MARCH
March.
At last I have my trunk: why it should have been
detained so long I cannot conceive. I feel rich in the possession of the
little needful articles it contains.
I enquired of Dr. Steeves, some time ago, if he had not in the Asylum a
supply of necessary articles for our use, telling him I wanted a paper
of pins very much. He said they were for the indigent patients, so I got
none. My son, Tom, gave me some small silver some weeks ago, but I was
no better off. No one would do me an errand outside. I begged Mrs. Mills
at different times to buy me some pins, and to buy me an extra quart of
milk. I was so hungry for milk, but she said it was against the rules of
the house. She gives me now a glass nearly full at bed time, with one
soda biscuit. This is the only luxury we have here; some others get the
same. It is because I have tried to make her think we are her children,
left in her care. I said to her, "'Feed my lambs,' you are our
Shepherd;" and she is if she only knew it. I have quoted the words of
Him whose example we should all follow: "Do good unto others." I am
watching over those poor lambs now, to see how they are tended, and I
will tell the Commissioners in whose care the Asylum is left by the
Province. The people of New Brunswick suppose they attend to it. The
Commissioners have placed it in the care of Dr. Steeves, and they
believe him quite capable of conducting it properly. Is this the way it
should be done? I don't think so.
I observed Miss Fowler today holding her hand to her eye, which is
looking inflamed; she is blind; a well-educated, delicate, gentle-woman.
I take more than usual interest in her for that reason. I often sit
beside her and she tells me of her mother, and wants me to go home with
her to number one. She does not seem a lunatic, and she is neglected. I
tied her eye up with my own handkerchief, and a wet rag on it. I did not
mean to offend, I had done so before and it was not observed. Mrs. Mills
came along just as I had done it; she jerked it off in anger, and threw
it on the floor. I said to her, "That is not a Christian act," but she
pays no heed; perhaps her morning work makes her feel cross.
I come back to my own room and write again; what shall I do? I
cannot—how can I stay here any longer! and I cannot get away, locked in
as prisoners in our rooms at night, fed like paupers. If I were
committed to the penitentiary for a crime, I would not be used any worse
than I am here. My heart longs for sympathy, and has it not. I have
tried to soften Mrs. Mills' heart, and win her sympathy, but I cannot,
and I cannot withhold my pity for those poor invalids who fare even
worse than I.
March 13.
I must write this while fresh in my mind, for fear I
may forget. There is a Miss Short here—a fair-haired, nice-looking
girl; she stands up and reads in the Testament as if she were in
Sunday-school, recites poetry, and tries to play on the piano. I did not
think her much out of order when she came, but she is now. She has grown
steadily worse. Her father came to see her, and she cried to go home
with him. I wished very much to tell him to take her home, but Mrs.
Mills did not leave them, and I dared not speak to him. She has grown so
much worse, she tears her dress off, so they have to put leather
hand-cuffs on her wrists so tight they make her hands swell. I say, "Oh,
Mrs. Mills, don't you see they are too tight, her hands look ready to
burst—purple with blood." She paid no heed: "It does not hurt her
any." Yesterday she tied a canvas belt round her waist so tight that it
made my heart ache to look at it. I am sure it would have stopped my
breath in a short time; they tied her to the back of the seat with the
ends of it.
March 17.
Another poor victim has come to our ward today—a
black-eyed, delicate-looking girl. She looked so sad, I was drawn to
her at once. I sat beside her in Mrs. Mills' absence, and enquired the
cause of her trouble; she said her food gave her pain—she is dyspeptic.
If the Doctor would question the patients and their friends as to the
cause of their insanity, they might, as in other cases of illness, know
what remedy to apply. This dear child has been living at Dr. Wm.
Bayards' three years—chambermaid—that is enough to assure me she is a
good girl. I think she wears her dress too tight. I unloosened her laces
and underskirts to make them easy; they are all neat and tidy, as if she
had come from a good home.
Another day is here. That poor girl is in great trouble yet. When I went
out into the hall this morning, she was kneeling by the door; she laid
her cheek on the bare floor, praying for her sins to be forgiven,
murmuring something of those who had gone before. I cannot think she has
sinned; poor child! she has lost her health in some way; she has
transgressed some law of nature. I think it has been tight lacing that
caused some of the trouble, for she sat up on the floor when I invited
her to stand up for fear some one would open the door and walk over her,
and rubbed the calf of her leg, saying it was all numb. Anything too
tight causes pain and distress by interrupting the free circulation of
the blood. She is so pitiful and sad! How could Mrs. Mills speak so
unkindly to her, pushing her with her foot to make her rise up? She
treats them like wicked school-boys who have done something to torment
her and merit punishment. I cannot but pity Mrs. Mills, for this is an
uncomfortable position to fill, and if she has always obeyed her
Superintendent, she has done her duty, and deserves a retired allowance.
The younger nurses are all learning from her, and will grow
hard-hearted, for they think she is one to teach them; they come to her
for help in case of emergency, and they go all together, and are able to
conquer by main strength what might in most cases be done by a gentle
word. "A soft answer turneth away wrath;" I have known this all my life,
but I never felt it so forcibly as now.
There is a lady here from Westmoreland; her hair is cut short, and her
eyes are black and wild. The first time I spoke to her she struck me,
lightly, and I walked away; I knew she was crazy. After I had met her a
few times and found she was not dangerous, I ventured to sit down beside
her. She was lying on her couch in a room off the dining-room; she lay
on her back knitting, talking in a rambling way: "Do you know what kind
of a place this is? Aren't you afraid I'll kill you? I wish I was like
you." I smoothed her hair with my hand as I would a child. I thought,
perhaps, she had done some great wrong. She said she had killed her
mother. Often before, I had stood beside her, for I looked at her a
number of times before I ventured to sit by her. I had no recollection
of seeing her when I first came, till I found her in this room. I
suppose she was so violent they shut her in here to keep her from
striking or injuring any one. I could not discover the cause of her
trouble, but I comforted her all I could, and she has always been
friendly with me since, and listened to my words as if I were her
mother. She has been here a long time. Last Friday—bathing day—two
young, strong nurses were trying to take her from her room to the
bath-room (I suppose she was unwilling to be washed, for I have noticed
when I saw her in that room on the couch, she was not clean as she
should be—her clothes did not have a good air about them). The nurses
were using force, and she struggled against it. They used the means they
often use; I suppose that is their surest method of conquering the
obstinate spirit that will rise up to defend itself in any child or
woman. She was made more violent by her hair being pulled; one nurse had
her hands, and the other caught her by her hair, which is just long
enough to hold by. They made her walk. I was walking near them when I
saw one seize her by the hair; she tried to bite her on the arm. I
started forward, and laid my hand on her arm, with—"Don't, my poor
child, don't do so; be gentle with her, girls, and she will go." She
looked at me, and her face softened; that angry spirit melted within
her, and they went on to the bath-room. Shortly after that I met her
looking fresh and nice; she was in Mrs. Mills' room, in her
rocking-chair. Sometimes I look in there to see if that chair is empty,
to have a rock in it myself. I think it better for her health to knit in
the rocking-chair than to lay down and knit or read either, so I leave
her there. Perhaps she has read too much and injured her brain; if so, I
would not let her read so much.
March 20.
Poor Mrs. Mills has served thirty-two years here,
and has become hardened as one will to any situation or surroundings.
She is too old a woman, and her temper has been too much tried. She is
tidy, and works well for so old a woman, but she is not fit for a nurse.
If she were a British soldier, and had served her country so long, she
would be entitled to a pension.
Poor Miss Short! Last week I saw her lying on the floor nearly under the
bed, her dress torn, her hair disheveled. How can her friends leave her
so long! Some ladies came to see her a short time ago, and as they left
the hall I heard her call them to take her with them. If they knew all
as I do, they would not leave her here another day.
There is a Miss Snow here from St. Stephens. I remember distinctly when
I first came, she raved all the time. I did not dare to look in her
bed-room.
I must write something of myself today. I can look back and see plainly
all my journey here. The day may come when I shall be laid away in the
grave, and my boys—the dear boys I have loved so well—will look over
my trunk and find this manuscript; they will then perhaps believe I am
not crazy. I know Dr. Steeves tells them I am a lunatic yet. They will
weep over this, as they think of the mother they have left here to die
among strangers. It would be happiness to die surrounded by my friends,
to be able to tell them they have only to live well that they may die
well. To be true to ourselves and to our fellows, is all the good we
need. That I have always striven to do, does now my spirit feed.
I have been so near the grave, the border land of heaven. I heard
angels' voices; they talked with me even as they did with John on the
Isle of Patmos, when they said to him, "Worship God who sent me."
I was very much alone, engaged in writing a book on the laws of health.
My desire to write increased; I became so absorbed with my work I forgot
to eat, and, after a day or two, I seemed to think I had done some
wrong. The angel voices whispered me that I must fast and pray; I know I
had plenty of food in my closet, but I don't remember eating any more. I
fasted eight days, and felt comfortable and happy most of the time. I
sang to myself, "O death, where is thy sting, where is thy victory,
boasting grave." I wept for my own sins, and wished to die, the world to
save. I was trying to perform some ancient right or vow, one day, and my
sons came in. I ordered them away, but they would not go. They said they
would bring me home, for Lewis, who was living with me near Boston, sent
for my son, T. M. Pengilly, who is proprietor of a drug store in St.
John. I suppose he discovered I was fasting, and saw me failing so fast
he telegraphed to Tom to come to his assistance. I remember I kissed him
when he came, asked him what he came for, and bade him leave me. I know
now how unreasonable that was, for we had no other room but Lewis'
bed-room, and in it there was no fire. We had rented rooms, as Lewis
took his meals at a boarding-house near. Poor boys, they went in and
out; it seemed to me they did not eat or sleep for some days; I thought
they were as crazy as I was in the cars.
They brought Dr. Hunter to see me. I had been acquainted with him some
time previous. I told him I was sorry they had brought him to see me,
for I needed no physicians, I only needed to fast and pray. "I know you
are a good man, Dr. Hunter, but you need not come to see me again; I
will be all right in time; God and His angels will keep me always."
These were my words to him; I know not what prompted me; I suppose it
was my insanity. I think I told them to nail up the doors and leave me
there till summer. That was the last week of October. My poor boys, how
tried and worried they must have been. They watched me night and day
alternately. I told them I had not talked with them enough of my own
religion. I begged Tom to read the Bible and kneel and pray, but he
would not; I think he fell asleep in my rocking-chair (how often I have
wished for that rocking-chair since I came here).
On Sunday morning I heard them say, "We will go home in the first
train." Lewis went out to see about it, and I told Tom I wished to take
the sacrament, and he should give it to me, for he would yet be bishop
of St. John—"St. Thomas" he should be called. I can but laugh when I
think of it now, but it was very real to me then. I had been a member—a
communicant—of St. James' Church, Episcopal, some years; I had taken my
boys to Sunday School, to receive that religious instruction which I was
not qualified to give. They had accompanied me to church, always, but I
felt as if I had not spoken to them on religious subjects as I ought to
have done.
It is fourteen years, I think, since I was christened in St. James'
Church, by Rev. William Armstrong, whose voice I always loved to hear in
the beautiful service of our church. I was confirmed by Bishop John
Fredricton, in Trinity Church. I well remember the pressure of that
reverend hand upon my head, and the impressive words of his address to
us who were that day received into the church—"Let your inner life be
as good or better than your outer life, if you would be worthily known
as His children." He desired the young men in particular to take up some
useful study, to occupy their leisure hours—something outside of their
every-day business of life. What better words could have been said; I
would that the young men of the present day should often hear those
words and accept them as a rule of their life. I float away from
thoughts of my insanity to the days when I was at home going to church
with my children. I must return to my subject.
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.
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