Accessibility and Archives: “the fool delivers the madman”

In this blog, with a focus on intellectual impairment, Philip Milnes-Smith reflects on Stephen Unwin’s recent book Beautiful Lives, and attempts to fill in a gap between two earlier blogs in the sequence which explored an Early Modern life and the 19th century commencement of specialised institutionalisation.  Historic language is included, and some stories included could be distressing.

One of the literary characters included in Stephen Unwin’s new book is Wordsworth’s Johnny Foy (The Idiot Boy).  The romantic poet manifested empathetic acceptance of human diversity, and respect for the parents and carers of those with learning disabilities among the working poor.  But he also recognised that not everyone shared his view and explicitly asserted, in a letter to a critical reader, that others “would be better and more moral beings” if they shared his perspective. However, we should also note his two caveats: Johnny was able to speak coherently (even if to limited effect), and he was not one of those who were “usually disgusting”.  In talking about disabled lives at that time (and others) one of the things being explored is the limits of what counts as a human being.  In this case, would someone who “cannot articulate” or lacked control over bodily functions and was otherwise unable to keep themselves clean? 

Among the earliest inmates of the St Giles Workhouse in London, in the 1720s, we find a man whose delusions led to him being termed “the Lunatic King”.  He befriended there an “idiot” whom he made his “Prime Minister” and general barber and servant.  One morning, six years later, the latter ate his breakfast first, a casual event but interpreted as disrespect, which apparently destroyed the relationship.  However, when he died of fever, the ‘monarch’ was reluctant to eat, stopped speaking and died of grief.  Mere anecdote this may be, but it points to one of the issues we face with seeing Learning Disabilities in our records.  As in our Shakespearean title, people in the past did not just distinguish lifelong cognitive difficulties and differences from temporary mental disorder, they linked them in ways which no longer seem appropriate. 

An East Anglian paper in 1807[i] quoted from a report to a parliamentary select committee, which noted that there were at that time “67 Idiots” classed as “Lunatic Paupers” in Suffolk, and that most were “kept in the workhouses as common paupers, without receiving any more than common attention, and without being separated from the general mass.”  In some places, he notes, the parish shows “humanity” by “allowing the poor Idiot to remain with his mother or friends”.  He also added that such a system is open to abuse because “idiotism is often counterfeited to secure the parish money” – no evidence for this supposed frequency is presented.  When we think of inclusion, this may not be what we have in mind, but we should, nonetheless, note that these inmates did not usually require segregation – and that people outside the family might be carers. 

If families were understandably reluctant to give up caring responsibilities, we also see, in 1822, one unnamed woman securing the release of her equally anonymous son from a Soho Workhouse (an interior of which is pictured in the preview image) having complained to Magistrates of neglectful treatment, including inadequate clothing[ii].  She had dressed him in her own petticoat when visiting to cover him, and he was said still to be wearing it at the time of the hearing.  She was also granted an allowance to take care of him once more – not humanitarian generosity, but a recognition that she could not work to support them both and care for him.  Unlike the majority of inmates reported above, this individual had been under supervision of a nurse who had complained he was “troublesome” – neglect, we might suggest, would not necessarily make someone less so. 

An 1800 ‘small ad’[iii] offers to pay expenses for definite knowledge of John Brunton’s whereabouts, describing him as “Seventeen Years of Age; has dark Brown Hair, Black Eyes, and a great Impediment in his Speech.”  Perhaps Jane Green, who placed the advertisement, was a married sibling.  Rumours of his death “somewhere between Lancaster and Liverpool”, an uncertain time after he had “eloped from the Workhouse at Whitehaven”, were already circulating. Having a familial connection to a ‘beautiful life’ is perhaps the explanation for one George Vellum to have come to the assistance of an unnamed “idiot” being persecuted by a gang of youths in 1822, who then turned their spite on him[iv].  It was George who found himself charged, having drawn his knife in self-defence.

An 1817 report[v] claimed to count Scottish “Idiots reported harmless, so as not to require constant confinement, but many of them at times furious”.  This count explicitly excluded any in asylums, workhouses and prisons, and many of those counted were understood to have been beggars.  Some such individuals would have been vulnerable to exploitation by others.  An Irish example might be the “vagrant idiot or lunatic named Smith, in the habit of ranging about the country half naked” who had murdered a farmer’s wife and her maid, at the instigation of another[vi].   That is not to say that all were incapable of work: one Thomas Prior, was also charged with a murder, but deemed unable to distinguish right from wrong, “incapable of regulating his conduct”, and thus standing trial.[vii]  Yet he had habitually gone “out to work, and returned home again unattended” having been out all day (perhaps to business premises of a relation), “at 11 at night”.  He may have been self-regulating when waving about his hands in court, and complaining when he, “in a loud tone uttered some unintelligible sounds.”  He certainly sounds happier when reported to have “frequently danced about the room before the pictures and laughed without any cause.” Sadly, detention at the monarch’s pleasure was unlikely to have furnished him with other such opportunities.

This history is not an easy one, and it can be hard for us to see past those who talk about them, to the person with the learning disability and their perspective – their sorrows are sometimes visible from their reported actions, but we rarely glimpse their joys.  Could living people with learning disabilities and their families be offered access to such stories in ways that resonate with their own experiences (as with the Antonia project)?  How might this co-production inform archival practice?  Could a long view of caregivers and their struggles with state institutions be curated and shared to inform and inspire current fights for disability justice?  Could more be done to ensure others have their prejudices and dehumanising preconceptions challenged rather than reinforced?  Do ideas of significance still stop us including “beautiful lives” because our focus is on human doings rather human beings?  

Cover image: An illustration of the workhouse in the St James parish in Microcosm of London, Volume 3 by Thomas Rowlandson (1756–1827) and Augustus Charles Pugin (1762–1832) (after) John Bluck (fl. 1791–1819), Joseph Constantine Stadler (fl. 1780–1812), Thomas Sutherland (1785–1838), J. Hill, and Harraden (aquatint engravers

Guest blogs are welcome.  Please email diversityandinclusion@archives.org.uk.  We would also like to hear from you if you have found one of the Allies’ blogs helpful to your work.

[i] BL_0000156_18071014_010_0004

[ii] BL_0002757_18221006_032_0003

[iii] BL_0000950_18001125_015_0003

[iv] BL_0000950_18001125_015_0003

[v] BL_0000547_18170401_014_0045 & BL_0000547_18170401_014_0046

[vi] BL_0002785_18170327_016_0003

[vii] BL_0002644_18220915_026_0006