Part 1 (2/2)
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 a.s.sure 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 ent.i.tled 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 ma.n.u.script; 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, ”Wors.h.i.+p G.o.d 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 a.s.sistance. 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; G.o.d 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 a.s.sist 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 G.o.d,”--and they are. All who do their duty as they were doing, to the best of their ability, are the children of G.o.d; 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.
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