MY CAPTURE AND RIDE TO THE ASYLUM.
Early in the morning of March 29, 1860, a posse of strong men surrounded my house, rushed into the hallway, and one into my room of sickness, sorrow and gloom, made no complaint of lawful authority, and ordered me to arise, saying he was going to send me to the Marshall Asylum by post-coach. Said I, "You had better send me in a box," choosing death rather than go, having been to Brattleborough Asylum four months previous.
No alternative, up drove the post-coach, in came the long-arm driver, F. Tarbal, who captured me and hurled me out of door and into the coach, while daughter clung to me in tears. He seated me by the side of Wm. Kelly, a State prison culprit, who took me by the arm. Extricating myself from him, said I, "You had better go back where you came from." R. Manchester remarked at the time, he don't like Silkworth's man.
No one can imagine the sorrow and anguish that filled my aching heart at this critical moment—one snatched from the bosom of the wife of his early choice, and from the embrace of an affectionate and lovely daughter; and, yea, more than that, I was numbered with transgressors.
And now for the unhappy ride. Snap went the whip, round went the wheels; and never was man so sad, for I can truly say, no person from this time saw me smile for ten long years.
We rode down the hill a few rods and added an extra horse, making a spike team; then drove to a Mr. Messers, took his wife and little burnt child aboard; drove next to H. Wardsworth's; here I tried to elope, but Vandenburg crowded me back. The die was cast. On and on we went; halted at Pittstown Four Corners; next, Raymertown; here we left the poor pole horse. "How many oats," says the hostler. "Four quarts," says Tarbal. Mail changed now for Haynerville, post-office in shoemaker's shop; next we halted at Brunswick Center to change mail; and next we halted in Troy, at the Northern Hotel, for dinner; but, mind you, I got none; no, not so much as the law allows a prisoner; not so much as a cup of cold water.
I very well remember what Tarbal said when we started from the Northern hotel and the reply I made him. "Come, Swan," says he, "let's go home." Said I, "I have no home," and followed him to the coach, when he immediately started off down street, made a halt at Judge Robertson's office. Says Tarbal to me, "get out and stay here in the post-office until I go down to the boat and get a box for Mrs. Brown." I was told, when a boy, the moon was made of green cheese, but I did not believe it, neither did I believe at the time that Judge Robertson's office was the post-office, although he is now postmaster, in 1874.
Here H. Rowland talked with the judge about receiving me into the asylum, passing papers to the judge and the judge to a boy to go and have recorded. Presently came Tarbal and ordered me into the coach, when N. Harwood, Rowland and myself were aboard, up Ida Hill and over across the stone bridge, we turned to the right and then drove to the asylum, which is situated between the Albia and the Hollow road. Making a halt at the office door we were met by Drs. Gregory and McLean. I was ordered to dismount. I soon found myself sitting in the doctor's office in the Marshall Lunatic Asylum. "Now," says Rowland, "you'll show us around." "Yes," was the response from the doctor.
After the post-coach and the Pittstown band left I was soon ushered into the back hall with many brute, beast-like creatures, to share the fate of poor Tray caught in bad company. As I entered this hall the first I noticed was John P. Bacon, handcuffed and bound to a stationary chair, on one side of the hall, and on the other, Patrick Mely, in the same way. There were others that I noticed at the time; John Beldon, Charles Barclay. I mention these men to show, by circumstantial evidence, that I was sensible at the time I entered this institution. (I conversed with John P. Bacon the 15th of April, 1874, he was in the upper or incurable house, doing drudgery under attendant William Anderson.) Soon after I was seated in this hall a man approached me, by the name of Smith, whose curly locks hung down his shoulders most beautifully. He said, "I will take your coat and hat." Soon after supper was announced, then I found J. Smith was the attendant on that hall. Although I had had no dinner I could not relish supper in a prison, for a prison I found it to be. Bedtime came and I was locked up in a cell three doors from the dead-house, on the left, or east, side of the south hall, the window was darkened by a heavy shutter and the door heavily lined on the inside; here I lay, upon a couch of straw or mattrass, many sleepless nights, listening to the screeches and yells of the inmates; permitted to walk out upon the hall through the daytime with some of the patients whose names I shall now record: