New Brunswick History and Other Stuff

A Trek from Grand Falls to Campbellton

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Arthur Hamilton Gordon became Lieutenant Governor of New Brunswick in 1861, and is known in the context of this blog as an avid hunting, fishing, hiking and canoeing enthusiast.

The following story is from Gordon’s book “Wilderness Journeys in New Brunswick in 1862-63.” He is accompanied on his journey by Gabriel ‘Acquin’, the well known Malecite guide who was the subject of another post in this blog and also by a Mr. W—, one of his secretaries. They travelled by carriage from Fredericton to Grand Falls, and then on foot and by canoe along the Waagansis and Waagan streams. They then descended the Restigouche River past the Kedgwick and the Metapedia Rivers and ended their journey in Campbellton. The trek along the Waagansis and Waagan was especially arduous.

Gordon, AH 

New Brunswick Lieut. Gov. Arthur Hamilton Gordon in the 1870s

From Wikipedia


A Trek from Grand Falls to Campbellton

Very early in July I again started, accompanied this time by W—  and Gabriel only, for the purpose of descending the great Restigouche river, which forms, for a considerable distance, the boundary between Canada and New Brunswick, and of exploring some of its imperfectly known tributaries, many of which are themselves rivers of very considerable size.

Our journey up the country was in no way remarkable, and on the third day after leaving Fredericton we reached the Grand Falls of the St. John. The little town of Colebrooke, the shire town of the county of Victoria, which is situated just above the falls, is not imposing in its dimensions or population, but what there is of it, is neat and pretty, and it possesses a Court House, which boasts a stupendous portico. The great work, however, at Colebrooke is the suspension bridge which is thrown across the rocky chasm below the falls, and is a structure exceedingly creditable to the engineer who designed, and the government which erected it

The falls themselves are undeniably fine, and consist of what may by courtesy be called a horse-shoe, but is in reality the junction of two walls of perpendicular rock, placed nearly at right angles to each other, down which the whole waters of the St. John tumble in one leap, and then rush boiling through a deep and narrow gorge of rock for nearly a mile. To compare these falls with those of Niagara, as the good people of the province are fond of doing, is simply ridiculous; nor will they bear comparison with any of the more celebrated Canadian falls, such as Montmorenci or the Chaudiere. They are, however, fine falls, and may decidedly take rank above those on the Ottawa. They are the scene of an Indian legend, which is probably not untrue.

[The well known story of the two Malecite girls who saved their people from a Mohawk attack is deleted for brevity]

This fall was, also, the scene of a tragedy of more recent occurrence. Two young men in a canoe found themselves sucked into the current whilst engaged in drawing logs to the shore. They were still some way above the fall, and there was yet a chance of escape. Through vigorous exertion, they might yet reach the bank—perilously near the fall, perhaps, but yet safely. They plied their paddles desperately—too desperately—for one broke with the violence with which it was wielded, and then all hope was over; though some minutes elapsed before, in the sight of the horrified population of Colebrooke, utterly unable to render the least help, the canoe shot over the precipice. The man, whose paddle broke, threw himself down in the bottom of the canoe; the other never ceased paddling towards the side, though hopelessly, till just before the final plunge, when he folded his arms on his breast, and with his paddle waved adieu to the spectators. No trace of the canoe, or of the bodies, was ever seen again.

On crossing the suspension bridge, we find ourselves among a different population. To the south of the Grand Falls the people are exclusively of British descent; in the northern portion of the county they are almost as exclusively French. This is the once well-known Madawaska settlement,—a name more familiar to the English Parliament and newspapers twenty years ago, than at the present day, but which has steadily flourished and progressed, until it has become one of the most thriving of the purely agricultural portions of the province.

The French population, which forms so large a proportion among the inhabitants of the counties of Westmoreland, Kent, and Gloucester, appears to me as contented as the habitans of Victoria, but hardly equally well off. There was an air of comfort and bien etre about the large timber two-storied houses painted a dark Indian red standing among the trees, the numerous good horses, the well-tilled fields, and sleek cattle, which is wanting on the sea-coast. We stopped, after a pleasant drive, affording us good views of the beautiful peak of Green River Mountain, at the house of a Monsieur Violet, at the mouth of Grand River, which was to be our starting point. The whole aspect of the farm was that of a metairie in Normandy;—the outer doors of the house gaudily painted, the panels of a different color from the frame—the large, open, uncarpeted room, with its bare shining floor—the lasses at the spinning-wheel—the French costume and appearance of Madame Violet and her sons and daughters,—all carried me back to the other side of the Atlantic. After a short conversation with the Violets, we walked down to the bridge, where two log canoes, manned by Frenchmen—three Cyrs and a Thibeaudeau—were waiting for us, and pushed off from the shore. A turn in the river very speedily hid from us the bridge and farm, our empty carriage, and the friends who had accompanied us from Grand Falls, standing on the bank, in the evening sunshine, waving us their farewells; and it was not without pleasure that we felt that the same turn which screened them from our view, separated us, for some time to come, from civilized life.

The Grand River, the green banks of which give it a resemblance to some English stream, is a tributary of the St. John, and in its turn possesses a tributary, the Waagansis, which runs within a few miles of the Waagan, a tributary of the Restigouche. A portage between these two streams is the regularly recognized mode of access to the Restigouche from the St. John, and of it we proposed to avail ourselves.

We did not proceed far that night, and camped on a sandy spit at a pretty turn of the stream, where it was joined by a little burn, which kept up a strong eddy. I give a few extracts from my journal of the following day:

“Both our watches stopped in the night, but we imagine we woke about 4.30. After a bathe in the clear, dark rapid river, on the bank of which an otter had left the print of his footmarks during the night, we breakfasted and started. The river wound about very much, but did not present many objects of interest on its banks, except that at one very pretty turn, I noticed, almost for the first time in the province, the true English ash. A very few pines were scattered, here and there, among an abundance of spruce, birch, alder, and elm. At length, we reached the Waagansis, a wretched, muddy little stream, overgrown with bushes, through and under which we forced our way slowly, to our great discomfort. On reaching the portage, we expected to find the Micmacs waiting for us, according to their instructions, it having been arranged that they should meet us here, to help to carry our effects across to the Restigouche waters, and that the Frenchmen and their canoes should return home. On the supposition that, misunderstanding their orders, they might have remained on the other side, Gabe, W—, and I crossed, by the portage-path, to the Waagan to look for them, but they wore not there. After some consultation, we returned again to the Waagansis, and unloaded the canoes, carried our goods across to the Waagan side. These three trips took up the best part of the day, for though the distance does not exceed five or six miles, it was not easy to travel. A portage-path does not imply a gravel road, or even a beaten track, but simply a route indicated by the felling of trees. Our path was often through deep slippery mud and swamp, along logs and fallen timber, and for part of the way along the top of a large beaver-dam, from which I took several sticks, as cleanly and sharply cut as if with a knife. The signs of hears’ feet on the mud, and of their claws on the bark of trees, were plentiful; and on our third journey across, we found that in the short interval between that and our previous trip a nest of large black ants in a rotten tree, had been attacked and pillaged by one. The only other natural objects worth notice were a solitary kalmia, the last of the season, I should think—and proving how great the difference is between the climate of this high land and that of Fredericton, where they are long ago over—and the lovely little nest of a Kennedy-bird, containing four tiny greenish eggs, speckled with brown. What remained of the evening was consumed by our going some miles down the Waagan, partly in the bed of the stream, and partly in the jungle, in the vain hope of seeing something of the expected canoes. The Waagan is a nasty little muddy stream, very like the Waagansis, winding about among alder-bushes and jungle of the very thickest and most impenetrable description. In some places it is so dense that W— literally rolled and crawled along on the top of the bushes, which kept him many feet from the ground. It abounds in marsh and mosquitoes, and is the last place one would choose to camp in, unless obliged to do so. Also, though there are a few wretched trout, two or three inches long, in it, it appears nearly as destitute of fish as the Waagansis; and so what we are to do for food, if the Micmac canoes, on which we are wholly dependent for supplies, do not come, I know not. It was here Hardy’s party were nearly starved ten years ago. Fortunately very cold at night, which kept off the mosquitoes. Many rabbits played about our camp at night, attracted by the fire. About midnight W— shot one, which awoke me. The moonlight most glorious.”

We were extricated from our perplexity by a French family of setters, who had to cross the portage, and who lent us their log canoe and horse, by which singular mode of progression we were dragged down the Waagan. The stream turned every moment. I doubt if it had anywhere a straight course of ten yards, and its bed was a continual succession of soft muddy shallows and deep holes. The banks always overhung the river, and from them projected a tangled growth which met arching over our heads. Sometimes the horse had barely room to pass under the trunk of some tree which appeared to prefer a horizontal position to an upright one for its growth, and in this case the Indian boy on his back would nimbly perch himself on the trunk, allow the horse to pass, and drop into his place again on the opposite side. We had to break down two beaver dams, built right across the river, in order to make a passage for ourselves. One of these was of quite fresh erection, as the leaves on the boughs of which it was composed were still green and living. We took a good hour for every mile of progress, and were intensely relieved, at length, to emerge into the comparatively open air and daylight of the Restigouche, and to exchange for its marvellously clear waters, and pretty, though not beautiful, scenery, the alder swamps and close heat—the mud and mosquitoes—of the uninteresting and detestable Waagan. I give a few more extracts from my journal:—

“Our French friends returned up the Waagan, leaving us alone on the beach;—not altogether a pleasant position, if ‘our savages,’ as the French call them—(Gabriel was always politely addressed by the Cyrs as M. le Sauvage),—fail us. Meanwhile, it is enjoyable enough. I am delighted with the crystal transparency of the water, which is clear as glass, though slightly tinged with the green hue of snow-water; and though it does not seem to abound in fish there are enough to supply us with food, so we are in no danger of being famished, as Hardy was. W— went alone down the river, fishing, whilst Gabriel and I employed ourselves together in removing the camp a little lower down stream, to a spot on the beach, where a beaver’s skull was bleaching in the sunshine, surrounded by hundreds of butterflies congregated close together. Instead of moralizing, I applied myself to observing the Butterflies, which were of a kind new to me. The prevailing color of their wings was a dark chocolate, the upper wings having a lighter and purpler tinge. This hue was bordered by very dark blue, to which succeeded a broad white band, followed by one of brown, on which were six orange-colored spots. The outer edge of the wings was composed of four very narrow bands of black and light sky-blue alternately, and outside all a narrow edging of opaque white, like enamel. The learned in entomology will sneer at my description, but I know no better. After finishing the removal of the camp, I loitered in the sun, picking strawberries, which, though over at Fredericton, are here scarcely ripe, until W—’s return, when we had a jolly bathe, and caught another dozen of trout for supper, for which we also made a little damper,—not without a serious look at our scanty store of flour. Birds observed to-day were an eagle, a grey kingfisher, and seven sandpipers, to say nothing of Kennedy-birds, of course.”

“July 12.—Still no signs of les sauvages! This is getting serious. There is no use in sitting still here without any knowledge of their whereabouts, so we determined to move, and after breakfast set to work to build a catamaran. W— and Gabriel crossed the river, and cut down dead cedars, which they hung from the steep bank into the water below, where I collared them and dragged them over to the opposite side. We were some hours at work, and at length, about noon, to judge by the sun, got off. The sun, by the way, to-day shone through a smoky atmosphere. I fear our French friends must have unintentionally fired the forest. Our progress was slow, for we had but one catamaran and our united weight sank it low in the water; but we had not gone far before we saw a wild duck fly up the river towards us, a sign that it had not been disturbed by our approach but by that of something from below, and in a few minutes more, to our great joy, the Micmacs, with canoes and food, appeared in sight, and we were soon gliding comfortably down the stream. Our Indians, who are all very young, fell in yesterday with a bear, but they had not much to say in excuse of their tardiness. The scenery here is wild and savage—of a solemn and somewhat dismal cast, especially when seen under a lowering sky and in growing darkness. The trees are chiefly of the fir tribe, with a sprinkling of mountain ash, and alder near the water. In the large clear pools, trout of great size were distinctly visible, and one of our Indians speared with his pole a white fish,—an excellent fish which never rises to the fly, and which is peculiar to a very small district of North America. We came upon large families of wild ducks, and at one point saw a species of arctomys (monax or empetra) standing on his hind legs to be looked at. They are pretty little animals, and I have domesticated several of them as pets. Thunder and rain came on, and after about three hours’ descent we camped at a place said by the Indians to abound in fish and beavers. For the latter we set traps, for the former we angled, but only caught small trout, instead of the large ones promised us. Our camp was on a low shore; the thunder and rain continued; a white dismal fog rose from the water and spread its chill veil over everything; so things began to look gloomy. I nestled by the fire with Gabriel, trying to form, with his assistance, a sort of Malecite vocabulary.”

[A short section dealing with First Nations languages is deleted for brevity.]

“July 13.—When I awoke, fog and sun were struggling for mastery, and the sun at first had the best of it; but the rain came on again, and continued all day; and towards evening, the rising of the river leading us to apprehend an overflow on our low beach we crossed to the left bank, which was somewhat higher, and constructed a bark wigwam under the trees.

“July 14.—Thunder and lightning in the night. Towards morning, however, it grew fair. It is well we moved, for our old camp is nearly floated away, and the site of the fire is occupied by a pool of water.

“We did not start till about nine, and fished as we went down. The river here is very pretty, with frequent turns, deep still pools, and high banks; chiefly, but not by any means exclusively, wooded with fir. Passed the mouth of the Mempticook, a fine, and, as yet, wholly unexplored stream, and halted a few miles lower, about 1 p.m., at a point where a fine rushing torrent joined the river; and here we spent the remainder of a most enjoyable day, after making an attempt to ascend the Mempticook, from which the shallowness of the stream soon obliged us to desist. The scenery on its banks, so far as we could go, was very pretty—prettier than that of the main river. Our afternoon was a lazy, uneventful one, passed in bathing and fishing, and in dropping quietly down the stream, on the chance of obtaining a shot at a stray moose: but it was one of those days which leave an impression of pleasure on the mind not to be measured by what was actually seen or done;—one of those days of enjoyment which cannot be arranged beforehand, or predicted, but which spontaneously meet one now and then and form a near approach to happiness. Of birds to-day, noticed various sandpipers, blue jays, kingfishers, and one hawk, with Kennedy-birds of course. A brilliant moonlight full in our eyes kept us long awake, and we talked of distant and familiar scenes in Scotland.”

These extracts will give some idea of the Restigouche: a few more may be added, taken from my notes on the Quah-Tah-Wah-Am-Quah-Duavic, an affluent of the Restigouche, of fully equal size with itself, and the ponderous name of which is shortened by lumberers and hunters into the more easily-pronounced, if not more euphonious appellation of “Tom Kedgwick.”

“July 17.—A most lovely morning. This junction of the rivers is a very pretty spot. The hills here, instead of, as usual, closing in on the river, recede, and form an amphitheatre in the centre of which the waters meet. All round the confluence there is little wood except in scattered clumps, and its place is supplied by fields of coarse grass. These are now all gay with a profusion of wild rose-bushes in full flower, which form quite a garden round our camp. We started early, and poled away briskly up the ‘Kedgwick,’ the scenery of which is really beautiful, and which increases in beauty every mile as one ascends. We made our mid-day halt at the ‘Falls Brook,’ so called on account of a pretty waterfall, which tumbles over splintered ledges of rock into a deep green pool, about a quarter of a mile from the Kedgwick, as the stream hurries on to join that river. We had here a pleasant bathe, and caught lots of large trout. Then on again, the scenery continuing to improve as we went, and very picturesque both in its near and distant views. At one small island we came upon a singular sight. Heaps of large trees, some of them four or five feet in circumference, were lying prostrate; and on examination we found them to be all freshly cut down by beavers! Gabriel said we might travel for years in the forests, and not come upon such a spectacle again. We counted twenty-nine trees cut down, besides multitudes of shrubs and bushes. Camped at a very pretty spot, about two miles above the Clearwater Brook. The only birds I observed to-day were an owl and an eagle. During the night, which was a very cold one, a moose came close to our camp, and bellowed loudly. I could hear the crashing of the boughs quite plainly, but before I could kick W— awake, he had gone off again too far to leave us any chance of successful pursuit.

“July 18.—Fine morning. After bathing and breakfast, W— and Gabriel went away to reconnoitre the beaver lakes, whilst I proceeded up the river in a canoe with two of the Indians. The scenery continued to improve, and at some distance above our camp was really fine, the hills rising to a great height, and assuming more striking and varied forms than is usual here, whilst the river banks themselves presented many lovely bits of picturesque grouping of wood, water, and rock, at points where the weather-stained slates dipped sharply down into the stream, or rose in a succession of horizontal terraces, according to the inclination of the strata. Everywhere the foliage was luxuriant, and on the hill-sides the contrast between the colours of the soft and hard wood was sharply marked, whilst gigantic pines rose solemnly above the other trees, reducing them, tall though many of them were, to the aspect of growing plantations. These pines nowhere stood thick together, but were scattered singly through the woods at irregular intervals, and at all heights up the hillsides, their tops invariably rugged and flattened, and the black outline of those on the ridges of the mountains visible against the bright blue sky, where all the rest of the forest surrounding them appeared but as an indistinct mass of purple distance. But the rapids became more and more steep and shallow, and the intervals of deep smooth water less and less frequent; so at length, after exploring for a short distance a fine brook, which joined the river from the north, I unwillingly gave the word for our return. There was a high conical hill conspicuous on either side of the river from this point, and on each of these I conferred the name of one of the companions of my journey. Shot one squirrel, and caught another alive. It was of a very small grey species, with the perfectly flat, feather-like tail which distinguishes some varieties; but the poor little timid beauty soon died,—literally of fright, for it had received no injury.

“July 19.—Started early on our return towards the Restigouche, not without a pang of regret at leaving this fair spot, as a turn in the river shut out from our sight the dark clear pool, the pebbly beach of our promontory, the deserted lodges, and the expiring fires, the rich wooded strip of flat land, and the forest-clad hills and mountains behind. We stopped at the Clearwater to hunt beaver, and followed a tolerable truck, twice crossing the stream, through a very pretty wood, up and down hill to a little lake where was a dam which we broke through; but never a beaver did we see, though there were plenty of recent signs of them about, and abundance of very fresh traces of bears and moose. But though we did not see a single beaver, we saw signs of their habitation and modes of life, which I confess I almost hesitate to set down, lest I should be thought to tell a traveler’s tale, At some little distance from the beaver camp, down the stream, was a regular path, beaten quite hard, and evidently by these animals; for though the path was well defined it was nowhere cleared for more than a foot or so from the ground. This led to a regular storehouse of wood, where a number of birch-logs, for winter-food, about the thickness of a man’s arm, were piled side by side, and on each other, each about eighteen inches long, and cut with perfect regularity to the same length. That the deposit had been formed by beavers there could be no doubt, but what their object was in making such a store at a distance from their dwellings, or why they should have taken as much trouble to equalize the length of their logs, and pile them neatly, as the best lumberers would their cordwood, I am at a loss to guess.

“We solaced ourselves for our beaver disappointment by shooting partridges for dinner, and, rejoining our canoes, dropped down the stream again. A beaver had visited the trap we had left set at ‘BeaverIsland,’ as I had named the scene of their tree-felling exploits, but it had got off again. At the Falls Brook, we halted; and as we approached it, a large eagle rose slowly from the cliff. Our guns were, unfortunately, in their covers, or we might have secured a fine specimen. We camped on a little terrace under the shelter of an overhanging bluff, and had a fishing evening. The fish take greedily, especially in the pool under the falls.

“July 20th, Sunday.—A lovely day. The sunshine brilliant, and the breeze strong enough to blow away midges and blackflies to a great extent. We bathed and breakfasted, and read the service on a point above the camp, after which we explored the stream for a short distance above the falls, and had another long bathe, followed by a good talk and rest, smoking in our camp. It was a pleasant, lazy day, much like that we spent at Boston Brook. Saw a wild fruit new to me, much like the wild raspberry as regards the fruit, but dissimilar, inasmuch as the leaf was different, and but one fruit grew on each plant. It was not my old Scotch friend, the cloudberry, or avron, however. Gabriel knew the fruit, and pronounced it eatable, but had no name for it, Indian or English.

“July 21st.—Another day as lovely and cloudless as its predecessor. Before bathing this morning, I caught above a dozen large trout, varying from one to four pounds weight, in the pool below the falls, and a like quantity immediately after breakfast. After returning to our former camping-place at the junction with the Restigouche, we made a cache, where we hid away most of our goods, and then started, in very light marching order, for another beaver hunt, in a locality which Gabriel had explored when we were camped here before. For some way, we had a good, well-defined path.—then a very bad one, and then, finally, none at all. The bad stage led us down a a very pretty Scotch-like den to an old and long deserted lumber camp, at which we found a most beautiful spring, clear and cold as ice. From this point, we made our way through quite unbroken forest. We had to cross Hoyles-brook, a fine rushing river, which we did by the help of a sort of natural bridge, consisting of trees which had fallen from either side of the noisy brawling stream. We had then for some time the most abominable walking I ever experienced, the whole ground being a cedar-swamp, which we had to traverse by stepping from trunk to trunk of the prostrate cedars—some dead, some living, and generally several feet above the level of the swamp itself. It is needless to say that every kind of villainous insects reveled here as in a paradise. We contrived to camp on somewhat less damp ground close to the fork of two streams; but it was not a comfortable or satisfactory camping place.

“July 22.—On waking this morning, found Gabe gone to reconnoitre further, and waited for his return, after which we marched toilsomely on through thick, though happily not swampy, forest to a beaver-dam, in which we made a breach, with no greater success than at the Clearwater. Finding our labour in vain, we returned, all in tatters, to our camp on the Restigouche, after a day of splendid exercise. Went a mile or so down the river, and camped on a beach full of pretty flowers. Saw a bittern in the evening.”

I have now, I think, given more than enough of my journal to show the nature of our life, and may abbreviate the narrative of the remainder of our voyage to the sea.

A few miles below the mouth of the “Kedgwick,” lives a singular character, the Hermit of the Restigouche, as he is called in the Province. An old Scotchman, Cheyne by name, has settled himself here alone, fifty miles above any other human being, partly, I suppose, with an eye to the ultimate value of the land at a point where two such rivers meet, but partly also from a love of solitude. When another man came and settled near him, he bought him out, though he has made no use of this additional possession. He has been here many years, and saved more than one person from starvation, which he seems to consider entitles him to claim a pension from the government.

The remainder of our voyage down the Restigouche was of much the same character as its commencement; the river broadened and deepened as we went, and received from time to time tributaries little smaller than itself. The first of these to which we come is the Petapedia, which falls into the Restigouche from the north, and forms the boundary between New Brunswick and Canada. From this point, the Restigouche itself is the line of division between the two provinces The next great stream, the Upsalquitch, is a New Brunswick river, flowing from the south; and the third wholly Canadian, the Metapedia. At the mouth of this splendid stream stands the settlement of Messrs. Alexander and Daniel Fraser, where we arrived on one of the last days of July, and were most hospitably received. This farm, a very large one of above a thousand acres, is beautifully situated, and is one of the most thriving and flourishing settlements I have ever seen. The brothers are full of energy and shrewdness: the elder is a well-read and thoughtful man—the younger, one of the most splendid physical specimens of the genus homo that I have ever encountered; considerably above six feet in height, and stout and strong in proportion; a sportsman, as well as a successful practical farmer; and full of good-humour and kindliness. Pretty clumps of wood had been left standing near the river’s bank and on the hill-sides; the meadows were full of bright wild tiger-lilies; the farm was cultivated with a neatness too seldom seen in these regions, and the large stock of cattle contained beasts of which, even in Aberdeenshire, we should have been proud.

With all my fondness for the wilderness, I must confess that the sight of the dappled cows feeding in their pastures, the comparative openness and variety of the cleared land, the ripening crops of grain and luxuriant growth of maize, and all the manifold signs of life and habitation, were pleasing to eyes which had long rested only on forest and river.

Mr. Alexander Fraser accompanied us for a short distance up the Metapedia, where we spent a few days fishing; and W— caught a few grilse. In Canada, the fishery laws are better framed, and far more efficiently carried out, than in New Brunswick, where, indeed, in some rivers, which used to yield a profitable return to the fisherman a few years ago, the salmon have now been almost exterminated; whilst in Canada, since measures of protection have been adopted, the fisheries have annually increased in value. From Mr. Fraser’s to the sea, a distance of some twenty miles by water, or fourteen by land, the course of the river is really beautiful. Swollen to dimensions of majestic breadth, it flows calmly on, among picturesque and lofty hills, undisturbed by rapids, and studded with innumerable islands covered with the richest growth of elm and maple.

[The hiking and camping expedition was over at that point, and Gordon returned home by road. He described the Bay of Chaleurs in some detail, and also the institution for lepers in Tracadie which he found dreary and dismal in the extreme. “No provision seemed to be made to furnish (the patients) with any occupation, (and) … I was not surprised to learn that … their minds generally become enfeebled.” All of this description is excluded from this transcript, as it is lengthy.]


Written by johnwood1946

January 15, 2014 at 10:06 AM

Posted in Uncategorized

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    February 7, 2014 at 11:35 PM

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