Among the unspeakable crimes which man, in the name of humanity, has perpetrated against his fellow man, none has been more gruesome, more merciless, more fiendishly cruel than the abuse of the private sanitarium.

There is a hazy notion in the public mind that the private insane asylum, the horrors of which were so vividly depicted by Charles Reade, Edgar Allan Poe, and other writers, are things of the barbarous past, and that in our own enlightened, humane, practical twentieth century, when the liberty of the individual was never so jealously safe-guarded, it would be impossible for any unscrupulous person, actuated by interested motives of his own, to "railroad" a perfectly sane relative to an institution, and retain him there indefinitely against his or her will. The startling truth, however, is that, under our present lunacy system, nothing is easier.

The infamous madhouses of half a century ago, with their secret dungeons, their living skeletons rattling in chains, their brutal keepers who tickled the soles of hapless inmates' feet to drive them into hysterics in anticipation of the annual perfunctory visit of the State examiners in lunacy, have, it is true been driven out of business; the existing sanitariums are now more or less under rigid State control, yet this official supervision is not always adequate protection against misrepresentation and fraud. By the free expenditure of money and with the coÖperation of unscrupulous physicians, foul wrongs are frequently inflicted on the most innocent and unoffensive people. At the present moment it is not only possible for scheming persons, interested in getting a relative safely out of the way, to accomplish their sinister purpose, but each year in the United States dozens of perfectly sane persons are actually incarcerated in private asylums scattered over the country.

The medical superintendent of a prominent State hospital, in a paper read recently before the Bar Association practically admitted the truth of this. At the same time, reviewing the laws bearing upon the commitment and discharge of the criminally insane, he proposed certain changes suggested by the actual operation of the present laws. He also drew attention to a statement made by the Medical Record to the effect that, only a short time since, no fewer than fourteen persons were committed to one small institution by juries in a single year and every one of them was found later to be sane, and had to be discharged. The superintendent very properly insisted that there should be some modification of the present law whereby lunatics, accused of serious crimes against the person and especially those committing murder, should be dealt with by a tribunal having fixed, continuous responsibility, and that a jury of laymen should not be allowed to decide regarding the mental condition of any person with a view to his commitment to an asylum for the insane or to his discharge therefrom.

The abuses possible under the present loose system are only too obvious, the opportunity offered to fraud and crime only too apparent. Putting troublesome relatives in lunatic asylums might be considered an easy way of getting rid of them by those who are too tender-hearted or too cowardly to murder them outright. It is scarcely more merciful. Frequently the request for incarceration is not brought before a court or jury at all. A commission of insanity experts is summoned by the alleged lunatic's relatives, and if they are satisfied that the patient is of unsound mind they sign a paper committing him or her to some institution. Sometimes the signature of one physician only is sufficient, and in fraudulent cases, where the persons calling in the physicians are keenly interested in the result, everything is done to make out a bona-fide case, and prove the patient out of his or her mind. Harried, nervous, fearful of everybody and everything, the slightest lapse from control or commonplace speech is used for the patient's undoing.

The mental anguish and actual suffering that a sane person must necessarily undergo when suddenly deprived of his liberty and brutally incarcerated in some lugubrious, lonely sanitarium can better be imagined than described. To know that one is in perfect health and yet compelled to associate with poor creatures whose minds are really shattered, forced to listen to their senseless chatter all day and to hear their blood-curdling screams all night, to be under constant surveillance, an object of distrust and pity, subject to a severe and humiliating discipline, punished by the dreaded cold-water douche when refractory—all this is enough to make a madman of the sanest person. And when, added to these horrors, the unfortunate victim sees himself deserted by all, deprived of means to employ a lawyer, knowing that the enemies responsible for his misfortune are squandering his money and profiting by his misery, is it a wonder that in a moment of discouragement and desperation he abandons hope and does away with himself? Then the indifferent world sagely wags its head and accepts without questioning the coroner's verdict: "Killed by his own hand in a fit of suicidal mania."

Among the larger private insane asylums in New York State, the institution "Sea Rest" at Tocquencke, bore a fairly good reputation. That is to say, the skirts of the management had been kept relatively free from scandal, and suicides were of comparatively rare occurrence. The institution, under the direction of Superintendent Spencer, was pleasantly situated on Long Island, overlooking the Sound, and catered almost exclusively to a wealthy class of patients who, for one reason or another, found themselves compelled to take the "rest cure."

One morning, about three weeks after Mr. Cooley's spectacular arrest of the runaways at the Jersey ferry, Superintendent Spencer was seated at his desk in the general reception room at "Sea Rest," dictating reports to a young woman stenographer. There was little about the surroundings to suggest the sinister character of the place. Only the heavily barred windows, overlooking the grounds enclosed by high walls, and the massive doors fitted with ponderous bolts and locks suggested that padded cells with wild-eyed inmates might be found in some other part of the establishment. Otherwise it was an ordinary, everyday business office. The large desk near the window was covered with ledgers and papers, while close at hand was a telephone and clicking typewriter. To the left of the desk a small, narrow door led to the wards. On the right a heavy door opened on the vestibule and grounds.

The superintendent himself was a clean-shaven man of about thirty-five. Alert-looking and well groomed, he had the energetic manner of the successful business man. Mechanically, as if it were a matter of tiresome routine, to be hurried through as speedily as possible, he went on dictating in a monotonous tone:

"Report on Miss Manderson's case. Attendant, Miss Hadley; physician, Dr. Bently. Patient's demand for stimulants decreasing, but she calls constantly for bridge-playing companions. Patient generally cheerful—will not retire till 3 A.M. Six packages of cigarettes in her room——"

Buzz! buzz! A disc fell down on the indicator on the wall, disclosing a number.

The superintendent turned quickly and, glancing at the indicator, pressed a button in his desk. This released a bolt in the door leading to the outer hall, a safeguard necessary to prevent reckless patients from wandering outside to help themselves without permission to the fresh air. The big door swung open and an old man, bent with age, entered.

"Ah, Collins—I wanted to see you!" said the superintendent sharply.

Seized with an attack of coughing, the old man could not reply at once. For thirty years he had been an inmate. When a man is going on eighty, he is not as vigorous as he once was. Formerly a waiter at Delmonico's, he found the pace too swift. His mind gave way, and a rich patron, pitying his condition, sent him to "Sea Rest." For a long time now he had been cured, but, broken in spirit, he found he could not return to the old life, so he had remained at the asylum in the capacity of attendant.

"Yes—sir," he gasped, between spasms of coughing.

The superintendent looked at him severely:

"Collins, did you buy six packets of cigarettes for Miss Manderson?"

The old man cowered. He was afraid of the superintendent. He had reason to dread those cold douches.

"No, sir," he replied, trembling.

"Are you sure?" demanded the superintendent.

"Yes, sir," answered the old man hesitatingly, his eyes on the floor.

"Look at me," thundered the superintendent.

"Yes, sir."

He looked up timidly and shook his head.

"Don't you know," almost shouted the superintendent, "that she has come to 'Sea Rest' to recuperate from an overdose of social life, and that she must not smoke?"

"Yes, sir."

"You've been a waiter all your life, Collins—and I'm afraid that the old instinct to take tips is too strong."

"It's hard to refuse sometimes, sir," replied the old man, his knees shaking, "but I manage to overcome my feelings—occasionally."

The indicator again rang. The superintendent turned.

"It's the front door," he said, with a gesture to go and answer the bell.

"It's Dr. Bently, sir," rejoined the old man.

As Collins went to open the outside door, the superintendent turned to the stenographer.

"Make a note in your report suggesting that Miss Manderson's money be taken from her while she is an inmate of the sanitarium."

"Yes, sir."

The superintendent took up another paper.

"Report on Mr. Jeliffe's case. Attendant, James Hurst; physician, Dr. Macdonald. Same as previous report."

Suddenly the small, narrow door on the left opened and the head female attendant, dressed in a gray uniform with white cap and apron, entered. She was a big, muscular-looking woman, the kind of person one might expect to find in her particular business, a woman who looked capable of meeting, single-handed, any emergency that might arise. Her face was hard and unsympathetic, yet it belied her real character, for, as asylum nurses go, she was kind to the patients under her care.

"Well, Mrs. Johnson, what is it?" exclaimed the superintendent testily, annoyed at the many interruptions.

"Miss Marsh wants to see you, sir."

"Not to-day, Mrs. Johnson. I have seventy reports to make out, and I'm only half through. What does she want to see me about? Same thing, I suppose."

"She insists that she is being unlawfully detained here, and she wants to go."

"Of course—of course," exclaimed the superintendent impatiently. "In the short time that she's been here her case has received more attention than any in my experience. What with doctors, and lawyers, and newspaper men, I'm hounded to death about her. Tell her that she can't be permitted to go without an order of release from a physician. The State demands that. You know it as well as I do and yet you waste my time every few hours. Tell her that her habeas corpus case comes up next Friday."

He returned to his papers with an impatient gesture, as if he dismissed the matter from his mind, but the attendant still remained. Hesitatingly she said:

"She's so unhappy! She cries so constantly that I—I wish you'd see her, Mr. Spencer—if only to satisfy her. What can I do?"

The superintendent looked up from his work and glared at his head nurse, as if amazed at her obstinacy. Coldly, deliberately, he said:

"Mrs. Johnson, I'm afraid you are wasting a lot of sympathy on this case. This patient was caught by her guardian at the Jersey City ferry, in the act of eloping. She's mad as a March hare. Her certificate is signed by three of the most eminent physicians in the country, and her application for release is opposed by the biggest lawyer in New York—Bascom Cooley. There is no question about her mental condition."

Turning once more to his desk, he resumed dictating:

"Report on Mr. Jeliffe's case——"

The attendant still lingered.

"Well, sir," she said hesitatingly, "will you send a telegram to Mr. Ricaby, her lawyer, asking him to come up."

"He was here yesterday, wasn't he?" snapped the superintendent.

"She is most anxious to see him," persisted the nurse.

The superintendent frowned. This obstinacy was very annoying. Still, he dare not refuse such a simple request.

"I'll see what Dr. Zacharie says," he said curtly. "His instructions were that she must not be excited or annoyed by visitors."

"Very well, sir," said the nurse respectfully, as she went out again through the little door.

The superintendent resumed his work.

"Have you made out the report on Miss Marsh's case?"

"Yes, sir."

The stenographer was busy searching through a mass of papers when Collins reappeared.

"Will you see Dr. Zacharie, sir?" inquired the old man.

"Yes—show him in," replied the superintendent.

Collins half opened the door and Dr. Zacharie entered, full of authority. Like most charlatans who find it necessary to deceive the world, the physician tried to cover up his shortcomings by noisy bluster. Advancing to the desk, his chest inflated with self-importance, he greeted Mr. Spencer in a patronizing tone:

"Good morning, Mr. Spencer. Well, how is she to-day?"

The superintendent shook his head, as if much discouraged.

"Rather restless, I should say." Handing a paper to the physician, he added: "Here's the report."

Dr. Zacharie took the report and hastily scanned it.

"Ah, well!" he muttered, "it is to be expected."

"Will you see her?" inquired the superintendent.

"No; it—it is not necessary just yet. There is to be a consultation to-day. Dr. McMutrie and Professor Bodley will be here presently—also Mr. Cooley."

"Her habeas corpus comes up on Friday, I believe," said the superintendent politely. Mr. Spencer always made it a rule to stand in well with the visiting physicians.

Dr. Zacharie frowned.

"Yes, a jury of illiterate ignoramuses to decide a scientific question! Ah, such laws in this country!" He stopped and read aloud from the report: "Cries constantly—sits silent and moody for hours." Looking up, he said: "Poor girl, she—she seems to be conscious of her position at times—she talks much, eh?"

At that moment old Collins reappeared.

"Mr. Ricaby wishes to see Miss Marsh," he said.

The superintendent made a gesture in the direction of the wards.

"Tell Mrs. Johnson to bring her here." As the old attendant went to obey the order, the superintendent turned to Dr. Zacharie: "Will you wait, doctor?" he asked.

The other quickly shook his head.

"No," he said. "I don't like that fellow Ricaby. He has a stupid idea that we are opposed to him. May I take this report? I would like to show it to my colleagues when they come."

"Certainly, certainly," replied the other.

He rose from his desk, indicating by a nod to his stenographer that there would be no further dictation. As the secretary gathered her papers the bell rang.

"There's the luncheon bell," said the superintendent. Addressing Dr. Zacharie: "Won't you join us?"

"No, thanks," replied the physician. "Send us a copy of the other reports, will you? We shall need them on Friday."

Buzz! buzz!

Mr. Spencer touched a button and the big doors swung wide open, giving admittance to Mr. Ricaby, who, pale and anxious-looking, advanced quickly into the office. As he came in Dr. Zacharie, a sneer on his lips, made a formal salutation, but it was not returned. Ignoring the physician's presence entirely, the lawyer made his way straight to the superintendent's desk:

"I wish to see my client, Miss Marsh," he said, in a firm voice that would brook no refusal.

Dr. Zacharie gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders and, with a significant smile at the superintendent, went away.

"I have sent for Miss Marsh," said the superintendent coldly.

"Thank you," replied the lawyer curtly.

The air was full of hostility. The superintendent stood in silence at his desk putting away his papers. Mr. Ricaby, taking a seat uninvited, looked around him and shuddered as he thought of the poor girl whose rescue from this dreadful place he was moving heaven and earth to effect. After a few minutes' wait Collins reappeared. Addressing the superintendent, he said:

"Miss Marsh will be here directly, sir."

"Very well," growled the other. "They can have this room."

"Yes, sir."

"Who is on watch duty to-day?" demanded the superintendent.

"Lockwood at the front gates, sir, and Medwinter patrolling."

"Very well," said the superintendent airily. "If you want me I'm at lunch."

Then, without so much as a glance at the lawyer, he closed his desk lid with a bang and left the office.

Mr. Ricaby waited anxiously for the coming of his client. All voices and sounds had died away, and a heavy, sinister silence fell upon the entire building. There was something unnatural about the dead calm. Suddenly there was a scream of terror, followed by peals of hysterical laughter. Then all was silence again. In spite of himself the lawyer felt uncomfortable. He shuddered as he realized what Paula had suffered in such a place. The quiet now was uncanny and oppressive. All one heard was the loud ticking of the office clock and the stealthy walk of old Collins, who, gliding about the room in his noiseless felt slippers, halted every now and then to glance in the direction of the visitor. Like most persons of weak mind, he was easily excited by the appearance of a new face. Indeed, strangers at "Sea Rest" were enough of a novelty to excite interest. With the physicians and regular callers the inmates were familiar enough, but the sight of a stranger revived in their debilitated minds old recollections, thoughts of the outer world, a world of sunshine, joy, and liberty of which they themselves had once been a part and which they had abandoned all hope of ever seeing again. At last, unable to control his curiosity any longer, the old man stopped in front of the lawyer and inquired respectfully:

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No, thanks," replied Mr. Ricaby. There was something in the appearance of the old man that interested him, and kindly he asked: "How long have you been here?"

"Nearly ten years, sir—on and off. I was an inmate here, sir, when Dr. Spencer—Mr. Spencer's father—was the proprietor."

"Are you still a—a—an inmate?"

"No, sir—not so to speak. I'm a waiter, sir—my old profession. After I got better I went back to my old position at Delmonico's, but I couldn't stand the excitement. You wouldn't believe it, sir, but waiters are frightfully tried. We've got to know just what people want, who don't know what they want themselves, and who complain if we make the slightest mistake. Don't they make mistakes, too? Don't they point with their knives and forks while they talk in a vulgar, loud voice with their mouths full of food? Don't they put vinegar on their oysters and ice in their claret? Don't they drink champagne with fish? Don't they expect a half portion to be enough for two? And, cruellest act of all, they talk to us in a language they call French. They blame us when the cashier makes mistakes. They blame us when the cook makes mistakes. They blame us when their own digestions make mistakes. They forget that we're human. And, I tell you, sir, it gets on our nerves at last. It's bound to." Suddenly the electric indicator buzzed loudly. The old man started nervously and glanced up.

"It's the dining room, sir. Excuse me, sir."

Before he could obey the summons a bell sounded violently from the same direction.

"All right—all right," he cried. "I heard it the first time."

He toddled off, grumbling. A moment later the small, narrow door opened and Mrs. Johnson, the head attendant, entered, followed by Paula.