Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum | Page 9

my education, and I shall graduate some day--when will it
be? My impatient spirit chafes at this long delay. I sit at the grated
window and think, if I were one of those little pigeons on the window
sill I would be happy; content to be anything if only at liberty.
April.--The friends of Miss Short have been here and taken her home,
and word returned that she is better. I am thankful to think she is with
her mother, and I do not see her so improperly treated; it made me feel
wretched to think of her.

Poor Katy Dugan's friends came one day. I watched my chance and
told one of them to let her mother know she was getting worse and was
not well treated. I had many heart-aches for that girl; I scarcely know
why. They must have seen she looked worse; her dress of flannel,
trimmed with satin of the same color, which looked so nice when she
came, was filthy with spots of gruel and milk they had been forcing her
to eat. This day, I remember, was worse than common days of trouble. I
had been excited by seeing one of the most inoffensive inmates pushed
and spoken to very roughly, without having done any wrong. They
attempted to comb that poor girl's hair; she will not submit, begs and
cries to go down there. I go to the bath-room door to beg them to be
gentle with her. Mrs. Mills slammed the door in my face. She is vexed
at any expression of sympathy. Again I hear that pitiful cry, and I go up
the hall to see what the trouble is. They had taken her in a room to hold
her on the floor, by those heavy, strong nurses sitting on her arms and
feet, while they force her to eat. I return, for I can't endure the sight. I
met Mrs. Mills, with a large spoon, going to stuff her as she did me. (I
was not dyspeptic; I had fasted and would have eaten if they had given
me milk, as I requested.) She was angry at me again; she ordered me to
my room, and threatened to lock me in. What have I done to merit such
treatment? How can I endure this any longer!
April 3.--Yesterday was election day of the Aldermen of the city of St.
John. Dr. Steeves came in this morning and congratulated me very
pleasantly that my son was elected Alderman. I thanked him and said I
was not at all surprised, for he was very popular in his ward; always
kind and courteous to every one, he had made many friends. He must
know I am perfectly sane, but I can't persuade him to tell my son I am
well enough to go home.
My dear Lewis has gone eight hundred miles beyond Winnipeg
surveying. I am sorry to have him go so far. Will I ever see him again?
But I feel so badly when he comes to see me, and refuses to take me
home with him; and I say to myself, "I would die here alone rather than
that he, my darling boy, should be shut in here and treated as I am;" for
his temper, if so opposed, would make him a maniac. I have dreamed
of seeing him looking wretched and crying for fresh air, for he was

suffocating. All the time I had those troubled dreams, I was smothering
with gas coming in my room through the small grating intended to
admit heat to make us comfortable, but it did not. I was obliged to open
the window to be able to breathe; my lungs required oxygen to breathe
when I was lying in bed, not gas from hard coal.
There is one lady whose room is carpeted and furnished well, but she is
so cold she sits flat on the carpet beside the little grate, trying to be
warm. She has not enough clothing on to keep her warm. Her friends
call often, but they never stay long enough to know that her room is
cold. They cannot know how uncomfortable she is, or what miserable
food she has, for we all fare alike.
April is nearly gone. Tom has promised to come for me on Monday; I
feel so happy to think I am going to be free once more. I sat on my
favorite seat in the window sill, looking at those poor men working on
the grounds. There were three; they did not look like lunatics, no
overseer near them; they were shoveling or spading, and three ducks
followed them. Fed by the All-Father's hand, they gather food for
themselves; the men never disturb them; they cannot be violent. Many
a farmer would be