V.

A letter has reached my hands about these experiences of mine, written in

a courteous spirit, but supplying so singular a comment on my story that I

shall answer it here. It is from a specialist, who has obtained, I

conclude, some eminence in the treatment of insanity; for it encloses for

my study, in the form of a pamphlet, a presidential address on the subject

delivered by him two or three years ago. With a few points in his letter I

must deal, for they are as curious an instance of what schoolmen call the

_ignoratio elenchi_ as I am likely to meet. 'The writer in the 'World,' he

says, 'confesses himself in various passages to have been insane.' He

suggests that I may possibly be 'merely a clever romance-writer;' but,

deprecating my 'able onslaught on those medical men who have the dire

misfortune to be engaged in lunacy practice,' adds that if my story is

genuine I am 'bound to offer some suggestion as to the proper mode of

treatment of the unfortunate victims of brain-disease;' and that as I have

entered on a 'destructive course, I am in duty bound to finish by a

constructive attempt.' Now for my answer. In the heading of this

narrative, and throughout it, I deny distinctly, deliberately,

categorically, that I have ever been insane; and I say that the fancies of

delirium or hypochondria are as clearly to be distinguished from those of

madness as midday from midnight, on a very little close observation, by

every honest and unselfish mind. To send them to an asylum for treatment

is the best way to turn them to insanity. I have been perfectly frank

about my 'delusions,' for I remember them all, as had I been mad I should

not. A man may doubt if he is in his mind or no; he cannot doubt whether

or not he has been. The writer of the letter takes advantage of my having

been in an asylum, as some of the friends who placed me there have done,

to argue that I was mad. It is the favourite fallacy of the cart before

the horse. It proves me to have been 'legally insane,' of course, and I

give the phrase for what it is worth, with a contempt no words can

measure. The doctors who made themselves the instruments of this wrong

were two young village practitioners who never made any study of the

matter, and one of them never saw me but five minutes in his life, when I

was too ill in body to mark his face. Is this a state of law that should

last? Is this a thing that should be let alone? Read some of Ruskin's

'Fors Clavigera,' gentlemen, and get rid of some of the selfishness which

is the dry-rot of mankind, for which a placid acceptance of the wrongs of

others is only another name. Scourge the money-changers from the temples,

in the warrior-spirit of Him whose name we still bear. The very pamphlet

before me speaks of nothing so much as of the special knowledge required

in dealing with insanity; yet any two apothecaries may make a man mad in

law. Let the very possibility of it be abolished. There is the first part

of the reform which the writer wants me to suggest, for which in my first

chapter I warned him and all others that they have no right to ask me. I

am neither Home Secretary, Commissioner, next friend, nor medical man; and

it is no answer for the author of a book to say to his critic, 'Come up

and write a better.' '_Ne sutor ultra crepidam_,' quotes the writer in his

pamphlet; and it is true of me as of him. It is only my clear duty to set

down, in words that shall burn, if God will send them to me, the breathing

thoughts that spring, too deep for tears, out of my terrible personal

experience. For this is no romance, but a commonplace reality. I have said

with whom the responsibility for the reform lies: with the Home Secretary

and Commissioners, and with the leading men in law and medicine who allow

these things to be. When Sydney Smith said that nothing could be done with

a corporate body of men, because they have neither a 'soul to be damned

nor a body to be kicked,' he may not have been as right in the first

clause as in the last. Souls may one day prove as divisible as the

electric light; and before the Court beyond, to which I, and others who

have suffered like me, from our very heart of hearts appeal, it will be of

no use to plead a limited liability.

I will go on with my suggestions of reform, though I am not bound to do

so, for I believe the key to be simple. The lunacy laws are made in the

supposed interests of relatives, not the sufferers themselves; and all is

done to 'hush up,' not to expose. Why? There is nothing to be ashamed of

in insanity; but in their utter selfishness friends shrink from the

supposed consequences to themselves if the thing is 'talked about.' As if

it could ever be anything else! The birds of the air will carry the

matter; and all that these people gain by it is to have the increasing

sect of the 'Head-shakers,' as a friend of mine has pleasantly christened

them, tongue-wagging more and more behind their backs, and saying, 'Ah,

poor people! madness in the family, you know.' And it serves them very

justly right. I know these same Head-shakers well, and know well enough

that they will never allow me to escape from the consequences of the past,

such as they are. 'There was something in it, you know; he was very queer.

_Pas de fumée sans feu_.' Proverbs are either the greatest lies or the

greatest truths; and in 'society' certainly this is one of the first sort.

I was caught in the act of laughing at a play of my own only the other

day, and I hear that a head-shaker spoke of it at the Mutton-chops Club

afterwards as a melancholy sign of my mental condition. They congregate

much at some latter-day clubs, the members of this sect; and, in the

absence of natural material in that way, they tell each other what to

think, and then go home and think it. Applied to literary work, the result

sometimes comes forth as 'criticism.'

Let no man, then, be imprisoned for insanity till his state has been fully

and carefully observed for a certain time; nor then, unless the

certificate has been signed by two, or _more_, well-qualified and

practised men, one of whom at least should have known the patient well and

long. Let private asylums, where it is in the interest of the proprietors

to keep the patients as long as they can, be swept away. I have known the

enrolment of new patients on their books--may the poor people be helped,

and those who place them there forgiven!--cited with as much pride as that

of new boys at a schoolmaster's. Let public asylums be substituted, where

it is in all interests to have as few patients as possible, instead of as

many, and to dismiss them as soon as may be. Let the harmless, of whom

there is a large proportion, be kept out of asylums altogether. Who knows

what cruel pain the associations of their life may hourly give them? Let

publicity take the place of hushing up--which never did any good in the

world whatever--to the fullest extent. Let the warders (whom I have

postponed for the present in deference to their social betters) be

carefully selected for character and kindness, and be what they should

be--nurses of the sick. Let the Commissioners, if they are to go on

existing, read their duty in a different way. Further, let severe criminal

penalties attach to every abuse of the reformed Lunacy Law, and let every

facility be given to the sufferer as against doctors, relations,

Commissioners, anybody, be he great as he may. At present the law, with

all its intricate machinery for good or ill, fights dead against us: with

my correspondent's plea for the sensibilities of those engaged in this

line of practice, I am not much concerned. They need not adopt it if they

do not like, I suppose. They follow their profession for profit like the

rest of us, and have no need to pose as philanthropists, or ask for

sympathy. 'Il faut vivre' would be their best explanation of their work;

and I know of no case in which the great Frenchman's answer would come

with more crushing force, 'Monsieur, je n'en vois pas la nécessité.'

If these suggestions of mine, which I did not propose to offer, savour

rather of the destructive, to use my correspondent's phrase, it is because

destruction is the only reform possible; and to patch up the old system is

like mending worn-out garments with older cloth. When reform, utter and

complete, has been devised and carried out, insanity may be

'eliminated'--I quote the same writer again--more than he thinks; for a

blessing may fall on men's efforts which seems very justly denied to them

now. As long as this form of false imprisonment is possible, as long as

scores of sane men and women are being maddened in private asylums, and

hundreds of mad people being driven madder, insanity in England will not

decrease. As for its proper medical treatment, I have nothing to do with

it and nothing to say to it. I take up my correspondent's address at his

desire, in the hope of learning something, and this sentence is among the

first to catch my eye: 'Voisin says that in simple insanity he finds

certain alterations in the gray matter of the cerebrum, consisting of

minute apoplexies, effusions of hæmatin and hæmatosin into the lymphatic

sheaths, infarctions, atheroma, capillary dilatations, and necrosis of

vessels, and certain changes of cerebral cells.' Quite so. It may be all

very true; but I can offer no suggestions as to medical treatment based

upon these remarkable assumptions. When, shortly before my final removal,

I was allowed to see a relation of mine at a town at some distance off,

the principal objected to the permission being too often given, because

conversation carried off too much white matter from the brain. I

distinctly assert that he said 'white,' because, by connotation of the

statement with Voisin's valuable remarks, it will appear that the 'gray'

remained in my case unaffected. That neither hæmatin nor hæmatosin has

been effused into my sheaths, that my capillaries remain undilated, and

that I am proudly conscious of having escaped both atheroma and

infarctions, I must ask my readers to accept my word. What abominable

nonsense is all this! And how soon may such nonsense degenerate into evil.

In another part of the same pamphlet I find the writer presently citing

this Voisin's recommendation of the 'strait waistcoat' on the ground that

the patients like it! There, I think, it is as well to lay the treatise

down.

To take up again the thread of my personal story, I have described how I

was called 'homicidal.' Where my 'voices' came from, to which I alluded in

my first chapter, I never understood; for indeed I have not the faintest

notion what they mean. They are used as a yoke-horse with 'delusions;' and

being simply nonsensical, they admit of no possible answer. As far as I

can remember, after old Diafoirus had asked me a variety of questions to

find out the especial form of madness for which my friends had committed

me to his tender mercies, and became naturally more puzzled as he went on,

he suggested 'voices' as a last desperate resource; and I, being rather

tired of the business, and having thus far been unable to admit a single

'symptom' propounded, jumped at the solution as being purely idiotic. I

presume that I must have admitted that at times, when I am alone and

doing nothing, I am able to fancy to myself the speech and address of

absent friends. Heaven knows I needed the fancy there. It struck me as a

harmless admission; and when I was once afterwards gravely informed that

'voices' are about the most dangerous and incurable sign of mental

alienation, even in my extremity I could not help being tickled by the

profound absurdity of the whole thing. 'Voices,' said my friend of the

Inverness to me one day in a moment of confidence,--he too was able to

discourse pleasantly enough of old college-times, poetry, and other

matters when he chose,--'they are always bothering me about "voices," and

I don't know what the devil they mean.' This man has been a hopeless

prisoner for some time; but he was so far wiser than I that he only

admitted to hearing voices indoors; I rashly allowed that I heard them

quite as often out of doors as in. I hear them often when I am hungry,

summoning me with much emphasis to my meals.

This idea of 'voices' was in my case a suggestion of the doctor's, thrown

out innocently enough, perhaps, in the first instance; but it did me in my

illness fearful harm. It may be felt by all who know how much, at the best

of times, some old tune or scrap of odd verse will haunt and worry us,

with what tenacity this fancy, once implanted, would take root and bud in

a brain always active and imaginative, and then wearied and overworn by

long weakness, and incapable of the brave effort by which alone such

contemptible nonsense could be shaken off, amid its grotesque and terrible

surroundings. Harried and bothered about fits, voices, delusions, white

matters and gray; ill beyond belief, and longing for nothing but good food

and rest, but 'watched' night and day; speculating what and who all these

people might be; irritated by the doctors and insulted by the

attendants--vigorously kicked by one of them one morning, I remember, when

my hands were too weak to do their office, and I did not dress myself

quick enough to please him--that I should be here now, sound and strong, I

may well attribute to some Power above the selfishness of men, which will

not suffer these infamies to go too far. After the usual fashion in such

cases, the doctor of that place may now claim credit for my 'cure.' I will

show, before I have done, how he cut himself off, by his own deliberate

statement, from the possibility of claiming it. Over these 'voices' of his

I brooded and brooded till they assumed some thing very like reality. I

thought in my wretchedness of some dead and gone who would have shielded

me from this with their lives, till their unforgotten 'voices' became at

last a very part and parcel of my individual being, if a certified madman

may presume to claim it. They comforted and yet they haunted me, till at

last I can almost believe that they became to me guardian angels, like the

'voices' of Joan of Arc. Small chance would she have stood in the hands

of British specialists. England might have punished her worse than by

fagots if she had handed her over to them. For me, had I to choose again

between the most painful death and another term of imprisonment in the

asylum best beloved of the Commissioners, I should scarcely hesitate a

moment in my selection of the first. These 'voices' of the doctor's

creation were to be cast in my teeth again and again. One of the three

questions vouchsafed me by a Commissioner, during the whole period,

related to them; and when I say again what I said in my first chapter,

that they are the worst piece of humbug of all, I believe that I speak the

truth, which is difficult where all is humbug. I have his leave to quote

here the words of a friend's letter written about this history of mine. He

spent one night at this same asylum, upon a visit there to a 'patient':

'Well may you say there is but one thing that can enable a man to bear

such a trial. I often wonder how I got through that night, and how it was

I did not find myself between two keepers next morning. I am sure I heard

voices enough, but they were holy ones.'

This friend, who was not allowed to see me, was on a visit to a brother of

his, whom I have described as having interested himself in my release. He

had first been spirited away to another asylum (from which he was

afterwards transferred), when his brother was but a few yards distant,

knowing nothing of what was being done. He knew his brother to be sane,

maintained it throughout, and at last succeeded in releasing him. A few

facts in the story are a good pendant to mine. The victim in this instance

had been engaged in all the worries of an election, when some friend took

him to consult an eminent mad-doctor, who owned a private asylum in

London. The doctor said that he thought him out of his mind. My friend

went and demanded his reasons. The answer was that throughout a long

conversation he had shown himself perfectly reasonable and consecutive,

but on going away he had taken up the doctor's hat instead of his own.

Forcible as this argument was, it was not enough, even in the opinion of

relatives, to shut the man up for. But on a later occasion he became

excited about something, and the same authority was again privately

consulted. No information was given to my friend; but early in the morning

this doctor sent two keepers from his own asylum, ready to wait for the

result of an interview between the patient and two doctors, suddenly

sprung upon him (one an utter stranger), under whose certificates he was

then and there removed. When my friend heard of it, he took steps at once,

but found that he could do nothing. The law provides that the two

certifying doctors shall not be partners. One of these was in the habit of

taking the business of the other in his absence. 'This _was_ his

partner,' said my friend, when looking about for redress. 'Not a

_registered_ partner, I am afraid,' was the legal answer. The Common Law

Procedure Act, I fear, has failed to abolish special pleading, or to

efface from the lesser legal mind the delusion--may I use the word?--that

the object of Law is to defeat justice.[1] For some time the prisoner

remained in this asylum; and he so far justifies the Commissioners in

their preference, that he describes that where I was confined, to which he

was transferred, as good in comparison. In that other place he had no room

of his own, and was herded, always, with all the mad indiscriminately. The

only exercise they were allowed was within the walls of the grounds, the

asylum being in London. He was denied pen and ink; but he saw the warders

do such things that he contrived to pencil down some notes of what he saw,

and succeeded at last in obtaining the materials, and writing to the

Commissioners of what he had seen. 'We' were allowed to write to the

Commissioners, if we found out our right. How many such letters we

contrive to write, how many are sent if written, how many read if sent,

how many acted upon if read, I do not know. In this instance these ordeals

were all passed; for the Commissioners came, made an enquiry, and

did--nothing. But the objectionable patient was removed to another place,

where I met him during my second term. Sane patients must be in some

respects a trial. I understand that my old doctor frankly complains that I

was the greatest bore whom he ever had in his care, and I believe it;

though at the close of our relations he did not seem too anxious to get

rid of me. We saw very little of each other then, my fellow-prisoner and

I, for it might have been awkward, but enough to recognise each other's

sanity. His brother was working hard for him, and at last two impartial

doctors were sent down from town to enquire into his case. 'We' have a

right to demand that also, I have understood since; though how but by a

miracle we can use that right, I do not know. When it is gained, of what

service is it likely to be in such a place, prejudiced as the new doctors

must naturally be,--over-anxious as the victim must be, who dares not be

excited, and therefore natural,--painful as the cross-examination is?

Nevertheless, in this case the two doctors, one of them famous in

'nervous' cases, certified this man to be sane, and left the certificate

on record. It was kept back one month. I state the facts of this story

upon my friend's authority, and by his permission.

[1] This episode is slightly corrected from the account as published

in the newspaper in which it first appeared. I had understood that the

partnership was between the asylum-proprietor and one of the doctors,

in which I was wrong. The correction reads to me like Midshipman

Easy's famous apology.

My friend worked hard without, as his brother did within; and the

hard-earned freedom was won at last, it matters not to tell how. When I

was myself freed, I travelled for some time with my old fellow-prisoner,

and never saw in him one sign or trace of insanity. An eminent medical

baronet, with a curiously suggestive name, who is rather a patron of the

establishment, and occasionally 'diagnoses' a lunatic at an odd hour, had,

a little time before, solemnly pronounced from the tremor of his tongue--a

member which, from my own experience, is apt to tremesce when one is

nervous--that he was bound to have something dreadful--it matters not

what--within a month. However, it is now very many months, and he has not

had it. Slang is expressive sometimes. 'Bosh!' The baronet is said to be

infallible at 'diagnosing' from the tongue this especial malady, which

failed to appear. My friend had no illness. But those people had shaken

his nerves, as for a long space they shook mine. The wickedness was done.

How many are there who, in the face of such truths as these, can dare to

disbelieve in Him who says still as He said of old, 'Shall not my soul be

avenged on such a generation as this?' It is all very well to go to church

and 'say' prayers, to quarrel about the form of your faith, the colour of

your clothes, the number of your bows. Religion is an active, not a

passive, word; and, like revolutions, is not made with rose-water. Do

something, somebody!

Let me close this chapter with my first escape, as my readers may be well

tiring of my story. After some months of stupid unconsciousness, I was

sent for change to the seaside _annexe_ of which I spoke. What the matron

said, after the short time of quiet observation which was all I needed,

has been told. What I felt when I learned from her where I was, I need not

say. Very good for me was the association with her, who would rescue me

from my companions and my warders, to take me out with her for a drive or

a walk, in spite of the 'homicidal' tendencies of which she had been

warned. By her a relation was summoned to see me apart from the

associations of the asylum, who had never seen me at all since the wrong

was done; and seeing, had no choice but to remove me, though every

obstacle was thrown in the way, by the Commissioners even, who, shirking

their own responsibility, accepted for a salary, are glad enough to throw

it upon anybody. Very good for me also was the association with the young

doctor, a son of the principal, and his wife, who lived in the next house

in charge of the 'branch.' They had me in to sup or play whist with them

in the evenings, and said as the matron said. The young doctor took it

upon himself, in spite of orders, to let me sleep in my room unwatched and

alone, for the first time for many months; and the relief was beyond

words. 'I wish,' he said, in answer to one of my questions, 'that you

would simply stuff all the food and drink you can get.' When I was again,

after some months of liberty, remitted to the asylum, I heard that he had

given up all connection with it, with the regret with which one misses a

personal friend. But I think that I was glad to hear it, even then. He had

a comfortable berth enough had he cared to keep it; but he preferred to

buy himself a general practice and to go. I do not wonder. Shakespeare was

not as right as usual, when he said that 'conscience doth make cowards of

us all;' for there are some of whom it makes brave men. It is the worst of

enemies; but it is the best of friends and the most easily conciliated, if

we try in the right way. But I will moralise no more.