometimes they went from these; and when all
these came together, it furnished a most interesting yet ludicrous
picture—all the nations of the earth here represented, making a perfect
bedlam.

I spent the forenoon as best I could, walking up and down the hall, and
sitting alone in my glory; all seemed a blank. In the course of the
forenoon Dr. C., who had charge of the north wards of the building,
which contained the men's side, came on the hall. He introduced himself
to me as the physician of this ward, and took some pains to impress
me with the idea that “_he was the boss of this shanty_,” and that
his orders must be carried out to the letter. This doctor had charge
of the men under Dr. Gray, while Dr. Kellogg had charge of the female
department.

This first interview with the doctor made an unfavorable impression
upon my mind. I next came to a point in my experience in the
institution which added greatly to my fears, and filled me with
anguish, and robbed me of all confidence in the attendants, that they
had any regard whatever for the feelings and comfort of the patients.

In the afternoon of Friday, my second day in the asylum, I was told by
the little Dutchman, the second attendant, to go with him; I followed;
he went into the bath-room, carrying a change of my clean underclothes,
which they had taken from my trunk; when in the bath-room he locked the
door; there stood the bath, about two-thirds full of water, or rather
mud and slime, in which ten or twelve filthy maniacs had been scrubbed
and washed with soft soap, until the water had become quite thick and
disgusting to look upon. He said to me in his broken English, “_untress
you and kit in dare_.” I looked at him and said, “am I to bathe in that
mud and slush?” he said, “yes, kit in dare quick.” I saw I was sold; I
was weak in body, the door locked, and though when in my full strength
could have thrown him into the bath and held him there; yet now I
doubted my ability to vie with him, and besides, I knew he had the
power to call to his aid whoever he chose. I did not deliberate long;
I threw off my clothes and jumped in, but jumped out as soon as I went
in, and called for a towel to wipe off the filth; he refused to give me
one, but ordered me to take my cast-off shirt and wipe myself with it.
I did so as well as I could, and begged for a clean pail of water to
wash myself with, but this was refused.

I made complaint to the first attendant on the hall, but got no
satisfaction. I saw the matter was all understood between them; it was
done to save time and a little work. There was water plenty, so that
each and every man could have had a clean bath; if not, it were far
better to not bathe at all, than to bathe in a mud hole. But the laws
must be obeyed to make each and every patient bathe once a week. I knew
if I complained to the doctor, it would be no better, for he would
either justify the course, or the attendants would deny that such an
event ever took place, and I alone would be the sufferer.

I did, however, before I left the institution, lay this matter,
with some other things, before Dr. S., a fine humane man who was in
the institution for a year before I left. He believed my story and
reprobated the course. I only wished at the time that those who forced
me into such measures had been obliged to bathe in the same slough hole.

Such attendants are men that never went in good society. I can say as
Job said of those who taunted him in his affliction, that they were men
that he, before he was cast down, would not have associated with his
dogs; yet, now they ridiculed him when he was in trouble. So say I;
these are men that now, and before I went to the asylum, I should have
been ashamed to associate with, but having a little power, they humbled
me, and in fear I obeyed them, yet I despised them, and I cannot forget
them.




CHAPTER IV.


The first Sabbath came the 23d of August. I had seen nothing of the
institution as yet, only what I had seen from this hall. I could only
look out of a north window, and see the hills afar off, the valley of
the Mohawk stretching east and west as far as the eye could reach;
could see the cars passing up and down the valley, and the canal, with
its loaded crafts slowly but constantly passing by. I could also see
fine carriages constantly passing by, going in and out of the city.
I could also see the beautiful lawn lying at my feet, and stretching
away to the street passing out of the city. While I stood at my window
and saw all this, and then turned and looked at myself, shut up and
confined with bars and bolts, I then began to think that I could now
conceive how those poor creatures felt whom I had often seen crowding
to prison windows to catch a glimpse of passers-by, through their iron
grates.

I recollect, while thus employed and thus philosophising, of crying
out, that “_my life is a failure_.” I had never realized before the
sweets of liberty, and finally came almost to the conclusion that
I must have committed some crime, or I never should have been thus
confined and shut out from society; yet I had no knowledge that I had
violated the law in any sense.

Yes, this was a lonely Sabbath; yet I felt that while I remained
in that institution, I had no desire to go out or to form any
acquaintances. I could not get rid of the idea that the whole process
of proceedings in putting me into the asylum was deception from end to
end. First, they were deceived as to the cause of my trouble; secondly,
they were deceived in regard to my real condition. I did not wish to
look any man in the face, outside of the asylum, for the reason that
I supposed all within its walls were regarded as insane and unfit to
mingle in society.

I learned that there was service in the chapel that evening, but
nothing was said to me about attending; and I did not mention it, for
fear I should be denied the privilege of attending.

A day or two more passed away, and I had not, as yet, put off my best
clothes. I was thinking of it, and then I thought again—“Why should I
care about the future? And if I lay off this suit I shall never see it
again.” These were thoughts that came into my mind; and I thought I
might as well wear out my best clothes as to let others have them.

While these thoughts were revolving in my mind, Mr. Jones, the
attendant, came to me and said—“You had better lay off that suit of
clothes, and put on a poorer one, to wallow on the hall in.” So I made
the change, as I had a number of poorer suits in my trunk. This suit
that I laid off was a very fine one and valuable. Time went on, and in
about six weeks I was removed to the fourth floor. This was a short
hall on the first floor, extending west from the main building; but the
same suit of clothes that I laid off, a few days after I entered the
asylum, I never saw again. I was never fully satisfied what became of
them.

The State Fair was held in Utica that fall, and I was invited to ride
on to the grounds, with others, in an omnibus. I did not care to go,
yet I did not think it best to refuse; I consented and called for my
coat; a coat was brought me, but it was not mine; it was much smaller,
shorter sleeves, and much worn; it was not worth ten dollars; mine was
worth thirty.

I made this known, but all the satisfaction I got was to be told that
I was mistaken. I soon called for my pants and vest which belonged to
that coat, and was told by the attendant on that hall, that I never had
such a pair of pants and vest as I described—a fine pair of doeskins,
and a satin vest; and he told me if I persisted in it, he would report
me to higher authority; he even threatened me. I knew I was right,
yet I became afraid of my safety, as this attendant on the fourth hall
was an old Irishman who had been a sailor, whose principles were very
bad; he was not a man of truth or honesty; so I was obliged to let the
matter drop. I once thought of stating the matter to Dr. Gray, but the
attendants put on their veto, and I let it rest, but have never doubted
but this same old Irishman had my vest, for I am sure I saw him wear
it. As to the pants, I never saw them again. I know I am not mistaken
about the coat, vest and pants; I got an old coat in its stead which I
still keep to show.

Cold weather soon came on, and I was thinly clad. I missed my thick
pants, and though I had a good shawl, which I kept my eye upon, yet I
had no overcoat. I one day said to the supervisor that I wished I had
my overcoats from home; that I had two at home—one new and a very fine
one, the other a coarse one, but a good coat for common wear.

A very few days after this my coats both came; I knew them well, by
special marks. The best one was taken and put away; the other I was
allowed to keep in my room to throw on when we went out in the field.
It was not long before I called for my best overcoat, as I was going to
walk out. A coat was brought me, but on examination, I found it was not
my coat; it was much smaller, cut in a different fashion; was not the
same kind of cloth; yet it was a black coat, and had a velvet collar
like mine; mine was worth at that time fifty dollars; this was not
worth twenty. I have never worn the coat much since. I got me a new one
and keep this also to exhibit, to show that I am not mistaken about the
clothing.

My hat was also changed for one much poorer; this might have been done
by accident. A new black silk cravat was taken, and an old one given
me in its stead. Now all these things might have been done through
mistake, and not by design, yet, I have never doubted but all was
done by design; knowing the attendants, I am obliged to come to this
conclusion.

It will be observed that, for the sake of giving a history of my lost
clothing, the reader was brought down from the third to the fourth
floor; as I had not proceeded through an entire week with my history of
that hall, we will now return to that narrative. I had been there about
a week when I was permitted to go out in the yard with the patients;
and in walking in the yard, I soon became acquainted with men from
other halls, with whom I could converse, and I found, on comparison,
that those on the third were not as sane as many from other halls;
indeed, there were none on that hall that could converse rationally for
any length of time; yet I did not desire to change my place by being
removed to another floor. After being there about a month, however, the
doctor hinted to me that I was to be removed to some other floor. This
I somehow dreaded, not knowing where I was to be sent, and not knowing
the difference between one hall and another; I begged to stay where I
was, choosing the sufferings I then had, to those I knew not of.

After being there about two weeks, I one day said to the attendant,
that I wished him to understand that if my plate was always found
emptied of its contents, at the close of every meal, it was not because
I had eaten it all. I then told him it was very annoying to me to have
men snatching my food from my plate every chance they could get, and
that I was obliged to guard my plate in order to get enough to eat,
and the moment I finished, my plate was immediately swept clean of all
it contained. He said I should sit there no longer; so he removed me
to the table where he sat, and placed me by his side, and I sat there
until removed to another hall.

As I have said, I was on this third hall about six weeks. I have
noticed but few incidents connected with this hall, not because I could
not, but because I wish to make my narrative as short as possible.
Should I record all the thrilling and ludicrous incidents which
happened upon this hall, and others during my stay there, they would
fill an octavo of a thousand pages. My object is not to give a history
of the institution, but simply my own narrative, noticing, perhaps,
now and then, a circumstance which may fall in my way concerning other
patients; and while I am on this subject, I will simply say, that I
made the acquaintance of a number of gentlemen in that institution
whose names I remember with pleasure, and should perhaps make mention
of them if I thought it would be pleasing to them, but knowing the
delicacy of such a subject, I shall forbear making mention of any
except those who I know cannot be affected by it.

I was now placed upon the fourth hall, and assigned to a room
containing three beds; this was about the first of October. The inmates
of this room were more agreeable than on the third floor, though one of
them, at times, was very annoying. He would be up and down all night;
would disarrange all the clothes of his bed; would scold and worry,
and complain of ill treatment, if any one attempted to assist him;
until at length he was removed on to some other hall and died there.

From this hall I was suffered to walk out with other patients, guarded
by attendants. We would sometimes walk a mile through the back fields
attached to the institution. I shall never forget that the first day I
entered this hall, I saw, walking the hall, a delicate, well dressed,
fine looking gentleman, of middle age and very long beard. There seemed
to be an air of aristocracy about him that attracted my attention, and
led me to inquire who he was. I found he was from Albany; that his
name was Root; they called him Colonel Root. He had done business in
Albany; married there into a good family and rich. He lived rather too
fast to suit his friends, in traveling through Europe and America, and
drinking wine and brandy, so they threw him into the asylum. No one
could detect in him any marks of insanity; but the way he would curse
his friends for running him into that institution, was a caution.
He was not the most gentle and docile patient to manage in the whole
institution. Being a private patient, he had what is called his extras
in food. He was often changed from one hall to another, until, running
down rapidly in health, he died on the sixth hall, long before I left
the institution.

I liked the fare better on this hall than on the third; it was a short
hall, containing about twenty patients. I soon discovered that on this
hall were a good many invalids; I have seen as many as ten confined
to their beds on this hall at once; I regarded it a kind of hospital.
There was a hospital attached to the institution, but I found, of late,
it had not been used much for that purpose; that the sick were allowed
to remain on the halls with the well. This I regarded an improvement.

At this time, frequent changes were made on the halls in attendants; it
was war time, and young men were called into the field; I suppose they
had to take such as they could get. A young man came on to the fourth
hall, as first attendant, soon after I entered it, by the name of John
Subert; a young man of a good deal of self-conceit; was very ignorant
withal, and evidently felt that he was highly promoted in having a kind
of charge over a few poor inmates of a lunatic asylum.

Doctor Gray is the sole superintendent of the asylum. He has generally
three physicians under him, who watch over the wants of the patients,
and prescribe for them. Next comes a supervisor, who takes the general
charge of four or five halls, and is at the same time an attendant on
one of these four or five. This John Subert was an attendant on the
fourth hall, under a supervisor; he was, in fact, nothing more nor
less than a servant waiter; yet he sometimes assumed a good deal of
authority. He at one time called me to come and sit down by his side,
and began to talk to me very gravely, and told me whenever I got into
any trouble and wanted anything, to come to him and he would give me
good advice. This, certainly, would have been very kind, had it come
from Doctor Gray or even from a supervisor; but coming from a waiter,
and a young man not much over twenty, and one so ignorant that he could
not converse intelligently five minutes on any subject, and withal very
wicked, using much profane language, the idea of his giving me good
advice was most ludicrous.

I once asked this young gentleman for a coverlid, as the weather was
getting cold. He brought me an old straw bed tick, very dirty. I looked
at it and then at him, and asked him what he meant, to offer me that
dirty bed tick for a covering. I saw he was mad. He said I was the
damnedest man he ever saw; would sew me up in the tick. He then asked
me if he should knock me down. I told him yes, if he pleased. He said
he thought he would not begin with me, as he had never knocked a man
down. I have never doubted but it was best that he did not knock me
down, or attempt it, for I had regained my strength at that time.

And here I am happy to say that during the two years and four months
that I was in the institution, I never received a blow from attendant
or patient, while many were knocked headlong by both patients and
attendants. I was always on the watch to keep out of the way of danger,
and when I found an ill-natured patient, or an ill-natured attendant,
had as little to say to them as possible.

It is true, that there are times that a man will pass through scenes
that will stir his blood, that perhaps he would not let pass unnoticed
out of that place; yet, I found the best way to get along, was to bear
all things with a kind of stoicism.

I can never forget a small circumstance which happened on this hall.
After I had eaten all that I desired, John Subert presented me with a
bowl of soup which he had left. I hesitated; told him that I did not
need it. He said I should eat it; to save trouble I ate what I could,
and stopped; he ordered me to eat the rest, and said I should eat it.
I was in a strait; I felt that I could not swallow another spoonful;
he threatened; I ate a spoonful or two and stopped; found it impossible
to swallow any more. At this point I felt unmanned; I groaned bitterly;
I felt that I had rather die than be governed by such a gladiator. I
knew he did it only to show his authority. I never knew why he took
such a course with me. Had I refused to eat my regular meals, as some
did refuse, and had shown a suicidal spirit to starve myself, as some
did, then the case would have been altered, and the attendant would
have been justified in forcing me to eat. But I was well and hearty; my
appetite was craving, caused by the medicine forced down me daily, and
I found that I generally ate more than was for my good; yet I did not
eat more than other patients; it was thought I did not generally eat as
much.

At another time, they had molasses and some kind of pudding as a
dessert. I ate all I wanted and moved back; he had ate and left a
quantity of molasses and pudding; he moved it before me and ordered
me to eat it; molasses I never eat unless obliged to; I tried to beg
off, but he was inflexible; I considered the matter and complied; I
thought it better to eat his leavings than to have war at the table. I
considered that he was a low-bred wretch, and a man of no principle.
I have often wondered if he would not like to see me now, and talk up
these matters, and show me that it would be best for me to ask his
advice, and to eat his leavings. I have no doubt but he would deny that
these things ever happened. I would deny them if I were him. This is
the way such men get out from such charges. They have been in the habit
of abusing patients, and when charged with the wrong, deny it to the
doctor, charging it to the insanity of the patient. Many other small
matters in themselves might be related that will be passed over, which
would be very trying to a man of good breeding.

When the patients of that institution can be used as patients should
be, and not as criminals, prisoners or slaves, then, and not till
then, will it become a blessing to the State of New York instead of a
curse.

I remained on the fourth hall until about the first of December, when
I was removed to the first hall. I begged with all my skill to stay on
the fourth hall through the winter, but all was in vain. The reasons
why I wanted to stay on the fourth hall were, that it was warmer, and I
did not wish to become a gazing stock for the multitude of visitors who
daily flocked to the asylum, take a walk through the first hall, gaze
on the patients as they would look upon wild animals in a managerie,
and then depart. I found the arrangement on the fourth hall for bathing
as it should be; each man had his bath by himself of clean water. This
became a luxury rather than a dread, as upon the third floor. It is,
however, due to Mr. Jones, the attendant on the third, to say that
after two or three of the first baths I took there, he gave me clean
water, and always used me like a gentleman. The little Dutchman who
gave me my first bath, seemed to shun me after I had learned the ropes
a little better.

My medicine was kept up while on the third and fourth halls without
interruption three times a day, always just before eating; and soon
after I came to the fourth hall, another dose was added. This was some
kind of spirits; whether it was brandy or some other kind of liquor
I do not know; one thing I do know, that it would fly into my head,
my face would feel hot and would be as red as fire; it alarmed me at
first, and I begged to have it taken off, but it was of no use; perhaps
I was foolish in thinking that they meant to make me drunk.

After a week or two this beverage was taken off, and strong beer or
porter was substituted; this I hated; I always hated it. I hate it
still, though I was made to drink it daily for more than a year, and
had I been like some men, I should now be a drunkard; but I have not
tasted a drop of ardent spirits or beer since I left the asylum, and
never shall, unless it is forced down my throat as it was there. My
opinion is, however, that the beer I drank there never injured me, but
the other medicine I thought did.

Four months had now gone by since I entered the asylum. I was now on
the first floor. This is a spacious hall, two hundred and fifteen feet
long, with bed-rooms ranged on each side of it to contain about forty
patients. The patients on this hall are mostly those who have been on
other halls, and are either cured or convalescent; but few on this hall
are ever seen to show marks of insanity.

To judge of the inmates of the asylum, and the workings of the
institution by inspecting this hall, would be a deception. All things
here are in order, with a fine library and reading room, with bureaus
and looking glasses in all the bed-rooms.

When I came on to the first hall, I little understood what was before
me; I did not know that I was to remain on this floor for two years
longer, confined by iron grates and locks; but such was the fact,
though I was in as good health the day I entered it as when I left it,
but was not in as good spirits.

For the first three months I occupied a bed in one of the dormitories
where there were four beds, and during this time I took care of my own
bed, and helped others in the room who were weaker than myself. I had a
warm place to sleep, and had the privilege of managing my own clothing.
Our cast-off clothing at night were not left out in the hall, as on
other halls; yet the patients here are all locked into their rooms at
night as on other halls; and instead of retiring at seven o'clock, the
time of retiring is half past eight. This to me was a great relief.

This was a very hard winter; the cold was intense; the hall was much
colder than any house I had ever been accustomed to during my whole
life. My clothing was thinner than I had been accustomed to for thirty
years, and we were not allowed to put on an overcoat, or wear a shawl
in the house, yet my health was good during the whole winter.

The halls were heated with hot air thrown in through pipes from the
engine-house on the opposite side of the court yard. The reading room
was always comfortable, but I did not stay in it perhaps six hours
during the whole winter.

One circumstance connected with my captivity, I cannot pass over. I
found when I arrived at Utica that I had no glasses, and although they
were in my trunk, I did not know it, as they had taken charge of my
trunk, with all its contents, which I never saw again until it was
brought down at the time I finally left. I asked for glasses, that I
might occupy my time in reading. This was denied me, and the doctor
forbade my reading anything whatever. I thought this a hard case. I
could not see the point, inasmuch as I saw others reading who were
not half as strong as I was—patients who were confined to their beds
had their books and papers to read, while I was waiting on them. I
came to the conclusion that it was done to punish me, or to let me
know that I must obey orders. So I spent the winter the best I could,
straining my eyes to read whenever I could get out of the sight of the
attendants, that they might not report me to the doctor; and it was
quite remarkable that I could read so well without glasses.

Six months perhaps passed away before I was furnished with glasses.
I then took to reading, asking no questions, and no one forbade me.
Many a volume, could they speak, in that library, could testify that I
searched their contents.

Soon after I went to the first hall I commenced walking out with the
patients, accompanied by an attendant. It was our custom to go into
the street that leads from Utica to Whitesborough, and follow up that
road until we came to the bridge which crosses the canal, a distance
of about a mile and a half; here we would stop a few minutes and walk
back. This we repeated almost every day through the winter.

After I went on to the first hall, I was a constant attendant at
church, either in the chapel in the asylum, or in the city, or both. I
generally attended the State Street Methodist Episcopal Church in the
city. The services in the chapel are generally Episcopal, Dr. Gibson,
of Utica, being the chaplain. I confess that I did not enjoy public
worship while in the asylum as I have since I left it.

There was one idea that constantly haunted my mind during the most of
the time that I was in the asylum: that was, that I should never get
away from that place alive, and this I often expressed to others. This,
perhaps, may be regarded by others as a freak of insanity, but I could
not help it—I had my own reasons for thinking so.

I never saw the day, from the time I entered the asylum until I left
it, but I would have been willing to have crawled upon my hands and
feet a hundred miles, and lived on bread and water, could I by that
means have got away; and yet I was resolved that I would never run
away if I died in the institution. Here I think I was in an error; I
have no doubt but a man is justifiable in running away when he sees
and knows he is receiving no benefit from staying there. I think it
would be very difficult to keep me there again as long under the same
circumstances. Why should a man feel any conscientious scruples about
leaving a place into which he is forced against his will, especially if
he was not sent there for crime?

My conscientious scruples about running away from that place, is to me
one of the strongest evidences that I can think of, that my mind, some
of the time, was not right.

At the time I was changed to the first hall, I was placed at the table
by the side of Dr. Noise, who had been in the institution for three or
four years. He carried the keys of the house, went in and out at his
will, and served as usher to the asylum. I supposed he was employed by
the doctor as an helper in the institution, and had no idea that he
was a patient. I observed he acted very independently, and was quite
dictatorial.

I did not take pains to make his acquaintance, so I said nothing to him
for perhaps two weeks. In the meantime I had learned his history—that
he was a patient, and that in consequence of his being an active kind
of a man, and being a physician at the same time, and not much, if any,
insane, was granted privileges that but few patients enjoyed.

I observed that he wanted a great deal of room at the table, and took
it without consulting the convenience of his next neighbor. I found
myself much cramped for room, and his course became quite annoying to
me. He would spread himself out, lay his arms on the table, slop over
his tea and coffee on the table-cloth, throw his meat and potatoes off
of his plate if he did not want to eat them, and had very much to say
to other patients while eating. On one occasion he took his seat at the
table before I did, spread himself out as usual, and laid his arm on
my knife. I took my seat as usual, and sat awhile to see if he meant
to remove his arm off of my knife. I saw that he did not mean to do
so. I did not understand his object, but I soon found it was to draw me
out in conversation, as I had not as yet spoken to him, and he began to
feel annoyed about it. I at length asked him to remove his arm that I
might take my knife.

He turned and looked daggers at me. “What,” he said, “have you spoken?
I have sat by you two weeks, and you have not spoken to me; you need
not try to play possum with me?” “What do you mean,” I said, “by
playing possum?” He gave his definition of the saying. I then said,
“Doctor, I feel under no obligations to you; I know no reason why I
should make conversation with you more than others.” This offended
him; he lifted up his voice and said, “He did not wonder I was in the
asylum—that my folks could not live with me at home, so they had to
bring me to the asylum.”

I admitted all his slang to be true, and said, “Yes, yes, doctor,
that's so—you and I are here for the same reason, our folks could not
live with us at home, so they sent us here.” This roused the lion—and
he could roar terribly when roused—but I said no more, and as my reply
got the laugh of the table on him, he cooled off, but he never tried
me on again. Whether he thought he had caught a tartar, or whether he
thought I was a fool and not worth minding, he did not inform me; but
one thing I do know, that ever after this he treated me with respect,
and died in the asylum in about two years from that time.

As I have already noticed, this is called the first hall on the
gentlemen's side, and is on the first floor above the basement. Between
this, and what was then called the fourth hall, now I believe called
the second, is a billiard room. The patients amuse themselves at this
game, and some of them are expert players. I never took any interest
in it; I never even took the stick in my hand to strike a ball while
there,—neither did I ever elsewhere.

Chess, checkers, backgammon and dominoes, were the principal games
played in the asylum, but in none of these did I take any interest;
indeed, I never learned to play them. I think if all these games could
be confined to lunatic asylums it would be just as well for the world.

As the time of retirement on this floor is just half-past eight in
the evening, there is considerable time during the long nights of
winter for some kind of exercise between dark and bed-time. So after
the hall is lighted up, the patients betake themselves to such kinds
of recreation as suits them best—some to reading, some to walking the
hall in pairs, which is a good exercise, others engage in the different
games practiced on the hall, while some will always sit looking blank,
as though all the world besides them were asleep or dead.

There is a state of mind in that institution which I have thought would
not be moved if the house were on fire. I once saw it demonstrated
on the fourth hall. A young man was brought on to that hall by his
friends from the city of Utica, subject to epileptic fits; these fits
had injured his mind very much; yet he was as harmless as a child, and
a greater mistake never happened than to take a child to the lunatic
asylum who has fits, thinking they can be benefited by it; but if it is
done to get the child out of their sight, and to throw the care of them
on to other hands, why then, that alters the case; but if that were my
object, I certainly should not send them there; I would sooner send
them to the county poor-house.

But to return to my story. He was sitting at the table; I think it was
breakfast; we had all commenced eating; in a moment he fell backward
chair and all, with a terrible groan, foaming at the mouth, and
uttering most horrible groans; I started up as by instinct; my knife
and fork dropped from my hands, and I was about to take hold of him to
take him up, when two attendants took him up and carried him to his
room. But I observed that more than half of those at the table never
looked up nor stopped eating. I made up my mind that if they had been
asked after breakfast, what happened at the breakfast table this
morning, the would have said, “nothing that they knew of.” That was
the state of mind I wanted to be in when I entered the asylum; then I
should have had no trouble by anything I saw or heard. I do not wish
the reader to understand that I _now_ wish that to have been my state
of mind.

Though it may seem a digression from the subject designed in this
chapter, yet, while I am on the subject of epileptic fits, I wish to
relate a fact which has come under my observation within a few weeks
past. I was in a town in the northern part of Saratoga county about
the 25th of June, 1868; and while there I was told that one of their
neighbors was about to take their son to the Asylum at Utica, who was
subject to epileptic fits, and they asked my advice. The brother of the
young man who had fits was present. They did not know, that I am aware
of, that I had any knowledge of the asylum. I asked them why they were
going to take him to the asylum? I saw that he hesitated to answer. He
finally said they thought it would be best. I asked him if they thought
the doctors there could help one with fits better than other doctors?

I then told him just what I thought, “that many had been deceived by
supposing they could cure epileptic fits at the asylum, and that they
would miss it if they took him there for that purpose.” They were
entire strangers to everything pertaining to the asylum, yet I saw they
were intent upon taking the young man there. They started with him the
next morning, and took him to the asylum.

After the young man, the brother of the patient, had left, the family
where I stopped explained to me the probable reasons why they were
going to send him to the asylum. The young man had become of age, and
was not capable of supporting himself; they were afraid he was getting,
or would get, suicidal; he was getting to be a burden to the family.

His own mother was dead, and he had a step-mother. If they put him in
the asylum they would get rid of the trouble of looking after him,
and would save his support by throwing him into the asylum as a county
charge. Yet they were not poor. There can be no doubt but many are sent
there for similar reasons.

I was greatly surprised to find children in the asylum not more than
six or seven years old. I saw two little boys there, one from Rondout,
of about that age. Poor things, how I pitied them. They were very
sprightly little fellows, but it was said they had epileptic fits. I
would think it much more appropriate to send a child there that had the
measles, or one troubled with worms, than to send one there troubled
with fits, for, I think likely, they might cure the measles, and I am
sure they would give medicine enough to kill the worms.

I will now return to the first hall, and give a description of the
patients on that floor. I have already said that generally there are
about forty patients on this hall, perhaps a little less; there are
constant changes on this hall of patients. When patients are first
brought in they are seldom left on this floor, though some are. Some
come on this hall and never go to any other. They come and stay from
three months to a year, and sometimes longer, as the case may be, and
leave almost entirely ignorant of the general state of things in the
asylum. And some of this class are well pleased with the asylum; this
depends much on who they are, and what the state of their body and mind
was in while there.

But the great majority first have a schooling on other halls, and, if
very insane, are quite likely to be sent on the old eleventh, which, I
believe, is now changed to some other number, but the hall is the same.
This hall is the most like hell, in my judgment, so far as we have any
knowledge of what hell is, of any other place on earth. I recollect
when I was there, I used to fear and tremble, lest I should be sent
on to the eleventh; and it was a common thing for attendants to scare
patients, by telling them they would report them to the doctor and
have them sent on to the eleventh hall.

This is a low small hall, on the ground floor, in the west end of
the wing, made of brick, and, I think, but one story high. Here men
are bound in fetters and laid in irons! Many of them are so crazy
they are obliged to be kept bound, some in cribs, some hand-cuffed,
some tied down in seats, some with muffs, and many of them in strait
jackets. I am not censuring anybody for this, unless it be the patients
themselves, who have brought themselves to this state by imprudence
and debauchery. As to the treatment of these, I have no knowledge,
only by hearsay. I have often heard many hard stories concerning their
treatment, but there can be no doubt, that means that would seem to
be rash has to be sometimes used, to bring to bearings some of these
raving maniacs.

Their food, I understand, is as good as in any other department in
the institution, but the manner of eating it is different. They are
not allowed knives and forks, but eat with spoons; their food being
prepared and put on their plates by the attendants. As these patients
improve, they are changed to other halls more appropriate to their
state, until some of them finally get to the first hall. Not that all
come on to the first hall who get well and are discharged from the
asylum, yet many come on the first hall from other floors, and many are
discharged from the first hall and go home, making constant changes on
that floor. I visited the asylum in April last, and found eight persons
on the first floor, who were there three years ago, when I left; some
of these seem to be fixtures. I could give the names of these, but
perhaps they would regard it a freedom which I had no right to take; so
I will forbear. There is a kind of mystery attached to the history of
some of these men. One of them, a well, hearty man of about forty, who
has been there about six years, and he told me he had not taken a dose
of medicine since he entered the institution; and no man would think of
charging him with insanity; and I have often said, and say now, that a
man must be made of stern stuff that can remain shut up there for six
years, in the prime of life, amidst the howlings and babblings of five
hundred maniacs, and not become insane!

There are a number of others who have been there from ten to fifteen
years, who show but slight marks of insanity; if any, perfectly
harmless. There are many out in the world doing business quite as
crazy as they. These, I know, are all groaning to get free, but their
friends prefer to keep them there, and as property doubtless has much
to do with the matter, they will be likely to die in the institution.
Were they county patients, they would long before now have been set at
liberty.

There is one case in the asylum that I will venture to name, because
I am quite sure he would prefer to have me do so. This case is Frank
Jones. He has been there a number of years. He is troubled with
epileptic fits; these fits have somewhat impaired his mind. He is as
harmless as a child; is capable of doing considerable business of
a certain kind. He has his liberty to go about where he pleases; he
does a great many chores for the doctor; goes into the city daily, to
the post-office and stores; dresses very neatly, is perfectly honest
and truthful, and can be trusted in any matter. He occupies the first
hall; is a private patient, and is the son of Mrs. Jones, the owner of
the Clarendon House at Saratoga Springs—one of the best houses in that
place.

I have often had talk with Frank on the subject of his being in the
asylum; he seems to feel bad at times that his mother chooses to keep
him in the asylum. I had the opportunity of watching him for two years.
I have seen him have his fits; he is very little trouble to any one
when he has them; he generally so manages as to have them in his room
on his bed.

It is true that this is not my business, but were he my son, and
knowing what I know of asylum life, I should remove him to some private
family, where he could enjoy the comfort of social life, if I did not
want the trouble of looking after him myself; it could not cost any
more than to keep him in the asylum.

There is one more man in the institution of which I will say a word in
this connection. His room is on the old fourth hall, now called the
second; this is Esq. Bebee. He was in the old asylum at Hudson, I am
told, before the one at Utica was established; and on the opening of
the one in Utica, in 1842, he was removed there, and I think has been
there ever since. He was a lawyer of superior talents. I understood he
fell from a horse and fractured his skull, that a portion of his brains
ran out, and they were preserved.

He is a very eccentric man, and has a very lofty bearing. I have heard
him speak a number of times, and have heard him make some of the most
able and thrilling speeches I have ever heard from any man. He keeps
his room the most of the time; has his liberty; goes where he pleases,
but will doubtless die in the institution. He frequently shows marks
of insanity, not by any low or foolish expression, but by some sudden
outburst of eloquence, or some ludicrous and eccentric act.

He is always very tenacious about having any one come into his room.
I once saw a poor fellow who hardly knew what he was doing, step into
Bebee's room just as he was coming out. Bebee met him at the door,
and with a lofty swagger, exclaimed, with a good deal of energy,
“Scoundrel, many a man has been shot for a less offence than that.” The
poor fellow sneaked off without saying a word. One day he went to the
city, I was told, and while out lost his brains, which he had always
carried carefully done up in his pocket. On his return he said, “I have
lost my brains out of my pocket—the people now won't believe that I
have any brains, as I can no longer show them.”

I recollect that during the time I was on that hall, Bebee went out
on a visit to see his friends, and was gone some three weeks. It has
always been a mystery to me why he should stay there. There is no doubt
but he would have been discharged long ago, had he been a county
patient.

I will venture to name another particular case with which I deeply
sympathize, trusting that he will not be offended that I have made
mention of his name. This is Alexander Hamilton Malcrum, a grandson of
old Gen. Schuyler, and nephew of the celebrated Alexander Hamilton.
He has been in the asylum quite a number of years—is a man of good
education, having been educated at Hamilton College, and is not insane.
It is true he is a little eccentric, and so are many other men out
of the asylum. He is groaning to be set free—is capable of doing
business—is middle aged. I regard it a great cruelty that he is kept
there so long. I have had long and frequent talks with him on the
subject. He has property. I think his brother at Oswego would interest
himself to get him away could he know the real facts as to asylum life.




CHAPTER V.


The holidays of 1863 came, and I saw that the attendants, and many
of the patients of the first floor, were busily engaged in dressing
up the hall, the billiard room and the chapel, with evergreens. The
chapel is in the fourth story of the center building, and is reached by
three long flights of stairs from the lower floors, rendering it very
hard for old and infirm people to reach it. At times I found it very
difficult, on account of lameness, to ascend these stairs.

Above the chapel, in the fifth story, is a theater; this was fitted
up the first year I was in the institution. This I suppose was done
for the amusement of the patients, and during my stay there quite a
number of scenes were acted, on the merits of which I am not able to
give any opinion, as I am not acquainted with theatrical performances,
having never attended one before I went to an insane asylum. I made
up my mind, however, from what I saw, that they were very appropriate
to a lunatic asylum, and that it is quite likely that in the first
instance they were got up for the sole purpose of cheering and amusing
disordered minds, and that by some unaccountable means they made their
escape from the lunatic asylum, and have ever since been running at
large through the world.

I think it would be one of the most humane and charitable acts that our
country could perform, to pass an act to place all the theaters back
into insane asylums, where they appropriately belong.

The first performance of the kind I ever saw, I think, was in January
of 1864. The supervisor, Mr. Butler, said to me I must prepare myself
to go down to Mechanics' Hall, in the city, as some performances were
to be acted there that afternoon and evening. I begged to be excused,
but there was no use in talking; so I got ready. I recollect that about
a score of us poor lunatics, were marched off to the city. I shall
never forget how I felt when I reached there. It seemed to me that all
eyes were turned upon us, as they knew we came from the asylum; perhaps
I was a little too sensitive on this point. I looked on, or pretended
to look on, but I did it mostly with my eyes shut. I took no interest
in the whole matter. I only went to obey orders; but I was a good deal
like the horse who would not drink after he was led to the water. If
there is any sanitive power in knowing we must obey, then I suppose I
was benefited; so I walked down the hill, and walked up again. So we
were a privileged people; we could go to the theatre, dance, play at
billiards, attend church, drink whiskey or porter, and all sanctioned
by law.

On this hall there is something of a library, containing, perhaps, five
or six hundred volumes, besides papers, both daily and weekly, that are
brought on to the hall; so that all who desire reading can have it.
Patients from other halls frequently come down and get books, read and
return them.

As to religious service, it is regular once a week, every Sabbath
evening, so that all who desire to attend church can have the privilege
in the chapel. Besides this, there are quite a number, such as the
doctor pleases to select, who have the privilege of going into the city
to church, accompanied by an attendant, who goes to see that they keep
orderly and return home at the close of service.

I observed that people of all creeds were in the
institution—Episcopalians, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, Roman
Catholics, Quakers, Unitarians, Universalists and Swedenburghers, so
that no one denomination can boast that their members are never insane.
I judge, however, that there are more Roman Catholics, compared with
their numbers, than any others in the asylum.

Another inquiry arose in my mind while in the asylum, viz.: What class
of the inhabitants form the majority in that institution? This is
rather a hard question; yet, perhaps, we can arrive at something near
the truth on the subject. In doing this I will divide society into
four classes, as follows: first, professional men and men of study;
secondly, business men, who have much care on their minds; thirdly, the
common laboring class, which compose the great majority of mankind;
fourthly, that floating unsettled class of men, who live as they can
catch it, with no settled business, and indulge in drinking and in
other loose habits of life.

Some of each and all of these classes are found in the asylum—doctors,
lawyers and ministers of the gospel, with students from colleges, are
often found in the asylum; yet their number appears small compared to
the other classes, but it must be remembered that this is by far the
smallest of the four classes of community. I judge that this class is
as about one to fifty of the second and fourth class, and as about
one to two hundred of the third or laboring class, so that if ten
professional men are found in the asylum, with three hundred of the
other classes, it would show a large proportion of professional men
in the asylum. But I do not think that this class will average more
than six to three hundred of the other classes; this is giving a very
large proportion of professional men to the asylum compared to other
classes. I think, perhaps, I have the numbers too high. All I can say
of this class then is, that education and study is not a safe-guard to
insanity, but sometimes may produce it; yet it is thought very strange
by some, that a man of mind, study and education, should ever become
insane.

There are some men who need never fear of becoming insane—their minds
are not sufficiently active—they will never rack their minds with
study—in a word, they have not brains enough to become insane. As to
the second class, they are quite liable to overtax the mind with the
burthen of their business. I judge this from their numbers found in the
asylum. I cannot say, however, that I have seen as many of this class
in the asylum, according to their numbers, as I have of the first class.

Of the third, or laboring class of community, there are a great number
in the asylum. Many of these suffer in various ways, and from various
causes. Some, by overwork, undermine their constitutions; some, by
exposure to all weathers, become prostrated, and their nerves unstrung.
And many in this class, as well as in others, have greatly injured
their nervous system by the excessive use of coffee, tea and tobacco.
It is a remarkable fact that but few men are found in the asylum who
are not users of tobacco; and the universal cry of the patients through
all the asylum for tobacco, is proof of this fact. I think there are
five to one of this class in the asylum compared to the other classes;
yet, perhaps, they number ten to one of all the other classes.

The fourth class is that reckless and unsettled portion of community
that never look beyond present gratification, whatever it may cost.
Rum, tobacco and idleness, constitute their chief study; habits
unfixed; system in living never enters their thoughts; and though this
is not the larger class of community, I doubt not but two to one of
this class are found in the asylum to any other class of society.

It is a given fact that a great number in the asylum were brought there
by their dissipation. It is not strange that many of all the classes
mentioned should be found in the asylum, but to see the imbecile and
driveling idiot thrown into a lunatic asylum, carries _prima facie_
evidence with it, that the object in placing them there was not to
prevent their doing injury to themselves or others, nor for their
recovery from their unfortunate state, for many of these were born so.
If the parents or guardians of these unfortunate cases are not able to
support and take care of them, let these turn them over to the county
where they belong, for it would be much better for such to be in the
county house, than to be shut up in a lunatic asylum.

There is a striking fact that will appear to any observer who will
take the trouble to read the printed statistics of the number of
patients in the asylum at Utica, and the counties to which they belong.
He will find that some of the remote counties send one, some two, and
some none, while those near by will send scores. I presume that the
large cities of the State, such as New York, Brooklyn, Albany, Troy,
Buffalo and Rochester, that all these cities do not send as many
patients to the asylum as is sent by the little city of Utica, which
does not contain over 25,000 inhabitants! This may seem a startling
assertion, but I have known at one time in the asylum sixty patients
from the city of Utica.

Can it be proved that the above named cities ever had sixty patients
in that asylum at any one time? It would take a hundred such asylums
to take all that the State of New York would furnish if each county
should send as many as the city of Utica, according to their number of
inhabitants.

Perhaps it will be said that this fact is all in favor of the
institution; that Utica knows better the worth of the institution
than places more remote, and this is the reason why so many more are
furnished from Utica. I am fully satisfied that the citizens of Utica
know no more about the private workings of that institution than the
inhabitants of Clinton and Essex counties; and living near by renders
them more liable to be deceived, and in the following manner: It is
known by all the inhabitants of that region of country round about
Utica, that the asylum is open every day at certain hours, for the
reception of visitors. It is also understood by the managers and
attendants at the asylum, that visitors are expected every day, more
or less; so that all things are put in order before visitors come;
every unsightly thing is put out of the way; all is still and clean
as a ladies' parlor on the first halls, on both sides of the house;
the time comes; the usher is at the door; the visitors are led through
the first halls, look at the pictures and leave. What do they know by
this running visit about the asylum? It is true, they have seen the
neatness and order of the two lower halls—the lovely flower garden—the
beautiful lawn spread out from the out-stretched and towering walls of
the asylum, to the archway that leads to the street below; the view is
lovely.

My daughter visited me in my prison-house after I had been there ten
months, and she is a lover of the beautiful—she exclaimed, after she
had feasted her eyes on all around in full bloom in the month of July,
“_O pa, it is a paradise; I should like to live here_.” Tears filled
my eyes, though I had not shed one tear for a year; my grief had been
too deep for tears. “Poor child,” thought I, “I hope you will never be
undeceived by being placed here as a patient.”

No, it is not because the people of Utica know better about the
institution than others that they send so many there. It is true they
know the managers of the institution, the steward, and Dr. Gray. But
Dr. Gray himself does not know one-half that is done in that place of
deception. If I thought he did, and tolerated it, I should have far
less respect for him than I now have.

I know a gentlemen living not far from Utica, of prominence and
standing in community—a man of wealth and large business—has held the
highest office in his town for years, and had often visited the asylum,
and walked through its halls, and had boasted of the value and utility
of such an institution, and was proud that he had taken an interest in
the erection of so magnificent a pile—who does not feel now as he then
felt—and why? Why? for the very plain reason, that since that time he
has been initiated into the secrets of the institution. This man is no
other than D. J. Millard, Esq., of Oneida County.

He was, like myself, unfortunately thrown into that institution as
a patient. I saw him the day he entered it. I saw he was a man of
more than ordinary ability; he was one of those business men I have
described in this chapter; I formed his acquaintance in the asylum; he
was not insane, his health became poor; his business lay heavily upon
his mind, and he partially sunk down under the burthen. Difficulties
magnified in his mind beyond what were the real facts. But an insane
asylum was not the place to cure him; it was the very worst place, in
my judgment, that could have been chosen for the relief of his mind.

Encouragement and cheerful greetings was what he needed, instead of
imprisonment and seclusion from his business and his family. But he
lived in spite of all these opposing influences, and came out of his
troubles a wiser, and no doubt, a better man, for his sufferings. Would
he recommend a friend to place one of his family in that institution?

He is not a man who is carried away by low and petty prejudices—he
sees things in a broad and philosophical light; he believes that such
an institution could be, and should be, a blessing to the State and
Nation, and that it would be, were it conducted as it should be; but as
it is, and as it has been managed for a few years past, he regards it
a curse to the land, and unless reformed, will one day fall by its own
weight.

The light is already breaking in through its dark and massive walls,
and when men can be placed over it who can feel for suffering humanity,
instead of glorying in a little power over helpless invalids, and
seeking how they can make the most profits at the expense of the
sufferings of their fellow beings, then, and not till then, will the
darkness and gloom, which has so long hung over that prison house of
death, roll off, causing the tongue of the dumb to sing, and many a
bleeding heart to rejoice.

As to the nationality of the inmates of that institution, it may almost
be said, that they are from all nations, tongues and languages. There
is the American of the Anglo-Saxon race, the Welshman, the Scotchman,
the Irishman, the German, the Swede, the Frenchman, the North American
Indian, the African and the Jew. I have thought it partook very largely
of the Irish race—I think so still; so that that institution may be
said to be the world in miniature.

There are the rich and the poor—the black and the white—the wise and
the ignorant—the learned and the unlearned—the Devil and the Saint—the
Christian and the infidel—the drunkard and the man of temperance—the
libertine and the man of chastity—the thief and murderer—the man of
honesty and kindness—the child and the man of gray hairs.




CHAPTER VI.


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.




CHAPTER VII.


I brought down my narrative in the preceding chapter to about August,
1864. All things went on in about the same monotonous manner, taking
medicine three times a day, eating three meals, working some in the
field and walking out with the attendants.

When September came, Sabbath school celebrations, and picnics of
various clubs were frequently held in groves near Utica. To these, some
of the patients had frequent invitations to go. I was generally invited
to go to these, and frequently went, but I cannot say that I enjoyed
them, I could enjoy nothing of this kind while known as a lunatic, in a
lunatic asylum.

Some from there seemed to enjoy themselves just as well as if they had
been the superintendents of the schools. There is a state of mind that
is not unfavorably affected by placing them in the asylum—such for
instance as one under the influence of hallucinations—there are many in
that institution who believe they own the asylum, they think they run
the institution with all its machinery!

As I was there during the war of the rebellion, I found many were
brought there through the war excitement; some believed they were
brigadier-generals; others believed they had been in the war and in
many battles, who never saw a battle-field, nor ever shouldered a
musket.

On one occasion, I recollect that a large number of patients
accompanied by the attendants were on the ground. While there, the
patients were allowed to stroll around the grounds and mingle with the
people about as they pleased, the attendants only taking care that
they did not leave the inclosure. I saw it was a good opportunity for
any who desired it to run away, and I had but little doubt but on our
return home our numbers would be less than when we came, and so it
turned out; this only shows that the great majority of the patients
are held there against their will—this, however, is no objection to the
institution itself.

Another incident I also recollect which happened on the ground at one
of these celebrations—a poor boy the son of a widow climbed a tree,
for the purpose of fastening a rope in its top for a swing for the
children, his foot gave way and he fell to the ground, breaking one
of his legs and receiving other very bad bruises. He was taken up of
course, placed in a carriage and sent to his anxious mother, with a
good contribution from the people to help repair the damage.

I did not run away, I felt some as Paul did when requested to leave
the prison and would not. I recollect that in this instance I was
rather one of the privileged. I rode to the ground in a buggy with the
Supervisor, the distance being about two miles. This was the second
time I had taken a meal outside of the institution since I entered it,
and it seemed quite refreshing; more especially so, as we had such a
dinner as is never got up in the institution. I remember of eating very
heartily.

There is one thing which, perhaps, I should have noticed before, but
it will come in quite as well at this stage of my narrative. About the
third day after I entered the asylum I was sitting alone in a very
melancholy state of mind, when I saw a man approaching me which I
recognized as an old friend in 1848 and 1849, in Columbia county. I was
shocked, I felt both glad and sorry to see him. I rose, he took me very
cordially by the hand and said, “Brother Chase, how do you do?” I felt
greatly embarrassed, choked up, turned either red or pale in the face,
could not tell which, did not know what to say—I dare not say I was
well, for I was in the asylum as a patient, and I did not feel sick, so
I stammered out—“_Col. Drier_.”

I had known him when under very different circumstances—I was the
pastor of the church in that neighborhood, he had often heard me
preach, he was also a Minister of the gospel, and now the steward of
the asylum, and was at the time I met him on the hall. He said a few
kind words to me, which I do not now recollect, neither do I recollect
what I said to him, if I said anything.

I wish here to record, that Col. Drier, the steward of that
institution, is a _man_, a _christian_, and a _gentleman_, always mild,
always sincere, patient to hear all the requests of the patients, and
though he could not gratify all their whims, he nevertheless so treated
them, that all loved him, and as soon as he appears on one of the
halls, the patients flock round him like hungry children round their
mother. I never asked him for a thing that he denied me. I never heard
of his doing a low or a wrong act in connection with that institution.

The fall passed away, and I began to be restless that I had heard
nothing from my family since my daughter left in July, except one
letter soon after she left; this was from Sandy Hill, where her mother
was living at that time. A letter soon came, however, from Illinois,
stating that her mother was with her in that country.

On receiving this letter my mind was greatly relieved; the mother was
now with her only child, and though widely separated, I felt perfectly
easy regarding the welfare of my family; I was only in distress that I
could not be with them.

How often did I think that could the doctors enter into my feelings for
one hour, and make them their own, that I should soon be dismissed from
the asylum. But I now made up my mind to never say anything more about
leaving, as the doctor once told me that my own opinion would weigh
nothing with them in relation to my own case. I saw that a patient was
a blank in all matters of opinion.

It is the custom in the institution, when the doctor enters the hall,
for the inspection of the patients, for the attendant to walk by his
side; and unless the patient is an old fixture, and not accounted much
insane, the doctor asks the attendant the questions he wants answered,
instead of the patient. This is, no doubt, right in many cases,
but to apply the rule as it is generally applied, great injustice
is frequently done to the patient. The questions for instance are:
“How does he sleep nights?” “What is his appetite?” “Does he talk
much?” “What is the state of his bowels?” “Does he take his medicine
regularly?” The patient stands by, makes no reply; the attendant
answers all these questions. I have stood by and heard the attendant
answer these questions in relation to my own case. “Does he sleep
well?” “Pretty well,” is the reply of the ignoramus, looking blank at
the same time, and why should he not look blank? What did _he_ know
of the patient during the last night? The patient was locked up in a
room perhaps two hundred feet from the room of the attendant, and the
attendant fast asleep, while, perhaps, the patient laid and rolled from
side to side upon his couch, and never shut his eyes during the whole
night. I have heard this answer concerning myself, “_pretty well_,”
when I knew I had not slept one wink; and so with about all the
answers.

There are a good many little things in themselves, like this, that are
very annoying to a mind that is not insane, and yet somewhat sensitive.
Being always fearful that I might accidentally violate some rule and
thereby fall under censure, I was always on my guard, and I can now
recollect many things in which I was over particular.

One small affair I do not forget; it happened in the chapel on Sabbath
evening. The second attendant took charge of the patients on the first
hall that evening. He was an ignorant, self-conceited, over-bearing
little Irishman. I took my seat in the chapel as usual, and had always
supposed I knew how to behave in a church, as I had been a preacher
forty years. I threw my arm upon the back of the seat, and as service
had not yet commenced, cast my eye over my right shoulder; I had no
particular object in view; he saw it, and thundered out, “Chase, turn
yourself about, and sit up in your seat.” All in the room heard, of
course. I turned my head slowly around as though I did not hear, but I
felt; yes, I felt that if it had been any where else than in a lunatic
asylum, and he had said it, he would have wished it had not been him;
but I never mentioned it to him afterwards; and as he and the first
attendant soon after this had a falling out, he was discharged and went
to Canada.

This first attendant of the first hall is also supervisor of a number
of halls. His name is D. Pritchards, and a better man cannot be found
for the place he occupies. I never saw him in a surly or wrong mood of
mind, always cheerful, always kind, never over-bearing, never delighted
in afflicting a patient; if he had any fault, it was that he was too
fraid of afflicting or crossing a patient, or an attendant under him.
The whole house like him on all the halls. I feel glad to give him this
tribute of regard and respect, as he always treated me with a brotherly
kindness, and did all for me that lay in his power. I find he occupies
the same position in the institution still, and I hope the day may be
distant when he shall leave.

My object in writing this sketch, is not to find fault or pick flaws
with this institution, for there is no institution in the land of what
ever kind or character, but has its enemies—this is all understood;
but because this is so, it does not follow that an institution cannot
become rotten, and that the people have no right to investigate its
secret workings.

The winter came, the winter of 1864 and 1865, it was December, I had
been occupying a small room by myself for the last three months, there
were some reasons why I did not like it as well as some other rooms,
yet I did not mention it as I liked it much better than the dormitory
where I spent the winter.

Unexpectedly to me, the supervisor took me by the arm and led me to a
very fine room in the center of the hall, the best room on that floor,
having a fine clothespress and all other conveniences. He said to me I
was to have that room. I could not see the point; I felt encouraged,
for it seemed to me that they would not let me have that room long,
so I somehow conjured up in my mind the notion that they meant to
discharge me soon, and as another man wanted the room I had been
occupying, they would give me this as it was not occupied, for a few
days until I were discharged—this was a fine picture I drew in my mind,
and one that suited me—little thinking at the time that this room was
to be my home for just one year—which was the fact.

I put down my own carpet, had a good field bedstead and good rocking
chair; a washstand, bowl and pitcher, which the rooms did not generally
have—a good new bible was presented to me; a looking glass and a lock
on my clothespress. I could not complain of my accommodations, and
anywhere but in an asylum, I could have been quite happy.

As to the beds of the institution, no fault could be found with them.
First, a straw tick, always kept well filled; next, a good mattress,
three good cotton sheets and coverlids plenty, besides always next
to the sheets, thick woollen blankets for winter; the outside one
invariable a white counterpane; the pillows were not all of feathers;
they were mostly of hair; mine, for the last year, were feathers.

About this time a tall, white-haired, well dressed man came on to
the hall, acting very cheerful, and I saw all hailed him as an old
acquaintance. He seemed to be perfectly at home. I soon learned, by
his conversation, that he had come of his own accord alone; he had
been there the year before as a patient, and having wintered well, and
got quite fleshy, he left; but he thought the asylum would be a good
place to winter in again. So he came back; put himself under the care
of the doctor; gave him his check on the bank for nine hundred dollars
as security for his keeping, and commenced operations under high
encouragements.

It was not long before he began to complain that they would kill him
with medicine; this was something he had not bargained for, as he was
not sick but came to spend the winter in a quiet way with those he
knew, as he had no family, his wife had died and he was left alone. He
remonstrated against taking the medicine, but all was in vain. I told
him it was “good enough for him, if after he had been there once and
knew what he knew about the institution, to come here again of his own
accord, was a mark of madness.”

He would take the medicine, then swear, and curse the doctor for
forcing him to take medicine which he did not need. He finally made up
his mind that they meant to kill him with medicine, as they had got
his money. It was most aggravating it is true, for the man needed no
medicine, but either the medicine or the thought of it threw him into
great agitation of mind, and not having a very strong mind he became
nearly distracted.

Fearing that they meant to kill him by dosing him, he shut himself
into his room, put his bed against the door, and barred it the best
he could. The attendants found the next morning his door barred, and
all fast, they of course burst it open, and such an outcry was never
heard! He thought then of course he was a gone case. He roared and
blubbered—but there was no use, he had to take the medicine.

He was now removed into the dormitory with other patients, in the same
room. He finally concluded to take the matter into his own hands—he let
me into the secret. It was to take the medicine in his mouth and walk
carelessly away to his room or to the washroom and spit it out; he was
very successful in this. I suppose for three months he did not swallow
a table spoonful; yet it was given him three times a day. In the spring
his son came and took him away: he went cursing the institution.

The asylum was now very full; some enlargements were made for patients.
Some time in the fore part of this winter, as near as I can now judge,
I saw a poor skeleton of a man come into the hall leaning on the arm of
a man on one side, and on the other on the arm of a lady; he looked
haggard, and I thought he was in the last stages of consumption.

They led him to one of the dormitories and placed him on a bed. I
thought it strange that they would leave such a man on the first hall,
as the sick and feeble were generally assigned to other apartments;
I soon learned the cause of this. He was a merchant from West Port,
Essex county, and a man of some means; his disease was dyspepsia. He
was advised to go to Utica asylum for a cure, as the doctors there were
so very skillful. He thought it like any other hospital, that he could
stay as long as he pleased, and if things did not work favorably he
could leave when he pleased; and as his friends brought him there, and
he paid his own bills, they wanted him left on the first floor.

His friends left, and he was left there weak and feeble as a child; I
think I never saw before a man's limbs so very small. I pitied him;
I knew he and his folks were sold, but I dared not tell him so. His
appetite was very poor, and what he did eat distressed him, and he was
in the habit of vomiting it up. He had a habit, when his food hurt him,
of placing his head down lower than his body, which he thought helped
him to vomit.

The doctor forbade his using any means to assist him to vomit. He was
sly, and would vomit out of the window to prevent detection. He was
soon after removed to another hall; and on passing through that hall a
few days afterwards, I found him bound down to his seat with straps, to
prevent his getting his head down. He looked wishfully at me. I pitied
him, but dared not say anything to him; here he stayed for a long time.

At length he was brought back upon the first floor. His wife came to
see him, but the doctor did not permit them to meet. He wrote to his
family and read the letter to the doctor, representing things all
right, but had a slip of paper prepared, counteracting what was in the
letter; in this slip he begged them to come and take him away; this
slip he put into the envelope with the letter.

His wife came, and demanded to see him; she did see him; she resolved
to take him home, but the doctor remonstrated and she left him. This
afflicted the man. He finally got some better, and walked out with
me; for at this time I had my liberty to go out alone, when I pleased
and where I pleased. He could not walk far at a time, but was anxious
to walk out every day. At length he would stay out after I went in,
sometimes for half an hour—he began now to lay his plans to run away,
as the doctor would not give his consent to let him go. He one day
stole the keys, and came very near effecting his escape, when he was
detected. He did not deny the fact, but told them that he did it to
get away; that he had done nothing to forfeit his liberty; that he was
under no obligations to them; that he paid his own way.

His mind was now intent on leaving; he had written home for money,
and it had been intercepted by the doctor; he resolved to go without
money. He walked out with me as usual; he prepared himself by putting
on all the clothes he could. I knew nothing of his plan; he lingered;
I went in; he did not come in, and has never been in since. He went
down to the depot by a back street, went to Troy, found friends there
to help him on, and got home safe. I doubt whether he will ever go to
Utica again to be cured of dyspepsia.

And though this man has a perfect dread of the asylum, there are men,
however, who like the institution, and think it the best place in the
world. It has been urged that those who so dislike the institution are
those whose minds are not right; they are a little insane still, that
if they were perfectly sane they would like it—that those who like it
are sane men.

Let us see how this matter stands; they that like it are sane men,
and those who dislike it are insane. I know a man who likes the
institution, who has been in it as a patient for fifteen years; this
man is known very widely, in Utica, in Hoosick and elsewhere; his name
is Mosely. Is he a sane man? What does he say? He says: “It is the best
institution on the globe, and that Dr. Gray and himself and his Bible,
and the State of New York, the asylum, his farm in Hoosick, and his new
house, are all one thing; that they all perfectly agree, and that it is
the best institution on the globe.” Now who can resist such an argument
as this? Such are the kind of sane men who like the institution.

That there are men who work in and around the institution, and have for
years, who see nothing very exceptionable in any of its departments,
may be all true. So there may be men who are employed in and around
State prisons, who see nothing very exceptionable in them. But this
proves nothing at all.

There is a vast difference between skinning or being skinned. Let
those who have been in and around the institution, and think they know
all about it, let them go in as patients, let them go through all the
degrees of initiation, until they get a diploma, then ask them whether
they can recommend it to the world as the best institution on the globe?

As I wish to give credit for every good thing which happened during my
stay in the asylum, and as I have passed over one thing, I wish, before
I enter upon my last summer's history; to notice it.

The thing referred to, which was passed over in its proper connection,
was our Thanksgiving dinners of 1863 and 1864. I was on the fourth
hall at the dinner of 1863. I think it was about the 20th of November.
I thought it a grand dinner; fifty turkeys were dressed, stuffed and
cooked for that dinner for the patients.

I took a kind of philosophical view of it when it came on the table.
The first thought was, after taking a glance at the whole thing, _what
a contrast_. Now it must be understood that our common every day fare
was a very stereotyped edition. It was bread and meat, and meat and
bread, with a little butter, twice a day, and cheese, pickle, and pie,
Sundays only; and I was always glad when Sunday came, for the sake of
the pickle and cheese, though the cheese was a very small piece. I am
not fault finding, only noticing the contrast. There was a fine roasted
turkey on each end of the table, bread, butter, cheese, pickle, pie of
the richest kind, roast beef; then came on nuts, confectioneries in
abundance, with raisins and apples.

I think I must have been a little “luny” just at that time, for I
confess I was so afraid that some of us would over-eat of this rich
dinner, that ten to one if we did not have half a dozen deaths in less
than eight and forty hours afterwards; for this dinner was not confined
to one or two halls, but was general. At all events, I was so afraid
of making myself sick, that I was foolishly reserved in eating; I ate
scarcely any of the turkey, and, by the way, I never liked turkey; I
ate no pie, I thought it was too rich; I made my dinner of stuffing,
sauce, bread, butter, and confectioneries. I was not sick, and I heard
of no deaths on that account.

The next Thanksgiving dinner, of 1864, was on the first hall. It did
not make so deep an impression on my mind as the first, for it was not
exactly like it, we had no turkey, nor butter for that dinner; but we
did have a very good dinner, with a dessert and confectioneries to
close up with.

Another spring now came, the spring of 1865; I had made up my mind to
go no more out to work; I had got above work by this time, though I was
better able to work now than I was the year before; yet if I had been
ordered out, I suppose I should have went, but very little would have
been the work I should have done; as it was, however, I was not ordered
out.

I had quit the dining room six months before this, except to eat my
meals, as the Supervisor had told me I need not work there longer
unless I pleased; so I quit it, and took to sweeping the hall for
exercise every morning after breakfast. There were a number of men on
the hall who were excessive eaters, but not one chore could be got out
of them, except to make their beds and sweep their rooms.

The floor of the hall had to be scrubbed and washed every Monday
morning; this gave us a little good exercise. The cleaning of house
came on this spring, as usual; this is quite a business; the patients
can have employment in this for a number of days. While this is going
on no visitors are received. The windows are all taken out and washed,
the mouldings and casings all scoured, the bedsteads all taken out of
their rooms, the beds put into a pile and the bedsteads scoured and
thoroughly saturated with kerosene, to prevent the vandals from eating
up the patients. All the rooms are then whitewashed.

The bedsteads are prepared with strips of sheet-iron instead of cords
to lay the beds on; this, perhaps, is an improvement.

One particular incident I cannot pass over without recording. Some time
in the course of the fall or winter of 1864-5—I cannot be particular
here as to the exact time—Dr. Gray came on the hall accompanied by a
man in regimentals; a dark, curly black-haired man, rather slim, but
carrying a decided look and apparently a firm will, and, as I inspected
him from a distance, he looked to me, as though he could hew a man in
pieces with all the _sang froid_ of a Roman gladiator.

The doctor introduced him as Dr. Shantz, a surgeon from the army, and
from this time was to be the attending physician on this side of the
house. I had dreaded the one we had before, but now I thought we had
got a Rehoboam, who declared “his little finger should be thicker than
his father's loins; that whereas his father had chastised them with
whips, he would chastise them with scorpions.”

Such were the views I had of Dr. Shantz when I first saw him. He
commenced his rounds of visitation, but I shunned him as far as I was
able to do so, till some observed it, and thought I treated the doctor
with great coldness. I was afraid of him.

At length we came in contact. I found he had a good mind, penetrating
and scientific; I found he loved books, and was a good observer of
nature, and withal was not an infidel; my fears fled. I soon found that
he could not only reason, but was willing to hear others. After I had
thoroughly weighed him in my own mind, I resolved on an experiment. For
more than a year and a half I had now taken medicine three times a day,
and was now, besides this, drinking strong beer before every meal, as
to the medicine I had no doubt but it injured me, and I felt that I was
like a candle burning at both ends, the pressure of the asylum on the
one hand and the medicine on the other.

And so I contrived to evade taking it, by spitting it out. I confess I
did this for more than three months, and I knew I felt the better for
it. I will not stop now to argue the question of the right or wrong of
my course, as I was not treated as a moral agent. I simply state facts
as they were.

I told the doctor I would like to have an interview with him in my room
if he would admit it. He said he would do so, and not long after this
he came to my room and gave me a fair opportunity to tell him all that
was in my heart.

I gave him a brief history of my coming into the asylum, the causes
that led to it as far as I knew, what my feelings and state were
before, and at the time I came there; how matters had gone on with
me since I had been there; what my appetite was, my general state of
health, and how I felt at that time; and closed by telling him that it
appeared strange to me, that the manner of doctoring here should be
different from the manner out of the institution.

In this particular I referred to the continuance of medicine of the
same kind for a year or more, three times a day, without reference to
the state of the patient. I told him that it appeared to me that when a
man was well and appetite good, he did not need medicine; and finally
begged him to take it all off.

The medicine was dropped off, and oh! how I rejoiced, not that I had
swallowed it for the last three months, yet the idea that it was no
longer offered me was a great relief. The bloating of my bowels and
limbs ceased, and I felt much better. When it was no longer offered
me, I felt like a new man, and hope sprang up in my mind. The beer was
still continued; after a while I introduced this subject to the doctor.

I told him I felt quite well, and I could not see that I needed beer
for my health, and begged him to take it off. He thought I was mistaken
about its not benefitting me, but said he would take off the beer and
substitute a little sherry, with an egg, three times a day. I begged
to be excused from taking the wine; so he took off the beer, and from
that time until I left the institution, which was perhaps three or four
months, I took nothing, and I know I felt the better for it.

So I found in Dr. Shantz a “man, a gentleman and a friend.” I could
not have been more kindly treated by an own brother than by him. When
I left the institution, I felt that I had left behind a friend and a
benefactor. I think him just the man for such an institution. I have
had one very agreeable visit with him since I left the asylum.[C]

[C] Dr. Shantz said to me, at the time of this interview, that I ought
never to have been sent to the asylum, and that if he had been one of
the physicians who examined my case before I was sent there, he should
not have admitted it.

He left the institution at Utica since I left there, went to Minnesota
and founded an asylum in that State, of which he takes the charge.
I understand he is doing well. If I am so unfortunate as to go to a
lunatic asylum again, I beg my friends to take me to Minnesota and
place me under the charge of Dr. Shantz, but never take me to Utica.




CHAPTER VIII.


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.