by Terry Boyle
At that time, a wealthy man by the name of John Solomon Cartwright was struck with the “Italian Villa” craze that had taken Kingston by storm. Cartwright built Rockwood Villa in 1841, in a style described by historian as Tuscan and Neo-Baroque. The centre of the house was an octagonal rotunda that extended up two floors, surrounded by a balcony at the second level, and crowned by a panelled dome containing a rose-glass skylight. Unfortunately, Cartwright died in 1844. A Mr. John Palmer Litchfield, thought to be a former inspector of hospitals in South Australia and the former medical superintendent of the Walton Asylum in Liverpool, rented the house in 1854, with the intention of turning it into a hospital.
Now Litchfield was quite a scoundrel, a con artist and, at the very least, was definitely of dubious character. Litchfield had at one time worked as a newspaper reporter in Europe and used this career to slip into outpatient clinics in London. Once there he masqueraded as a medical student, observing and learning enough about medical procedures to “get by” in any technical conversation.
It was reported that he had been imprisoned in Australia when it was discovered by the Australian lieutenant-governor that “Dr.” Litchfield had no medical degree. Financial support for Litchfield’s own hospital was withdrawn, which left him unable to pay his accounts and subject to a jail term. Nevertheless, he managed to leave Australia and head to Canada.
Upon landing in Canada, Litchfield was introduced to Sir John A. MacDonald, who was instrumental in his later appointment as medical superintendent of the Rockwood Asylum in Kingston. When he arrived in Kingston in 1854, Litchfield busied himself as one of the six men who were developing a medical school at Queen’s University. He actually billed himself as an instructor of midwifery and forensic medicine. He was biding his time while the province of Upper Canada was preparing to license and finance an asylum in Kingston.
In October 1856 the government finally agreed and approximately 35 acres of the Cartwright estate, including the buildings, were purchased by the crown for an asylum for the criminally insane. Since money was not immediately forthcoming, the stables were temporarily renovated to take in 24 women from the penitentiary. The stables were converted into rooms measuring 2.75 by 1.5 metres (9 by 5 feet). The only light entered through barred windows, and the patients slept on straw.
By September 1859 construction of a new building was under way. Up to 100 convicts handled almost all the aspects of the construction. The asylum was built with a view of Lake Ontario, as this was thought to have a calming effect on patients. It was built chiefly from limestone and had a tin roof. The following year Litchfield reported 40 new prisoners living in the completed east wing of the building. The female patients were still housed in the horse stables and that remained the case until 1868.
A diary kept by a caretaker named Evans read: “Their meat was cut into small bits and they ate with a spoon or with their fingers as they chose. Tin pint cups took the place of bowls. Straw ticks and straw pillows made up the bedding.
“[The new asylum] was first lighted with coal oil lamps, one at each end of the ward. With the first two medical superintendents, we had no such thing as nicely painted walls and ceilings.”
A year after the completion of the asylum, Litchfield boasted about how the death rate among patients had dropped from 7 to 3.5 percent.
With an eye to progress, Litchfield decided to expand and proposed that special accommodations be prepared for patients of a higher class, as was the custom in other countries. He also wanted to turn the stables into a home for 40 or 50 mentally challenged children.
Litchfield’s favourite treatment for patients was “a bottle of the best Scotch Ale or Dublin Stout, a medicine that will bear repetition with the best results and no straight-jacket in the world will contribute better to quietness and repose.”
The public of Kingston, even the wealthiest families, inquired about admittance despite the fact that the hospital was intended only for the criminally insane. Prominent Kingston families could bypass this technicality by first having their mentally ill relatives incarcerated in local jails.
Litchfield’s life ended in 1868 at the age of 60. He was still holding the position of medical superintendent. His charade was only uncovered by Thomas Bibson, a Queen’s professor, in the 1940s. Bibson traced Litchfield’s background and found his qualifications were completely fabricated.
Dr. John Robinson Dickson, the personal physician of John A. MacDonald, was appointed the new superintendent. Dickson attempted to rid the asylum of poor attendants and introduce a new order to the system. His work was hampered by a politically appointed assistant who believed, among other things, that good treatment involved shaving blocks of wood to different thicknesses, according to the phases of the moon!
Superintendent Dickson was instrumental in having an act passed which made Rockwood Insane Asylum available for the general public. The name of the place changed to The Asylum for the Insane.
In 1878 Dr. William Metcalf arrived as the next superintendent. He was faced with barren wards, filthy straw beds, stinking urinals, and patients who were still confined to windowless cells in the basement. There were a total of 390 patients under the care and supervision of 14 attendants. Metcalf began a series of reforms and ended the practice of using wristlets (handcuff-like shackles) and muffs (two hands bound in one boxing glove) as a means of restraint.
In 1888 a school for psychiatric nurses opened at the hospital, and in 1895, formal lectures in psychiatry were established at Queen’s University. In 1907 the name of the facility became The Rockwood Hospital, and in 1920 it became the Ontario Hospital, Kingston. In the 1930s a travelling Mental Health Clinic was established, as well as a series of halfway houses for recovering patients upon their release. Although it fell into disorganization during the Second World War, the clinic was revived in 1946.
Today, the Kingston Psychiatric Hospital is closed.
Kingston, South Cottage for Women at Rockwood Asylum circa 1900. A slow start, perhaps, but a great improvement over their last quarters — the horse stables!
Archives of Ontario
Many of the buildings in this city are made of limestone. The beginnings of the city were rocky, too, with wars and forts, plagues, prisoners, and the questionable treatment of the mentally ill. Despite all that, when you visit Kingston today, you get a solid feeling of antiquity, of charm and beauty, and of its wild and fascinating history.
Lake Superior Sites
Water is the womb of Mother Earth and Lake Superior is the largest inland lake in the world. To travel there is the return to our original state, an experience of rebirth. Anyone who has camped, canoed, or hiked the shoreline or interior of the region knows this feeling. The haunting roar of waves, crashing to shore, stirs the soul. The breathtaking sunsets, streaking across sky and water, paint unforgettable pictures of peace and grandeur. In those moments you are rendered whole.
Lake Superior has many faces. The weather is not consistent nor is the temperament of the lake. Each trip is different, and special. Favourite haunts for many are Batchawana Bay, Pancake Bay, and Lake Superior Provincial Park.
Batchawana Bay is located about 56 kilometres (35 miles) northwest of Sault Ste. Marie on the northern shore of Lake Superior. A small community named Batchawana, including a Native reserve, marks the shoreline first. The name Batchawana is derived from the Native word “obatchiwanang” meaning “at the current of the strait.” Batchawana Bay Provincial Day Park and Information Centre will introduce you to the vast beaches of light sand and sweeping waves, as well as to the resorts, where excellent dining and rental accommodations are available.
A few kilometres north is Pancake Bay Provincial Park. This park takes its name from a custom of the early voyageurs. Travelling the Lake Superior waters from Fort William to Montreal, their canoes laden with furs, they would stop over at the site of the present park. Here they would finish their remaining flour supplies before reaching Sault Ste. Marie, where they would restock. Panca
kes were the order of the day!
Lake Superior circa 1930s. Early tourists attempt the precarious drive to Thunder Bay.
Archives of Ontario
Sharply contrasting the rugged, rocky coast that predominates on Lake Superior, Batchewana Bay and Pancake Bay both have fine sandy beaches. Protected between promontories, the prevailing winds, currents, and waves have resulted in accumulations of pure sand in each of these bays. To camp at Pancake Bay is to be lulled to sleep by the music of Lake Superior.
Only another hour north of Pancake there is yet another amazing park. It is 1,170 square kilometres (520 miles) of natural beauty of every description.
Convulsed by earthquakes, gouged by ice-age glaciers, blanketed in parts by volcanic lavas, Lake Superior Provincial Park presents a scenic grandeur of high hills and steep-walled valleys, as well as rivers, beaches, and smooth-rolled stones. The park is truly a magical place of raw natural energy. Native legends are tightly woven into the fabric of this park.
The first Europeans encountered a wilderness full of life and clear, fresh water. Early explorers often remarked about the beauty and natural state of the land left intact through thousands of years of Native occupation. A small band of Ojibwa hunters, fishers, and gatherers claimed the Agawa Valley. There, two main villages were located at Sinclair Cove and near the Agawa River mouth. Several smaller camps existed upriver and on the inland lakes. To the Ojibwa, Lake Superior and its shoreline were, and still are, metaphors for spiritual growth and movement — a place where one can stand at the threshold of many worlds — physical and mystical, ancient and modern, civilized and wild, earthly and otherworldly.
A rare example of this is Agawa Rock, an impressive and haunting spot, a sheer rock that rises to tower above the cold, clear waters of Lake Superior. Ancient rock paintings left by the Native medicine people of yesterday adorn this powerful place where the earth’s energies are exposed. These rock paintings, or pictographs as they are called, are attributed to Ojibwa shaman artists. It was here the medicine people handled spiritual matters, conducted rituals, and worked to provide a link between this world and the spirit world, a place of power.
Archeologists believe the art at Agawa Rock dates back hundreds or even thousands of years. The study of the water level of Lake Superior, which was above the pictographs prior to three thousand years ago, provides conclusive evidence of their considerable age. Back in the early 1970s, archaeologists explored the area and conducted site surveys of the park. Several dozen archaeological sites were discovered. Native villages and campsites, burial grounds, three rock-art sites, a Hudson’s Bay Company trading post site, and several sacred sites were located. Artifacts uncovered in the park represented more than three thousand years of Native settlement.
Natives rendered these glyphs for a variety of reasons. Much of the rock art depicts images of religious experiences gained during vision quests, group ceremonies, and the acknowledgement of spiritual assistance.
In 1990 Julie and Thor Conway, an archaeologist and anthropologist team, worked with two Ojibwa medicine people from the Garden River band. The Natives helped them to better understand the meaning of the glyphs and of the mysteries they contain. It was discovered that many of the pictograph sites in Ontario refer to birds of prey and many appear on vertical cliffs that drop into a body of water. Each site was given a name. The shamans, it was revealed, regarded large nesting birds on cliffs as metaphors for the presence of unseen thunderbirds. According to Julie and Thor, “Thunderbirds, or Animkeeg, represent tremendous power. As birds, they travel in the heavens between the earth and the spirit world. Ravens, various hawks, and eagles continue to nest at many rock-art sites, as they did in the past.”
Ka-Gaw-Gee-Wabikong, or “Raven Rock White Cliff Beside the Water,” refers to the white wash from bird droppings that can be seen below active nesting sites. There are, however, also white mineral deposits on the cliff faces which are calcite solutions caused by minerals dissolved in rain water. Medicine people consider these deposits to be indications of unseen nests of cliff-dwelling thunderbirds. These calcite deposits are visible at Agawa Rock.
The Conways have studied the Agawa site for 17 years and recorded 17 paintings. A pictograph of a faint thunderbird was found as recently as 1989.
The most famous rock-art painting in Canada is located here in the park at Agawa Rock. The pictograph is entitled “Michipeshu,” which means “the great cat.” Michipeshu has lynx-like tuffs of fur sticking out from his cheeks and dragon-like spines running the length of his back and tail. According to legend, Michipeshu is a metaphor for Lake Superior — powerful, mysterious, and very dangerous. Although the creature lives underwater with the other giant serpents, some Natives view the dragon-like spines on the back and tail as horns of power, while others believe them to be legs. There is certainly a sense of power here.
This sacred land gave visions to the Natives, but why did they record them and leave them behind? Were they to be a record, an inspiration, a reminder? Or is there a message being given? Thousands of people today visit these areas in pursuit of personal visions or perhaps even for a sense of history. There definitely is power here, and maybe the possibility of touching your own power, of touching your essential and authentic self.
Lindsay
Many of the villages, towns, and cities in Ontario are named after places in other countries, are named in honour of royalty, or are variations of the Native place-name. Few are given as a result of a gunshot wound to the leg.
Prior to the arrival of settlers, the Mississauga Nation in the mid-1700s camped at East Cross Creek. An Irishman named Patrick O’Connell was the first white settler to take up residence, on Lot 7, Concession 2, on the west shore of Scugog River, in 1825. Close behind O’Connell came William Purdy and his two sons, Jesse and Hazard, in 1827. This family left much for history!
The Purdys had entered into a contract with the Canadian government to build a sawmill and a ten-foot dam on the Scugog River by the year 1828. A gristmill was to be completed by the following year. For this they were to receive 400 acres and a bonus of $600.
The dam and sawmill were completed in September 1828. The townspeople waited expectantly for the millpond to fill up. Some thought it would do so within 24 hours, but the water failed to reach the top of the dam until the following April. Then, during the spring, pressure on the dam was too great, the centre timbers shifted on the rocky bottom of the river, and the dam was swept away. The Purdys required a time extension from the government and it was granted. Not until April, 1830, was the dam rebuilt and the gristmill completed.
In the early 1830s, William Purdy took a stand against the Family Compact, the small group of wealthy Loyalists who comprised the governing class at that time. This led to William’s arrest and transport to the Cobourg jail. After several days he was released and told to mind his own business. Shortly thereafter, in 1837, William Purdy and his son Jesse moved to Bath and left Hazard Purdy in charge of the mill. In 1844 Hazard sold the mill and the 400-acre Purdy tract of land to Hiram Bigelow.
Before Hazard left Lindsay, he was confronted with a series of problems resulting from the dam his family had constructed. Apparently, the Purdy dam had altered the geography of the land. It was responsible for the flooding of approximately 60,000 acres. Most of the forest and surrounding vegetation turned to swamp and a plague of swamp fever resulted. The flooding was blamed for many deaths. Hostility mounted, and a determined group of farmers from adjacent townships, armed with flintlocks, pitchforks, and axes, marched to Purdy Mills and hacked away a portion of the dam. Hazard did rebuild it, but at a lower level. The year after he left, 1844, the Purdy dam was torn down and replaced by a new dam and a lock to facilitate the navigation between Sturgeon Lake and Scugog Lake. At that point the settlement was called Purdy Mills.
The originally surveyed townsite was covered in greater part by a dense cedar swamp. In 1835 Jeremiah Britton came, together with his sons Charles and Wellington, from Port
Hope to settle on 100 acres of land at what is now the foot of Kent Street. There, he built a log structure and opened a tavern. A notice posted over his bar read, KEEP SOBER OR KEEP AWAY. James Hutton arrived in 1837 and opened the first store in town.
In 1834 John Houston of Cavan, and a small party of men, arrived at Lots 20 and 21 in the 5th Concession of Ops Township to plot out a town. One of Houston’s assistants, a man named Lindsay, was accidentally wounded in the leg by a gunshot. Unfortunately for him, infection set in and he died. The survey crew buried Lindsay on the bank of the Scugog River at what is now MacDonnell Park. The name Lindsay was marked on the plan and was later adopted as the official town name.
Virgin wilderness still surrounded the tiny settlement; sometimes deer were seen drinking from the river in the heart of the village or running from wolves up Kent Street. The village grew slowly but steadily. Kent Street was chopped out of the swamp in 1840, and other streets followed. By the year 1851, about 300 settlers called Lindsay their home.
Every community had at least one colourful character who attracted a great deal of attention in his or her day. Lindsay resident Dan MacDonald was such a person. Dan was a storekeeper who operated a business on Kent Street. His claim to fame was physical strength — enough to lift a 272-kilogram (600 pound) barrel of flour. He also fascinated folks by juggling a 45-kilogram (100 pound) dumbbell. As fate would have it, poor Dan overestimated his ability. He attempted to lift a 727-kilogram (1,600 pound) piece of machinery; he broke a blood vessel in the process and it did him in. The citizens, not wanting to forget this daring and colourful man, inscribed the following on his tombstone:
“Ye weak beware!
There lies the strong
A victim to his strength
He lifted sixteen hundred pounds
And here he lies at length.”