Ep. 50: People of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum (Mary Huestis Pengilly)

This week's episode focuses on the story of Mary Huestis Pengilly, who was sent to the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in St. John, New Brunswick, at age 61. Learn about Mary's history and what possibly led to her admission to the asylum. Hear Mary's own words from her diary about her experience in the asylum -- from endearing women she met on the wards to rough nurses who abused their patients.

The main source used in this episode is Mary Huestis Pengilly's Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, published in 1885. All other sources will be listed at the end of the episode transcript.

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Transcript

Hello, hello, hello, and welcome back to Behind the Walls of the World’s Psychiatric Hospitals! I’m your host, Dr. Sarah Gallup, and I have a confession to make. I was so excited to wrap up the history of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in Toronto with a first-person narrative by a patient. So I ordered a copy of this woman’s diary, got it home, turned to the first page, and…you guys, she was at the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in St. John, New Brunswick. And I had no idea until I opened the book.

So I kinda went back and forth about what to do: do I tell her story anyway, or do I try to find something else? And you know what? I’m going to tell her story anyway. Even though she was at a different asylum than the one in Toronto, her story is poignant and most likely applicable to most asylums at the time. Many of the same themes and experiences she describes would have been present at the Toronto asylum. So I hope that’s okay with you all.

Trigger warnings in this episode include child death and patient abuse.

My main source for this episode will be the short book Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum by Mary Huestis Pengilly. All other sources will be listed at the end of the episode transcript.

So for now, come on in and get comfortable as we go behind the walls of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum…in New Brunswick.

It goes without saying that every psychiatric patient has a backstory – a reason (or maybe many reasons) that led to their ultimate hospitalization. Mary Huestis Pengilly was sent to the Provincial Lunatic Asylum when she was 61 years old. But her story begins long before that.

Mary Huestis was born in 1823 in Queensbury, York, New Brunswick. She would be the 7th of 18 children, and records show that only one of those 18 children died in infancy. Her father, Lewis Huestis, was 36 when Mary was born, and her mother, Anna Carle, was 35 (“Mary Huestis”). There isn’t a lot of information available about Mary’s childhood. She later says in her diary that her father Lewis was close with Robert Wilmot, who would later became the Lieutenant Governor of New Brunswick (Pengilly 28).

When Mary was 24, she married Robert Pengilly on February 16, 1847, in her hometown of Queensbury. Together, they would have seven children – five boys and two girls – but Mary and Robert weren’t as lucky as her parents. Their second child, Anna, only lived to be two years old. Their sons Henry and Charles both died in infancy. And her youngest daughter, Clara – well, Clara will factor into this story a little later (“Mary Huestis”). She also had sons Robert, her oldest, then Thomas, and Lewis. The family later settled into St. John, New Brunswick.

By 1877, when Mary was 54, Mary had experienced quite a bit of trauma already, with the death of three children. But her life would be forever changed on June 20th, 1877.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon on June 20, 1877, a spark fell in Henry Fairweather’s storehouse in the York Point Slip area and ignited a large inferno. Only nine hours later, the fire had destroyed over 200 acres of land and 1,612 structures, including eight churches, six banks, fourteen hotels, eleven schooners, and four wood boats. The fire had killed around 19 people and injured many more. Survivors said the flames came so close to the harbor that it looked like the water was on fire. The blaze continued to burn for approximately 40 hours. By the end, about 13,000 people had lost their homes (“Great Fire of Saint John”), including the Pengilly family.

The fire left the Pengillys destitute and ultimately displaced the entire family. Her oldest son Robert was 28 at the time, Thomas was 24, Lewis was 22, and little Clara was only 8. One by one, her sons left the province in search for work elsewhere (“Secret Diary”). Lewis would end up moving to Boston for work, and Thomas remained in St. John as the owner of a drug store (Pengilly 13-14).

I couldn’t find information on Mary’s husband Robert or if he were still alive at this time. But sources indicate that at least Mary and her daughter Clara moved to Massachusetts in search of work. Given everything they had gone through since the fire, Mary and Clara seemed to do well in Massachusetts. Clara was known as a kind and loving child.

But on March 24, 1882, Mary watched as her only daughter lay dying. She never says what caused Clara’s death at only age 13, but Mary certainly describes how she felt. She would later look back and write: 

Two years ago today I 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…I know she is happy now. (Pengilly 18-19)

It had to be incredibly hard, after everything, to lose her daughter. After Clara’s funeral, Mary left Massachusetts and went back to Saint John without telling anyone (“Secret Diary”), even her sons. After she returned, she threw herself into her writing:

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. (Pengilly 13)

I’m going to pause here because there’s a lot to unpack from this passage. Now, obviously, in terms of symptoms, it’s a little hard to parse out because everything is written from Mary’s perspective. It would be helpful to have some idea of what her sons saw in her. But from Mary’s report alone, we can decipher a few possible symptoms she was experiencing.

When she’s talking about this increased desire to write and becoming so absorbed in the task that she forgets to eat for eight days at a time – that sounds a little like mania. We know today that increased goal-directed activity and subsequent decreased sleep and appetite can be some signs of a manic episode. People with Bipolar Disorder will often report having so much to do – they suddenly have so many great ideas for songs that they have to write right now or they suddenly got a brilliant idea for a taco truck and have to make the entire business plan right now or sometimes with hypomania it just comes across as increased productivity. Suddenly they have the urge to finally clean out the closet and organize it. I’ve often heard folks with bipolar II disorder say they wish they could bottle up their hypomania and spread it out because they get a lot of stuff done. The mania that comes with bipolar I disorder, though, tends to be a bit more extreme and potentially dangerous. So it sounds like Mary might be experiencing a hypomanic episode, based on her description.

She also reports feeling she had done some wrong. That feeling of guilt is something that often accompanies depression but if she’s experiencing hypomania could potentially be a sign of paranoia.

Then she reports hearing angel’s voices telling her to fast and pray. This is where things get dicey. On the one hand, we know that Mary is a religious woman, and it is normative within Christian culture to talk about hearing the voice of God or sensing a presence – things that outside of a religious context sound like auditory hallucinations. Whenever I get a patient claiming to hear the voice of God, the sorta litmus test that I use is asking myself (a) is this something that most people within that cultural context would experience and (b) is it causing any sort of distress for the person? If it is normative and not causing issues for the person, then we can potentially move on. If it’s something that, let’s say most Christians would find odd or unusual, that’s a red flag. If the person perseverates on the thought, that’s a red flag. If the person hears voices that are telling them to do something (especially to harm someone), that’s a red flag. 

If we look at Mary’s case, she’s describing hearing the voices of angels; that’s not particularly common in Christianity but it’s also not unheard of, especially among Christian sects that place a lot of value in angels. I don’t like that the angels are telling her to do things; that’s a red flag for me, especially when it involves her not eating for eight days. There is a time and a place for fasting and prayer within Christian culture; she does not appear to be doing this for any other reason than the angels told her to. That’s my issue. 

We also have to remember that Mary is still grieving the death of her daughter. Singing, “O death, where is thy sing, where is thy victory, boasting grave” doesn’t raise any red flags for me. This is a very common passage used after the death of a loved one. What I don’t like is that she wishes to die in order to save the world. That is a problem. That sounds a little delusional. Then she says she was trying to perform some ancient right or vow. I’m not sure what she’s referring to here, but again, if it’s normative within the cultural context, knock yourself out, Mary. But if it’s outside the accepted context or harmful in some way, that would certainly be a problem.

So if we take all of this at face value and start clinically speculating, we see potential evidence of mania or hypomania lasting at least 8 days, potential command auditory hallucinations, potential paranoid and grandiose delusions, and suicidal ideation. We don’t get a sense of how long this has gone on outside of the 8 days or if it has occurred before, but it’s sounding a little bipolar or schizoaffective-esque to me. Obviously, there’s no way to know for sure, but that’s my guesstimate.

Also, I wrote in the margins when I was reading this, “Auditory hallucinations or just hangry?” That’s also a fair speculation. 

So let’s jump back into the story. Mary’s sons, Lewis and Thomas, have found her mid-ritual attempt at this boarding house with no heat. They were so concerned about Mary’s behavior that they phoned a doctor to examine her. And you know what that generally means. Here’s how Mary described it:

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; God 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. (Pengilly 14).

It is interesting that she is familiar with this doctor, but it’s also possible this was the town medical doctor that everyone knew. I’m not sure whether or not that should raise alarm bells.

And again, we have Mary’s report that kinda falls in the normative Christian context. I would call it religious preoccupation because, if I were Mary and a doctor showed up to evaluate me for insanity, I would probably skip the evangelizing and just answer his questions. She does say her response was probably because of her insanity, so maybe there’s some insight there.

She then starts to describe the journey to St. John but gets distracted by her own religious preoccupation:

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. (Pengilly 14-15).

She seems unable to stop talking about religious issues – that’s a red flag. Especially when she has these hopes for her son, who didn’t want to hear about her beliefs in the first place. Again, she seems to recognize in retrospect that she was delusional at the time.

Before they left for St. John, Lewis and Thomas were able to sorta trick Mary into eating something by pretending to give her communion:

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 assist 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. (Pengilly 15-16).

That part is sad – I can tell there’s a lot of shame in not keeping up her appearance as usual.

And then at some point in the journey, she realizes where they’re going:

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 goodbye, 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…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 God,” – and they are. (Pengilly 17)

Mary was admitted to the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in St. John on October 29, 1883. Oddly, her trunk of belongings did not arrive with her, so she was left with few personal items.

Once they arrived at the asylum and her sons left, reality seemed to set in for Mary:

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 [the nurse] 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. (Pengilly 17)

This force-feeding sounds awful. I also want to take a step back for a moment and just remind everyone where the asylum is in terms of treatment. This was 1883, so the asylum in Toronto and there in St. John, New Brunswick, had started with good intentions of following moral therapy but overcrowding, underfunding, and understaffing had made those good intentions nearly impossible. The asylums had become places where the undesirables of society were warehoused. There wasn’t enough food for everyone, and there certainly wasn’t enough attention to be paid to each patient.

The next morning, Mary once again begged for milk, but Mrs. Mills refused, saying there wasn’t enough for all the old women.

When the doctor finally came to examine her, Mary didn’t say much about his assessment:

I remember telling the Doctor, on his first visit to my room, that I only needed biscuit and milk and beef tea to make me well. He rose to his feet and said, “I know better than any other man.” That was all I heard him say, and he walked out, leaving me without a word of sympathy, or a promise that I should have anything. I say to myself (as I always talk aloud to myself when not well), “You don’t know any more than this old woman does.” I take tea with Mrs. Mills; I don’t like to look at those patients who look so wretched. (Pengilly 2)

As Mary looked around at the other patients, looking haggard with stained clothing, she must have also noticed that she seemed to fit in:

I can’t bear to see myself in the glass, I am so wasted – so miserable. My poor boys, no wonder you look so sad, to see your mother looking so badly, and be compelled to leave her here alone among strangers who know nothing about her past life. They don’t seem to have any respect for me. (Pengilly 2)

In December of 1883, Mary seems to recognize that she is probably going to remain at the asylum for longer than she had anticipated. This is when she begins writing in her diary. She dates it only with “December”:

They will not allow me to go home, and I must write these things down for fear I forget. It will help to pass the time away. It is very hard to endure this prison life, and know that my sons think me insane when I am not. (Pengilly 2)

I find it interesting that Mary seems to go back and forth about whether she has a mental illness. She seemed to recognize, at least in retrospect, that she was having symptoms prior to her admission to the asylum. But now, in December, she is saying that she is not insane. It could be that her manic episode had passed and now she was feeling a bit more balanced and clear-headed, but it’s hard to say.

Now Mary was at a bit of an advantage because her sons periodically gave her spending money. Of course, she can’t leave the asylum to spend it, but she tried and tried to talk staff into getting her items she needed:

This reminds me of the day I begged so hard for a pot of Holloway’s Ointment. I had asked my boys several times to bring it to me, and I thought they always forgot it. I had used it many years, not constantly, only for a little rash on my face at times; it has annoyed me very much lately. This day I had urged him all I could, and he left me, saying he had too much on his mind today. I followed him to the door, saying, “I don’t want to think so ill of you, Doctor, as that you will not grant me so small a favor – a twenty-five cent favor – and I will pay for it myself.” (Pengilly 24)

Another time she tries to get Mrs. Mills to buy her pins and an extra quart of milk, but Mrs. Mills says it’s against the rules (Pengilly 7). I can see both sides here. From Mary’s perspective, it’s such a small ask, but this is how slippery slopes begin. Once Mary puts in an order for ointment, then someone else will want this or that, and soon, the already overworked staff is managing all sorts of orders. 

Remember, too, that Mary does have some of her own belongings, but they’re in her trunk that still hasn’t arrived. She says she keeps asking her sons and staff about the trunk, but all she’s told is that it’s delayed.

By February 1884, the harsh winter had set in, and Mary spends quite a bit of time describing how cold the asylum is and how she shirks the system:

February.—The weather is cold. I have more to occupy my time now. I have learned how to let off the cold air from the radiators, and then we get more heat. I do it when no one sees me. I shall do all I can to make myself comfortable, and they all share it. When I arise in the morning, my first thought is to look up the hall to see if there is fire in the grate – the one little grate in that large hall, to give warmth and comfort to us poor prisoners. If the fire is there, I feel pleased; I go up as soon as the sweeping is done, and try to feel at home. I tell the nurse I will tend the fire, if she will have the coal left beside the grate. Sometimes they allow it willingly, and I enjoy it. I brush up the hearth, and make it look cheerful and homelike as possible. I draw up the huge, uncomfortable seats to form a circle; they stand round until I get there; they are happy to sit with me, but they don’t know enough to draw up a seat for themselves. I have found pleasure in this; it cheers my heart. There is no situation in life, however unpleasant it may be, but has some bright places in it. I love to cheat Mrs. Mills; I watch my chance when she is not near, and let off the cold air in the radiator until the warm air comes, and then close it. I add coal to the fire, saying to myself, “This castle belongs to the Province, and so do I. We have a right to all the comforts of life here, and especially so when five dollars a week is paid for our board; let us have a nice fire and bask in its comforting rays.” (Pengilly 4-5)

I can certainly appreciate Mary’s wanting to skirt the rules in order to steal a bit more warmth. At other points in her diary, she describes how many patients aren’t adequately clothed, so they just sit and shiver. One lady she describes, presumably who is paying more money to be there, has a carpeted room that is well-furnished. “She sits flat on the carpet beside the little grate, trying to be warm…Her friends call often, but they never stay long enough to know that her room is cold” (Pengilly 22). There’s something extra sad about having visitors come who never really know what they’re going through.

Mary also writes quite a bit about how terrible the food is at the asylum. When her son Lewis comes to visit in February, she reminisces about the food she ate in the boarding house before she got to the asylum. It sounds like they had a lot of the same type of foods over and over:

Here we have such horrid stuff. Dark-colored, sour bakers’ bread, with miserable butter, constitutes our breakfast and tea; there is oatmeal porridge and cheap molasses at breakfast, but I could not eat that, it would be salts and senna for me. At noon we have plenty of meats and vegetables, indifferently cooked, but we don’t require food suitable for men working out of doors. We need something to tempt the appetite a little. (Pengilly 5-6).

It would certainly be difficult to eat regularly if the food were completely unappealing. And it’s sad that she says they only need enough just to tempt their appetite. It only has to be “just enough” appealing to them.

By March, Mary finally got her trunk of personal belongings – five months after she arrived at the asylum. She said she felt rich in the possession of the little needful articles it contained (Pengilly 7). I can only imagine her glee – after so long of having next to nothing, she finally had some things to remind her of life before the asylum, some items of comfort.

Although conditions at the asylum were far from ideal, Mary made some positive connections with other patients there. She mentions about 10 patients in her diary – not all of them by name, specifically – and describes her encounters with them. I’ve chosen just a few to discuss here.

The first is Maggy, whom she calls “Poor Maggy” several times. Maggy seems to struggle with an anger problem, but Mary says she’s a good worker. She washes dishes, she makes wreaths for others at the asylum, but she never really goes out, and this bothers Mary (Pengilly 3).

The second is someone whose name Mary purposefully withholds per the young woman’s request. She only calls her “the younger gal” and “the teacher.” Mary says that the woman had been teaching school, was over-worked, ended up with a high fever, and then lost her mind. It was February, and the younger gal had been at the asylum since June. Mary seemed frustrated because the gal appeared to be returned to health, but she was still there. The younger gal seemed too afraid of Mrs. Mills to ask for anything, even something small (Pengilly 6-7).

Third is a woman she discusses only briefly. Her name is Miss Fowler, and all we really learn about her is that she has an inflamed eye that has gone untreated. Mary fixes a makeshift eye patch for Miss Fowler, but Mrs. Mills catches her and rips the eye patch off right away. Mary is clearly very frustrated that her meager attempts to help her friend are lost (Pengilly 8).

Miss Short is the patient Mary discusses the most in her diary. She describes her as a “fair-haired, nice-looking girl” who didn’t seem to have many problems when she first arrived at the asylum, but the longer she stayed, the worse her condition became:

Her father came to see her, and she cried to go home with him. I wished very much to tell him to take her home, but Mrs. Mills did not leave them, and I dared not speak to him. She has grown so much worse, she tears her dress off, so they have to put leather hand-cuffs on her wrists so tight they make her hands swell. I say, “Oh, Mrs. Mills, don’t you see they are too tight, her hands look ready to burst—purple with blood.” She paid no need: “It does not hurt her any.” Yesterday she tied a canvas belt round her waist so tight that it made my heart ache to look at it. I am sure it would have stopped my breath in a short time; they tied her to the back of the seat with the ends of it. (Pengilly 9)

With a month or two, Miss Short looks even more disheveled and broken (12). Mary clearly worries about Miss Short when she stops eating. She describes her as being “wasted to a shadow” (19). Mary cares for her like a child and asks Miss Short about her mental illness. Mary learns that Miss Short is well-educated, intelligent, and a talented artist. Miss Short worked for bazaars and would sew and make items long into the night. She seemed to go mad from overworking and exhaustion (20).

Mary says that occasionally she would go into Miss Short’s room to coax her to stop talking and lie down. She says:

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 someone who will help me out of this castle on the hill, that I may tell the Commissioners all about it. (Pengilly 20)

Fortunately, for Miss Short, she was discharged in April 1884 and taken home. Mary later got word that Miss Short was already doing better, even in the short time since leaving the asylum (20).

Another young woman, Katy Dugan, was seared into Mary’s memory as the patient who received the worst mistreatment at the hands of staff. Mary notes that Katy Dugan’s friends came to visit one day, and they must have noticed that she looked worse than their last visit. Her flannel and satin dress was stained with gruel and milk. Once her friends left, the abuse began. And trigger warning here for patient abuse. Skip forward about a minute if you don’t want to hear it.

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 bathroom 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 to me…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! (Pengilly 21)

There’s something for me about force feeding that seems particularly inhumane. I can certainly appreciate not wanting someone to starve, but it seems like there could be better ways to go about it. 

Mary also discusses a woman from Westmoreland. She describes her as having hair cut short, with eyes that are black and wild (Pengilly 10). The first time Mary saw her, the woman hit her lightly, and Mary had this moment of “oh huh. This one is really crazy.” But she kept her eye on this woman, who seemed to be nervous around others and struggling with her psychiatric symptoms, and decided to just sit next to her one day. The woman snapped, “Do you know what kind of place this is? Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?” (11) Mary learned that the woman had, in fact, killed her mother, but she seemed to do well having someone to talk to. At times, the woman would become so violent that she would have to be put into seclusion to keep her from hurting others, but when she got out, Mary resumed the role of a mother figure. She comforted her and smoothed her hair.

But one day the woman was taken for a bath, and she resisted violently. The nurses used force by pulling her hair and holding her hands down and forcing her to walk toward the bath. The woman tried to bite one of the nurses on the arm. Mary walked up to her and said, “Don’t, my poor child, don’t do so; be gentle with her, girls, and she will go.” And just hearing Mary stand up for her calmed the woman, and she was able to walk more willingly to the bathroom. (Pengilly 11-12)

Sometime around the spring, Mary had a change of heart about mean ol’ Mrs. Mills. Even the way she writes about her softens, and she seems to have more empathy for her:

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 entitled to a pension. (Pengilly 12)

And this had to take a change of heart for Mary to notice this – that Mrs. Mills wasn’t mean and nasty for the sake of being mean and nasty; she was tired and had been doing this job for probably too long. That doesn’t excuse the behavior, but I can at least understand why they may have wanted someone experienced in that position rather than having no one at all.

Now there was an interesting turn of events in April of 1884. You see, the asylum was under the jurisdiction of the Commissioners. And on April 2, 1884, Mary’s son Tom just so happened to be elected Alderman, or what we’d call City Commissioner today. I can almost see this playing out like a movie, where the doctor, who had previously been annoyed by Mary’s presence, now eagerly enters the room, clapping and congratulating her, and giving her the news that her son had been elected (Pengilly 22). Mary must have known that her time at the asylum would be coming to an end. 

And she was right. At the end of April, Tom had promised to come and get her from the asylum, and with that came more changes in presentation from the doctor:

I feel so happy to think I am going to be free once more…The Doctor came in to make his usual call, in the hall, with a book and pencil in his hand; that is all he ever does for us. I thought I would make him think I thought him a gentleman, which he is not, and perhaps he would be more willing to let me go home. It has taken effect. I suppose he thinks I have forgotten all the doings of the past winter, and that I will not dare to say anything against such a mighty man as he is. I am glad I have taken it down in black and white, so as not to forget the wrongs of the Province, and the wrongs of those poor neglected women, of whom I am one. (Pengilly 23-24)

I like that she has this “I’m onto you” sort of attitude toward the doctor. He knows she’ll hold them all accountable when she leaves.

Saturday Morning.—I am so impatient! I hardly dare to hope. Will I be free to breathe the air of heaven again, to walk out in the warmth of His sunshine? (24)

And then, after six months spent in the asylum, Mary Pengilly was released to go home with her son Tom on April 30, 1884:

St. John’s Hotel, April 30.—At last I am free! Seated in my own room at the hotel, I look back at that prison on the hill. I had won a little interest in the hearts of the nurses in our ward; they expressed regret at my leaving. Ellen Regan, who was the first to volunteer me any kindness, said, “We shall miss you, Mrs. Pengilly, for you always had a cheerful word for everyone.” I did not bid all the patients goodbye, for I hope soon to return and stay with them. I would like so much to look after these poor women, who are so neglected. (Pengilly 26)

And that’s exactly what she did. I don’t know that I would dare go work in a place where they had just had me committed for lunacy. But Mary talked to Lieutenant Governor Wilmot, who had been friends with Mary’s father, and got his blessing to help. She said:

I have lost my home and business by the fire; my sons are scattered abroad in the world and do not need my care; I would like to devote my remaining years, as far as I am able, to better the conditions of those poor sufferers in the Asylum (Pengilly 30).

Governor Wilmot answered, “I hope you will, for I think it will be well for them to have your care, and I will do all I can to assist you” (30).

What sticks with me here is the fact that Mary was “only” (and I use the word “only” loosely here) there for six months. Think of the many, many patients who were there for decades. She got lucky because it seemed like her illness was mild, she had a support system who could care for her, and she had a son elected to a place of privilege. All those things worked in her favor.

Mary ended her diary with a powerful call to action:

Let me here entreat the ladies, wherever this book may be read, that they take this work upon themselves. Rise up in your own strength…and you will not any longer allow your fellow-sisters to be neglected by those who cannot understand the weakness or the misfortunes that have brought them under the necessity of being protected by the public…

I will leave this subject now in the hands of the ladies, wherever this little book may find them, who having leisure and influence, will not, I hope, fail to use them for the benefit of suffering humanity, remembering we are all children of one Father—Our Father in Heaven. Improve the talent He has given you, that it may be said to you, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” (Pengilly 29-31)

A year after her discharge, in 1885, Mary published her diary, accounting her time at the asylum in St. John. She spent the rest of her life working to make conditions in asylums better for the people living there. Mary Huestis Pengilly died in Dubuque, Iowa, in 1893. She was 70 years old.

And that is where I’ll end the story of Mary Huestis Pengilly. I think it captures the horrors that people experienced in the asylums, whether it’s the one in St. John, New Brunswick, where Mary was, or whether it was at the asylum in Toronto. We really get a sense of what went wrong and how people were trying to do their best in a system that was understaffed, underfunded, and overcrowded. So thanks to Mary for capturing those details – I wonder if she even anticipated her words could be read 140 years later. 

And, of course, thanks to you for listening! I hope you enjoyed this series on the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in Toronto. I know I did! I’m working on the next hospital already, and this series is going to have an extra special surprise in it. I cannot wait.

Extra special shout out and thank you this week to Alex for such a wonderful and thoughtful review on Apple Podcasts – you’re gonna make me cry! Remember to rate and review wherever you are listening, too, but super extra bonus points if it’s on Apple Podcasts, since that’s where most of my listeners are right now.

But most of all, remember the words of Maya Angelou: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.” Until next time…

“Great Fire of Saint John.” Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Fire_of_Saint_John

“Mary Huestis.” Family Search. https://ancestors.familysearch.org/en/K8QW-K4M/mary-huestis-1823

Pengilly, Mary Huestis. Diary Written in the Provincial Lunatic Asylum. 1885.

“Secret Diary Written in the Lunatic Asylum.” Backyard History, 1 Dec. 2022. https://backyardhistory.ca/popular/f/secret-diary-in-the-lunatic-asylum