Ratcliffes. One son lived in a bark hut up at the [ stillhouse] branch and at intervals came home at night and emptied the larder. [begin page 103] Back door left open purposely; if notice was taken of him he would not come.
Another son had to be locked into a small house in corner of the yard—and chained. Fed through a hole. Would not wear clothes, winter or summer. Could not have fire. Religious mania. Believed his left hand had committed a mortal sin and must be sacrificed. Got hold of a hatchet, nobody knows how, and chopped it off. Escaped and chased his stepmother all over the house with carving knife. The father arrived and rescued her. He seemed to be afraid of his father, and could be cowed by him, but by no one else. He died in that small house.
One son became a fine physician and in California ventured to marry; but went mad and finished his days in the asylum. The old Dr., dying, said, “Don’t cry; rejoice—shout. This is the only valuable day I have known in my 65 years.” His grandfather’s generation had been madmen—then the disease skipped to his. He said Nature laid a trap for him: slyly allowed all his children to be born before exposing the taint.
