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Idiocy Imbecility and Insanity in Victorian Society Caterham Asylum 1867 1911 1St Ed 2020 Edition Stef Eastoe Full Chapter
Idiocy Imbecility and Insanity in Victorian Society Caterham Asylum 1867 1911 1St Ed 2020 Edition Stef Eastoe Full Chapter
Idiocy, Imbecility
and Insanity in
Victorian Society
Caterham Asylum,
1867–1911
Stef Eastoe
Mental Health in Historical Perspective
Series Editors
Catharine Coleborne
School of Humanities and Social Science
University of Newcastle
Callaghan, NSW, Australia
Matthew Smith
Centre for the Social History of Health and Healthcare
University of Strathclyde
Glasgow, UK
Covering all historical periods and geographical contexts, the series
explores how mental illness has been understood, experienced, diag-
nosed, treated and contested. It will publish works that engage actively
with contemporary debates related to mental health and, as such, will be
of interest not only to historians, but also mental health professionals,
patients and policy makers. With its focus on mental health, rather than
just psychiatry, the series will endeavour to provide more patient-centred
histories. Although this has long been an aim of health historians, it has
not been realised, and this series aims to change that.
The scope of the series is kept as broad as possible to attract good
quality proposals about all aspects of the history of mental health from
all periods. The series emphasises interdisciplinary approaches to the field
of study, and encourages short titles, longer works, collections, and titles
which stretch the boundaries of academic publishing in new ways.
Idiocy, Imbecility
and Insanity
in Victorian Society
Caterham Asylum, 1867–1911
Stef Eastoe
Independent Scholar
London, UK
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
This book is dedicated to my Great Aunt Pat (1928–2017), whose story I
will one day write & my daughter Florence, who one day will write her own.
Acknowledgements
This book grew out of my Ph.D. research and thus is the product of
many fruitful conversations and the support given to me during my time
as a postgraduate student at Birkbeck College, University of London.
Dr. Julia Laite was a constant source of guidance, advice and inspiration
of how to both conduct and write history, but also how to be a generous
scholar and member of the academic community. Her ability to ask me
the right questions and to provide space to think allowed me to tease out
many stories and voices that would otherwise have remained hidden.
Thanks must also be made to Dr. Fay Bound Alberti for the many
discussions we have had not only about this book, but about scholarship,
academia and the nature of research.
I am also grateful to my fellow students, colleagues and peers at
Birkbeck Drs. Carmen Mangion, Louise Hide, Hazel Croft, Emma
Lundin, Barbara Warnock, Janet Weston, Susanna Shapland, Saul Bar
Haim and Simon Jarrett and also to my colleagues at Queen Mary, who
in the later stages of the book provided me with helpful advice, solidarity
and support, Drs. Jane Freeland, Charmian Mansell, Linda Briggs and to
Rhodri Hayward and Edmund Ramsden for their guidance. For all their
collective kindness, I am most grateful.
I am also indebted to those who have provided me with feedback and
comments at various conferences, seminars and workshops, p articularly
Drs. Leonard Smith, Katherine Rawling, Rebecca Wynter, Jennifer Wallis,
Steven Taylor, Beatriz Pichel and Rory Du Plesis, many of whom helped
me to untangle and unravel the richer, emotional and ethereal elements
vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
of the book. My thesis examiners, Drs. Jane Hamlett and Rob Ellis, have
provided me helpful comments, insights and guidance over the years.
I am indebted to archivists at London Metropolitan Archives, City of
London and the Surrey History Centre, particularly Julian Pooley who
speaks so beautifully of the power of archives, and I felt emboldened to
tell the story of Caterham in a humane, kind and thoughtful way. The
staff at these archives and libraries have all been especially helpful in cart-
ing numerous dusty volumes of casebooks and committee minutes, pho-
tographs and maps, allowing me time and space to unearth the stories of
Caterham’s residents.
I have been incredibly lucky to have received much support and
counsel from a plethora of brilliant women and a few good men, who
became a village of support over the years, especially Julia, Sarah, Cat,
Kate, Eleanor, Margreet, Farhana, Amy, Jackie, Lucy (Dancer), Lucy
(Teacher), Karen, Anahita, Rebecca, Sharada and the indomitable Adam,
whose belief and insight knows no bounds and who has provided me
with many hours of advice, entertainment and joy. Particular thanks to
Salina for our many discussions of writing, of teaching, of telling sto-
ries and of laughing at life. To Claire, one of my oldest friends who has
always believed in me, her friendship and love has helped me soar in
many ways and she always knows the right thing to say. All have pro-
vided me with much good humour, excellent counsel and such wonder-
ful encouragement, and I am forever indebted to you all.
Finally, thanks must go to my family, especially my parents, Roger and
Jeannine, who have always believed in me and have never let me think I
was not capable.
A Note on the Text
ix
Contents
2 Creating Caterham 27
3 Populating Caterham 59
7 Conclusion 191
Index 207
xi
Abbreviations
xiii
List of Figures
Fig. 2.1 Woodward ward (male side), c.1927, Surrey History Centre,
Ref 4209/3/38/10 47
Fig. 2.2 Baily ward (female side), c.1929, Surrey History Centre,
Ref 4209/3/39/2 48
Fig. 3.1 Patients admitted to Caterham 1870–1911 72
Fig. 3.2 Number of patients who died in Caterham per year,
1870–1911 86
Fig. 5.1 Patient Portrait Edward W. H., Male Casebook 13,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B14/030, 180 128
Fig. 5.2 Patient Portrait Honora S., Female Casebook No. 8,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B14/008, 95 137
Fig. 5.3 Patient Portrait Adolphus B., Male Casebook 11,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B14/028, 84 139
Fig. 5.4 Patient Portrait Emma E., Female Casebook 1,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B14/01, pt no. 38 141
Fig. 5.5 Patient Portrait Martha B., Female Casebook 1,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B/14/001/B, pt no. 1185 142
Fig. 5.6 Patient Portrait MaryAnn M., Female Casebook 14,
City of London, London Metropolitan Archives,
H23/SL/B14/012, 94 144
xv
xvi LIST OF FIGURES
xvii
CHAPTER 1
was a scene of great bustle, yet the most perfect order and regularity pre-
vailed throughout’, which is why over 2000 articles a day could be washed,
pressed and dried.5 The quality of the washing was ‘excellent – certainly if
a snow white colour is any test’.6
Throughout his article, Gilbert was amazed by the skill and ability
demonstrated by the patients. One such individual may well have been
Mary B. She was the 21st female patient admitted to Caterham when she
arrived on the 3 October 1870.7 Mary was a servant before she was trans-
ferred from the workhouse to the asylum, after she lost her position due
to frequent fits and a nervous temperament. Following her admission to
Caterham, Mary was classified as being weakminded and imbecile. Perhaps
due to her skills and knowledge learned during her time working as a ser-
vant in London Mary was put to work in the laundry, and in later years on
the wards. She died in 1910, though the cause of death was not recorded
in the casebook. Aged 62 at death, Mary had been a patient at Caterham
for forty years. This lengthy residency was not untypical. Idiocy, imbecility
and weakmindedness covered a wide range of conditions, psychiatric and
physical. Many of them were considered to be permanent, incurable and
chronic states which were often identified in relation to intellectual and
developmental delay, such as the inability to count to twenty, to tell the
days of the week or know how many shillings were in a pound.
Designed and managed by the Metropolitan Asylum Board (hereafter
MAB), an offshoot of the Poor Law Board (hereafter the PLB), Cater-
ham was a unique site. It was, alongside its sister institution Leavesden,
one of the first state imbecile asylums built in England. It was intended,
from the outset, to provide suitable long-term accommodation and care
to the incurable insane paupers drawn from London, commonly referred
to as idiots and imbeciles. Located in a quiet Surrey village, overlooking
the verdant Caterham valley, the asylum at its height had over 2000 beds.
However, Caterham’s roots were in the workhouse, welfare and sanitary
reforms of the 1860s, in part a product of the limits of the mixed economy
of welfare and existing lunacy legislation which shaped the admission, and
conversely nonadmission, of certain patient groups to the various institu-
tions that made up this vast network.
Caterham’s founding and the experiences of the people like Mary are
the focus of this book, which represents the first monograph that considers
the history of a pauper imbecile asylum. It will not trace the history of the
medical theories or the evolution of the classifications of idiocy, imbecility
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 3
and mental deficiency, which have been ably explored by many histori-
ans of medicine, psychiatry and education. Indeed, the contributions to
the recently published Intellectual Disability: A Conceptual History, 1200–
1900 edited by Christopher Goodey, Patrick McDonagh and Tim Stainton
provide an excellent overview of the evolution of the concepts related to
idiocy, including mental deficiency and learning disability, considering the
social, cultural, political and medical factors that shaped these understand-
ings.8 Rather, the focus of this book is the asylum itself and the lives of the
people sent there. How a consideration of the inner world of the asylum,
from its design to its regime, its social geography and material culture,
can provide us an insight into life within Caterham, and how idiocy was
understood by staff, by families and by Victorian society more broadly.
The nineteenth century saw the passing of a spate of Acts which legislated
for the creation and building of various institutions, including workhouses,
asylums and madhouses. Some of these had greater impacts than others
for particular patient groups, especially the incurable insane. One of the
first key pieces of legislation was the 1808 Asylum Act, which empowered
local magistrates and authorities to build asylums for the pauper insane,
which included idiots, imbeciles and all those regarded as being of unsound
mind.9 The stimulus for this Act was the high costs of accommodation in
the private madhouses, and to create some form of checks and balances on
institutions which were found to be neglectful of their vulnerable charges.
Indeed, the popular press was filled with sensationalist articles of men and
women chained up and placed in dirty and dismal wards, at the mercy of
exploitative asylum managers who were only interested in making money
rather than treating the insane. This was quite the opposite of the ideals
and opportunities offered by the moral therapy, a system of treatment and
patient management that had emerged from the Quaker built York Asylum
at the turn of the century.10 In many of the new asylums, built following the
1808 Act, parishes and unions would pay for the care and accommodation
of their insane paupers, an administrative term for those in receipt of poor
law assistance. However, the main point being that costs would be much
less than in the private institutions, which were rapidly being seen as sites
of containment rather than cure.11 The main limitation of the 1808 Act
was that it was permissive; authorities could choose to build an asylum, and
thus as a result, few were actually built. Between 1808 and 1834, a total of
13 public lunatic asylums were erected in England.12
Despite this, as Leonard Smith suggests, the 1808 Act did create an
infrastructure and an important administrative foundation for the creation
4 S. EASTOE
of public institutions and spaces for the care, accommodation and man-
agement of the insane.13 Indeed, the Act represented something of a sea
change in attitudes and responsibilities of the state, authorities and commu-
nities in caring for their insane, idiot and mentally unsound members. As
Elaine Murphy has shown, many unions and parishes would pay for accom-
modation in public and private asylums, madhouses and in homes, as well
as accommodate the insane in the workhouse.14 Demand for such care,
which only increased over the following years, placed particular pressures
on the poor law, in terms of rates and space. Indeed, the process of board-
ing out was curtailed following the passing of the 1834 Workhouse Reform
Act, which focussed on the provision of indoor relief in an effort to cut the
spiralling costs of care and accommodation. Thus, many people considered
to be insane, curable and incurable, found themselves incarcerated in the
common and infirmary workhouse wards.
In an effort to remedy this, and the wider mistreatment of the insane,
the government passed the 1845 County Borough and Lunacy Acts. In
what has become something of a familiar pattern in the passing of insanity-
related legislation, much like the passing of the 1808 Act, Vieda Skultans
has shown that in the build-up to the 1845 Acts there was an outpouring
of moral outrage felt by many involved in the management of insanity,
‘upon the discovery of the revolting and inhumane conditions endured by
the insane’.15 This outrage was in part stimulated by the fact that moral
management, delivered in well-designed and well-appointed asylums such
as Hanwell which was run by the renowned Dr John Conolly, promised
effective therapy of the insane. Many who agitated for a change in lunacy
policy believed it to be a grave error on the part of a modern and forward-
thinking society to allow the insane to languish in outdated and badly
managed institutions, when cure and efficient treatment was possible. The
1845 Acts made county and borough asylums compulsory, and there fol-
lowed an explosion of large-scale asylums across the country, many of them
in urban areas such as London and Leeds. In 1850, there were around 24
public asylums providing accommodation to over 7100 patients. By 1860,
the number of beds reserved for the insane had more than doubled to
over 15,800 patients across 41 asylums.16 These institutions had grown
not only in number, but also in scale, from an average of 300–500 beds
per asylum to over 1500. Indeed, the second Middlesex County Asylum,
also known as Colney Hatch, opened in 1851 and was one of the largest
asylums in Europe with over 2500 beds. The 1845 Acts also created a
new national inspectorate body, the Commissioners in Lunacy (hereafter
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 5
the CIL). They were responsible for investigating and regulating the care
of the insane across this vast network of institutions and would visit all
sites where the insane were accommodated, including private madhouses,
asylums and workhouses.
Under the wording of the 1808 and 1845 Lunacy Acts, idiots and imbe-
ciles were included under the term insane.17 However institutional author-
ities and managers frequently made a distinction between the curable and
incurable insane, for financial, administrative and medical reasons.18 Magis-
trates and Poor Law medical officers involved in the certification and com-
mittal of the insane focussed on the dangerous and troublesome, rather
than the quiet and harmless insane who proved to be much less bother-
some than their violent brethren. This saw many of the incurable insane
be retained in the workhouse, which as Peter Bartlett and Elaine Murphy
have shown, operated as an informal clearing house for the curable insane
and a warehouse, to some degree, for idiots and imbeciles.19
This issue was raised by the CIL in their 1859 annual report. They
highlighted the large numbers of idiots and imbeciles in the workhouses,
claiming it to be an evil act to keep them there.20 They called for better
classification and certification of the insane, stressing the need to ensure that
the curable were sent to lunatic asylums so they could receive appropriate
medical attention and treatment. Importantly, they made the claim for the
creation of auxiliary asylums specifically for the care and accommodation
of pauper idiots and imbeciles. Alas, their recommendations were ignored.
Rather than see a reorganisation of the workhouse population, the 1862
Lunacy Laws Amendment Act was passed which effectively allowed for
the detention and retention of the ‘non-dangerous’ insane, namely idiots
and imbeciles, within the workhouse.21 The Act was an attempt to ease the
overcrowding in public lunatic asylums and as a result saw large numbers of
harmless insane discharged from these institutions, which were predicated
on care, cure and discharge and thus saw the incurable as undesirable, back
to the workhouse.
However, workhouses were also institutions which were temporary in
their nature and intention, and the large numbers of incurable and chronic
cases were placing significant strains on the system. There was also a rise in
destitution following widespread unemployment in London due to various
socio-economic factors, which put increased pressures on workhouses and
led to high degree of overcrowding. Indeed, the increase in demand did not
see a rise in provision or the building of new workhouses. By 1865, around
15% of the workhouses in England and Wales had separate wards for the
6 S. EASTOE
curable and incurable insane.22 Whilst we could view this spatial provision
as an act of care, it was more often an act of necessity and a realisation
that these inmates required space, accommodation and attention that was
markedly different to the wider workhouse population. Quite often, these
areas were carved out of existing wards or buildings, many of which fell far
below acceptable standards of sanitation and ventilation, thus placing ever
more pressures on an already overstretched system.
The issue of the pauper idiot became an ever more pressing concern,
especially in the Metropolis where the concentration of so many incurable
and chronic insane across these urban workhouses saw them be described as
‘asylums in everything but attendance and appliance which ensure proper
treatment’.23 Indeed, a number of exposés, reports and investigations,
highlighting the deplorable conditions in many London workhouses were
published across the popular press. In response to growing agitations, and
increasing calls for the reorganisation of welfare provision, the Metropolitan
Poor Act was passed on the 14 March 1867, ‘for the establishment in the
Metropolis of asylums for the sick, insane and other classes of the poor…’.24
These new institutions, which included Caterham, its sister asylum Leaves-
den and a number of fever hospitals, were to be built and managed by the
MAB. These institutions and services were financed by the Metropolitan
Common Poor Fund, a pot of money to which Metropolitan unions and
parishes would pay a certain amount based on the annual rateable value
of property within their area. This money would fund the building and
furnishing of the new asylums, infirmaries and dispensaries and pay for the
medicines, running costs and staff salaries.25 Parishes and unions were also
able to claim back expenses for the maintenance of sick, infirm and imbecile
patients housed either in the MAB asylums or other public institutions.26
Caterham’s roots spring from two institutional sources, asylums and
hospitals, and two systems of provision, health and welfare. This study
contributes to the growing social history of asylums and of idiocy and
imbecility more broadly. As well as being the first major study of a pauper
imbecile asylum, Idiocy, Imbecility and Insanity also represents an impor-
tant contribution to the history of the MAB, a body which represents a
‘decisive shift in terms of medical provision for the sick poor’ and, as Keir
Waddington states, was a ‘systematic effort…to provide public institutions
to the sick poor’.27 Yet, it is an organisation that has been little studied
by scholars of welfare, workhouses and asylums in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries.
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 7
occurring at the turn of the eighteenth century. The term innocent, regu-
larly used to record those recognised as having an intellectual delay from
birth or in early childhood, was eventually replaced by the term idiot, an
expression more frequently used in scientific and legislative circles. This
change in language reflected a rejection of more metaphorical terms such
as ‘natural fool’ or ‘innocent fool’ and was indicative of a desire by parish
authorities to employ standardised language in part to appear more profes-
sional.38 However, despite this standardisation of language, popular per-
ceptions of idiots and imbeciles saw them continue to be discussed and
regarded as ‘harmless, manageable and irredeemable’.39
This perception, as harmless and irredeemable, was a double-edged
sword. Whilst they were not treated with the fear and disdain reserved
for the mentally ill, the perceived incurability of idiocy and imbecility effec-
tively permitted parish officers to make no attempts to provide ‘extravagant
arrangements for their care’, especially given the high costs of institutional
care.40 The same could be said for Poor Law officers, asylum managers and
welfare administrators well into the nineteenth century, who experienced
similarly limited financial resources to their eighteenth- and seventeenth-
century forbearers. Even in the Victorian mixed economy of welfare, the
priority, economically and institutionally, was the curable, dangerous and
violent insane.41 Both Andrews and David Wright have suggested that the
perception of the idiot and imbecile pauper as a less serious or pressing
problem in terms of welfare reserves effectively led to them occupying an
‘impoverished ontological’ position in contemporary thought.42 Wright
contends that the lack of separate institutional provision or specific legisla-
tion regarding the incurable insane resulted in idiot and imbecile paupers
occupying ‘a devalued position in the psyche of Victorian lunacy reform’.43
He goes on to state that
Whilst there is some value to these claims, both Wright and Andrews are
judging the responses to idiocy through the lens of lunacy, a perspective
which can create a distorted picture and uneven reading of the history.
10 S. EASTOE
behind the various solutions to the ‘problem’ of what was, following the
passing of the Mental Deficiency Act 1913, referred to as mental defi-
ciency, including community care, sterilisation and residential institutions.
Importantly, Thomson is careful to not make too much of the supposed
strength and influence of the eugenics movement in the development of
residential institutions in the twentieth century.48 Rather than read the rise
of these schools, colonies and homes as agents of social control, Thom-
son’s insightful reading of the reform debates and legislative policies has
shown that there was a marked humanitarian aspect to this institutional
provision and development.49 Despite many well-meant intentions, due
to lack of funds and competing professional and administrative interests,
the attempts to entirely realise these safe therapeutic communities were
never fully realised.50 This is a familiar pattern of events, which occurred
in the years before the founding of Caterham. However, writing off a lack
of dedicated care and accommodation as a form of lower ontological status
of the idiot, the imbecile or the weakminded is to ignore these important
views and attitudes. Indeed, many in the twentieth century believed that
the mentally deficient required support, care and protection.
Importantly, these were ideas which had their roots in the nineteenth
century. Moreover, Caterham and the MAB can most certainly be regarded
as seeds of these ideas and networks. That this support, care and protection
was eventually delivered through what some would term segregative prac-
tices was—in the view of contemporaries—as much to shelter the mentally
deficient from society, as society from the mentally deficient. Many discus-
sions about the geography, the design and even the need for Caterham as
an asylum highlighted the need for specific care for adult idiots and imbe-
ciles, hinting at the failings in other sites and spaces reserved for the insane.
This is a particularly different, and significant, reading of the social status
of the mentally deficient to that offered by the wider and established his-
tory which viewed the lack of institutional provision as evidence of their
devalued status in the wider mixed economy of welfare. Acknowledging
these motivations and how they shaped the legislative landscape of the
twentieth century, Thomson paints a more multifaceted picture of popular
attitudes to idiocy, imbecility and the feebleminded, and the place of these
individuals in society.
Mark Jackson explores similar themes in his research on the Sandle-
bridge School, set up by educational reformer Mary Dendy, whose ideas
were shaped by the eugenic debates which emerged in the early years of
the twentieth century.51 Dendy was a keen advocate of using science to
12 S. EASTOE
legitimise and justify her aims, and with the support from the eugenicists
movement, was a lead campaigner in the calls for the social segregation of
the mentally deficient. Through careful and detailed analysis of Dendy’s
claims, and the agitations of her fellow reformers who readily espoused
the merits of the ‘scientific morality of permanent care’, Jackson sketched
out the emergence of feeblemindedness as a political and medico-social
phenomenon, and the particular attitudes to which this condition spoke.52
Importantly, like Thomson and Andrews, Jackson’s research has shown the
presence of the incurable insane across the mixed economy of welfare and
society more broadly. Indeed, across the work of Walton, Smith, and Dob-
bing, all have illustrated the diverse range of agencies and actors involved
in the management of the insane, be they classified as idiots, imbeciles
or as feebleminded, such as families, administrators and medical profes-
sionals.53 Their attitudes, understandings and motivations concerning the
care, admission and committal of an idiot to an institution were a com-
plex act, shaped by wider social, cultural and political factors. Ideas in the
nineteenth century about the value of training were different to those held
by educators, such as Dendy, in the Edwardian period. Caterham was an
institution which provided numerous forms of care, some of it long-stay,
some of it temporary, some of it educative, some of it pastoral. It straddled
these ideas and to some degree remained broadly unchanged despite the
debates and theories of campaigners like Dendy. Charting the pathways
of certain individuals, recreating their lives through the patchwork that is
the asylum casebook allows us to consider how these ideas may, or may
not, have impacted the lives of people identified as idiots or imbeciles and
admitted to Caterham in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century.
In markedly different ways, Jackson and Thomson’s work illustrates the
visibility of idiocy. This is a history which has often been presented through
the lens of marginalisation. Indeed, in a 1995 article concerning the phys-
ical characteristics of the ‘feebleminded’ recorded in photographs taken
by Charles Paget Lapage in the early twentieth century, Jackson focussed
on narratives of deviance.54 In a special issue of Area published in 2004,
Edward Hall, a geographer, claimed that the social and institutional geog-
raphy of learning disability was best explained by an overriding ‘will to seg-
regate’.55 Contributors to the issue took up this claim, asserting that the
nineteenth century saw a distinct shift from inclusive to exclusive responses
to learning disability, as they referred to it, with the institution acting as
a definitive spatial, architectural and geographical marker of this ‘will to
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 13
segregate’. This will to segregate was stimulated by ‘the spread after the
1850s of ‘degenerationist’ fears, closely allied to
There may well be some truth to these claims, however as Thomson and
Jackon’s research has shown, it was the Edwardian period that saw a con-
siderable growth in specialist institutions following the passing of the Men-
tal Deficiency Act 1913. Before this point, the development of such sites
had been slow. Indeed, by 1913 the MAB itself had four idiot asylums,
Caterham, Leavesden, Darenth (for children) and Tooting Bec (for aged
patients). Alongside this, there were a small handful of charitable asylums
for children like Earlswood and Normansfield, both managed at certain
points by the infamous John Langdon Down. Indeed, as Steven Taylor
has shown, idiot children were routinely dealt with in the existing mixed
economy of welfare.57 This limited growth does not speak of a wave of fear
sparked by anxieties around degeneration, especially when we compare it
to the growth of lunatic asylums. These readings of the geography of idiocy
have transposed early twentieth century views retrospectively onto the nine-
teenth century sites.58 Whilst it is undeniable that individuals considered
inconvenient, such as the sick, the fevered and the insane, were increasingly
removed from society and placed in institutions, the topography, presence
and visibility, is more nuanced. Teasing out these geographies is a central
aim of Idiocy, Imbecility and Insanity, not least to challenge some of these
negative narratives, but also to interrogate the notion of degeneration and
deviance in relation to idiocy in Victorian society.
Many contributions to Pamela Dale and Joseph Melling’s 2006 edited
collection Mental Illness and Learning Disability since 1850: Finding a Place
for Mental Disorder in the United Kingdom, and Anne Digby and David
Wright’s edited collection From Idiocy to Mental Deficiency highlighted
the range of responses to, and the management of, idiots, imbeciles and
the weakminded, including the links between the Poor Law and lay profes-
sionals in the creation, development and maintenance of the institutional
and care networks reserved for the incurable insane.59 Through a range
of essays, researchers examined the attitudes towards idiots and imbeciles
14 S. EASTOE
across the past three centuries, charting the changes in legislative, medico-
social and administrative terminology. Whilst the notion of segregation
and stigma is an ever-present theme, there is also acknowledgement of the
humanitarian ethos that was an equally important feature of institutional
developments, as revealed by the works of Kathleen Jones, Leonard Smith
and Thomson.60 Analysing idiot asylums within the same ideological con-
text as lunatic asylums is problematic, not least as there were significantly
different sets of assumptions, understandings and expectations which lay
behind the founding, design and management of each institution. It is these
particular sets of assumptions and beliefs, shaped by the language, politics
and culture of the time, that scholars must pay attention to in order to tease
out the character and purpose of a particular institution and the experiences
of those who were admitted to such sites.
Much of the recent rich history of idiocy and idiot asylums has been
focussed on institutions reserved for children, and the attitudes and expe-
riences related to their care, treatment and management.63 The language,
expectations and assessments levelled at adults perceived to be idiots or
imbeciles were significantly different to the ways in which idiot and imbe-
cile children were discussed. Training and educability were routinely used
to frame and explain the purpose of the idiot asylums which catered to chil-
dren, such as Earlswood. No such claims were made in the justification for
the building of Caterham, which was to be a long-stay institution and pro-
vide suitable care and accommodation to adult idiots, namely those aged
16 and over. The demands and indeed the experience of caring for an adult
with physical, mental or intellectual deficiencies were significantly different
to the care and management of an idiot or imbecile child. What was consid-
ered to be suitable in terms of care, accommodation and therapy for adult
idiots in a pauper asylum drew on established ideas regarding moral therapy,
but also considered the issues of sanitation, health and hygiene which had
come to dominate the management of institutions in the second half of the
nineteenth century. By considering these factors, and exploring the lives of
adults identified and certified as idiots and imbeciles who were admitted to
Caterham, Idiocy, Imbecility and Insanity opens up several overlooked areas
in the wider history of welfare, asylums, incurable insanity in the Victorian
and Edwardian eras.
relatives, provides us with the opportunity of seeing what people were con-
fronted with when dealing with, managing, and treating adult idiots and
imbeciles.
The Caterham patient casebooks are an incredibly rich resource. They
are a snapshot of past lives lived, traces of voice and echoes of experience.
Nestled within the hastily written notes, which more often than not claimed
that patients were ‘going on as usual’ or that there was ‘no change’, are pho-
tographs of patients. Or rather patient portraits as Dr Adam, Caterham’s
first Medical Superintendent, liked to call them. The portraits are emotive
and complex sites of memory. They provide a visual record of people whose
lives were often recorded in quick standardised sentences and phrases that
became, in and of themselves, formulaic. Some of these images are, like the
notes that surround them, formal and follow the conventions we have come
to expect of asylum photography, especially in pauper institutions. Patients
are sat three-quarters to the camera, the omnipresent mirror behind them.
Others are less formal and have the air of a family snapshot about them. In
recent studies of asylums, scholars have used patient and asylum photog-
raphy in a number of ways, moving beyond narratives of deviance and the
power of the medical gaze, in early works such as Jackson. In her mono-
graph exploring the professionalisation of science in Victorian asylums,
Jennifer Wallis used a wide array of asylum photographs, including patient
photographs and pathological images to explore how psychiatrists devel-
oped knowledge of the body and mental illness. Katherine Rawling has
explored the myriad purposes of patient photographs in public and private
asylums, how they were used as tools to communicate information about
insanity between doctors, patients and their families and how patients used
them to communicate their own identity and experience.68 Jane Hamlett
and Lesley Hoskins used patient photographs to explore dress and agency
within asylums. Collectively, their work shows the value of going beyond
the notion of medical gaze, power and narratives of deviance to show that
these images can provide insight into lives, into the experience of the asylum
and the wider experience of insanity. Indeed, as Caroline Bressey states in
her work using photographs from the Stone Asylum, these are visual records
of people; they are to be looked at as images of lives lived and importantly
show us what people looked like which is not something that can always
been successfully conveyed by the written word.69
However, the documents that make up asylum archives are also heavy
with silences. These are institutions that were undoubtedly sites of sorrow,
the process of committal a distressing experience, which asylum staff were
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 19
keenly aware of. Dr Adam made a number of references to the strain the
journey from London could have on patients, that removal from their famil-
iar, and indeed familial, surroundings could prove to be injurious mentally,
physically and emotionally.70 There are also hints of the violence that was
an inevitable feature of asylum life. Many of the people admitted to Cater-
ham were suffering from a range of often debilitating conditions, mental
and physical. These could be brought on or exacerbated by the institu-
tional setting and could manifest through violent and fractious behaviour.
It was not unknown for patients to attack fellow residents or staff members.
They would also observe and hear aggression, cruelty and brutality within
the asylum wards. Indeed, one patient was transferred from Caterham to a
lunatic asylum after he smashed a window, struck an attendant and threw
a spittoon at Dr Adam.71
Staff could also be violent and abusive towards patients, though the
recording of this is limited in the committee minutes and the wider asylum
archive. Reference to such behaviour is completely omitted in the patient
casebooks. Indeed, in my reading of the annual reports which cover a 43-
year period, I have found one direct reference to a staff member being
abusive to a patient. The case involved a male chimney sweep who was
found to have had sex with a female patient.72 The asylum management
committee and Dr Adam wished to press charges of rape against the man in
question. However, it was reported that as the patient had stated she was a
willing participant and gave her consent the charges could not be brought.
The unnamed staff member was dismissed immediately.
Within the annual reports and committee minutes are references to the
staff being dismissed for disorderly conduct; code for a number of mis-
demeanours which one can suspect included abusive behaviour. Whilst I
have an intuition that the case referred to above was not an exception, and
that violence and neglect occurred regularly in such a large institution, I
cannot invent it. I can, however, acknowledge the silences. Whilst the three
Medical Superintendents of Caterham would repeatedly state, with a hint
of pride, that seclusion had not been used, during their annual inspections
of the asylum, the CIL would note that restraint, by way of strong clothing
or restrictive chairs, was regularly used at Caterham. Staff would claim that
restraint through these measures was for the safety, security and benefit of
patients, to stop them hurting themselves or others, or destroying their
clothes. Yet, as I am fully aware, restraint could also be used to control
troublesome individuals and be used as a form of punishment. However,
to focus on unspoken abuses and neglect would be to dismiss the instances
20 S. EASTOE
alike. In line with this, the chapter will also consider the material culture
of Caterham. It will explore how staff and patients lived within the site,
how occupation, entertainment and exercise were used both as therapeutic
tools for patients, and were also opportunities for staff to engage with their
charges beyond the formal regime relationship.
The final chapters of the book explore the lives of people admitted to
Caterham, and the geographies and wider visibility of idiocy, imbecility and
insanity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As a number
of Caterham patients had their photograph taken, we are provided with
a visual record of these individuals. Whilst patients were described with
varying detail by the medical staff and relatives in the casebooks, a pho-
tograph is an incredibly powerful record.74 These photographs are used
in two ways to further understand and explore the history of idiocy. In
Chapter 5, they provide a window into the material and experiential world
of Caterham. How were patients dressed, how were patients presented and
how were they visually recorded. Asking and answering these questions
provides more opportunities to discover how the daily life in the asylum
and the wider regime were experienced by the hundreds of people who
were committed to Caterham.
These questions and explorations are built on in the final chapter; when
using the photographs alongside the biographical data and geographical
information, I am able to illustrate the visibility and social presence of peo-
ple identified as idiots and imbeciles in Victorian London in a number of
contexts, not solely as individuals admitted to an asylum, but as people,
as family members, as sons, daughters, sisters and brothers and as indi-
viduals who were cared for and cared about. Stitching all of these facets
together, from the founding of Caterham, the patient pathway, their biog-
raphy and particular geography, the structure and composition of their
family and the nature of their neighbourhood, we are able to see how
they lived within society. Such a detailed approach afforded by nominal
record linkage between a diverse range of sources challenges the idea that
the geography of idiocy can be explained by a will to segregate and that
the institutional terrain of the nineteenth century was shaped by proto-
eugenicist debates and concerns regarding degeneracy, moral and mental
weakness. Whilst these may have been hotly debated in some circles, at the
lay, popular and administrative level these ideas did not filter down, nor did
they to the so-called front line of asylum care, nor, indeed, to the families
who identified their kin as idiots, imbeciles or incurably insane.
22 S. EASTOE
Notes
1. William Gilbert, ‘The Idiot Colony at Caterham’, Good Words Magazine 13
(1872): 271–277.
2. Gilbert, ‘Idiot Colony’, 271.
3. Gilbert, ‘Idiot Colony’, 271.
4. Gilbert, ‘Idiot Colony’, 272.
5. Gilbert, ‘Idiot Colony’, 272.
6. Gilbert, ‘Idiot Colony’, 272.
7. Female Casebook (admissions 1870–1875), LMA H23/SL/B/14/001/B,
folio 22.
8. Patrick McDonagh, Christopher F. Goodey, and Tim Stainton (eds.), Intel-
lectual Disability: A Conceptual History, 1200–1900 (Manchester: Manch-
ester University Press, 2018).
9. David Wright, ‘Learning Disability and the New Poor Law in England,
1834–1867’, Disability & Society 15.5 (2000): 731–745.
10. Anne Digby, ‘Changes in the Asylum: The Case of York, 1777–1815’, The
Economic History Review 36.2 (1983): 218–239.
11. Wright, ‘Learning Disability’, 734.
12. Leonard Smith, Cure, Comfort and Safe Custody: Public Lunatic Asylums in
Early Nineteenth-Century England (Leicester: Cassell, 1999), 82.
13. Smith, Cure, Comfort, and Safe Custody, 6.
14. Elaine Murphy, ‘Mad Farming in the Metropolis. Part 2: The Administration
of the Old Poor Law of Insanity in the City and East London 1800–1834’,
History of Psychiatry 12.48 (2001): 405–430.
15. Vieda Skultans, Madness and Morals: Ideas on Insanity in the Nineteenth
Century (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975), 103.
16. Louise Hide, Gender and Class in English Asylums, 1890–1914 (London:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 16–17.
17. Wright, ‘Learning Disability’, 731–745, 736.
18. Jonathan Andrews, ‘Identifying and Providing for the Mentally Disabled in
Early Modern London’, in Digby and Wright (eds.), From Idiocy to Men-
tal Deficiency: Historical Perspectives on People with Learning Disabilities
(London: Routledge, 1996), 65–92.
19. Peter Bartlett, The Poor Law of Lunacy: The Administration of Pauper
Lunatics in Mid-nineteenth Century England (London: Leicester Univer-
sity Press, 1999), 44–50; Elaine Murphy, ‘The Lunacy Commissioners and
the East London Guardians, 1845–1867’, Medical History 46 (2002): 495–
524.
20. British Parliamentary Papers, Copy of the Supplement to the Twelfth Report
of the Commissioners in Lunacy to the Lord Chancellor, 1859 (228), Volume
IX.1
21. Wright, ‘Learning Disability’, 740.
1 INTRODUCTION AND THE ROOTS OF CATERHAM 23
Jarrett and Jan Walmsley (eds.), Intellectual Disability in the Twentieth Cen-
tury Transnational Perspectives on People, Policy, and Practice (Policy Press,
2019); Dorothy Atkinson, Mark Jackson, and Jan Walmsley (eds.), Forgot-
ten Lives: Exploring the History of Mental Deficiency (Kidderminster: BILD,
1997).
63. David Wright, Mental Disability in Victorian England: The Earlswood Asy-
lum, 1847 –1901 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Steven J. Tay-
lor, Child Insanity in England, 1845–1907 (London: Palgrave Macmillan,
2016).
64. All of the primary source documents relating to Caterham from patient case-
books to the MAB committee minutes are held at the London Metropolitan
Archive. From 1887 onwards, the asylum annual reports were reported in
the MAB Statistical Reports, which are held at the Wellcome Library.
65. Anne Digby ‘Quantitative and Qualitative Perspectives in the Asylum’, in
Roy Porter and Andrew Wear (eds.), Problems and Methods in the History of
Medicine (London, 1987), 153–174.
66. Historians have used patient case notes in a variety of ways to draw out
both qualitative and quantitative information. See Jonathan Andrews, ‘Case
Notes, Case Histories, and the Patient’s Experience of Insanity at Gart-
navel Royal Asylum, Glasgow, in the Nineteenth Century’, Social History of
Medicine 11 (1998): 255–281; Rick Rylance, ‘The Theatre and the Gra-
nary: Observations on Nineteenth-Century Medical Narratives’, Literature
and Medicine 25 (2006): 255–276.
67. Sally Swartz, ‘Lost Lives: Gender, History and Mental Illness in the Cape,
1891–1910’, Feminism and Psychology 9.2 (1999): 152–158.
68. Katherine Rawling, ‘“She Sits All Day in the Attitude Depicted in the Pho-
to”: Photography and The Psychiatric Patient in the Late-Nineteenth Cen-
tury’, Medical Humanities, Special Issue on Communicating Mental Health
43.2 (2017): 99–110.
69. Caroline Bressey, ‘The City of Others: Photographs from the City of Lon-
don Asylum Archive’, 19: Interdisciplinary Studies in the Long Nineteenth
Century 13 (2011): (n.p.).
70. MAB Committee Minutes, Vol. VIII (1874–1875), 360.
71. Caterham Male Casebook 11, LMA H23/SL/B14/28, 136.
72. MAB Committee Minutes, Vol. XIII (1879–1880), 880.
73. Wallis, Investigating the Body, 13; Hide, Gender and Class , 156–157.
74. Bressey, ‘The City of Others’.
CHAPTER 2
Creating Caterham
[there is an] abundance of light and air, and, above all, a cheerful, “sunny
aspect” (as the architects call it) is given in every case.1
pauper idiots and imbeciles. They were also shaped by the attitudes of
campaigners concerned with the failings of the existing poor law system.
At the time of writing this description of the asylum, Caterham had
been in operation for two decades. The asylum had grown in size and in
scale during this time. Several new ward blocks had been built on the male
and female sides of the asylum, and more land had been purchased which
increased not only the size of the all-important farm which provided food to
Caterham’s resident population, but also increased the outdoor areas used
for sport and exercise. However, it was not these spatial or environmental
factors that led Burdett to consider Caterham to be well arranged for the
hundreds of idiot and imbecile paupers transferred from the numerous
workhouse and infirmary wards of south London. In fact, he felt that ‘no
good word can be spoken’ of its ‘enormous size’.3 Rather, it was the design
of the building, the arrangement of the site and the layout of the asylum
that merited his paradoxical compliment.
It is these factors that will be explored in this chapter. Indeed, as sug-
gested by Burdett’s quote, and his publication on the subject of institutional
structures, buildings are not neutral. As sociologist Thomas Gieryn notes,
they are symbols and reflections of attitudes, beliefs and perceptions of their
designers and their managers, and the societies which they serve.4 In the
case of asylums, as James Moran and Leslie Topp have stated, these sites
were ‘important formative factors in changing modes of care for the physi-
cally ill’, physical representations of shifting ideas and considerations.5 Sig-
nificantly, Topp highlights the overzealous emphasis placed on the apparent
‘spatial separation’ and isolation of asylums, an emphasis which can obscure
the nuanced nature and history of these sites.6 Indeed, it is undeniable that
the asylum as a structure, a form of accommodation and as a site of treat-
ment and care took on particular meanings in the nineteenth century. In
the past two decades, research has considered the architecture, geography
and spatiality of asylums in a broader social and cultural context.7 Geogra-
phers such as Chris Philo, Sarah Curtis and Wilbert Gesler have considered
the role of the environment, the landscape and the community in the geog-
raphy of asylums.8 Their work has shown that physical location of asylums
was dictated by a number of factors, including the notion that removal or
segregation from society was seen as beneficial both for the patient and the
community.
Thus, to understand the roots, the purpose and the conception of Cater-
ham Imbecile Asylum, we need to understand what factors led to its cre-
ation, the motivations behind its founding and how it was intended to
2 CREATING CATERHAM 29
operate within the wider mixed economy of welfare. To do this, the chapter
will focus on a specific time and a specific episode: the events leading up
to the passing of the Metropolitan Poor Act 1867 and the building of
Caterham.
Ideal Institutions
By the time Caterham was being designed, there had been several waves of
institutional building. From the small-scale asylums built to echo country
houses following the passing of the so-called 1808 Wynn’s Act to the large-
scale asylums like Colney Hatch following the 1845 Lunacy Acts, as well as
numerous hospitals and workhouses erected in the early to mid-nineteenth
century, the managers of Caterham were surrounded by a plethora of insti-
tutional forms. Alongside these physical structures were numerous texts,
articles and books on the subject of asylum design, taking into account
the newest innovations in medical, sanitary and scientific theories to afford
greater efficiency in terms of economies and administration of patients,
staff and residents in these sites. Caterham was built on the pavilion plan,
a design that was more commonly used in hospitals and infirmaries. It was
considered by contemporaries, Burdett included, to be incredibly sanitarily
efficient. In fact, it was a style much favoured by the MAB, and versions
of it were used for a number of its institutions, including the St Pancras
Infirmary in Archway, London.9 Wards were naturally ventilated, with the
circulation of fresh air afforded by the high ceilings and the numerous long
windows which opened at the top for matters of sanitation, safety, and
security. Attention was also paid to the internal arrangement, with the beds
placed between the windows to maximise airflow and to ensure the great-
est amount of cubic space per patient, which were central features of the
sanitary practicalities of the pavilion plan design. The rectilinear corridors
connecting the three-storey ward buildings to the central administrative
block further prevented disease and illness from being transferred between
these different sections of the asylum site. Bad air was seen as a corrupting
force, carrying with it disease, illness and in many cases death. This foul
air, with its miasmatic qualities, was an ever-present concern to Victorians,
before the advent of germ theory towards the end of the nineteenth cen-
tury, and was a particular concern to institutional managers who were often
dealing with demands of smells, limited space, and sickness. Thus, buildings
that could ensure the flow of clean, fresh and good air were welcomed by
30 S. EASTOE
theme in the history of asylums has claimed that their location was dictated
by a desire to physically and visually remove the insane from society.11 How-
ever, this supposed segregation is more nuanced than being explained as a
form of removal of the inconvenient from the eyes, and perhaps hearts, of
Victorian society. As Clare Hickman has shown, a major factor in the geog-
raphy of asylums was the contemporary belief in the healing and restorative
power of nature.12 The rural landscape with its cheerful and tranquil char-
acter would counter the negative effects of urban living. Dr David Brodie,
medical superintendent of the Idiot Asylum at Larbert Edinburgh, a private
institution catering to 300 patients, stated that the ideal environment for
an imbecile asylum
…ought to be in the country, but near to a town, easily accessible at all sea-
sons, so as to allow full and frequent intercourse with the outer world…The
situation must secure perfect hygienic conditions, abundance of pure water,
equal to all possible demands for bath, lavatory and water closet require-
ments, perfect drainage, and liberal space for playground, walking exercise,
and garden or farm operations13
PRADELIO
El tiempo que holgares,
Filena, en ver mis ojos de
agua llenos,
ó los tuyos alzares
en mi favor serenos,
el ganado y la vida tendré en
menos.
Viendo de dónde viene
el bien ó el mal que tu beldad
me ha hecho,
obligado me tiene
con un constante pecho
á agradecer el daño y
provecho.
Tu alta gentileza,
tu valor, tu saber, amé
primero,
subíme á más alteza
de un querer verdadero,
ámote mucho y mucho más te
quiero.
El quererte y amarte
proceden de mirarte y
conocerte,
cada cual por su parte;
el amarte es por suerte,
pero por albedrío el bien
quererte.
Mis llamas, mis prisiones,
son los jardines donde me
recreo;
tus gustos, tus razones,
espejo en que me veo,
y en tu contento vive mi
deseo.
Á ser sólo dotada,
como otras, de caduca
hermosura,
quizá fueras amada
de la misma hechura;
mas tu beldad de todo me
asegura.
Ansí ciega y assombra
mi gran amor, que á todos
escurece,
y el mundo es una sombra,
y cuanto en él parece
del sol que en mis entrañas
resplandece.
Págame en mi moneda
mi amor (si tanto amor puede
pagarse),
ó á lo menos no pueda
con pesares aguarse
la fe más pura que podrá
hallarse.
No son estos recelos
por no entender mi hado
venturoso,
y tampoco son celos
de indicio sospechoso:
sólo mi valor me trae medroso.
Tú, mi dulce señora,
primera causa de mi buena
andanza,
por la fe que en mí mora,
si en la tuya hay mudanza,
haz que socorra engaño á mi
esperanza.
FILARDO
Poco precia el caudal de
sus intentos
el que no piensa en el
contrario estado;
el capitán que duerme
descuidado
poco estima su vida y sus
intentos.
El que no teme á los
contrarios vientos,
pocos tesoros ha del mar
fiado;
pocos rastros y bueyes
fatigado
el que no mira al cielo por
momentos.
Poco ha probado á la
fortuna el loco
que en su privanza no temiere
un hora
que se atraviesse invidia en la
carrera;
Finalmente de mí y por mí,
señora,
creed que el amador que teme
poco,
poco ama, poco goza y poco
espera.
PRADELIO
Si no te he dicho, Deseo,
en la estimación que estás,
sabe que te tengo en más
que á los ojos con que veo;
y no es demasiada fiesta,
que una prenda tan valida,
no es mucho que sea tenida
en lo menos que me cuesta.
Aunque tú quedaste en
calma
sin viento que te contraste,
bien sabes que me anegaste
la luz del cuerpo y del alma,
y visto parte por parte,
pues solo suples la falta,
de todo lo que me falta,
por todo debo estimarte.
Yo voy ciego, y voy sin guía,
por la mar de mis enojos,
y tú das lumbre á mis ojos
más que el sol á medio día;
no puede imaginación
engastar perla de Oriente
que esté tan resplandeciente
como tú en mi corazón.
Voy á remo navegando,
es la imán mi voluntad,
y sola tu claridad
el norte que va mirando
el débil barquillo abierto,
sin merecimiento en él,
y en el naufragio cruel
eres mi seguro puerto.
No espero jamás bonanza
en la vida ni en la muerte,
mas bástame á mí tenerte
en lugar de la esperanza;
bien sé que en ti se turbó
el sossiego más sereno,
mas no hay ninguno tan bueno
por quien te trocase yo.
Vengan penas desiguales,
y por caudillo desdén,
que sola serás mi bien,
aunque les pese á mis males.
Tú, en la esperanza más dura,
tú sola, en el día malo,
tienes de ser mi regalo,
mi consuelo y mi blandura.
¿No fuiste engendrado,
dime,
de aquellos ojos beninos
por quien quedarán indinos
los que el mundo en más
estime?
Y en mi pecho concebido,
y en la vida alimentado,
hijo que tanto ha costado,
¿no es razón que sea
querido?
Juzguen el justo caudal
que hago de ti por vicio;
digan que en este edificio
eres arena sin cal;
llamen tu hecho arrogancia,
sin esperanza á do fueres,
que yo que entiendo quién
eres
confessaré tu importancia.
¡Oh, cuánto me has de
costar
en cuanto no me acabares!
mas cuanto más me costares,
tanto más te he de estimar;
los daños de aquesta historia,
bravos son considerados;
vistos no, que van mezclados
contigo, que eres mi gloria.
El rato que considero
la gracia, la gentileza,
la discreción, la belleza,
por quien á tus manos muero,
no sólo el dolor terrible
passo sin dificultad,
pero con facilidad
te sufro en ser impossible.
Quizá dirán devaneas
muchos que saben de Amor.
¿Qué es cosa y cosa, amador,
deseas ó no deseas?
Responderles he que sí
y que el mal que Amor me
hace,
de mi desventura nace,
y el bien y el honor, de ti.
Pues, ilustre Deseo mío,
¿quién te torcerá el camino,
si veniste por destino,
y vences por albedrío?
Eres una dulce pena,
eres un contento esquivo,
eres la ley en que vivo,
y en la que Amor me condena.