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.