The attendants charged upon my room.  Their entrance was momentarily delayed by the door which stuck fast.  I was standing near it, and when it gave way, its edge struck me on the forehead with force enough to have fractured my skull had it struck a weaker part.  Once in the room, the two attendants threw me on the bed and one choked me so severely that I could feel my eyes starting from their sockets.  The attendants then put the room in order; removed the glass—­that is, all except one small and apparently innocent, but as the event proved well-nigh fatal, piece—­took my shoes and again locked me in my room—­not forgetting, however, to curse me well for making them work for their living.

When the assistant physician finally appeared, I met him with a blast of invective which, in view of the events which quickly followed, must have blown out whatever spark of kindly feeling toward me he may ever have had.  I demanded that he permit me to send word to my conservator asking him to come at once and look after my interests, for I was being unfairly treated.  I also demanded that he request the superintendent to visit me at once, as I intended to have nothing more to do with the assistant physicians or attendants who were neglecting and abusing me.  He granted neither demand.

The bit of glass which the attendants had overlooked was about the size of my thumb nail.  If I remember rightly, it was not a part of the broken globe.  It was a piece that had probably been hidden by a former occupant, in a corner of the square opening at the side of the door.  At all events, if the pen is the tongue of a ready writer, so may a piece of glass be, under given conditions.  As the thought I had in mind seemed an immortal one I decided to etch, rather than write with fugitive graphite.  On the topmost panel of the door, which a few minutes before had dealt me so vicious a blow, I scratched a seven-word sentiment—­sincere, if not classic:  “God bless our Home, which is Hell.”

The violent exercise of the morning had given me a good appetite and I ate my dinner with relish, though with some difficulty, for the choking had lamed my throat.  On serving this dinner, the attendants again left me to my own devices.  The early part of the afternoon I spent in vain endeavors to summon them and induce them to take notes to the superintendent and his assistant.  They continued to ignore me.  By sundown the furious excitement of the morning had given place to what might be called a deliberative excitement, which, if anything, was more effective.  It was but a few days earlier that I had discussed my case with the assistant physician and told him all about the suicidal impulse which had been so strong during my entire period of depression.  I now reasoned that a seeming attempt at suicide, a “fake” suicide, would frighten the attendants into calling this doctor whose presence I now desired—­and desired the more because of his studied indifference.  No man that ever lived, loved life more than I did on that day, and the mock tragedy which I successfully staged about dusk was, I believe, as good a farce as was ever perpetrated.  If I had any one ambition it was to live long enough to regain my freedom and put behind prison bars this doctor and his burly henchmen.  To compel attention that was my object.