IN THE LUNATIC ASYLUM
O Father, we beseech Thee, sustain and comfort Thy servants who have lost the powers of reason and self-control, suffer not the Evil One to vex them, and in Thy mercy deliver them from the darkness of this world....—Prayer for Lunatics.
I passed through the spacious grounds of A—— Asylum on my way to visit the patients chargeable to our parish. A group of men were playing Rugby football, but even to the eye of the tyro there was something wrong with the game—there was no unity, no enthusiasm; some lurking sinister presence—grotesque, hideous, that made one shudder—worse than strait-waistcoat and padded-room. In conversation the lunatics struck me as no worse mentally than the rest of us outside. Most of them complained of unlawful detention, and begged pathetically for freedom. "It is a dreadful place; why should I be kept here? We have just had a harvest festival, but I'm not thankful. What have we to do with harvest festivals?"
"I am quite well," said a tall, powerful-looking man; "I assure you there is nothing the matter with me," and as I was chronicling the fact in my notebook a fiendish light blazed in his eyes—the hate of hates, red-gleaming with fury and malice, as if all the devils in hell were mocking behind his eyes. For a moment that seemed an eternity I watched, paralysed, and then two stout warders pinioned him from behind and led him away, swearing. "Homicidal mania," said the doctor shortly; "we have to be always on the watch."
I interviewed the man who would be King, and heard his theory as to the illegal usurpation of the Throne by the Guelph family. I saw a new Redeemer of the world, and the woman who had conducted one of the great lawsuits of last century.
The women were more talkative, and complained volubly of captivity. A few were sullen and suspicious, and would not come to the roll-call and I visited them on the stairs and corridors, or wherever they threw themselves down.
The doctor saw to it that my inspection was thorough. I was conducted to the padded-rooms, where maniacs laughed and shouted and sang and blasphemed, some of them throwing themselves frantically against the cushioned walls, others lying silently on the floor, plucking futilely at their sacking clothing. One poor woman lay in bed wasted to a shadow, her bones nearly sticking through her skin. "Pray for him," she cried; "oh, pray for him! His soul is burning in hell; night and day he cries to me for a drop of cold water, but I may not take it to him. Look at his poor throat where the rope cut; look at his poor starting eyes. Is there no mercy in heaven?"
"Poor woman!" said the doctor. "Her only son was hanged, and it has turned her brain. She is sinking fast. I don't think she can live the day out, and we shall all say 'Thank God!' It is a most pitiful case."