Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum | Page 8

was watching by the bedside of my
dying child. Driven from our home by the fire, I was tarrying for her to
complete her education in the city of Lowell, which is second to no city
in the world for its educational privileges. Free schools, with books free
to all its children, and excellent teachers. To Lowell schools and to my
darling child, I must here pay this tribute. The day after her death, the
principal of the school she attended addressed the school with these
words--"Clara Pengilly has attended this school two years, and I have
never heard a fault found with her; there has never been a complaint
brought to me by teacher or schoolmates concerning her." Her teacher
brought me two large bouquets to ornament the room at her funeral,
sent by the pupils and teachers of the school where she had been a
happy attendant, for she loved her teachers, and always told me how
good and kind they were to her; no wonder every one loved her, for she
had a loving heart and a nature so full of sunshine she could not be
unhappy. We had boarded eight months with a lady whose only
daughter was blind from her birth. Clara loved to lead her out for a
walk, and read to her at home; no pleasure was complete unless shared
with her blind friend, who was younger than herself, and whose life she
could brighten by her willingness to devote her unoccupied time to her
service. Dear Lorelle, we all loved her for her goodness, and pitied her
for her infirmity. The boarders and others at her home sent flowers too.
Her mother arranged a green vine and flowers around her face and in
her hand. When she had finished, she said, "That is the last we can do
for you, Clara; I know she was so fond of flowers, she would be
pleased if she could see them." I cared not for the flowers, I only knew
that loving heart was stilled in death, and I was left alone; with an
effort, I said, "Lorelle will never know a truer friend than she who lies
here." My tears unbidden flow; why do I go back in memory to those
sorrowful days? I know she is happy now. Let me draw the veil of
charity over the past with all its troubles, remembering only the many
acts of kindness done for us by our friends at that time.

It is this waiting so long a prisoner, begging to be liberated. My hands
will not remain folded or my brain idle. I must write again of poor Miss
Snow. I ventured into her room, feeling anxious to help her by coaxing
her into a better frame of mind. She is wasted to a shadow; I am sure if
she had any food to tempt her to eat she would grow stronger; some
nice bread and milk at bed time would help her to sleep. I soothed her
as I would a child in trouble, until she ceased her raving, and then
questioned her to discover the cause of her disease. She is a
well-educated, intelligent lady. In her ravings she often says she is the
only lady in the hall, and seems to have a temper of her own, which has
been made more than violent by her stay in this ward. She is very fond
of drawing small pencil sketches, and works at them late at night,
which I think is certainly injurious. I conclude she is the victim of late
hours and fancy work; she acknowledges she used to sew until after
twelve, working for bazaars. If the ladies would only come here and
study the needs of these poor victims of insanity, and make better
arrangements for their welfare, they would find a higher calling than
exhausting their energies working for bazaars, and leaving us to the
care of those who care nothing for us and will not learn. Too much
temper and too much indolence rule here. I go in sometimes and coax
her to stop talking and lie down. I cover her up to keep her warm; she is
blue with the cold. If I could keep her in a nice warm room, with kind
treatment and nourishing food! She could not eat that horrible, sour
bakers' bread with poor butter. Sometimes her food would set in her
room a long time. I guess she only eats when she is so starved she can't
help it. I eat because I am determined to live until I find some one who
will help me out of this castle on the hill, that I may tell the
Commissioners all about it. Sometimes I term it a college, in which I
am finishing