103

VISIT TO A MAD HOUSE.

THE ASYLUM WHERE EX-SENATOR JONES IS.

HOW HR PASSES THE DREARY HOURS AWAY.

True Story of the Events Leading up to the loss of His Reason - His Love for Miss Palms, A Detroit Heiress.

NOT LONG AGO the writer had occasion to visit Dearborn, a small town some six miles from Detroit. Dearborn has about 1,000 inhabitants and is in hourly railway connection with the state metropolis, it being situated on the line of the Detroit & Bay City railroad. As the train slacks up near the station almost the first thing that attracts the passenger's observation is a great tall building just outside of the town limits and within a stone throw of the track. It is the Catholic retreat for the insane for the diocese of Detroit. From an exterior point of view the building has anything but an inviting appearance. A great big fence closes it within three acres of ground. Even the fence has a gloomy appearance. A dozen or more tall evergreen trees which began their work some fifty years ago have already hidden the side part of the building from view.

It is a bright spring morning as the visitor approaches the great gates leading to the courtyard not a sign of life is visible. The very air seems to carry its burden of the solemnity waited from the historic old structure.

Historic, did I say? Yes, historic; few asylums more so. There, from time to time have lingered between reason and madness men and women of even more than national reputation.

A big brass knob is pulled and a low dismal ringing sound is heard from a gong hidden somewhere in the recesses of the great gates. Presently a sentinel opens the gate and after asking a number of questions permits the stranger to walk in. The sentinel follows. They are now in an old fashioned courtyard. A dozen faces appear at the windows above. they tap and laugh and giggle, and beckon the visitor to enter. Strange people are these: none of them incurable. Some are even happy in their derangement. This was at least so of a young lady who came from one of the rear doors unknown to the Good Sisters who have charge of the institution. "Here he comes; here he comes, my dear husband!" she cried, with joyous laughter in her mellow blue eves.

Her remarks were addressed to a tall stately gentleman who was coming up one of the gravel walks lending from the garden. He allowed her remarks to pass unnoticed, and, as if she had been greatly insulted, she turned quickly and retired to her quarters in the building. The gentleman smiled. "Queer halucination." he said. Then he rushed up and took the visitor by the hand.

"I have just been taking my morn-

JONES' MORNING CONSTITUTIONAL.

ing constitutional," he said, looking the visitor straight in the eyes. I have a pleasant home here, almost free from the outer world. They don't call me insane here and I can do as I please."

The speaker drew himself up to his full height as he spoke. He looked a splendid type of physical manhood, in his long Prince Albert, gold-headed cane and silk hat. His eve, though, had a faint sign of nervousness.

He was Ex-United States Senator Jones, of Florida, who has been confined there for over a year. Though not entirely insane, he is just a little too far gone to have his liberty, at least that was his condition when he was first incarcerated.

There is a peculiarly sad story connected with the Senator's confinement. The "man of Iron," and at one time the only recognized antagonist of James G. Blaine, when the latter was in the United States Senate, did not lose his balance in an ordinary way. His is a case of mad love for a woman, who by reason of her choice, refused him hand in marriage. The Senator had been invited to a reception in Detroit by Mayor Thompson. That was in 1884. While in that city he met Miss Clotilde Palms, only daughter of Frances Palms, a millionaire who since died, leaving his daughter a fortune aggregating $3,000,000.

After returning to Washington the Senator wrote her many interesting letters and finally proposed marriage. She promptly said no. The Senator then went to Detroit to press his suit. After a personal interview he was denied further intercourse. Strange to say he did not leave the city. Day after day he would walk by the Palms residence, never forgetting to leave a memento of his affections - a bouquet - on the gate. Even in winter this was kept up.

Finally Miss Palms fled to Europe to evade his attentions, at least so it was said when she suddenly left Detroit. She was accompanied by Dr. Book, a well known Detroit physician. They were absent two years. Just after their return in November, 1887, the wife of Dr. Book, a leader in Detroit society, applied for a divorce. A decree had been entered before the ink was dry on the application. As all of the parties were willing none of the charges were made public. Not long after Dr. Book and Miss Clotilde Palms were married. This gave great offense to Senator Jones who lived in hopes. He declared that there was a conspiracy, that the Book divorce was illegal and that Miss Palms was not the legal wife. He then became completely broke up, was declared insane and sent to Dearborn, and so lives and in hopes, believing that some day Fate will make it possible for him to see the consummation of hsi fond and mad desire. Many efforts were made to have the Senator return to Florida, but all to no purpose. Even when the time for a re-election came he would not return, so a substitute was sent to Washington in his place. He still retains a lively interest in national politics and seems to view the ascendancy of Blaine with alarm. "That man Blaine," he said, "will plunge us into a disastrous var yet." They were always bitter enemies in the Senate and Jones has not forgotten their fights. Otherwise he is quite rational on national affairs.

It is not generally known that his present expenses are being paid by prominent Catholics of Detroit. His funds became entirely exhausted two years ago, since which time he has lived entirely upon the charity of the charitably disposed. And what is stranger still the Senator seems to think that he is only getting his dues. An amusing story is told as regards his convictions on the subject. About eighteen months ago he was turned out of Detroit hotel at which he had been stopping. For weeks nobody would take him in. The great man of former years, soon changed in personal appearance. He often walked the streets at night and seldom sat down to a plentiful table. He began to rave and

ASYLUM AT DEARBORN.

write letter to the New York World telling of his poverty and asking for aid from the Nation. The Nation answered not. Finally his story attracted the attention of Pat O'Neill, post office inspector in the Chicago district, whose home is in Detroit. O'Neill took him to his home. Matters run along nicely for a few weeks when Senator Jones suddenly became very choice about table delicacies. He acquired an abnormal appetite for mallard duck, quail, imported fruits, wines, pies, cage, etc. He also demanded the finest furnishings for his room. O'Neil couldn't afford to meet the demand, and one morning said so. The Senator asked him know at noon. O' Neill had some business in an interior town near Detroit that day and did not get home until evening. The senator had become impatient for an answer in the meantime and vented his rage by forcing O'Neill's wife and motlier out of the house and then fortified himself against intrusion. It was with difficulty that he was removed. After that he made his sleeping apartment in the garret of a tobacco factory, from which place he was taken to the asylum.

Jones is a devout Irish Catholic and never misses the morning masses said in the retreat. He has become greatly attached to the sisters and says that he would like to live with them for ever were it not for his approaching nuptials.

SHE IS 116 YEARS OLD.

A German Woman Who Has Attained a Remarkable Age.

Frau Magare the Krietschik of Vienna, who has just attained the age of 116, is certainly -if her baptismal record be a genuine document- the oldest woman we have heard of in recent times. She

FRAU KREITSCHIK.

is still active, and personally sweeps and cleans her own house, being able and always ready to talk to visitors, for whom she has ever at her disposal a fun of anecdotes about old times. Aged as Frau Kreitschik is, she gets up every morning before 8 o'clock and sets about the round of household work, which she goes through with conscientiously, even when necessary mounting a chair to dust the pictures on the walls. After this she generally spends her day seated at the window musing over friends dead and gone. She is unable to do any cooking for herself, and her meals are brought her. She has lived in Vienna since 1824, her husband carrying on the trade of a wood splitter.

The Famous Carlson Cottage.

The Carlson cottage at 1872 Ashland avenue, Chicago, in which Dr. Cronin was murdered May 4, 1889, is not longer a remunerative piece of property for the owners. Even on the anniversary of the crime this year only an occasional visitor paid the requisite fee of 10 cents. The Carlson Family reside there. It is neatly furnished. A card on which the following words are printed in bold letters hangs in one of the windows: "Carlson cottage now open to exhibition; admission 10 cents." Ever since the horrible murder the place has been visited by a stream of townspepople and strangers who have examined with deep interest the spot where the doctor fell under the storm of murderous blows. Lately the number of visitors has decreased and only occasionally now is a crowd of gaping folks seen in front of the O'Sullivan house on the next street.

VISIT TO A MAD HOUSE.

THE ASYLUM WHERE EX-SENATOR JONES IS.

HOW HR PASSES THE DREARY HOURS AWAY.

True Story of the Events Leading up to the loss of His Reason - His Love for Miss Palms, A Detroit Heiress.

NOT LONG AGO the writer had occasion to visit Dearborn, a small town some six miles from Detroit. Dearborn has about 1,000 inhabitants and is in hourly railway connection with the state metropolis, it being situated on the line of the Detroit & Bay City railroad. As the train slacks up near the station almost the first thing that attracts the passenger's observation is a great tall building just outside of the town limits and within a stone throw of the track. It is the Catholic retreat for the insane for the diocese of Detroit. From an exterior point of view the building has anything but an inviting appearance. A great big fence closes it within three acres of ground. Even the fence has a gloomy appearance. A dozen or more tall evergreen trees which began their work some fifty years ago have already hidden the side part of the building from view.

It is a bright spring morning as the visitor approaches the great gates leading to the courtyard not a sign of life is visible. The very air seems to carry its burden of the solemnity waited from the historic old structure.

Historic, did I say? Yes, historic; few asylums more so. There, from time to time have lingered between reason and madness men and women of even more than national reputation.

A big brass knob is pulled and a low dismal ringing sound is heard from a gong hidden somewhere in the recesses of the great gates. Presently a sentinel opens the gate and after asking a number of questions permits the stranger to walk in. The sentinel follows. They are now in an old fashioned courtyard. A dozen faces appear at the windows above. they tap and laugh and giggle, and beckon the visitor to enter. Strange people are these: none of them incurable. Some are even happy in their derangement. This was at least so of a young lady who came from one of the rear doors unknown to the Good Sisters who have charge of the institution. "Here he comes; here he comes, my dear husband!" she cried, with joyous laughter in her mellow blue eves.

Her remarks were addressed to a tall stately gentleman who was coming up one of the gravel walks lending from the garden. He allowed her remarks to pass unnoticed, and, as if she had been greatly insulted, she turned quickly and retired to her quarters in the building. The gentleman smiled. "Queer halucination." he said. Then he rushed up and took the visitor by the hand.

"I have just been taking my morn-

JONES' MORNING CONSTITUTIONAL.

ing constitutional," he said, looking the visitor straight in the eyes. I have a pleasant home here, almost free from the outer world. They don't call me insane here and I can do as I please."

The speaker drew himself up to his full height as he spoke. He looked a splendid type of physical manhood, in his long Prince Albert, gold-headed cane and silk hat. His eve, though, had a faint sign of nervousness.

He was Ex-United States Senator Jones, of Florida, who has been confined there for over a year. Though not entirely insane, he is just a little too far gone to have his liberty, at least that was his condition when he was first incarcerated.

There is a peculiarly sad story connected with the Senator's confinement. The "man of Iron," and at one time the only recognized antagonist of James G. Blaine, when the latter was in the United States Senate, did not lose his balance in an ordinary way. His is a case of mad love for a woman, who by reason of her choice, refused him hand in marriage. The Senator had been invited to a reception in Detroit by Mayor Thompson. That was in 1884. While in that city he met Miss Clotilde Palms, only daughter of Frances Palms, a millionaire who since died, leaving his daughter a fortune aggregating $3,000,000.

After returning to Washington the Senator wrote her many interesting letters and finally proposed marriage. She promptly said no. The Senator then went to Detroit to press his suit. After a personal interview he was denied further intercourse. Strange to say he did not leave the city. Day after day he would walk by the Palms residence, never forgetting to leave a memento of his affections - a bouquet - on the gate. Even in winter this was kept up.

Finally Miss Palms fled to Europe to evade his attentions, at least so it was said when she suddenly left Detroit. She was accompanied by Dr. Book, a well known Detroit physician. They were absent two years. Just after their return in November, 1887, the wife of Dr. Book, a leader in Detroit society, applied for a divorce. A decree had been entered before the ink was dry on the application. As all of the parties were willing none of the charges were made public. Not long after Dr. Book and Miss Clotilde Palms were married. This gave great offense to Senator Jones who lived in hopes. He declared that there was a conspiracy, that the Book divorce was illegal and that Miss Palms was not the legal wife. He then became completely broke up, was declared insane and sent to Dearborn, and so lives and in hopes, believing that some day Fate will make it possible for him to see the consummation of hsi fond and mad desire. Many efforts were made to have the Senator return to Florida, but all to no purpose. Even when the time for a re-election came he would not return, so a substitute was sent to Washington in his place. He still retains a lively interest in national politics and seems to view the ascendancy of Blaine with alarm. "That man Blaine," he said, "will plunge us into a disastrous var yet." They were always bitter enemies in the Senate and Jones has not forgotten their fights. Otherwise he is quite rational on national affairs.

It is not generally known that his present expenses are being paid by prominent Catholics of Detroit. His funds became entirely exhausted two years ago, since which time he has lived entirely upon the charity of the charitably disposed. And what is stranger still the Senator seems to think that he is only getting his dues. An amusing story is told as regards his convictions on the subject. About eighteen months ago he was turned out of Detroit hotel at which he had been stopping. For weeks nobody would take him in. The great man of former years, soon changed in personal appearance. He often walked the streets at night and seldom sat down to a plentiful table. He began to rave and

ASYLUM AT DEARBORN.

write letter to the New York World telling of his poverty and asking for aid from the Nation. The Nation answered not. Finally his story attracted the attention of Pat O'Neill, post office inspector in the Chicago district, whose home is in Detroit. O'Neill took him to his home. Matters run along nicely for a few weeks when Senator Jones suddenly became very choice about table delicacies. He acquired an abnormal appetite for mallard duck, quail, imported fruits, wines, pies, cage, etc. He also demanded the finest furnishings for his room. O'Neil couldn't afford to meet the demand, and one morning said so. The Senator asked him know at noon. O' Neill had some business in an interior town near Detroit that day and did not get home until evening. The senator had become impatient for an answer in the meantime and vented his rage by forcing O'Neill's wife and motlier out of the house and then fortified himself against intrusion. It was with difficulty that he was removed. After that he made his sleeping apartment in the garret of a tobacco factory, from which place he was taken to the asylum.

Jones is a devout Irish Catholic and never misses the morning masses said in the retreat. He has become greatly attached to the sisters and says that he would like to live with them for ever were it not for his approaching nuptials.

SHE IS 116 YEARS OLD.

A German Woman Who Has Attained a Remarkable Age.

Frau Magare the Krietschik of Vienna, who has just attained the age of 116, is certainly -if her baptismal record be a genuine document- the oldest woman we have heard of in recent times. She

FRAU KREITSCHIK.

is still active, and personally sweeps and cleans her own house, being able and always ready to talk to visitors, for whom she has ever at her disposal a fun of anecdotes about old times. Aged as Frau Kreitschik is, she gets up every morning before 8 o'clock and sets about the round of household work, which she goes through with conscientiously, even when necessary mounting a chair to dust the pictures on the walls. After this she generally spends her day seated at the window musing over friends dead and gone. She is unable to do any cooking for herself, and her meals are brought her. She has lived in Vienna since 1824, her husband carrying on the trade of a wood splitter.

The Famous Carlson Cottage.

The Carlson cottage at 1872 Ashland avenue, Chicago, in which Dr. Cronin was murdered May 4, 1889, is not longer a remunerative piece of property for the owners. Even on the anniversary of the crime this year only an occasional visitor paid the requisite fee of 10 cents. The Carlson Family reside there. It is neatly furnished. A card on which the following words are printed in bold letters hangs in one of the windows: "Carlson cottage now open to exhibition; admission 10 cents." Ever since the horrible murder the place has been visited by a stream of townspepople and strangers who have examined with deep interest the spot where the doctor fell under the storm of murderous blows. Lately the number of visitors has decreased and only occasionally now is a crowd of gaping folks seen in front of the O'Sullivan house on the next street.