The fundamental question of the separation of the curable and incurable classes has in different countries been earnestly discussed during the last forty years. Kirkbride has entered his "special and earnest protest" against this separation; his own countryman, Dr. Stearns, on the other hand, has lately advocated it. In Germany, where, following the lead of Langermann and Reil, complete separation of the curable in one building was first realized under Jacobi at Siegburg, there has been a complete reversion to the system of combining the two classes in one institution. Parchappe, who opposed the separation of these classes, as illusory if justice is done to the incurable in the construction of the building provided for them, and mischievous if this is denied them, was constrained to admit, however, in view of the enormous number of lunatics in the Department of the Seine, that it was the least of two evils to separate the epileptic and the idiotic from the curable.
In England the separation principle has been recognized in Hardy's Act (30 Vict., c. 6) for the establishment in the metropolis of asylums for the sick, insane, and other classes of the poor, 1867; and, again, in the erection of such an asylum as Banstead for Middlesex—and I am informed by Dr. Claye Shaw, who, from holding the office of superintendent there, and formerly superintending the Metropolitan District Asylum of Leavesden, is well calculated to judge, that the experiment has proved successful, that the patients do not suffer, and that the office of superintendent is not rendered unendurable. Regarded from an economic point of view, it has been found practicable to provide buildings at a cost of between £80 and £90 per bed, which, though not æsthetic, are carefully planned for the care and oversight of the inmates. This includes not only the land, but furnishing the asylum.
Five years ago this Association unanimously adopted a resolution, expressing satisfaction that the Charity Organization Society had taken up the subject of the better provision, in the provinces, for idiots, imbeciles, and harmless lunatics, and the following year carried a resolution, also unanimous, that the arrangement made for these classes in the metropolitan district is applicable in its main principles to the rest of England. But it does not follow that the separation of these classes from the county asylums should be so complete, either as respects locality or the governing board, as in the metropolitan district; and, further, the Association expressed a strong opinion that the boarding-out system, although impracticable in the urban districts, should be attempted wherever possible in the country; the greatest care being taken to select suitable cases, unless we wish to witness the evils which Dr. Fraser has so graphically depicted in his report for 1877 of the Fife and Kinross Asylum. If pauper asylums can, without injury to families, be relieved by harmless cases being sent home to the extent Dr. Duckworth Williams has succeeded in doing in Sussex, and if, as he proposes, they were periodically visited, their names being retained on the asylum books, the enlargement of some asylums might be rendered unnecessary.
But what, gentlemen, would be the best-contrived separation of cases, what would the best-constructed asylum avail, unless the presiding authority were equal to his responsible duties? Now, it is one of the happy circumstances connected with the great movement which has taken place in this and other countries, that men have arisen in large numbers who have proved themselves equal to the task. We witness the creation of an almost new character—the asylum superintendent.
One Sunday afternoon, some years ago, Dr. Ray fell asleep in his chair while reading old Fuller's portraits of the Good Merchant, the Good Judge, the Good Soldier, etc., in his work entitled "The Holy and Profane State," and, so sleeping, dreamed he read a manuscript, the first chapter of which was headed, "The Good Superintendent." Awakening from his nap by the tongs falling on the hearth, the doctor determined to reproduce from memory as much of his dream as possible for the benefit of his brethren. One of these recovered fragments runs thus:—"The Good Superintendent hath considered well his qualifications for the office he hath assumed, and been governed not more by a regard for his fortunes than by a hearty desire to benefit his fellow-men.... To fix his hold on the confidence and goodwill of his patients he spareth no effort, though it may consume his time and tax his patience, or encroach seemingly on the dignity of his office. A formal walk through the wards, and the ordering of a few drugs, compriseth but a small part of his means for restoring the troubled mind. To prepare for this work, and to make other means effectual, he carefully studieth the mental movements of his patients. He never grudges the moments spent in quiet, familiar intercourse with them, for thereby he gaineth many glimpses of their inner life that may help him in their treatment.... He maketh himself the centre of their system around which they all revolve, being held in their places by the attraction of respect and confidence."[302]
And much more so admirable that it is difficult to stay one's hand. You will, I think, agree with me that what Dr. Ray dreamed is better than what many write when they are wide awake, and those familiar with Dr. Ray's career, and his character, will be of the opinion of another Transatlantic worthy (Dr. John Gray, of Utica) that in this act of unconscious cerebration the dreamer unwittingly described himself—
"'The Good Superintendent!' Who is he?
The master asked again and again;
But answered himself, unconsciously,
And wrote his own life without a stain."
In what a strange land of shadows the superintendent lives! But for his familiarity with it, its strangeness would oftener strike him. It becomes a matter of course that those with whom he mixes in daily life are of imperial or royal blood—nay, more, possess divine attributes—and that some who are maintained for half a guinea a week possess millions and quadrillions of gold. He lives, in truth, in a world inhabited by the creatures of the imagination of those by whom he is constantly surrounded—a domain in which his views of life and things in general are in a miserable minority—a phantom world of ideal forms and unearthly voices and mysterious sounds, incessantly disputing his authority, and commanding his patients in terms claiming supernatural force to do those things which he orders them to leave undone, and to leave undone those things which he orders them to do; commanding them to be silent, to starve themselves, to kill, to mutilate or hang themselves; in short, there is in this remarkable country, peopled by so many thousand inhabitants, an imperium in imperio which renders the contest continuous between the rival authorities struggling for supremacy, sometimes, it must be confessed, ending in the triumph of the ideal forms, and the phantom voices, and the visionary sights, which may be smiled at in our studies, and curiously analyzed in our scientific alembics, but cannot be ignored in practice without the occurrence of dire catastrophes, and the unpleasant realization of the truth that idealism, phantasy, and vision may be transformed into dangerous forms of force. It may be said, indeed, that the appropriate motto of the medical superintendent is—"Insanitas insanitatum, omnia insanitas."
With such an entourage it is not surprising if the first residence in an asylum as its responsible head—especially an asylum in the olden days—should disconcert even a physician. A German psychologist once declared, after passing his first night in an institution as superintendent, that he could not remain there; he felt overwhelmed with his position. Yet this physician remained not only over the next night, but for thirty-five years, to live honoured and venerated as Maximilian Jacobi, and departing to leave behind him "footprints on the sands of time," from seeing which, others, in a similar hour of discouragement, may again take heart.