"Over the Hill to the Poor House"

The Marietta Times, Thursday, January 20, 1881

A  Day Among the Inmates.

Dilapidated condition of the Buildings, &c.

"Rattle his bones, over the stones,

Only a pauper, whom nobody owns."

Last Thursday morning, on invitation of Director John Strecker, Jr., the writer, in company with J. W. Fitch, Esq., of the Register, passed the day among the paupers at our county Infirmary. The journey to and from the institution was made in Mr. Strecker's sleigh, to which was harnessed his fast nag, which skimmed over the crisp snow and landed us at the institution in short order. 

It would be difficult to describe one's feelings as he enters the wooden archway which spans the main entrance. Only those who have experienced that pleasant grave-yard feeling on entering institutions of this kind can appreciate it. We found everything pertaining to the management of the Infirmary in apple-pie order. Mr. and Mrs. Willis, the Superintendent and Matron, having had years of experience in conducting institutions like this, everything necessarily moved with clock-like precision.

After thawing out before the large fire in the sitting room, which was very comfortable after our ride, and would have been much more enjoyable had we known just when the loose plastering overhead was going to fall, we started on a tour of inspection headed by Mr. Strecker, with the following result.

The Main Building,

which is used as living rooms by the superintendent and employees, was built some fifty years ago. It is a frame structure two stories high and far advanced in rottenness and decay. The roof is leaky, while the ceilings in every room are literally falling to the floor, and a vault-like smell prevailed throughout that strongly reminded one of subterranean abodes. The floors are rotten and rickety and the greatest care was necessary as we picked our way through the rooms to avoid an accident. 

In the parlor, the fire-place had secured a divorce from the balance of the building and was slowly but surely leaving it; a fire in the grate we were told was impossible on account of the smoke which crawled through from the thousand and one cracks and crevices. How a family raised and nurtured in the midst of home comforts could stay for any length of time in this old death trap was a mystery which I could not understand.

A visit to the cellar disclosed the fact that the building was kept perpendicular by a series of props placed so close together as to render navigation extremely dangerous in the dark. Light shone through here and there from innumerable cracks and gaps made by the settling of the building. During the cold weather a few days back, everything in the cellar and house was frozen through, even a bucket of water before the fire in the Superintendent's sleeping room being frozen to the depth of several inches. 

The sash in the building are rendered useless by age, and even putty refuses to associate with the decayed old frame, hence the greatest of care must be exercised in placing the glass in position or left out altogether. How in the name of humanity the officers of the institution are expected to survive in this mildewed, rotten old hulk is more than our philosophy could explain. 

In a little 8x10 room adjoining the main building we found three old ladies whose combined ages reached 260 years, all helpless, huddled together in this illy-ventilated pen with scarcely room to move about. In the next room, without fire of any kind, was two beds, but only one was occupied by an old lady; still farther along in the same building we find a larger room occupied by five old men whose combined ages are 407 years, among them John Springer, who is now in his 111th year. These folks were comfortably fixed, having a stove in the room and plenty of space for exercise, but the lack of ventilation was evident and the same old peppery smell noticeable elsewhere was found here. Leaving the main building we enter a

Low, Squatty Brick Building,

which contains six little rooms or cells, all of which are heated by a stove in the hall. The inmates of this building are quite a study. An old negro, 82 years old, crazy as a loon, sits by a stove and preaches while another, a born idiot, with unmeaning eyes, stares at the floor.

Here in one room is an old Lutheran minister, scrupulously clean and neat, unable to speak a word of English - a pauper - we thought as we looked at the dejected and care-worn countenance of the old man that there must be a screw loose in the religious society that would allow a man to spend the best years of his life in their service and when old and helpless turn him over to the tender mercies of a county infirmary among idiots and half-wits. Another building adjoining this contained several old men and women, most of them in their dotage. Everything was clean and tidy, but all complained of the cold; their bed rooms were heated by a stove in the hall. 

From this building we follow a plank walk and come to what is called the new jail building which is two-story high, and the only decent building on the grounds. The lower story is occupied by idiots, one particular sad case being a little girl who is confined by a leather strap around her waist. Upstairs we found ten old men, most of them in bed; all of them complained of the cold. The same sickening smell was noticeable here as elsewhere. From this building we cross the yard, pass the kitchens, and reach the 

Old Jail Building,

a 2-1/2 story brick, which is fast crumbling away. The corners have dropped out, and the yawning gaps are filled with rags to keep out the biting cold. This building is the most wretched and squalid of any we have yet examined. The inmates pay no attention as we enter; they are mostly idiots, and long imprisonment in this loathsome place, crawling with vermin, has in a manner blunted what little sensibility they had left.

Of the 78 inmates now provided for, nearly two-thirds are too old and feeble to help themselves or leave their rooms.

We thought as we looked upon the misery huddled together in this putrid atmosphere, can it be possible that in a civilized community where plenty is found in almost every household, and want is comparatively unknown, that this is what we call charity? Can it be possible that you, the tax-payers of Washington County, that while you enjoy the peace and comfort of your cozy firesides, you are aware that out in the Infirmary are scores of helpless men, women, and children suffering and dying for want of proper accommodations, living in buildings in which no tender-hearted tax-payer would quarter his dumb animals? Shame on the economy that tramples the life out of our worthy poor. Shame on the economy that places human beings on a level with brutes.

Think of it my friend while you sit in ease and comfort in the midst of your family. The day may not be far distant when adversity and sickness may overtake you and yours, and as a last refuge you may have to enter the Washington County Poor House - poor in more than name. Think of these things and then enter your vigorous protest against such monstrous inhumanity now and forever more. Give the pauper at least a decent shelter in which to eke out the few remaining days of his life.

Pen fails to describe the utter helplessness of  these poor people. But for the vigilant care of Mr. and Mrs. Willis during the late cold snap, the news would have gone out to the world "that quite a number of paupers had perished from the cold in the Washington County Poor House" and yet at one time in their lives these people were just as much respected as any of today.

We learned that it required about 200 cords of wood and 3600 bushels of coal to keep the institution comfortable. The barns, pig-pens, cattle sheds and outhouses generally are in splendid condition, the dumb brutes receiving far better shelter than the poor humans. The buildings as they stand today are a disgrace to every tax-payer in the county, and efforts should be made at once to secure new ones.

The Directors and Officers

do all in their power to make the inmates comfortable, but comfort in such houses is nearly impossible. We watched the poor creatures eat their dinner, after which, sick at heart, and sorry that we had made the trip, we returned home, thankful that Providence had given us health and strength, and that we were not an inmate of the Washington County Poor House.