Incognito - But Not Through Choice

Daft Bat

Daft Bat

Administrator. Chief cook & bottle washer!
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Back in the day, folk who were patients in asylums were usually recorded in censuses just by their initials.

Such was the case in the 1861 census for the poet, John Clare, who was born today, 13th July in 1793. The census record for the Priory of St Andrew, Northampton (aka the Northampton General Lunatic Asylum) shows John aged 67 – the giveaway for this being him was that his birthplace was recorded: Helpston(e), which is just north of Peterborough.

John spent the last 23 years of his life in the asylum under the care of Thomas Octavius Pritchard, who encouraged and helped him to write – including Clare’s most well-known poem “I am”.

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed …

Sad reflections on his life.
 
My research into my paternal family uncovered a sad story about a great great uncle (as I thought at the time) who was sent to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum from the workhouse at Wellingborough after a life of frequent petty crime resulting in sentences to hard labour in various jails in the East Midlands. While in the workhouse he was described as 'epileptic', which may have been caused by severe beatings by his father as a child (and for which the father was jailed). His extreme childhood poverty meant that he was a very small man but he was often in fights with other inmates and staff where he usually ended up on the losing end. The Asylum was converted to a general hospital for wounded soldiers during WWI and he and the other inmates were transferred to other asylums -in his case to one near Nottingham. He contracted TB there; quite common I believe, and died in 1917.
 
Asylums in previous centuries were oviously horrible places for most inmates with only a few exceptions. They were really like cattle-yards for keeping the insane from disrupting the lives of the sane, because they didn't know how to "fix" them. Even today in some countries (not all labelled 'third-world') the insane are tied up outside like dogs or they are kept in a darkened hut to keep them poorly stimulated. Shamans and witch-doctors still exist, casting spells and prescribing potions but gradually care is being transferred to mental-health workers. My old boss was sent by the WHO to Botswana in the early 1980s to set up a psychiatric service there, since they still had confinement as the only treatment. He found that the people mainly subscribed to different experiences of their bodies and symptoms from Westerners. They described their feelings as in their stomachs, rather than their brain; and motivation could come from the heart- the heart was weak if someone was depressed etc. Once the mental health workers learned the local language of mental distress they were able to greatly improve the lives of many "insane" individuals and families using modern methods. The main behaviours recommended are much the same as those encouraged in most places: Don't argue with the person; Try to reduce most of the sights and sounds, including bright lights, experienced by the person; teach them how to contain their distress and to be able to wait for help; teach them to relax; counsel the families to adopt these behaviours if they can.
 
My great grandmother was in an asylum - she was recorded by her initials only in the 1921 census. She had an underlying urinary infection that is quickly cured nowadays by a course of antibiotics (and which ultimately killed her), but which can make sufferers appear 'mad'. I managed to get hold of her records and was astonished at how she was frequently ridiculed on paper by the superintendent. Emily had accused a male nurse of stealing money from her, which she claimed my great grandfather had sent her. It read "How can this be, when everyone knows that her husband is long dead?" (Actually, no - he was alive and well and running a pub in Stalybridge).

My Welsh grandparents were both in an asylum. Taid (grandfather) had been a tank gunner at the Somme, being thrown around in a metal can and the petrol fumes must've been awful in those early vehicles. No surprise that he didn't recover very well from that. Soon after his death, my Nain was hospitalised for the rest of her life, with 'melancholy'. Poor lady had lost children to childhood illnesses when Taid was away in WWI and I was told never got over it - my Dad (b. 1925) was brought up by his eldest sister. I hate to think what conditions were like for them both.
 
My aunt and uncle opted never to have children because his mother spent most of her married life in an asylum (living to a good age). He was the only child she bore that survived after several live births and subsequent deaths within the first 3 months. He too was brought up by an aunt (his father having another relationship which produced another son). They feared that her 'insanity' was hereditary and did not want to risk having a child so 'afflicted' - this was post WW2, when, even then, the ignorance about mental health (and most likely post natal depression) was still rife.
 
My paternal grandfather spent his last year in a 'mental hospital' as they were called back in the day. He had a brain tumour which was deemed untreatable, the tumour caused him to have fits and he gradually deteriorated. He and my grandmother lived with us, and the doctors thought it was too dangerous to leave him in a house with a young child (bear in mind this was in the 1960's, not really that long ago) and suggested he should be hospitalised. My parents were against this and wanted to keep him at home, but my grandmother thought it better he should go, she wasn't the caring sort. So, the hospital he was placed in was the local 'mental hospital' and there he stayed until he died. My parents took me to see him once, I think they thought I should see him once more before he died, especially as Grandpa and I had had a really special bond, he was the lovliest of men before he became ill. I can only vaguely remember going, but I do remember how sad my Dad was and how it was a dark place filled with strange noises.
 
My great aunt Alice (Grandad's sister) was in a Mental Hospital (as they were known then) because she collected things. She was a hoarder - "It might come in useful!"

She spent most of her life in one in Hitchin, Hertfordshire and was visited regularly by her parents and my Grandad. I also visited on several occasions and could always tell which was her bed as the bedside cupboard and wardrobe were stuffed full of things. When my great Grandad died in 1949, his will made special provision for her that there should be "proper maintenance of my invalid daughter".

However, she was also a genius and the nurses said that she spent time playing hopscotch between madness and sanity. When decimalisation come in in 1971, Auntie was on it immediately. The nurses all came to her to help them convert prices from £sd as they had problems doing so. She was much loved by the staff but, when she reached the age of 80, they wanted to move her to an old folks home. She refused to budge, saying, "I didn't want to come in here in the first place but, now you've got me, you're stuck with me!"

She was buried with her parents in St Albans cemetery in 1989 at the age of 89.
 
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