Chapter 2

They brought the table to my bedside; I kept my eyes closed; I received the bread from the hand of one son, and the wine from the hand of the other. I tasted it, and my fast was broken. I discovered, to my great surprise, it was only toast and tea. They had improved upon my wish, and thought to feed me, their poor wasted mother. They dressed me for the journey; I would not assist them any; they had not obeyed my wish to be left alone in my room all winter; so, when I yielded to them, I left all for them to do; the only thing I did myself was to take from the closet this grey flannel dress--I had made it for traveling, before I left Lowell for Old Orchard. They did not seem to know what they were doing. I had two bonnets, but they never mentioned them, as I remember. They left my night-cap on, and tied a silk handkerchief over it. They carried me down stairs in their arms, and lifted me in the coach. After we were on our way in the cars, I found my hair was hanging down my back; I had nothing to fasten it up with, and I arranged the handkerchief to cover it. I began to feel happy with the thought of going home. I tried to cheer them, and they could not help smiling at me. I wondered they were not ashamed of me, I looked so badly. I told them not to call me mother, to say I was old Mrs. Sinnett; that they were bringing me home to my friends.

Poor boys, I wonder if they remember that journey in the cars as I do. At my request, Tom brought me a goblet of milk, at two stopping places, and when I found they had brought me to an Asylum I felt no fear; I thought I had only to ask and receive what I needed. I knew they thought me crazy, so I would not bid them good-bye, when they left me, but concluded to play lunatic. I refused to kiss Lewis when he left me, that dear boy who had watched over me so faithfully, carrying me in his arms from one car to the other. When we changed cars, he placed me in a Pullman car, and I thought I was safely hidden from something, I knew not what. I only know I was so happy while I was with my sons; nothing troubled me. I sang and chatted to Lewis; he would not leave me a moment; he kneeled beside my berth, and I called him my best of sons, and smoothed his hair with my hand. All my journey through I heard the voice of angels whispering to me, "Hold on by the hand of your sons; keep them with you and you will be safe; they are your sons, they are the sons of God,"--and they are. All who do their duty as they were doing, to the best of their ability, are the children of God; for, if we do the best we can, angels can do no more.

I thought I was perfectly safe here, and if the Doctor had given me the food which should be given to an invalid, or if he had granted any requests I made to him in a reasonable manner, I should not have been prompted to write these lines or recall those memories of the past.

One thought brings another. When, on the morning after my arrival, I begged for milk and biscuit, they refused, and then brought a bowl of common looking soup with black looking bakers' bread. I refused to eat it; if it had been beef tea with soda biscuit in it, I would have taken it myself. They did not live to coax crazy people. Mrs. Mills called in her help, and it did not need many, I was so weak; they held me back, and she stuffed the soup down my throat.

When I came here first, I told the nurse my name was Mary Huestis; that was my maiden name; I hardly know why I prefer that to my sons' name, for they are sons no mother need be ashamed of. My prayers for them have always been, that they might be a benefit to their fellows; that they grow to be good men; to be able to fill their places in the world as useful members of society, not living entirely for themselves, but for the good of others, an honor to themselves and a blessing to the world. If we live well, we will not be afraid to die. "Perfect love casteth out fear." I must write no more today.

March 24.--Two years ago today I was watching by the bedside of my dying child. Driven from our home by the fire, I was tarrying for her to complete her education in the city of Lowell, which is second to no city in the world for its educational privileges. Free schools, with books free to all its children, and excellent teachers. To Lowell schools and to my darling child, I must here pay this tribute. The day after her death, the principal of the school she attended addressed the school with these words--"Clara Pengilly has attended this school two years, and I have never heard a fault found with her; there has never been a complaint brought to me by teacher or schoolmates concerning her." Her teacher brought me two large bouquets to ornament the room at her funeral, sent by the pupils and teachers of the school where she had been a happy attendant, for she loved her teachers, and always told me how good and kind they were to her; no wonder every one loved her, for she had a loving heart and a nature so full of sunshine she could not be unhappy. We had boarded eight months with a lady whose only daughter was blind from her birth. Clara loved to lead her out for a walk, and read to her at home; no pleasure was complete unless shared with her blind friend, who was younger than herself, and whose life she could brighten by her willingness to devote her unoccupied time to her service. Dear Lorelle, we all loved her for her goodness, and pitied her for her infirmity. The boarders and others at her home sent flowers too. Her mother arranged a green vine and flowers around her face and in her hand. When she had finished, she said, "That is the last we can do for you, Clara; I know she was so fond of flowers, she would be pleased if she could see them." I cared not for the flowers, I only knew that loving heart was stilled in death, and I was left alone; with an effort, I said, "Lorelle will never know a truer friend than she who lies here." My tears unbidden flow; why do I go back in memory to those sorrowful days? I know she is happy now. Let me draw the veil of charity over the past with all its troubles, remembering only the many acts of kindness done for us by our friends at that time.

It is this waiting so long a prisoner, begging to be liberated. My hands will not remain folded or my brain idle. I must write again of poor Miss Snow. I ventured into her room, feeling anxious to help her by coaxing her into a better frame of mind. She is wasted to a shadow; I am sure if she had any food to tempt her to eat she would grow stronger; some nice bread and milk at bed time would help her to sleep. I soothed her as I would a child in trouble, until she ceased her raving, and then questioned her to discover the cause of her disease. She is a well-educated, intelligent lady. In her ravings she often says she is the only lady in the hall, and seems to have a temper of her own, which has been made more than violent by her stay in this ward. She is very fond of drawing small pencil sketches, and works at them late at night, which I think is certainly injurious. I conclude she is the victim of late hours and fancy work; she acknowledges she used to sew until after twelve, working for bazaars. If the ladies would only come here and study the needs of these poor victims of insanity, and make better arrangements for their welfare, they would find a higher calling than exhausting their energies working for bazaars, and leaving us to the care of those who care nothing for us and will not learn. Too much temper and too much indolence rule here. I go in sometimes and coax her to stop talking and lie down. I cover her up to keep her warm; she is blue with the cold. If I could keep her in a nice warm room, with kind treatment and nourishing food! She could not eat that horrible, sour bakers' bread with poor butter. Sometimes her food would set in her room a long time. I guess she only eats when she is so starved she can't help it. I eat because I am determined to live until I find some one who will help me out of this castle on the hill, that I may tell the Commissioners all about it. Sometimes I term it a college, in which I am finishing my education, and I shall graduate some day--when will it be? My impatient spirit chafes at this long delay. I sit at the grated window and think, if I were one of those little pigeons on the window sill I would be happy; content to be anything if only at liberty.

April.--The friends of Miss Short have been here and taken her home, and word returned that she is better. I am thankful to think she is with her mother, and I do not see her so improperly treated; it made me feel wretched to think of her.

Poor Katy Dugan's friends came one day. I watched my chance and told one of them to let her mother know she was getting worse and was not well treated. I had many heart-aches for that girl; I scarcely know why. They must have seen she looked worse; her dress of flannel, trimmed with satin of the same color, which looked so nice when she came, was filthy with spots of gruel and milk they had been forcing her to eat. This day, I remember, was worse than common days of trouble. I had been excited by seeing one of the most inoffensive inmates pushed and spoken to very roughly, without having done any wrong. They attempted to comb that poor girl's hair; she will not submit, begs and cries to go down there. I go to the bath-room door to beg them to be gentle with her. Mrs. Mills slammed the door in my face. She is vexed at any expression of sympathy. Again I hear that pitiful cry, and I go up the hall to see what the trouble is. They had taken her in a room to hold her on the floor, by those heavy, strong nurses sitting on her arms and feet, while they force her to eat. I return, for I can't endure the sight. I met Mrs. Mills, with a large spoon, going to stuff her as she did me. (I was not dyspeptic; I had fasted and would have eaten if they had given me milk, as I requested.) She was angry at me again; she ordered me to my room, and threatened to lock me in. What have I done to merit such treatment? How can I endure this any longer!

April 3.--Yesterday was election day of the Aldermen of the city of St. John. Dr. Steeves came in this morning and congratulated me very pleasantly that my son was elected Alderman. I thanked him and said I was not at all surprised, for he was very popular in his ward; always kind and courteous to every one, he had made many friends. He must know I am perfectly sane, but I can't persuade him to tell my son I am well enough to go home.

My dear Lewis has gone eight hundred miles beyond Winnipeg surveying. I am sorry to have him go so far. Will I ever see him again? But I feel so badly when he comes to see me, and refuses to take me home with him; and I say to myself, "I would die here alone rather than that he, my darling boy, should be shut in here and treated as I am;" for his temper, if so opposed, would make him a maniac. I have dreamed of seeing him looking wretched and crying for fresh air, for he was suffocating. All the time I had those troubled dreams, I was smothering with gas coming in my room through the small grating intended to admit heat to make us comfortable, but it did not. I was obliged to open the window to be able to breathe; my lungs required oxygen to breathe when I was lying in bed, not gas from hard coal.

There is one lady whose room is carpeted and furnished well, but she is so cold she sits flat on the carpet beside the little grate, trying to be warm. She has not enough clothing on to keep her warm. Her friends call often, but they never stay long enough to know that her room is cold. They cannot know how uncomfortable she is, or what miserable food she has, for we all fare alike.

April is nearly gone. Tom has promised to come for me on Monday; I feel so happy to think I am going to be free once more. I sat on my favorite seat in the window sill, looking at those poor men working on the grounds. There were three; they did not look like lunatics, no overseer near them; they were shoveling or spading, and three ducks followed them. Fed by the All-Father's hand, they gather food for themselves; the men never disturb them; they cannot be violent. Many a farmer would be willing to give one of those men a permanent home for his services. The knowledge that this home is here for them to return to, would ensure them kind treatment at the hand of the farmer, and I am sure they would prefer life on a farm, with good palatable food and liberty, to being shut up here as prisoners and fed as paupers, as we in the ladies' ward are, without one word or look of sympathy or respect extended to us.

One day this week, I had been watching one of the men working at the strawberry beds, thinking I would like to live on a farm now, that I might cultivate those lovely berries. The Doctor came in to make his usual morning call, in the hall, with a book and pencil in his hand; that is all he ever does for us. I thought I would make him think I thought him a gentleman, which he is not, and perhaps he would be more willing to let me go home. It has taken effect. I suppose he thinks I have forgotten all the doings of the past winter, and that I will not dare to say anything against such a mighty man as he is. I am glad I have taken it down in black and white, so as not to forget the wrongs of the Province, and the wrongs of those poor neglected women, of whom I am one. I ought not to write in this manner, but my indignation overcomes me sometimes, and I cannot help it. He is a little more social now than usual, and I suggest that if he bring blackberry bushes from the field, and set them around the fence, keeping the ground irrigated round the roots, he might have as nice fruit as the cultivated. He said yes, he would send some of his men out to his farm and get some, and he left as pleasant as he came. That was the first time he ever left me without being driven away by my making some request, and being refused.

This reminds me of the day I begged so hard for a pot of Holloway's Ointment. I had asked my boys several times to bring it to me, and I thought they always forgot it. I had used it many years, not constantly, only for a little rash on my face at times; it has annoyed me very much lately. This day I had urged him all I could, and he left me, saying he had too much on his mind today. I followed him to the door, saying, "I don't want to think so ill of you, Doctor, as that you will not grant me so small a favor--a twenty-five cent favor--and I will pay for it myself."

Saturday Morning.--I am so impatient! I hardly dare to hope. Will I be free to breathe the air of heaven again, to walk out in the warmth of His sunshine? Perhaps I am punished for questioning the exact truth of that story, so long ago, that I could not quite explain to myself or believe how it could be handed down over so many years. I have stood almost where He has stood, once before in my life. "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." I have been "led by the spirit into the wilderness." Pontius Pilate is not here to say, "I find no sin in this man," but there are those here who would lock me in, and never let me set my foot outside of these walls, if they knew I was writing this with the hope of laying it before the Province.

Yesterday was bathing-day--a cold, damp April day. No steam on; I tried the radiators, but there was no hot air to come. The young teacher--in whom I was so much interested, and whose name I will not give here, as she always begged me not to mention her name--she stood with me at the radiator trying to find some heat. The Doctor came in and I say, "Doctor, can't you send up some coal, there is only a few red coals in the grate, no steam on, and we are nearly frozen?" He said, "The hard coal is all gone." "Well, send us some soft coal, wood, anything to keep us warm." He left us; no coal came till after dinner. I met one of the nurses in the next ward; I told her our wants, and she sent it by a young man who was always attentive and respectful, but we could not always find a messenger who would take the trouble to find him.

The Doctor has been in again: Mary and I were together as usual. He looked at us very pleasantly, and I said, "You will be able to send us home now soon, surely." He drew me away from her, saying, "I don't wish her to hear this. Don't you know, Mr. Ring went to Annapolis and hung himself?" "They did not watch him well," said I, and he left, thinking, I suppose, that he had silenced me effectually. I went to Mrs. Mills, and enquired about Mr. Ring, and learned that he had never been here, and was quite an old man. What had that to do with us? We have no wish to harm ourselves or any one else. I see now that is the influence he uses to induce people to leave their friends here. My son told me one day he had kept the Asylum so well the public were perfectly satisfied with him; no wonder he conducts it so well when there are so few lunatics here. I suppose he has left me here waiting for me to get satisfied too; well, I am, but as soon as I am out I shall write to Mary's mother to come for her, for I can hardly go and leave her here. I have taken her in my heart as my own; she is so good a girl, wasting her precious life here for the amusement of others--I don't see anything else in it.

St. John's Hotel, April 30.--At last I am free! Seated in my own room at the hotel, I look back at that prison on the hill. I had won a little interest in the hearts of the nurses in our ward; they expressed regret at my leaving. Ellen Regan, who was the first to volunteer me any kindness, said, "We shall miss you, Mrs. Pengilly, for you always had a cheerful word for every one." I did not bid all the patients good-bye, for I hope soon to return and stay with them. I would like so much to look after these poor women, who are so neglected. I will ask the Commissioners to allow me to remain with them, if only one year, to superintend the female department, not under the jurisdiction of the present Superintendent, but with the assistance of the Junior Physician and the nurses, who each understand the work of their own departments, and will be willing to follow my instructions. I will teach them to think theirs is no common servitude--merely working for pay--but a higher responsibility is attached to this work, of making comfortable those poor unfortunates entrusted to their care, and they will learn to know they are working for a purpose worth living for; and they will be worthy of the title, "Sisters of Mercy."

Tuesday.--I have been to the Solicitor-General, and left with him a copy of parts of my diary, and I am prepared to attest to its truth before the Board of Commissioners, whenever it shall meet. He said he was pleased to have my suggestions, as they now had the Provincial Lunatic Asylum under consideration, and assured me he would attend to it. His words and manners assure me he is a gentleman to be relied on, and I feel safe in leaving my case in his hands.

June.--I have spent three weeks in Fredericton, the capital of New Brunswick, while waiting for the Board of Commissioners to meet and discuss the affairs of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, concerning which my time at present is devoted. They are members of Government, and seem to be too busy for anything. I called on the Attorney-General, with what effect he himself best knows; it is not worth repeating here. I will only say, neither he nor his partner quite understand the courtesy due to a woman or lady. It cannot be expected of persons who are over-loaded with business, that they shall have leisure sufficient to oversee the arrangements of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, which needs, like any other household, a woman's care to make it perfect.

In my wanderings since the fire of 1877, I boarded some weeks at the Y. W. C. A. home in Boston, a beautiful institution, conducted entirely by ladies. It was a comfortable, happy home, ruled by ladies who were like mothers or friends to all its occupants, and under the supervision of a committee of ladies who visit it every week. It is such arrangements we need to perfect the working of our public institutions, where a woman's care is required as in a home. Men are properly the outside agents, but women should attend to the inner working of any home.

The Tewksbury affair of 1883, stands a disgrace to the New England States, who had so long prided themselves on their many public charitable institutions, and which have, without question, been an honor to her people.

I am sorry to say they are not all perfect, as I learned from the lips of a young man in this hotel, who looked as if he were going home to die. He had been waiting some weeks in the Boston City Hospital, until the warm weather should make his journey less dangerous in his weak state. "If I should live a hundred years, I should never get that hospital off my mind," were his words, as he lay back in his chair looking so sad; "a disagreeable, unkind nurse, a cold ward, and miserable food." His words touched a responsive chord in my heart, for my experiences had been similar to his; I can never forget them.

Let me here entreat the ladies, wherever this book may be read, that they take this work upon themselves. Rise up in your own strength, and solicit the Governor to appoint you as Commissioners, as you are over your Old Ladies' Homes. If the Governor has the authority or power to appoint those who now form the Board of Commissioners of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, he can surely invest you with the same title, and you will not any longer allow your fellow-sisters to be neglected by those who cannot understand the weakness or the misfortunes that have brought them under the necessity of being protected by the public.

Before leaving Fredericton, I called at the Government House to lay my case before His Excellency the Lieutenant Governor, hoping to awaken his sympathy in our cause, and urge him to call an early meeting of the Board. I was so anxious to return to the care of those poor feeble women I had left in the Asylum; so anxious to right their wrongs, I could not be restrained by friend or foe from finishing this work so near my heart. Some of my friends really believe me insane on the subject. There are those who can apply this to themselves, and others whose kindness and hospitality I shall ever remember with grateful pleasure. They will none of them doubt the truth of this statement.