But fidelity to the truth requires me to say in this connection, that among my family relatives, are three families of Congregational ministers--that each of these families have refused me any hearing, so that they are still in league with, and defenders of, Mr. Packard. All I have to say for them is, "May the Lord forgive them, for they know not what they do."

But it may be urged that the published certificates of her friends contradict this statement. This is not the case. Those certificates which have appeared in print since my return to my friends, all bear date to the time they were given previous to my return.

And in this connection I feel conscientiously bound, in defence of my kindred, to say, that some of these certificates are mere forgeries in its strict sense; that is, they were drafted by Mr. Packard, himself, and most adroitly urged upon the individual whose signature he desired to obtain, and thus his logic, being based in a falsehood, which was used as a truth, and received as such, they are thus made to certify to what was not the real truth. My minor children's certificates are the mere echoes of their father's will and dictation. He has tried to buy the signatures of my two oldest sons, now of age, in Chicago, by offering them some of his abundant surplus clothing, from his missionary boxes, if they would only certify that their mother was insane. But these n.o.ble sons have too much moral rect.i.tude to sell their consciences for clothes or gold. Instead of being abettors in their father's crimes, they have, and do still, maintain a most firm stand in defence of me. And for this manly act of filial piety towards me, their father has disinherited both of them, as he has me, from our family rights.

Another thing, it is no new business for Mr. Packard to practice forgery.

This a.s.sertion I can prove by his own confession. Not long before I was exiled from my home, he said to me one day, "I have just signed a note, which, if brought against me in law, would place me in a penitentiary; but I think I am safe, as I have fixed it." Again, Mr. Packard sent a great many forged letters to the Superintendent of the Asylum, while I was there, professing to come from a different source, wherein the writer urged, very strongly, the necessity of keeping me in an asylum, and begging him, most pathetically, to _keep me there_, not only for Mr.

Packard's sake, but also for his children's sake, and community's sake, and, lastly, for the cause of Christ's sake! Dr. McFarland used to come to me for an explanation of this singular phenomenon. I would promptly tell him the letters are a forgery--the very face of them so speaks--for who would think of a minister in Ohio writing, self-moved, to a Superintendent in Illinois, begging of him to keep another man's wife in his Asylum!

Either these letters were exact copies of Mr. Packard's, with the exception of the signature, or, they were entirely drafted from Mr.

Packard's statement, and made so as to be an echo of Mr. Packard's wishes, but seeming to be a self-moved act of the writer's own mind and wishes.

O, how fruitful is a depraved heart in devising lies, and masking them with the semblance of truth! and how many lies it takes to defend one! The lie he was thus trying to defend was, that I was insane, when I was not, and all this gigantic frame work of certificates and testimony became necessary as props to sustain it.

I now give the testimony of my lawyer, who, after witnessing the revelations of the court room, thus alludes to this subject in his reply to Dr. McFarland's letter. "The certificates produced, fully attesting her insanity, before she was admitted, I suspect were forgeries of the pious Packard, altered to suit the occasion, and your too generous disposition to rely upon the statements made to you, was taken advantage of again, and they were imposed upon you, without the critical examination their importance demanded."

FOURTH REPORT.

"Mrs. Packard is alienated from her kindred, and even her own father and husband."

I will confess I am alienated from _such_ manifestations of love as they showed me while in the Asylum; that is, from none at all. Not one, except my adopted sister, and my two sons at Chicago, ever made an attempt to visit me, or even wrote me scarcely one line. I do say, this was rather cold sympathy for one pa.s.sing through such scenes as I was called to pa.s.s through. This fact was not only an enigma to myself, but it was so to all my Asylum friends, and even to the Doctor himself, if I can believe his own words. He would often say to me, "Mrs. Packard, who are your friends?

have you any in the wide world? If so, why do they not look after you?"

I used at first to say, I have many friends, and no enemies, except Mr.

Packard, that I know of in the whole world. All my relatives love me tenderly. But after watching in vain for three years of prison life for them to show me some proof of it, I changed my song, and owned up, I had no friends worth the name; for my adversity had tried or tested their love, and it had all been found wanting--entirely wanting. So it looked to me from _that_ stand point. And I still insist upon it, this was a sane conclusion. For what is that love worth, that can't defend its friend in adversity? I say it is not worth the name of love.

But it must be remembered, I saw then only one side of the picture. The other side I could not see until I saw my friends, and looked from _their_ standpoint. Then I found that the many letters I had written had never reached them; for Mr. Packard had instructed Dr. McFarland, and had insisted upon it, that not a single letter should be sent to any of my friends, not even my father, or sons, without reading it himself, and then sending it to him to read, before sending it; and so he must do with all the letters sent to me; and the result was, scarcely none were delivered to me, nor were mine sent to my friends. But instead of this, a brisk correspondence was kept up between Dr. McFarland and Mr. Packard, who both agreed in representing me as very insane; so much so, that my good demanded that I be kept entirely aloof from their sympathy. I have seen and read these letters, and now, instead of blaming my friends for regarding me as insane, I don't see how they could have come to any other conclusion. From _their_ standpoint, they acted judiciously, and kindly.

They were anxious to aid the afflicted minister to the extent they could, in restoring reason to his poor afflicted, maniac wife, and they thought the Superintendent understood his business, and with him, and her kind husband to superintend, they considered I must be well cared for.

And again, how could they imagine, that a man would wish to have the reputation of having an insane wife, when he had not? And could the good and kind Mr. Packard neglect even his poor afflicted wife? No, she must be in good hands, under the best of care, and it is her husband on whom we must lavish our warmest, tenderest, sympathies! Yes, so it was; Mr.

Packard managed so as to get all the sympathy, and his wife none at all.

He got all the money, and she not a cent. He got abundant tokens of regard, and she none at all. In short, he had buried me in a living tomb, with his own hands, and he meant there should be no resurrection. And the statement that I was alienated from my friends when I was entered, is utterly _false_. No one ever loved their kindred or friends with a warmer or a purer love than I ever loved mine.

Neither was I alienated even from Mr. Packard, when he entered me. As proof of this, I will describe my feelings as indicated by my conduct, at the time he forced me from my dear ones at home. After the physicians had examined me as described in my Introduction, and Mr. Packard had ordered me to dress for a ride to the Asylum, I asked the privilege of having my room vacated, so that I might bathe myself, as usual, before dressing; intending myself to then secure about my person, _secretly_, my Bible-cla.s.s doc.u.ments, as all that I had said in defence of my opinions was in writing, never having trusted myself to an extemporaneous discussion of my new ideas, lest I be misrepresented. And I then felt that these doc.u.ments, alone, were my only _defence_, being denied all and every form of justice, by any trial. I therefore resorted to this innocent stratagem, as it seemed to me, to secure them; that is, I did not tell Mr.

Packard that I had any other reason for being left alone in my room than the one I gave him.

But he refused me this request, giving as his only reason, that he did not think it best to leave me alone. He doubtless had the same doc.u.ments in view, intending thus to keep me from getting them, for he ordered Miss Rumsey to be my lady's maid, as a spy upon my actions. I dared not attempt to get them with her eye upon me, lest she take them from me, or report me to Mr. Packard, as directed by him so to do, as I believed. I resolved upon one more stratagem as my last and only hope, and this was, to ask to be left alone long enough to pray in my own room once more, before being forced from it into my prison. When, therefore, I was all dressed, ready to be kidnapped, I asked to see my dear little ones, to bestow upon them my parting kiss. But was denied this favor also!

"Then," said I, "can I bear such trials as these without G.o.d's help? And is not this help given us in answer to our own prayers? May I not be allowed, husband, to ask this favor of G.o.d _alone_ in my room, before being thus exiled from it?"

"No," said he, "I don't think it is best to let you be alone in your room."

"O, husband," said I, "you have allowed me no chance for my secret devotions this morning, can't I be allowed this one last request?"

"No; I think it is not best; but you may pray with your door open."

I then kneeled down in my room, with my bonnet and shawl on, and in the presence and hearing of the sheriff, and the conspiracy I offered up my pet.i.tion, in an audible voice, wherein I laid my burdens frankly, fully, before my sympathizing Saviour, as I would have done in secret. And this Miss Rumsey reports, that the burden of this prayer was for _Mr. Packard's forgiveness_. She says, I first told G.o.d what a great crime Mr. Packard was committing in treating his wife as he was doing, and what great guilt he was thus treasuring up to himself, by this cruel and unjust treatment of the woman he had sworn before G.o.d to protect; and what an awful doom he must surely meet with, under the government of a just G.o.d, for these his great sins against me, and so forth; and then added, that if it was possible for G.o.d to allow me to bear his punishment _for him_, that he would allow me so to do, if in that way, his soul might be redeemed from the curse which must now rest upon it. In short, the burden of my prayer was, that I might be his redeemer, if my sufferings could in any possible way atone for his sins. Such a pet.i.tion was, of course looked upon by this conspiracy, as evidence of my insanity, and has been used by them, as such. But I cannot but feel that in G.o.d's sight, it was regarded as an echo of Christ's dying prayer for his murderers, prompted by the same spirit of gospel forgiveness of enemies. In fact, if I know anything of my own heart, I do know that it then cherished not a single feeling of resentment towards him. But my soul was burdened by a sense of his great guilt, and only desired his pardon and forgiveness.

As another proof of this a.s.sertion, I will describe our parting interview at the Asylum. He had stayed two nights at the Asylum, occupying the stately guest chamber and bed alone, while I was being locked up in my narrow cell, on my narrow single bed, with the howling maniacs around for my serenaders. He sat at the sumptuous table of the Superintendent, sharing in all its costly viands and dainties, and entertained by its refined guests, for his company and companions. While I, his companion, ever accustomed to the most polished and best society, was sitting at our long table, furnished with nothing but bread and meat; and my companions, some of them, gibbering maniacs, whose presence and society must be purchased only at the risk of life or physical injury. He could walk about the city at his pleasure, or be escorted in the sumptuous carriage, while I could only circ.u.mambulate the Asylum yard, under the vigilant eye of my keeper. O, it did seem, these two days and nights, as though my affectionate heart would break with my over much sorrow. No sweet darling babe to hug to my heart's embrace--no child arms to encircle my neck and bestow on my cheek its hearty "good night" kiss. No--nothing, nothing, in my surroundings, to cheer and soothe my tempest tossed soul.

In this sorrowful state of mind Mr. Packard found me in my cell, and asked me if I should not like an interview with him, in the parlor, as he was about to leave me soon.

"Yes," said I, "I should be very glad of one," and taking his arm, I walked out of the hall. As I pa.s.sed on, one of the attendants remarked: "See, she is not alienated from her husband, see how kindly she takes his arm!" When we reached the parlor, I seated myself by his side, on the sofa, and gave full vent to my long pent up emotions and feelings.

"O, husband!" said I, "how can you leave me in such a place? It seems as though I cannot bear it. And my darling babe! O, what will become of him!

How can he live without his mother! And how can I live without my babe, and my children! O, do, do, I beg of you, take me home. You know I have _always_ been a true and loving wife to you, and how can you treat me so?"

My entreaties and prayers were accompanied with my tears, which is a very uncommon manifestation with me; and while I talked, I arose from my seat and walked the room, with my handkerchief to my eyes; for it seemed as if my heart would break. Getting no response whatever from him, I took down my hand to see why he did not speak to me when--what did I see! my husband sound asleep, nodding his head!

"O, husband!" said I, "can you sleep while your wife is in such agony?"

Said he, "I can't keep awake; I have been broke of my rest."

"I see," said I, "there is no use in trying to move your feelings, we may as well say our 'good bye' now as ever." And as I bestowed upon him the parting kiss, I said, "May our next meeting be in the spirit land! And if there you find yourself in a sphere of lower development than myself; and you have any desire to rise to a higher plane, remember, there is one spirit in the universe, who will leave any height of enjoyment, and descend to any depth of misery, to raise you to a higher plane of happiness, if it is possible so to do. And that spirit is the spirit of your Elizabeth. Farewell! husband, forever!!"

This is the exact picture. Now see what use he makes of it. In his letter to my father, he says: "She did not like to be left. I pitied her."

(Pitied her! How was his sympathy manifested?) "It was an affecting scene.

But she was very mad at me, and tried to wound my feelings every way. She would send no word to the children, and would not _pleasantly_ bid me good bye." Pleasantly was underlined, to make it appear, that, because I did not pleasantly bid him good bye, under these circ.u.mstances, I felt hard towards him, and this was a proof of my alienation, and is as strong a one as it is possible for him to bring in support of his charge.

Let the tender hearted mother draw her own inferences--man cannot know what I then suffered. And may a kind G.o.d grant, that no other mother may ever know what I then felt, in her own sad experience!

The truth is, I never was alienated from my husband, until he gave me just _cause_ for this alienation, and not until he put me into the Asylum, and then it took four long months more, of the most intense spiritual torture, to develop in my loving, forgiving heart, one feeling of hate towards him.

As proof of this, I will here insert two letters I wrote him several weeks after my incarceration.

COPY OF THE LETTER.

_Jacksonville, July 14th, 1860, Sabbath, P. M._

MY DEAR CHILDREN AND HUSBAND:

Your letter of July eleventh arrived yesterday. It was the third I have received from home, and, indeed, is all I have received from any source since I came to the Asylum. And the one you received from me is all I have sent from here. I thank you for writing so often. I shall be happy to answer all letters from you, if you desire it, as I see you do, by your last. I like anything to relieve the monotony of my daily routine. * * *

Dr. McFarland told me, after I had been here one week, "I do not think you will remain but a few days longer." I suspect he found me an unfit subject, upon a personal acquaintance with me. Still, unfit as I consider myself, to be numbered amongst the insane, I am so numbered at my husband's request. And for his sake, I must, until my death, carry about with me, "This thorn in the flesh--this messenger of Satan to buffet me,"

and probably, to keep me humble, and in my proper place. G.o.d grant it may be a sanctified affliction to me! I do try to bear it, uncomplainingly, and submissively. But, O! 'tis hard--'tis very hard. O, may you never know what it is to be numbered with the insane, within the walls of an insane asylum, not knowing as your friends will ever regard you as a fit companion or a.s.sociate for them again, outside its walls.

O, the bitter, bitter cup, I have been called to drink, even to its very dregs, just because I choose to obey G.o.d rather than man! But, as my Saviour said, "the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?" O, yes, for thy sake, kind Saviour, I rejoice, that I am counted worthy to suffer the loss of all things, for thy sake. And thou hast made me worthy, by thine own free and sovereign grace. Yes, dear Jesus, I believe that I have learned the lesson thou hast thus taught me, that "in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."

Yes, content, to sit at a table with twenty-four maniacs, three times a day, and eat my bread and meat, and drink my milk and water, while I remember, almost each time, how many vegetables and berries are upon my own dear table at home, and I not allowed to taste, because my husband counts me unworthy, or unfit, or unsafe, to be an inmate at his fireside and table. I eat, and retire, and pray G.o.d to keep me from complaining. My fare does not agree with my health, and so I have begged of our kind attendants, to furnish me some poor, shriveled wheat, to keep in my room, to eat raw, to keep my bowels open. This morning, after asking a blessing at the table, I retired to my own room, to eat my raw, hard wheat alone, with my pine-apple to soften it, or rather to moisten it going down. Yes, the berries I toiled so very hard to get for our health and comfort, I only must be deprived of them at my husband's appointment. The past, O, the sad past! together with the present, and the unknown future. O, let oblivion cover the past--let no record of my wrongs be ever made, for posterity to see, for your sake, my own lawful husband.

O, my dear precious children! how I pity you! My heart aches for you. But I can do nothing for you. I am your father's victim, and cannot escape from my prison to help you, even you--my own flesh and blood--my heart's treasures, my jewels, my honor and rejoicing.

For I do believe you remain true to the mother who loves you so tenderly, that she would die to save you from the disgrace she has brought upon your fair names, by being stigmatised as the children of an insane mother, whom your father said he regarded as unsafe, as an inmate of your own quiet home, and, therefore, has confined me within these awful enclosures.

O, may you never know what it is to go to sleep within the hearing of such unearthly sounds, as can be heard here almost at any hour of the night! I can sleep in the hearing of it, for "so he giveth his beloved sleep." O, children dear, do not be discouraged at my sad fate, for well doing. But be a.s.sured that, although you may suffer in this world for it, you may be sure your reward will come in the next. "For, if we suffer with him, we shall also reign with him."

O, do commit your souls to him in well-doing for my sake, if you dare not for your own sake, for I do entreat you to let me be with you in heaven, if your father prevents it on earth.