Burrows went to Maria to plead his case. He must have caught her in a vulnerable moment because whatever words he used somehow resonated with her. The former judge was able to persuade Maria that it would be best for everyone if she went away for a while and placed Oscar in a home where he could be looked after. Naturally, he recommended the Buffalo Orphan Asylum. He added that Grover Cleveland had agreed to pay $5 a week for the child’s board at the orphanage. Cleveland would funnel the money to Burrows, who would see to it that the orphanage was paid. That way, the Cleveland name would never have to be associated with the boy. There was something in it for Maria too: Burrows told her that Cleveland was willing to support her in a business start-up—she could open a dress shop in Niagara Falls.
Perhaps Maria was exhausted by the endless conflict with Cleveland. Maybe she truly bought into the accusation that she was neglecting Oscar and endangering his welfare with her drinking. Whatever the reason, to her shame, she agreed to everything. Burrows presented her with legal papers in which she agreed to “surrender” all rights and claims to her son and to turn him over to the custody of the Buffalo Orphan Asylum. In doing so, she had to pledge to not interfere with the child’s “management.” Visitation would be permitted only with the consent of the orphanage. Maria signed the documents.
On March 9, 1876, Oscar Folsom Cleveland, under the name Oscar Halpin, was officially placed in the orphanage. Archival records document in plain language what must have been a heartbreaking moment for Maria: “Received from MB Halpin; mother. Rate of board -- $5.00.” After she deposited her son at the Buffalo Orphan Asylum, Maria was off to Niagara Falls to start a new life.
It took her just a few days to realize what an error in judgment she had made. Desperately lonely, she buckled under the weight of her guilt. She also probably realized that Cleveland and Burrows had manipulated her into surrendering her legal rights as Oscar’s mother. Maria returned to Buffalo and set about the task of recovering her son.
At age two and a half, Oscar Folsom Cleveland, the biological son of a future American president, found himself unwanted by his father, and, for the time being at least, dumped by his mother at the Buffalo Orphan Asylum. It stood at 403 Virginia Street, a two-story brick building with adjoining wings and an attic. It was lit by gas, heated by steam, and administered by a board of trustees of important Buffalo citizens like Roswell Burrows, who were drawn from the city’s leading Protestant churches, even though most of the orphans were Catholic.
On his first day at the asylum, Oscar was given a bath and thoroughly cleaned with soap and hot water. As a precaution against lice, his hair was almost certainly cut short, and his clothes were probably consigned to the flames, as was routine procedure. Oscar was in better physical condition than the other woebegotten orphans, many of whom arrived there in a state of such filth due to exposure and neglect that it was sometimes hard to tell what color their hair was. Oscar was issued a uniform, numbered and tagged with his name, which would be replaced only when it was deemed to be “past repair.”
Breakfast was oatmeal with cream and sugar, and bread and butter on the side. Dinner, on alternate days, was roast beef with brown gravy, potatoes, beet pickles, bread, syrup, and milk. The fruits offered—apples, pears, plums, and berries, almost always stewed—depended on the season and were grown on the asylum grounds. For a charitable institution, the diet at the Buffalo Orphan Asylum was generous and nutritious.
There were 139 orphans living at the asylum when Oscar arrived. The average age was about eight, and the oldest was twelve. As one of the youngest “tots,” Oscar was awakened at 6:30 a.m. Nap time was from 10:00 a.m. until noon. The older children pitched in with housekeeping, and everyone was expected to make his or her bed. The ceilings in the orphanage were low, and the beds were set close together, but at least the sheets were neat and snowy white. The older orphans were required to attend Public School No. 14 next door, but they were also taught a trade. The girls learned to sew and knit and make patchwork, darn stockings, and mend clothes. The boys were trained to sew buttons and weave rag carpets, for which they were paid a penny a pound.
Discipline was sometimes enforced with a spanking. “I seldom ever have to punish a child,” the superintendent of the asylum once informed a state inspector. “When I do, it is by spanking with the hand or by using a switch. I never put a child in a dark room. Some simple and not hurtful means of correction is usually resorted to, like making a child go to bed out of its regular hours.”
Towels in the bathroom were communal—there were not enough of them to supply every child with one. Hairbrushes also had to be shared, but each girl had her own comb. There were four tubs in the bathing room in open view, affording no privacy. Once a week, the older children had to take a bath and on that occasion were issued clean underwear and socks. The tots were bathed more frequently, when required by necessity.
At the first symptom of an infectious disease or an epidemic, aggressive steps were taken. The orphan in question was immediately isolated; special attention was paid to cases of conjunctivitis. The year Oscar was there was abnormally lethal. Five children who were confined to the sickroom lay at the “point of death,” and two died.
Each youngster at the Buffalo Orphan Asylum had a sad story to tell. About 10 percent of them had lost both parents, but most were so-called half-orphans, meaning one of their parents was alive but unequipped or unwilling to assume the responsibilities of parenthood. The superintendent had nothing but contempt for the parents who—in her words—were “poor and shiftless,” though the staff recognized that sometimes decent families could be overtaken by some disaster and require a helping hand. They also made efforts to place orphans in good Christian households. A letter of recommendation from a pastor or a family physician or some other prominent person was required of anyone interested in adopting. A three-month trial period followed. If a home inspection revealed some issue of cruelty or neglect, the adoption contract would be declared void, and the orphan would be returned to the asylum. Some of the children stayed in touch with the staff and each other after they were adopted, either from gratitude or a desire to communicate with a sibling who remained behind.
“I will send my likeness, and you will please send it to my dear little sister,” one girl beseeched.
“I often think of you all, and wonder if any of the boys I knew are there yet,” wrote one boy.
Corresponding from her new home, a youngster reported, “I like my new Pa and my new Ma very much, and they are very kind to me.”
Overcrowding was a serious problem. There was not enough land to offer the children a playground that was more than a patch of earth covered with gravel. On rainy days, the children were shuffled into the basement where the laundry was done. In 1876, the year Oscar entered the orphanage, two children managed to escape, apparently never to return; fifty-two were returned to their parents, and thirty-five ended up adopted. In general, the Buffalo Orphan Asylum received good marks on its state inspection reports.
When Maria Halpin reappeared in Buffalo, Grover Cleveland once again found himself thwarted by this headstrong woman. She went to the orphanage and demanded to see her son. After Cleveland consulted with Judge Burrows, he tolerated her visits there for the time being, but he must have issued some word of warning to the staff, because the attendants kept a watchful eye on Maria, always hovering nearby when she strolled the grounds of the asylum, holding hands with Oscar, in the spring of 1876.
As the weeks wore on, the staff relaxed their guard when, in their opinion, Maria seemed to be “reconciled to the separation” from her son—but it was a feint. On April 28, forty-eight days after Oscar was sent to the orphanage, when no one was looking, Maria scooped Oscar up and fled with him. In the words of the incident report submitted by the supervisor on duty, Oscar had been “stolen by M. B. Halpin–mother.”
Cleveland, in a panic, leaped into action. Local law enforcement agencies went on the hunt, but quietly, without the public’s
knowledge. They checked out the place in Niagara where Maria had been living, and her apartment at 11 East Genesee Street, but there was no trace of her or Oscar. They even grilled Mrs. Baker and all of Maria’s other friends. No one knew—or admitted knowing—where Maria and Oscar were hiding out.
In those days, the Overseer of the Poor was an elected post, the fifth ranking office in municipal government, after mayor, controller, assessor, and corporate counsel. Cleveland must have felt himself blessed with good fortune because it so happened that in the year 1876, it was his political crony and drinking companion John C. Level who had just been elected the Overseer of the Poor who administered the Erie County Almshouse.
Level had narrow gray eyes, prematurely graying hair, perfect posture, and was of medium build. An expert horseman—he sat in the saddle with an easy grace, and astride his horse with his shoulders thrown back—he made a splendid sight. His livery stable had once served as Cleveland’s political clubhouse, so that even though Level had been elected as a Republican, Cleveland felt comfortable confiding in him. He told him the entire sad story of the birth of Oscar Folsom Cleveland, explaining that he wanted him, once he was found, removed from Maria’s custody. Because of her purported drinking, he informed Level, the child’s life was in danger, and steps had to be taken to rescue him without delay.
Level, forty-three, liked to boast that he had never attended a day of school in his life. Born in Kentucky in 1833, he had moved to Buffalo in 1852 and, at the age of nineteen, went into the flour and feed business. He later opened his livery and, during the Civil War, signed up as a field agent for the Bureau of Military Information, the precursor agency of the Secret Service. Following Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, Level was one of the bodyguards selected to escort the body across the United States for burial in Springfield. At war’s end, Level returned to Buffalo and became a private detective. He had an effortless gift for making friends and telling amusing stories. Not surprisingly, he drifted into politics.
Level listened to Cleveland, but was wary. He let Cleveland know that being Overseer of the Poor gave him no right to remove any minor from his mother without a court order. Cleveland took a law book from Level’s shelf and found the section of state law that empowered the Overseer of the Poor to seek custody of a child whose life was in imminent danger. That was good enough for Level, and he signed the necessary papers. Level may not have been a lawyer, but he was perceptive enough to understand that Cleveland wanted to avoid the “attendant publicity” that might come his way should Maria file a civil lawsuit.
Sometime in July, Cleveland received information that Maria was back on East Genesee Street, and Oscar was with her. He ordered Detective Watts and Officer Curtin to return to Maria’s apartment. Ominously, a third man joined them—Dr. James E. King, the obstetrician who had delivered baby Oscar.
The three men arrived at Maria’s building in two hired carriages on the night of July 10, 1876. Curtin waited outside while Watts and Dr. King strode up the flight of stairs. Detective Watts “surreptitiously” broke into the apartment and, with Dr. King, found Oscar playing on the floor. Maria, stunned to see them there, particularly the “evil” Dr. King, picked up her son, and a violent struggle ensued. Maria was “forcibly seized” and Oscar “torn” from her arms. Maria, “stubborn and resistant,” was “violently dragged” down the staircase and hauled into the waiting carriage.
Roused by Maria’s “shrieks . . . and the heartrending cries of her baby,” Mrs. Baker and some of the other neighbors emerged to investigate the commotion. What they saw happened so swiftly, and in the dead of night, that it left them in a state of disbelief. Had they witnessed a kidnapping? Or was it some lawful arrest by the police? As a reporter wrote eight years later, “The work of abduction was so brutally and speedily done by Cleveland’s hired men that they got their victim off before the people got any notion of what the unusual proceedings meant.”
Watts would later defend his role in Maria’s seizure, claiming that when he broke into her apartment, evidence that Oscar was being neglected was “not lacking.” He asserted that Maria had been drinking that evening, and when she was informed that he and Dr. King were not leaving without Oscar, she screamed out, “I’d rather kill the child than have it snatched from me.”
“It was a hell of a time,” the detective recounted, and it wasn’t something he had bargained for. He said that overpowering Maria had taken all of his nerve and physical strength. For their work this night, Cleveland paid Watts and Curtin the sum of $50.
With the hired driver at the reins, the carriage bearing Maria Halpin and the two detectives drove off. Maria, having no idea where she was being taken, was hysterical.
Dr. King, who was left in charge of Oscar Folsom Cleveland, climbed into the remaining carriage with the child and told the driver to take them to 403 Virginia Street.
Less than an hour later, when the carriage slowed down, Maria Halpin found herself on the far outskirts of the city. The carriage turned into the private entranceway of the Providence Lunatic Asylum and came to a stop. Maria was told to climb out, and, with Watts and Curtin on either side of her, she was escorted into the lobby and directed to the admitting office on the first floor. There she was registered as patient no. 1050. Her medical chart declared her to be suffering from onomania, a now-arcane medical term that a 19th-century medical guide for doctors and lawyers described this way: “A peculiar form of insanity, in which the patient breaks out into paroxysms of alcoholic excess, attended with violence, strange, or even indecent acts, due apparently to uncontrolled impulses.” The medical entry log recorded on the night of Maria’s admittance indicates that she was also suffering from dementia tremens, or DTs—that is, she was exhibiting tremors and other physical symptoms of withdrawal from alcoholic abuse.
Maria was taken to a private room to spend the night. She must have wondered, as she tried to fall asleep, how it had come to this. Years later, she would explain that she had never intended to go public with her accusations against Grover Cleveland, believing that she had as much at stake as Cleveland did in avoiding a public scandal and in keeping her shame a private matter. But this terrifying night brought her face-to-face with the reality: Cleveland was the unseen hand that had ripped her son from her arms and thrown her into a mental institution. From then on, she would later tell her family, she utterly “loathed” the man.
In the morning, Maria got a sense of her surroundings. The Providence Lunatic Asylum was set on twenty-three acres, at Main Street and Kensington Avenue. It was a gracious four-story yellow brick farmhouse situated on the highest point of land within Buffalo’s city limits, chosen partly because it offered a delightfully cool breeze in the summer. In the years to come, the name of the institution would be changed to the Providence Asylum for the Insane and Inebriate, and still later, to the more benevolent-sounding Providence Retreat. But for now, it was the Providence Lunatic Asylum, in the domain of the Sisters of Charity, a Catholic order dedicated to serving the poor. It could only have been to Maria’s relief that she was in the asylum and not incarcerated next door, at 3399 Main Street. That was the Erie County Almshouse, or Poor House—a true snake pit, notorious for chaining inmates half naked to benches and posts. Rosaline Brown, the Sister Superior at the Providence Lunatic Asylum, had once walked through the almshouse and found that the inmates “resembled wild animals rather than human beings.”
Sister Rosaline had raised the $8,000 needed to build the Providence Lunatic Asylum in 1861, and during those early days, accommodations were of the “poorest kind.” The mattresses were made of straw; water had to be carried in enormous casks from a mile away; and there was no money for oil lamps, so light was provided by handmade tallow candles. Sister Rosalie often told the other sisters, “Pray that I may meet some good soul who will give me money for today’s marketing. I have not a dollar in my purse.” Most of the patients were destitute, under treatment for hysteria or nervous prostration, for which the asylum billed the
city or county $2.50 a week per patient. Private patients filled the other beds. These were alcoholics or opium and morphine addicts who could afford their own board and were charged $10 a week, income that defrayed the cost of running the institution.
Like other progressive 19th-century advocates for the rights of the mentally ill, the Sisters of Charity held to the belief that insanity could be cured through peace and quiet and a bucolic setting. Consequently, the grounds of the Providence Lunatic Asylum were beautified with shrubbery for shady walks and private contemplation. A dairy and a hennery supplied abundant fresh milk and eggs. People were treated humanely, and private rooms were even available, except for inmates who required twenty-four-hour watch—as a “guarantee against destructive tendencies.” The report of a state official who inspected the asylum offers a firsthand account of life there as Maria Halpin would have experienced it. When the inspector arrived on a stormy day in March 1884, he found 273 inmates, about equally divided between men and women.
“I went through all the halls and rooms and saw all of the patients,” he wrote. “There were several noisy cases . . . but no extremely violent ones.” This inspector found a suicidal state pauper handcuffed in leather “muffs,” and two boys and a girl—“epileptic and feeble-minded”—living in the institution. The walls had been freshly whitewashed and the closets and bathrooms all redone. The patients were “comfortably clothed” and the bedding in overall good condition. The staff consisted of a part-time medical director, a laundress, a cook, an engineer, and his assistant. But the Sisters of Charity were in charge of everything.
A Secret Life: The Lies and Scandals of President Grover Cleveland Page 10