THE WHAU EXILES.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 470, 10 May 1890, Page 5

THE WHAU EXILES.

ARE THE MEN INSANE? THEIR OWN TESTIMONY. Those unfortunate paupers ! Are they insane or merely senile ? Are they in second ' childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, , sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything ? Such are the questions that have been bandied about ever since the Government so unceremoniously turned those six pitiable paupers into the streets. Charity—municipal charity—passed by on the other side ; strictly on principle, of course. The wealthy and great did likewise they couldn’t see. It remained to the Salvation Army to play the good Samaritan. The highly - respectable denominations kept warily aloof. None but the Salvationists would tackle the job of looking after six old fellows, who might be mad or perhaps only senile. Of course there has been a big outcry. Having made quite certain that the seven are billeted on “some one ” else, quite a violent amount of indignation has been expressed by all sorts and conditions of men. But besides indignation there has been interest or curiosity as to the state of the unfortunate few. Are they mad? Some say “Of course,” and some, “Certainly not,” but nobody knows for truth. A Star reporter, determined to find out, thought he would, if possible, interview the imbeciles and judge from their conversation and general bearing. Yesterday afternoon, therefore, he walked up Queen-street, and knocked at the door of the Salvation Army Prison Barracks. Two officers of the Army welcomed him, and on learning the object of the call, ushered him into a room where most of the unfortunates were sitting. The room was furnished with a sofa and several forms. On these, in various attitudes of apathy, sat the men. They took for the most part very little

notice of a stranger coming amongst them. Sergeant-Major Turton went out in search of two who were not present. He returned almost, immediately with them. One was a poor fellow who did not look much over forty. He would not sit down without persuasion, and as soon as convenient slipped off' his seat and slunk out of the room. His face was terribly gaunt and sunken, and his eyes unpleasant to look on. He pressed his hands tightly together while our representative spoke to him and seemed to fear it was being done for his harm ; not a word, not a sign could be got from him. As a last resource our reporter unrolled a cigarette, showed the poor fellow the tobacco and held it up for him to smell, asking him if he smoked. When the fragrant weed was held close to his nostril and the question had been repeated several times, there appeared to be a flickering effort of intellect. He sniffed with a faint show of pleasure and shook his head to intimate he did not smoke. All efforts to obtain a further gleam of mind failed. He paced up and down the verandah at the back of the house for hours together. It is most difficult to get him to eat. Food has to be given him very little at a time in his hand, or he won’t touch it.

HIS STORY IS A CURIOUS ONE. Sergeant-Major Turton informed our representative that Keating had been recognised by several people who had known him many years ago. The man’s story is related as follows Before he was sent to the Asylum he lived at Paeroa, Upper Thames, and was employed in punting flax up the river to a flaxmill for the owner. He worked very hard for over twelve months, but owing to misfortune he eventually found himself left in debt to the extent of over £4O. This appears to have unhinged his mind, and he attempted to destroy one of his children. For this he was sent to the Asylum as being insane, but while there he is said to have behaved himself well. The man has a wife living in Sydney, and it is said that if she knew of his present helpless condition, she would willingly contribute towards his support. The next to be introduced was the second gentleman brought in by the Major. He was the Maori of this select party of seniles, Hamiora Tuakana by name. A PICTURESQUE OLD FELLOW he looked, but with a decided penchant for dirt. His wardrobe consisted of a villainous pair of white (?) duck pants, a check coat, with a shocking bad “ hat ” of the same material to match. His face was a most comical one, and he kept wrinkling it up into such extraordinary expressions that it was quite a surprise to see him get it moderately straight again. A Maori reporter might have made a good deal out of him, for he talked incessantly and appeared to be as happy as possible. His English was, however, limited in quantity and of indifferent quality. He appeared to understand it well enough, and was quite indignant when after various attempts our repoiter released him, with the words, “ You can’t talk English,” “ Oh, no, me no talk English. All right !” and he apparently lapsed into Maori blasphemy. While our man was interrogating another old gentleman, he gave an interlude which our reporter opines was one of the love songs of his youth. It was doleful enough for anything. From what our reporter saw with his own eyes, and from what the good Samaritans told him, Mr Hamiora Tuakana is far

MORE FITTED TO THE ASYLUM than anywhere else. He is senile —that goes without saying, though his age is only 66, and his habits preclude his living in any other sort of room than that which can be swilled out every morning and once or twice during the day. His chief failings are unreportable and filthy beyond belief. The next of the outcasts was by far the most interesting. In the opinion of the Salvationists he ought not to be in any in stitution. The man is certainly well built, strong, and willing to work. Whether he is senile, mad, or sane may be judged from the intelligence shown in his answers and statements. He had watched with deep interest the laborious attempts to interview his fellows in misfortune, and was quite ready to talk when our representative turned to him and said: “ Now, sir, what is your name ?” “ Sam Taylor, and my age is 67.”. “ Well, Sam, tell us how you got into the Lunatic Asylum.” “ I gob there from Mount Eden, because I wouldn’t do two men’s work.” Interrogated on the point, Mr Taylor said that his work was loading trucks with stone. The overseer wished him to load and push, but he objected, saying he would see the man something first. The forcible language used drew forth a caution from one of the Salvationists. Mr Taylor apologised, and explained that the officials had then asked him if he would go to the Old Men’s Refuge, and he had refused. “Why, is the Lunatic Asylum better?” asked the reporter.

“NO, TEN TIMES WORSE,” replied the veteran, emphatically. “I’ve been in both—ay, and at the Hospital too.” From this it appears that Mr Taylor has made the round of the public and charitable institutions of Auckland. “And the Gaol,.Mr Taylor, how does that compare with the Refuge and the Asylum ?”

“Why, it’s the best of the lot; the best grub and best everything.” “ Not much to do, eh ?” “Oh, yes, plenty to keep you going. They wanted to make me do double, bub I told them ” Here Mr Taylor was again unreportable, and had to be called to order. “ How did you come to getrinto Gaol ?” With becoming diffidence Mr Taylor explained (helped by the Major) that he was a dog-fancier, and had occasionally an inconvenient habit of fancying other people’s dogs. He had been to gaol many a time. He then told the Major that he recognised our reporter, having seen him many times at the Police Court. Taking him back to early days, our representative found that Taylor was born ab Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire. He described the market place of the town very accurately. (There was a gentleman present who knows the place well.) He was a druggist’s assistant in early youth, bub has been in New Zealand about thirty years doing odd jobs and shaking dogs. He has, by the way, written to his son—who once, he states, “ giv me five bob”— asking him to remember his filial duty and obtain him a job. He is willing and able to work, he says. Certainly he seems as sane and hearty as most men of bis age. At the Asylum he was employed in cleaning chimneys and sweeping out the rooms. He complained of the sleeping arrangements at his late home. There were too many fellows together, and too little room between the bunks, if you could call them bunks, which he doubted. There were 14 or 15 men in each room. If he went to sleep first some of the other fellows would come over and hammer him. He wanted a room to himself, but the authorities would nob listen to his request. Altogether Mr Taylor seemed a rather particular and perhaps not over moral individual, but perfectly well able in mind and body to look after himself.

A CONTRAST. Simmons, aged 55, who sab next, was a complete contrast. His mind is utterly gone. Apparently he had been a carpenter, for he continually talks of building. It seems likely, too, that he has had a severe fall, for he is continually cautioning people to beware of falling, and to take care where they go. He said he had no trade. When spoken to he did not appear to have the slightest idea where the voice came from, and rambled his answer to the ceiliDg. His eyes wandered round and round the room everywhere, but he did nob appear to take in or see anything. When asked, “ Are you English ?” he answered, “ Yes,” very proudly. Had he ever had a fall ? “ No, and he never wanted none.” Then he rambled on to himself,

shaking his head and turning it round bo look ab every corner of the ceiling in turn as if in fear it would fall. His mind is quite gone, bub he is harmless and quiet. The next customer tackled was not quite so bad. George Bird said that he had bold our man that he was born ab Willaby, near Nottingham, a hundred times, and he wouldn’t answer any more questions. Having been soothed, he said he wanted to go back to England, bub couldn’t find the way. His father would be dead, too, he complained. “Have you no other relations?” He began a long yarn about a Cousin Jane, but trailed off into incoherency. Giving him time, our reporter next asked why he had been put into the Asylum. “ Because my relations wanted to ROB ME OF LAND AND MONEY, relations near the place where they make iron in England. First they robbed the money and then the land. They told me I should be better off out here, but I was worse. I knew they was a-robbing me of money and land.” The money was, he says, gone before he got out here.and the land too, bub they put him in the Asylum to get more money and rob him more. He mentioned the name of a neighbour, Ben, who, he declared, lived near Nottingham, as being one of those who robbed him. He came here as a farmer many years ago. The last poor fellow was the educated man—the M.D. Poor old medico ! He is the worst of the lob ; he understands nothing, says nothing. He stops wherever he is pub. His appetite is good. All efforts to get an answer from the poor old fellow were fruitless. Dr. Wells’s sense is gone. He will know nothing more in this world, save that he is given to eat and to drink. Such are the men. Where are they to go? The Maori is fib for no other place than an asphalted cell in a lunatic asylum. Taylor is fib to work. The others are nob dangerously insane, but certainly “ wanting ” as they say in the Old Country.