My Dear Children and Husband:
Your letter of July eleventh arrived yesterday. It was the third I have received from home, and, indeed, is all I have received from any source since I came to the Asylum. And the one you received from me is all I have sent from here. I thank you for writing so often. I shall be happy to answer all letters from you, if you desire it, as I see you do, by your last. I like anything to relieve the monotony of my daily routine. * * *
Dr. McFarland told me, after I had been here one week, “I do not think you will remain but a few days longer.” I suspect he found me an unfit subject, upon a personal acquaintance with me. Still, unfit as I consider myself, to be numbered amongst the insane, I am so numbered at my husband’s request. And for his sake, I must, until my death, carry about with me, “This thorn in the flesh—this messenger of Satan to buffet me,” and probably, to keep me humble, and in my proper place. God grant it may be a sanctified affliction to me! I do try to bear it, uncomplainingly, and submissively. But, O! ’tis hard—’tis very hard. O, may you never know what it is to be numbered with the insane, within the walls of an insane asylum, not knowing as your friends will ever regard you as a fit companion or associate for them again, outside its walls.
O, the bitter, bitter cup, I have been called to drink, even to its very dregs, just because I choose to obey God rather than man! But, as my Saviour said, “the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?” O, yes, for thy sake, kind Saviour, I rejoice, that I am counted worthy to suffer the loss of all things, for thy sake. And thou hast made me worthy, by thine own free and sovereign grace. Yes, dear Jesus, I believe that I have learned the lesson thou hast thus taught me, that “in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.”
Yes, content, to sit at a table with twenty-four maniacs, three times a day, and eat my bread and meat, and drink my milk and water, while I remember, almost each time, how many vegetables and berries are upon my own dear table at home, and I not allowed to taste, because my husband counts me unworthy, or unfit, or unsafe, to be an inmate at his fireside and table. I eat, and retire, and pray God to keep me from complaining. My fare does not agree with my health, and so I have begged of our kind attendants, to furnish me some poor, shriveled wheat, to keep in my room, to eat raw, to keep my bowels open. This morning, after asking a blessing at the table, I retired to my own room, to eat my raw, hard wheat alone, with my pine-apple to soften it, or rather to moisten it going down. Yes, the berries I toiled so very hard to get for our health and comfort, I only must be deprived of them at my husband’s appointment. The past, O, the sad past! together with the present, and the unknown future. O, let oblivion cover the past—let no record of my wrongs be ever made, for posterity to see, for your sake, my own lawful husband.
O, my dear precious children! how I pity you! My heart aches for you. But I can do nothing for you. I am your father’s victim, and cannot escape from my prison to help you, even you—my own flesh and blood—my heart’s treasures, my jewels, my honor and rejoicing.
For I do believe you remain true to the mother who loves you so tenderly, that she would die to save you from the disgrace she has brought upon your fair names, by being stigmatised as the children of an insane mother, whom your father said he regarded as unsafe, as an inmate of your own quiet home, and, therefore, has confined me within these awful enclosures.
O, may you never know what it is to go to sleep within the hearing of such unearthly sounds, as can be heard here almost at any hour of the night! I can sleep in the hearing of it, for “so he giveth his beloved sleep.” O, children dear, do not be discouraged at my sad fate, for well doing. But be assured that, although you may suffer in this world for it, you may be sure your reward will come in the next. “For, if we suffer with him, we shall also reign with him.”
O, do commit your souls to him in well-doing for my sake, if you dare not for your own sake, for I do entreat you to let me be with you in heaven, if your father prevents it on earth.
I may not have much longer to suffer here on earth. Several in our ward are now sick in bed, and I give them more of my fruit than I eat myself, hoping that, when my turn comes to be sick, some one may thus serve me. But if not, I can bear it, perhaps better than they can, to be without any solace or comfort in sickness here, such as a friend needs. I have nothing to live for now, but to serve you, as I know of. But you can get along without me, can’t you? Pa will take care of you. Do be kind to him, and make him as happy as possible. Yes, honor your father, if he has brought such dishonor upon your name and reputation.