Some seventeen or eighteen years ago, one mornin’ in February, I took it into my head to visit a place near New York I had often heard of but had never seen, Blackwell’s Island. The authorities had just completed the workhouse there, and I had been told by different people lots of yarns about the lunatic asylum, so I thought I would put in Friday by payin’ a sort of “visit of inspection” on my own hook to the workhouse and the lunatic asylum. February was, I had been told by a policeman, the best month in the year to see the island, for it was then fullest of people, and the particular day I chose was on the whole a pretty, pleasant one for winter; so, havin’ got from headquarters the necessary passes, and havin’ taken with me a lot of tobacco and cigars, and a flask of whiskey, which I had been informed “went further than even money on the Island,” I started for the foot of Twenty-sixth street, East River, from which the police steamboat, the Bellevue, started every day for the Island.
The boat was a sort of floatin’ black tub; in fact, they called her “the tub of misery,” and I guess that was about the right name. I got a board of her, and noticed that there seem to be several different classes of people on board. There were visitors, like myself, though there weren’t many of that class only–an old gent and two old maids beside myself this time; and then there were the officers, who were mighty high and lofty; and the crew who were bums from the workhouse ‘emselves and were a bad and cruel set of wretches; and then the big thieves, who were boundd for the penitentiary, and who were put in the hold of the boat; and the bums bound for the workhouse, who were scattered all over the boat; and the almshouse paupers, who were huddled, like so many sheep, on the lower deck; and the poor, sick devils bound for the hospital, who were laid alongside of the paddle-box, in a side cabin, along with the lunatics.
I noticed that even the almshouse paupers seemed to despise and have no mercy on the sick people, while the workhouse bums despised the almshouse people; and then the big thieves, bound for the penitentiary, despised the petty rascals bound for the poorhouse, while the workhouse crew seemed to despise all the passengers on the boat, and the officers seemed to look down, way down, upon the crew, and the passengers, the old gent and the two old maids, seemed to look down upon the officers. To tell the truth, everybody on that little, low, black hulk of a steamboat, the Bellevue, seemed to be lookin’ down on and despisin’ somebody else, exceptin’ myself, for I have always made it a rule through life never to look down upon anybody, just as I never believe much in looking up to anybody, either.
After I got to the workhouse I wandered around “and took in the situation,” as the saying is, as well as I could; I gave away plenty of my tobacco and got plenty of “chin music” from the bummers in exchange for it. As for the whiskey, I only gave that sparin’ly, very sparin’ly, its use being against the regulations, and dangerous in such a place. The funniest thing was that not a mother’s son of all the men I talked to would own up that he had been done anythin’ to deserve his bein’ sent to the workhouse. Accordin’ to their own accounts, the bums ought to have been sent to Congress instead. One man, who swallowed my tobacco most liberally, almost swore he was a lamb, a perfect lamb. It really made me laugh, this idea of a man being sent to the workhouse for bein’ a perfect lamb, and one of the keepers afterwards told me that my perfect lamb was a perfect devil and had half killed many a man in many a drunken street fight. Another man I met in the shoemakin’ shop said he had all his life worked eighteen hours a day, and that this workin’ so hard had given him the headache, and durin’ his attacks he often acted strangely, and the stupid police, not bein’ able to tell the difference between a headache and disorderly conduct, had always had him sent to the Island regular. This idea of the workhouse as a cure for headaches struck me as decidedly funny, too.
Before long I began to think I must buy some mistake have got into Heaven; for there were nothin’ but angels all around me–angels that had never done anythin’ wrong in their lives, but had been all victims of persecution or mistake.
The workhouse angels took things pretty easy, as far as they could. One gang of angels that were wheelin’ earth in barrows, the moment they found a corner out of the keeper’s sight, stopped, and sat right down on their wheelbarrows. Another gang of angels, breakin’ stones, sat half the time in some old baskets lyin’ around. One hungry angel who had been breakin’ stones laid aside his hammer, and pulled from his old greasy torn hat a lot of decayed beets, carrots and bread, wrapped up in a soiled handkerchief; then pulled some musty potatoes out of his vest and munched the whole lot up in about a minute and a half. The angel had stolen his lunch that mornin’ from the swill tub of the lunatic asylum.
The workhouse women were more lively, it seemed to me, than the workhouse men; at least they talked more to each other; but that was because they were women, I suppose. Two or three women near the dock jumped on a cart and amused ‘emselves yellin’ at the horse. Several women were decked out with some tin finery–tin bracelets and necklaces that they had made ‘emselves. Most of the women were drunken tramps; you could see that at a glance, and some of ‘em were arrant thieves.
There was only one real unfortunate woman in the whole workhouse, I guess; that is, only one woman who didn’t deserve to be there. This was a poor Dutch woman who could speak very little English. She lived near Spuyten Duyvil,l and one night lost her way in New York. Some policeman asked her where she was goin’, and she muttered out somethin’ about Spuyten Duyvil.l The policeman thought she told him to “go to the devil,” so he “run her in,” and she was sent to the workhouse, just because she didn’t understand English. But this was the only case of the kind, and she got off in a day or two.
I soon got tired of the workhouse, and went over to see the lunatics. In the asylum just then were a lot of rather celebrated characters. I found some of the crazy people mighty good company–better worth talkin’ to than most of the men and women who weren’t called crazy.
The first lunatic I paid my respects to was Mrs. James Buchanan, the wife of the ex-president of the United States. Most people thought that President Buchanan never married, and that he was at this time dead, but Mrs J.B. knew differently. I found Mrs J.B. a quiet, nice, motherly old lady, with gray hair, and eyeglasses, and she received me very kindly.
She asked me if I was an ambassador. I told her I guessed I was. She wanted to know my mission. I told her it was of a very delicate nature. She asked me if I intended to stay long in this country. I told her I intended to stay just as long as they let me, and in this at any rate I spoke the truth.
Then I commenced to question the old lady. I asked her how long since she had seen Mr. Buchanan. “I saw my husband, the President, last week, your Excellency,” she replied. Then I asked her when she expected to see him again. “Oh, I expect him home again this evenin’, your Excellency.” There must be somethin’ real pleasant in titles after all, for even this lunatic callin’ me “your Excellency” tickled me rather. Then I asked the old lady if she had a family. “Oh, yes; I have had forty-five children by the President, your Excellency,” she answered; “here is the youngest,” pointin’ to a big doll she carried in her hand, “and here is the oldest,” pointin’ to a big tom cat. “All the forty-five are livin’, but six;” and so the old lady rattled on.
This Mrs. James Buchanan was one of the most celebrated lunatics in the country fifteen years ago, and people used to come from all parts of the States to see her. She was really quite amusin’, but not so funny to my notion as one of the female lunatics who fancied that she was a steam boiler. This creature, for fun, beat any comic cuss I ever saw in the theatre. She would fall flat on her back every now and then, when the steam boiler fit was on her, and drawin’ in a long breath, gettin’ in all the air wind she could, would let it out again with a shriek which would be as shrill and loud almost as a regular steam whistle.
Then I met a fellow called Hudson who was a was great on fishin’ tackle. This Hudson built himself a sort of hut in the marshes and fished all day long. Another lunatic was a sort of half-breed, half-negro, half-Indian, called Black Jimmy who had a long story to tell of fallin’ in love with the daughter of the mayor of New York. Jimmy was an eternal talker, and never held his tongue except when he was catchin’ fish. So they set him to fishin’ as much as possible. Then there was a fellow in the asylum called Cassidy, who fancied himself worth ten thousand millions of dollars, and made one of the watchmen report to him about his investments every Saturday night. Meanwhile he denied himself even a crust of bread, and did about five dollars worth of masonry and plumbin’ every day for the workhouse authorities for nothin’–a very profitable sort of man.
One man I met standing on a sort of hill, lookin’ at the East River. “He has been waitin’ for the last six years to see the East River dry up,” said one of the keepers to me. Another man walked along sort of zigzag. He never went straight from stone to stone, but dashed first one way and then another, gettin’ to the stone at last. This chap’s name was Dobler, and he marched along accordin’ to some mysterious rule of his own that couldn’t be understood by common people. Then there was another fellow called “the Admiral,” because he swore so. He used the queerest oaths I ever heard, and swore twice a minute, especially whenever he saw a parson. I half believe that the old Admiral wasn’t so crazy as he seemed to be. Then there was another old fellow called Tony, the oldest inmate of Blackwell’s Island–had been there for over twenty years. He had two queer points–he hated water and liked doctors. I could understand his hatin’ water, but as for his likin’ doctors—-.
One of the queerest ducks in the asylum was an old man whose name was Quigley. I found him in a mighty unpleasant place to find anybody–in the deadhouse, where at the time of my visit there were two corpses. Quigley said that he felt quite comfortable, now that he had some “company,” lookin’ at the corpses. I tried to get Quigley’s confidence, but at last I couldn’t. “Tell him you’ll let him have your skeleton when you’re dead, Harry,” said the keeper who was showin’ me round. I made him that very agreeable promise, and right off Quigley treated me as if we had been brought up together since childhood. Pretty soon he took me and showed me his room. It was in the deadhouse, and was a regular curiosity shop in a charnal house. There were stuffed birds in it, and live cats, old stoves, old hats, old boots, dried herbs, a squirrel cage, a rat- trap, some dried snakes and some old pictures. He was a queer one, this Quigley.
Then my friend, the keeper, showed me Fort Maxey. This was then quite a sight–one of the institutions of the place. It was a round mound built like a fort, with wooden cannon stuck all over it; and in this fort stood one of the funniest lookin’ frame houses, with windows as crooked as a dog’s hind legs, as if they had been on a spree. This was a big gateway leadin’ to the fort, and a lot of ditches and hollows, showin’ a lot of work on the part of the crazy loon called Maxey that was the boss and maker of it all. This Maxey came in and had a talk with me. He had a woman’s bonnet on his head, worn backwards, and had a piece of burnin’ wood for a pipe. While I was talking to Maxey I saw the ugliest woman I have ever set eyes on strollin’ along, with a big head, rough red hair, a squint, one eye bigger than the other, a hump on her back, and arms big enough for a prize fighter. She was carryin’ a big vessel on her back, and seemed to be carryin’ it, too, as if she was used to it, and rather liked it. In her hand she carried an old banjo, and banged it with her other big hand every now and then getting a kind of tum-tum-tum or Chinese music out of it. When the keeper with me spoke to her I fairly jumped, for she roared like a lion. She was mild enough, it seemed, and harmless, and her name was Ann Barry, but whenever to this day I think of her I get fancyin’ her as a lion roarin’ and playin’ the banjo.
This woman made me curious to see some more of the female lunatics, and I saw ‘em. There was one woman always laughin’, though she looked like a first-class Irish funeral, and another woman always cryin’, though she looked as jolly as Scotch whiskey, and a third woman who was the queen of Heaven and was always gettin’ messages from God Almighty.
While I was lookin’ on at this Queen of Heaven I heard someone say, “There comes Moonshine.” I didn’t see any moonshine yet, as it wasn’t four o’clock, but what I did see was a fat, ugly, dirty, greasy, bare-armed woman comin’ along grinnin’ and showin’ her bad teeth. “Look out, Harry,” said the keeper to me; “have a care of Moonshine,” pointin’ to this grinnin’ woman, whom heaven only knows why they all called Moonshine. I didn’t see why I should have any particular care of or for this woman, and I said so. “Look out, Harry,” said my friend, the keeper; “she is death on kissin’ and thinks everybody’s in love with her, and she will want to kiss you, sure.” Then I did begin to get frightened, for I saw by her actions that what they said was true, and that she was going to kiss me sure.
She made eyes at me–such eyes!–and wriggled her big fat body as if she had the colic, and opened her fat, greasy arms, as if to embrace me.
I wasn’t a bit flattered. On the contrary, I felt real flat. I forgot all my politeness, and ran away from the woman as if she had the smallpox.
The keepers and others around laughed, which encouraged Moonshine, and she grinned worse than ever and went for me, with that horrible mouth of hers wide open, as if she wanted not only to kiss me but to eat me afterwards.
It was really all I could do to dodge her till the keeper called this champion kiss her off. In fact I didn’t entirely recover from the excitement of this, my first and last sentimental adventure, till I got back to New York again, and had left all my “Moonshine” on Blackwell’s Island.
[Editor’s notes: Though the “Harry Hill’s Gotham” columns were written in Harry’s voice, only occasionally did Harry himself feature in the stories. But these were no more genuine than his other “recollections.” No, Harry did not visit Blackwell’s Island and see these scenes, Neither did his ghostwriter, Ike Reid. The entire column above was adapted from “Blackwell’s Island Lunatic Asylum,” an article which appeared in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine in February, 1866. The likely author is William Henry Davenport Adams.
Blackwell’s Island, now known as Roosevelt Island, housed several separate institutions: an almshouse (workhouse) for the impoverished; an asylum for the mentally ill; and a prison for short-sentence criminals.]
