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MENTAL HEALTH IN
HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

Healthy Minds in
the Twentieth Century
In and Beyond the Asylum

Edited by
Steven J. Taylor · Alice Brumby
 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.

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14806
Steven J. Taylor · Alice Brumby
Editors

Healthy Minds
in the Twentieth
Century
In and Beyond the Asylum
Editors
Steven J. Taylor Alice Brumby
School of History School of Humanities, Religion
University of Leicester and Philosophy
Leicester, UK York St John University
York, UK

Mental Health in Historical Perspective

ISBN 978-3-030-27274-6 ISBN 978-3-030-27275-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27275-3

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020. This book is an open access
publication.
Open Access This book is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution
4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), which permits
use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as
you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the
Creative Commons license and indicate if changes were made.
The images or other third party material in this book are included in the book’s Creative
Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material
is not included in the book’s Creative Commons license and your intended use is not
permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain
permission directly from the copyright holder.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and
information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication.
Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied,
with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published
maps and institutional affiliations.

Cover illustration: © retrorocket/Alamy Stock Vector

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Contents

1 Introduction to Healthy Minds: Mental Health

Practice and Perception in the Twentieth Century 1
Steven J. Taylor and Alice Brumby

2 ‘The Holy War Against Alcohol’: Alcoholism,

Medicine and Psychiatry in Ireland, c. 1890–1921 17
Alice Mauger

3 Social Stigma, Stress and Enforced Transition

in Specialist Epilepsy Services 1905–1965 53
Rachel Hewitt

4 Planning for the Future: Special Education

and the Creation of ‘Healthy Minds’ 73
Steven J. Taylor

5 Healthy Minds and Intellectual Disability 95

Jan Walmsley

6 Sheltered Employment and Mental Health

in Britain: Remploy c.1945–1981 113
Andy Holroyde

v
vi CONTENTS

7 Autism in the Twentieth Century: An Evolution

of a Controversial Condition 137
Michelle O’Reilly, Jessica Nina Lester and Nikki Kiyimba

8 Challenging Psychiatric Classification: Healthy

Autistic Diversity the Neurodiversity Movement 167
Erika Dyck and Ginny Russell

9 The National Schizophrenia Fellowship: Charity,

Caregiving and Strategies of Coping, 1960–1980 189
Alice Brumby

10 ‘(Un)healthy Minds’ and Visual and Tactile Arts,

c.1900–1950 211
Imogen Wiltshire

11 The Myth of Dream-Hacking and ‘Inner Space’

in Science Fiction, 1948–2010 239
Rob Mayo

Index 267
 Notes on Contributors

Dr. Alice Brumby is a lecturer at York St John University. Her research

interests focus upon nineteenth- and twentieth-century mental health
care and patient welfare in England. Her work examines the role of the
community, families and patients with regard to accessing care and treat-
ment. She has published work in First World War Studies and History
Today amongst other publications. Her AHRC-funded Ph.D. examined
attempts to reform mental health care. This work has contributed to a
programme of public engagement, including co-curating an exhibition
on the medical impact of war, in connection with the Thackray Medical
Museum. She has also created exhibitions at the York Army Museum and
the medical museums in Worcestershire.
Prof. Erika Dyck is a professor at the University of Saskatchewan,
and a Tier 2 Canada Research Chair in the History of Medicine. She is
the author of Psychedelic Psychiatry: LSD from Clinic to Campus (Johns
Hopkins, 2008; University of Manitoba Press, 2011), Facing Eugenics:
Reproduction, Sterilization and the Politics of Choice (University of
Toronto, 2013), and Managing Madness: The Weyburn Mental Hospital
and Transformations of Psychiatric Care in Canada (2017). She is the
co-editor of the Canadian Bulletin for Medical History; a contributing
editor to ActiveHistory.ca and a founding member of both www.histo-
ryofmadness.ca and www.eugenicsarchive.ca. In 2015, she was inducted
to Canada’s Royal Society in the College of New Scholars, Artists and
Scientists.

vii
viii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Dr. Rachel Hewitt is a researcher in the history of medicine and social

policy, specialising in the history of epilepsy in the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries. Her research interests include adult and child
services, labour policy, poverty and public health. ​
Andy Holroyde is a final-year doctoral candidate in history at the
University of Huddersfield. His Ph.D. is an AHRC-funded project with
the Heritage Consortium, examining sheltered employment and disability
in the British Welfare State.
Dr. Nikki Kiyimba works as a senior lecturer in psychological trauma at
the University of Chester. She also works in private practice as a Clinical
Psychologist in the north-west of England. Her research interests are
in using discourse analytic approaches to understanding adult and child
interactions in mental health settings, and in critically evaluating con-
structs of psychological trauma and the mental health sequelae of trau-
matic and adverse events.
Dr. Jessica Lester is an associate professor of inquiry methodology
(qualitative methodologies/methods) in the School of Education at
Indiana University, Bloomington. Jessica’s research has focused on dis-
course and conversation analysis, disability studies and more general con-
cerns related to qualitative research. She is a founding member of the
Microanalysis of Online Data international network and the Associate
Director of the Conversation Analysis Research in Autism group.
Dr. Alice Mauger is a postdoctoral research fellow at the Centre for the
History of Medicine in Ireland, School of History, University College
Dublin. Her research and teaching interests include the histories of med-
icine, mental illness, psychiatry, alcohol and drugs in the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries. Her current research project, ‘Alcohol Medicine and
Irish Society, c. 1890–1970’ is funded by the Wellcome Trust. She has
published on the history of psychiatry in Ireland, including The Cost of
Insanity in Nineteenth-Century Ireland: Public, Voluntary and Private
Asylum Care (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017).
Dr. Rob Mayo has previously worked on the conceptualisation and
depiction of depression and other dysphoric conditions in David Foster
Wallace’s fiction and is currently working on his first book on this topic.
His essay here reflects a career-long interest in science fiction, and the
 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS ix

first steps in a new project on the theme of the mind and mental disorder
in SF texts in literature, cinema and video games. He has also worked on
Philip K. Dick, Daniel Keyes and Twin Peaks.
Dr Michelle O’Reilly works as an associate professor of communica-
tion in mental health at the University of Leicester. She is also a Research
Consultant with Leicestershire Partnership NHS Trust. Michelle’s
research interests are in the language of mental health, specialising in
discourse and conversation analysis. She is particularly interested in child
mental health, neurodevelopmental conditions, research ethics and quali-
tative methodology.
Dr. Ginny Russell is an interdisciplinary senior research fellow in
mental health and developmental disorders at the University of Exeter
Medical School in the UK. Her research interests encompass diagnosis,
autism, ADHD and dyslexia. She has published over 40 journal articles
and heads up a project using autism and neurodiversity to explore issues
in diagnosis.
Dr. Steven J. Taylor is a historian of childhood and medicine. His
research explores ideas and constructions of childhood health, lay and
professional diagnoses, ability and disability, and institutional care. His
first monograph, Beyond the Asylum: Child Insanity in England, 1845–
1907 was published by Palgrave Macmillan in 2017. He is currently
researching the experience of special schools in the early twentieth cen-
tury as a Wellcome Trust ISSF Fellow at the University of Leicester.
Dr. Jan Walmsley is an independent researcher and author specialis-
ing in the history of intellectual disabilities. She is a Trustee of Learning
Disability England and a Trustee helper for self-advocacy group My Life
My Choice. She is author of numerous books and papers. Her most
recent book, edited with Simon Jarrett, is Transnational Perspectives on
Intellectual Disability in the Twentieth Century (Policy Press, 2019). It
brings together accounts of the recent history of intellectual disabilities
in 12 countries across the world.
Dr. Imogen Wiltshire is an art historian and Wellcome Trust ISSF
Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the University of Leicester. She special-
ises in modern and contemporary art, and her research focuses on the
visual arts, health and medicine. She completed her Ph.D. in history of
x NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

art at the University of Birmingham, funded by the Arts and Humanities

Research Council (AHRC). She is currently writing a book on therapeu-
tic art-making practices and modernism in Britain and the USA in the
first half of the twentieth century. She is also working on a project about
the artist Magdalena Abakanowicz.
 List of Figures

Fig. 10.1 Pleasant Land, 1882, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes

(1824–1898). Oil on canvas, 25.7 × 47.6 cm.
Photo Credit: Yale University Art Gallery. Public domain 215
Fig. 10.2 Cossacks, 1910–11, Wassily Kandinsky (1866–1944).
Oil on canvas, 94.6 × 130.2 cm. Presented by Mrs Hazel
McKinley 1938. Photo Credit: ©Tate, London 2019.
All rights reserved 218
Fig. 10.3 Apples in a Bowl, 1938, Arthur Segal (1875–1944).
Oil on panel, 39 × 50 cm. Guildhall Art Gallery,
City of London Corporation. All rights reserved 230
Fig. 11.1 A diagram of Freud’s model of the mind
in ‘Ego and the Id’ (1923). Public domain 242
Fig. 11.2 Illustration of the iceberg metaphor commonly
used for Freud’s model. Public domain 243

xi
 List of Tables

Table 4.1 The prevalence of ‘defective’ children in Birmingham

schools, 1903 78
Table 4.2 Classification of the special school population
in the Birmingham area, 1911 80
Table 4.3 Birmingham Special School survey, 1911 87

xiii
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction to Healthy Minds: Mental

Health Practice and Perception
in the Twentieth Century

Steven J. Taylor and Alice Brumby

Introduction
Writing in the 1980s, Peter Barham noted that ‘in 1985 the average
number of psychiatric beds occupied each day in England and Wales was
64,800, a return to the occupancy level last witnessed in 1895’.1 In a
local case study of the Exeter region, the number of inpatient beds in
mental hospitals had fallen from 2070 in the middle of the twentieth
century (1949) to only 100 beds in 1996. Ten years later, this num-
ber had dropped again to only 40 beds.2 Similar figures can be found
for different regions across the UK.3 This reduction of provision in the
country’s mental hospitals and the narrative of deinstitutionalisation

S. J. Taylor (*)
School of History, University of Leicester, Leicester, UK
e-mail: sjt48@leicester.ac.uk
A. Brumby
School of Humanities, Religion & Philosophy,
York St John University, York, UK
e-mail: A.Brumby2@hud.ac.uk

© The Author(s) 2020 1

S. J. Taylor and A. Brumby (eds.), Healthy Minds
in the Twentieth Century, Mental Health in Historical Perspective,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27275-3_1
2 S. J. TAYLOR AND A. BRUMBY

communicates only a part of the history of mental health care over the
course of the twentieth century.4 While there was a sea change from
institutional to social care in the provision and treatment of men-
tal health, there was also a move beyond metaphorical walls that saw
­concerns about mental health penetrate previously untouched aspects of
everyday life. The contributions to this book are an attempt at providing
historical context to this change, as well as revealing some of the new
physical and cultural spaces that mental health now occupies.
In economic, military, medical and social arenas, the twentieth cen-
tury was one of change and development. As the century progressed,
advances in surgery and medicine meant that people were living into
older age, while, on the other hand, political and military situations
demonstrated a prolificacy in destroying human life. The early decades
of the century also saw a re-emphasis on the importance of the individ-
ual, their place in society and, alongside this, their health and well-­being.
Individuals were now tasked with an expectation of social efficiency that
meant providing for themselves and their families but also, in their own
way, contributing to the national project—whether through work, ser-
vice or reproducing healthy stock. In this climate, minds considered to
be ‘unhealthy’ were represented as a unique threat and took on a par-
ticular status that combined concern with stigma. From the degenera-
tive worries of eugenic discourse through to the stresses and strains of
modern living in the late-twentieth century, there was ever more aware-
ness on preserving ‘healthy’ minds. Consequently, medical practices
of removing the ‘insane’ from society and confining them in specialist
institutions largely subsided and increased scientific, medical and soci-
ocultural investment led to better understanding of conditions such as
epilepsy, ‘shell shock’ and depression, as well as the emergence of new
conditions such as schizophrenia, autism and post-traumatic stress
disorder.
Throughout this volume, the terms ‘healthy’ and ‘unhealthy’ have
no fixed meaning and are deployed subjectively in relation to the men-
tal health of individuals and groups. The definitions have subsequently
been determined by contributing authors in relation to a range of fac-
tors such as time, place and space. On the whole, the healthy/unhealthy
dichotomy aims to identify instances where mental health was demar-
cated from what was considered socially, medically, culturally or legally
‘normal’. Therefore, there is no single example of a healthy mind nor
is there one of an unhealthy mind. To complicate the situation further,
 1 INTRODUCTION TO HEALTHY MINDS … 3

it might be that a mind might be considered unhealthy in some scenar-

ios, and yet not in others. An example is that of learning disabilities; in
Chapter 5, Jan Walmsley discusses some of the negative connotations
and stigma attached to such conditions. Yet, in Chapter 8, authored by
Dyck and Russell, the passage of time and changing cultural landscape of
the twentieth century had shaped the experience of living with learning
disability into something considered to be healthier, or socially accepted
with the coming of the neurodiversity movement.
As the shifting understanding of what was considered to be a healthy
mind suggests, and the chapters that follow will attest, the nomenclature
of mental health was fluid and contested throughout the twentieth cen-
tury. Thus, it is worth observing at the outset some of the terminologies
that will feature. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the medi-
cal lexicon of mental health included terms such as ‘lunatic’, ‘imbecile’
and ‘idiot’ that all fell under the catch-all umbrella of ‘insanity’. By the
time that the century had ended, all of these medical terms had taken
on derogatory connotations and were laced with stigma. The fate of
these labels was not unique and the twentieth century saw language of
its own—‘feeble-minded’, ‘schiz’ and ‘cretin’ related to mental health
that fell into wider, negative, social use. As these terms feature in the
academic analysis of this volume, it is worth observing that they are
used by authors to demonstrate their arguments and with no malice or
negativity in mind. Instead, terminology is used to reflect the historical
nomenclature of the time period discussed.
The evolving language of mental health over the course of the
twentieth century also reflects a widening social awareness of men-
tal illness and disability. It was within this context that psychiatrists
and medical experts became increasingly concerned with preventative
mental health care, or the need to keep minds healthy. This fascina-
tion was the impetus behind a range of twentieth-century innovations,
from charitable bodies to government policies, and societal doctrines.
The preoccupation with maintaining and perpetuating healthy minds
informed Eugenic discourse, the neo-hygienist child guidance move-
ment, psychiatric social work and a host of legislation passed during the
twentieth century—from the Mental Deficiency Act, 1913, to the pol-
icy of transition from treatment in mental hospitals to care in the com-
munity in the latter-half of the twentieth century. Nineteenth-century
alienists, working in the field of mental health, often argued that late
admittance to the asylum, and with it delayed treatment, led to the
4 S. J. TAYLOR AND A. BRUMBY

growing population of hopeless chronic cases, who languished in the

institution uncured until their deaths.5 In the twentieth century, there
was a move away from cure, amelioration and modification, and the con-
tributions to this volume from Dyck and Russell, Walmsley, and O’Reilly
et al. reveal an advocacy and shared-identity towards mental health that
would have been unimaginable a century before.

Places of Care for the ‘Unhealthy’ Mind

By the early to mid-twentieth century, overcrowding in asylums had
highlighted, what appeared to be, the failure of institutionalisation.
Subsequently, a range of other options emerged that attempted to
ease pressure on over-crowded Victorian institutions.6 To many, the
late-nineteenth century symbolised a time of pessimism and decline in
psychiatric services.7 The argument that an increase in uncured chronic
patients at the end of the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries sym-
bolised a period of stagnation within the walls of the asylum has been
popularised by Andrew Scull.8 Such a view has found traction in the lit-
erature, and Peter Bartlett stated that ‘historians tend to view the asy-
lum in the later-nineteenth century as a failure, full of incurable cases and
unable to fulfil the humanitarian promise of the reformers’.9 Echoing
this perspective, Melling and Forsythe argued that the asylum model had
‘exhausted its potential for innovation’ long before 1890.10 The growing
demands upon care and the medical inability to cure the chronically ill
are not disputed within this volume, nor is the idea that this growing
‘underclass’ of chronic patients can be seen, at some levels, to represent
a failure in psychiatry at this time. Despite this, however, not all psychia-
trists were negative and they saw ample reason for optimism in the range
of new spaces for care in the twentieth century.11 It is in these nascent
spaces of treatment such as dedicated epilepsy services, special schools,
sheltered employment, and patient and caregiver advocacy groups that
contributions to this volume focus on.
Many of these newly emerging spaces were promoted and packaged
as vehicles for reforming the field of psychiatry, which remained a con-
tentious issue throughout the twentieth century. Critics writing in the
second half of the twentieth century highlighted the regulatory nature
of traditional asylums, branding them as being ‘total institutions’.12
Revisionist histories of asylum expansion in the late-nineteenth and early-
twentieth centuries have tended to focus on issues of power and social
 1 INTRODUCTION TO HEALTHY MINDS … 5

control exerted by medical professionals over their patients.13 These

accounts modified older interpretations, which highlighted a humanitar-
ian narrative focusing on psychiatry’s progressive nature.14 Critics argued
that to focus solely on the humanitarian objectives of psychiatry was
nothing more than an effort to legitimise and historicise the profession.15
Arguably, creating new spaces of treatment and cure was an attempt not
only to legitimise the psychiatric profession, but also to influence the
(de)stigmatisation of mental illness across the long twentieth century.16
Despite the lingering images of mental institutions in the cultural
imagination, historians have shown that the locus of care and treatment
for those with mental health issues was never limited to the pauper luna-
tic asylum and, even in the nineteenth century, the economy of care
sprawled across a range of settings in which the healthy and unhealthy
mind could be presented, contested and represented.17 These spaces and
places included familial homes, boarding out with foster families, early
mental health clinics, general hospitals and workhouse wards to name
but the most popular.18 Historians have come to accept that institutions
were not closed, medicalised dumping grounds, but instead were porous,
contingent and occasionally even temporary spaces where patients, staff,
families and other stakeholders interacted.19 Scholars have meticulously
begun to show how the walls of the asylum were more permeable than
our previous understanding suggests.20 It is within the pluralistic land-
scape of care that this volume positions itself in an attempt to better
understand the diverse physical and conceptual spaces that mental health
came to penetrate in the twentieth century. In accordance with this
broad and ambitious approach, the contributions to this volume span
academic fields such as history, arts, literary studies, sociology and psy-
chology, mirroring the diversity of the subject matter.
Healthy Minds, as a volume, contributes a new dimension to the study
of mental health and psychiatry in the twentieth century. It takes the
present literature beyond the ‘asylum and after’ paradigm to explore the
multitude of spaces that have been permeated by concerns about mental
well-being and illness. Unlike previous studies, the chapters in this vol-
ume consciously attempt to break down institutional walls and consider
mental health through the lenses of institutions, policy, nomenclature,
art, lived experience and popular culture. It also adopts a broad inter-
national scope covering the historical experiences of Britain, Ireland and
North America.
6 S. J. TAYLOR AND A. BRUMBY

Mental Health in the Twentieth Century:

Policy and Practice
The Mental Deficiency Act, 1913, signalled a continuation of the
nineteenth-century obsession with classifying and segregating individ-
­
uals according to their mental health.21 This legislation, dealing with
so-called mental defectives, emphasised the dangers posed to society by
those who previously might not have been the focus of medical experts.
Subsequently, the new legal category of the ‘feeble-minded’ provided a
label for individuals considered less severely disabled than ‘idiots’ and
‘imbeciles’, but ‘weak-minded’ enough to be more susceptible to crime,
promiscuity and idleness.22 Furthermore, the Act also established the
Board of Control as a national body with overview of local authorities
and their running of ‘mental deficiency’ services. Contributions to this
volume by Jan Walmsley and Steve Taylor explore the impact of ­labelling
and the consequences for individuals that this legislation targeted in
more depth, both demonstrating the significance and lasting impact
of its scope. Despite the eugenic appeal of this legislation, the pace of
implementation was hampered by the First World War, restricted finances
resulting from this conflict and the oncoming depression.
The Great War led to a crisis in the asylums of England and Wales as
27,778 permanent civilian beds were cleared and loaned to the Military
Authorities to cater for injured personnel.23 The result was devastating
overcrowding in the remaining hospitals and a massive upsurge in asylum
deaths.24 Despite medical officers’ best attempts, the 1920s continued to
see an ever-increasing rise in the numbers of patients institutionalised.25
It has been widely argued that the predominance of soldiers b ­ reaking
down on the front led to some changes in the public view of men-
tal illness.26 However, the apparent inability of medical professionals to
cure these men meant that any changes in attitudes were short-lived.27
By the late 1920s, unrecovered ‘shell-shocked’ ex-servicemen found
themselves languishing in asylums often alongside the chronically ill civil-
ian population.28
By the time that the Mental Treatment Act, 1930, was passed, over-
crowding in the nation’s institutions for mental health had reached dire
proportions.29 Demand on services was so severe that hospital treat-
ment was not always possible, and as such, patients often did not receive
treatment until they reached an incurable stage of their illnesses.30
The Mental Treatment Act, 1930, sought to prioritise early treatment
 1 INTRODUCTION TO HEALTHY MINDS … 7

by setting up categories of mental health care, which could bypass the

lengthy certification process associated with previous experience. The
act made provision for temporary and voluntary patients to be admit-
ted to a mental hospital without the need for certification.31 Importantly,
it also championed the use of outpatient clinics and changed the name
of the institution from an ‘asylum’ to a ‘mental hospital’ and reclassified
‘pauper lunatics’ to ‘rate-aided’ patients’. The change in nomenclature
was clearly an attempt to remove the stigma from mental illness.32
Despite the hopes of the Mental Treatment Act, the Board of
Control’s desire to see mental health services reach parity with physical
health did not occur properly until the founding of the National Health
Service (NHS) in 1948. Even after services were officially aligned, men-
tal health continued to remain the ‘poor and embarrassing relative’ of
physical health in the popular imagination.33 The Mental Health Act,
1959, attempted to alter this perception by repealing previous legislation
relating to the Lunacy, Mental Treatment and Mental Deficiency Acts.
By doing so, the distinction between psychiatric and other hospitals was
fully removed.34 However, the 1959 mental health legislation continued
to justify compulsory detention for patients ‘who may not know they are
ill’ and therefore may be unwilling to undergo treatment.35 It was not
until the Mental Health Act, 1983, where the ideas of consent were fully
considered. Prior to this, in 1962, Enoch Powell produced his Hospital
Plan for England and Wales, formally promoting the government’s
desire to dramatically reduce the number of inpatient mental hospital
beds, and close down the hospitals by the end of the twentieth century.
Of the 130 psychiatric hospitals in England and Wales in 1975, by 2005
only 14 remained open.36
Coinciding with a move towards non-institutional care in the 1960s
was the emergence of the influential and popular anti-psychiatry
movement.37 In 1961, Thomas Szasz in his book The Myth of Mental
Illness argued against the forcible detention of those who, he suggested,
merely deviated from established societal norms.38 Similarly, schol-
ars such as Erving Goffman, Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari offered
critiques of psychiatry’s social influence and power and objected to the
use of models and terms, inclusive of ‘total institutions’ that served to
‘other’ elements of the population.39 Perhaps most famously, Michel
Foucault in his seminal work Histoire de la Folie charted how attitudes
towards the insane shifted with changing social values. He argued
that psychiatry functioned as a tool of social control that began with
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 PLATE LIII

Wordaman youth playing on the “drone pipe” or “bamboo trumpet.”

“When using the ‘trumpet,’ the operator blows into the end having the smaller
diameter, with a vibratory motion of the lips....”

In the course of conversation, an aboriginal aids his speech by

gesticulation. When inclined to be cheerful, he smiles and laughs in
a decidedly refreshing sort of way, and often smacks his lips out of
sheer pleasure, but when his feelings have been ruffled and he is
angry, he pouts out his lips and does not hesitate to let you know
how he feels. He betrays his feelings by most apparent tone
inflections in his voice. He frequently nods his head to indicate
assent, but rarely shakes his head to betoken dissent. When in
doubt over any matter, especially in answer to a question, he shrugs
his shoulders. His hands are used a great deal during conversation.
If he wishes to give one an idea of nearness, the finger is directed to
the ground a short way off, and if distance is implied the finger points
to the horizon.
In reply to a question concerned with the location of a thing, he
does not point, as a European would, but turns his face in the
direction he wants to indicate and thrusts out his lips. When
beckoning with his hand, an aboriginal does not move his hand
upwards towards his face as we do, but passes it downwards with a
scooping action. The course a traveller has taken, or an animal
decamped in, is indicated by extending an arm in the direction and
snapping the fingers.
A native has a very good idea of time. The hour at which a past
event has happened, or at which a coming event is to happen, is
indicated by pointing at the assumed altitude of the sun. To fix a time
definitely for a contemplated or proposed action, a stone is placed
upon a cliff, or in the fork of a tree, at the hour decided upon, a day
or two in advance, in such a position that a sunbeam just strikes it at
the moment. When the correct day arrives, the stone is watched until
it is again illumined in the same way; and the natives then know that
it is time to act. This method is employed when, say, the men have
left camp early, and they order the women to follow them at a later
hour.
Days are reckoned by the number of sleeps they have had, and
the biggest measurement of time goes by so many moons.
When he comes to computing numbers, his fingers are of the
greatest service to him, and at times his toes as well. An aboriginal is
not a mathematician, and his vocabulary does not contain running
series of numerals. The usual method of counting low figures is after
the following pattern of the King Sound natives:

“arra” (one).
“kwiarra” (two).
“kwiarra arra” (three).
 “kwiarra kwiarra” (four).

Beyond four, counting either goes by “hands” or “feet,” or for

ordinary purposes there are two comprehensive words in use which
signify a “small-large number” and a “large-small number.” In some
cases, such as the Aluridja, “one” (“goitarada”) appears as the
diminutive form of “two” (“goitara”). In the same sense, a shorter
distance is expressed by the Wongapitcha as the diminutive of a
great distance by qualifying the word “wurnma,” meaning “far,” by
affixing “wimuggitta,” which means “young.” Hence “wimuggitta
wurnma” reads the “young (one) of far,” i.e. “close up.” This is really
the same way of expressing a fraction of space as the same tribe
has adopted for expressing minority in age; a youth or young man is
known as “wimuggitta wardi,” the second word “wardi” standing for
an adult man.
 PLATE LIV

1. Making “vegetable down” by pounding grass between two

stones. Humbert River, Northern Territory.

2. Worora native making a stone spear-head, Northern Kimberleys,

Western Australia.
 The Dieri of the Lake Eyre region have one of the most elaborate
systems of numeration, which includes, at any rate, an expression
for every number up to eleven.

“kulno,” one.
“mandru,” two.
“parkulu” or “parkulintja,” three.
“mandru mandru,” four.
“mandru ja parkulintja,” five.
or “marra warra kulno,” five, i.e. hand part one (one hand).
“marra pirri kulno,” six.
“marra pirri mandru,” seven.
“marra pirri parkulintja,” eight.
“marra pirri mandru mandru,” nine.
“marra warra mandru” ten, i.e. hand parts two (two hands).
“tjinna pirri kulno,” eleven.
“marrapu,” many.
“mörla marrapu,” very many.

In the above table the following explanations will be found useful:

“ja” = and.
“marra” = hand.
“tjinna” = foot.
“warra” = part.
“pirri” = nail (toe or finger).

Thus the reading of the numerals runs: One, two, three, two-two
(four), two and three (five), or one hand part (five), hand finger-nails
one (six), hand finger-nails two (seven), hand finger-nails three
(eight), hand finger-nails four (nine), two hand parts (ten), foot toe-
nails one (eleven).
To imply a repetition or continuance of action, the frequent use of
the same verb is avoided by the Sunday Islanders, but the same
effect is achieved by reiterating the word “garra” indefinitely. The
expression of continued action is usually in the present tense and is
mostly applied to words like “running,” “walking,” “jumping,”
“sleeping,” “raining,” “blowing,” “bleeding,” etc., etc. For example, a
man from a tree or other look-out might be describing to his
companions below, the doings of their hunting party out on the plain;
while the latter keep moving, he conveys the fact to his hearers by
ejaculating “garra, garra, garra, ...” The direction of the hunters’
movements is indicated by the swing of his hand. The moment the
observer in the tree stops saying “garra,” the people below know that
the hunters have ducked or have temporarily ceased the pursuit.
The terminal syllable of a word is never uttered very clearly by an
aboriginal; and it is consequently difficult to distinguish between a
short e, a, o, or u. This is particularly true of the language used by
the old men, the defectiveness being often increased by the gaps
between the incisors resulting from the initiation ceremonies.
There are occasions, however, when the last syllable receives
especial emphasis. The Wongapitcha word for plenty is “ura”; when
the idea of plenty is great the word becomes “ura-ku,” with an
intentional intonation upon the “ku”; and when the plenty is
extraordinary, the word receives yet another syllable and becomes
the superlative “ura-ku-pu.”
The simple affirmative of the Aluridja, which has also been
adopted by the Arunndta, is “o,” less commonly “u”; but when strong
affirmation is intended the word is changed to “owa,” or “owau.”
The ordinary negative of the Arunndta is “itja”; but forcibly
expressed this may become “itjama” or “itjingalai.”
Any sudden exclamation or accidental noise, like a cough or
sneeze, might be exaggerated by the addition of a syllable at the
end. When a Sunday Islander sneezes he makes a word out of the
natural noise sounding like “Tish-e!”
An exclamation which is common practically to all Australian
tribes, and may express surprise, fear, pain, or disgust, is a very
liquid “irr.” The Arunndta have strengthened this monosyllabic cry by
giving it the suffix “ai”; nowadays the word is, however, mostly
pronounced “Yerrai!” A variety of the last-named, but not quite so
forceful, is “Yakai!” A sudden fright or the anticipation of harm might
produce a very short “i,” without any indication of the presence of the
liquid consonant.
Appreciation is indicated by “Aha!” or “Hm-hm!” practically
throughout the central and northern districts of Australia; in both
cases special emphasis is applied to the second syllable.
A central Australian exclamation calling one to order or attention in
a somewhat harsh manner is “Wai!” When one person is being
irritated by another, such as a parent by a whining child, the offender
is thus rebuked. This word may also become a suffix; it may be
combined, for instance, with the radical “irr” and produce a word
“Yirrawai,” which is perhaps the strongest in a sense of disgust and
reproach available in the Arunndta tongue.
Standing at the end of an adjective, the expression “’n-dora” in the
same dialect signifies a great or superlative degree; e.g. “marra”
means “nice,” but “marr’n-dora” a conception more like “excellent.” In
the opposite sense, “kurrina” (bad) becomes “kurrina’n-dora” (worst).
The same suffix can be attached to an adverb. When, say, an
emphatic denial is needed, “itja” (no) takes the form of “itja’n-dora.”
There are numerous other syllables, which, when fixed to the end
of a word, convey a special significance. When, in the Arunndta, the
syllable “tu” is added to a person’s name in address, it really stands
in place of a sentence like “Is it not so?” For instance, “Nani knulia
atoa utnuriraka, Endola-tu?” when literally translated reads: “This
dog man bit Endola, is it not so?” Endola is the name of a woman
who is being addressed. In place of “tu,” the longer form of “ditjekwi”
might be used.
 Again, the suffix “lo” is found in daily use in the same dialect; it
stands for the phrase: “Where is?” Hence the completed sentence,
“Kwatche-lo?” stands for “Where is the water?”
When one finds “jara” added to a word, plurality is indicated, the
sense conveyed being that many of the kind specified by the noun
are assumed. The word for girl in the Arunndta is “kware,”
consequently “kwarenjara” means that a number of girls are being
considered, the “n” being simply interposed for the sake of euphony.
Any proper noun, like the name of a person, may be modified by
adding “ia” to it, and, by so doing, one makes it a term of
endearment in the vocative case. “Ware” ordinarily means “boy,” but
by altering it to “waria” (i.e. “ware-ia”), the meaning becomes “dear
boy” or “O boy.”
If the terminal “a” of a substantive is found to be changed to “inna,”
the diminutive of the original is implied. A somewhat common name
for a woman in the Arunndta is “Unnruba,” but during the years of
childhood of a bearer of this name, the appellation is always in the
form of “Unnrubinna”; in later years this changes to “Unnruba” more
or less automatically.
A diminutive sense is also conveyed by duplicating an original
word. In the eastern Aluridja dialect “kaitji” means an ordinary spear,
whereas “kaitji-kaitji” is an expression applied to a toy spear. The
Dieri recognize a Supreme Being whom they call “Mura”; any one of
their numerous demi-gods, however, from whom they trace their
descent is referred to as a “Mura-Mura.”
 PLATE LV

1. Wongapitcha man shaping a spear-thrower with an adze.

2. Aluridja man scraping a boomerang with a sharp stone flake.

Alterations in the ending of a verb indicate different moods and

tenses. The verb “to come” in the Arunndta is “pitchima”; its
inflections and their meanings will become apparent from the
following short sentences:

“Pitchai arrekutcha!” Come here, old woman!

“Pitchikarrerai arrekutch’njara!” Come here, old women!
“Arrekutcha pitchama.” The old woman is coming.
“Arrekutcha pitchika.” The old woman came (or has come).
“Arrekutcha pitchichinna.” The old woman will come.
 If we replace the verb “pitchima” by “lama” (“to go”), the inflections,
taken in the same order as above, become: “lai,” “larrirai,” “lakama,”
“laka,” “litchinna.”
An adverb which finds considerable application in the Arunndta is
“kalla,” indicating the completion of any deed or action. Most
frequently the nearest translation would be supplied by the English
word, “already.” If, therefore, we again consider one of the above
sentences and interpose the word “kalla,” the meaning is
strengthened considerably: “Arrekutcha kalla pitchama” then means
“The old woman is already coming.” But “kalla” might further convey
the sense of repletion. “Einga knullia kalla kwatche n’ dai” would
mean, literally translated, “I dog enough water gave.” And finally
“kalla” might express the completion of an action. A native, after
losing the track of an animal, or having eaten as much as he wants,
might be heard to say “kalla,” meaning “finished.” Finally “kalla”
might even stand for “dead.” We have already noted a similar word
in the vocabulary of the Sunday Islanders, viz. “Kaleya,” meaning
“finish” or “good-bye.”
The personal pronouns are either used as separate words in a
sentence, or they appear as prefixes to the principal verbs.
In the Arunndta, the following are used:

“einga,” I; “nuka,” mine; “eingana,” me.

“unda,” thou; “unguranga,” thine; “ngana,” thee.
“era,” he; “ekurra,” his; “erinna,” him.
“nuna,” we; “nunaka,” ours; “nungana,” us.
“rankara,” you; “rakankara,” yours; “rankarana,” you.
“etna,” they; “etnaka,” theirs; “etnana,” them.

As an illustration let us translate: “I like the boy”; we should have

to transpose the words into the following order, “I boy like,” and the
Arunndta would be: “Einga ware unjinum.” On the other hand, we
might select the Sunday Island dialect as an example in which
prefixes are used for representing the personal pronouns. The first
personal prefix is “nun,” the second “min,” and the third “il” or “n’.” If,
therefore, we take a simple verb like “jakuli” to “break,” we have:

“nunjaluki,” I break.
“minjaluki,” you break.
“iljaluki” or “n’jaluki,” he breaks.

The third person plural is represented by “punjanga n’”; hence

“punjanga n’jaluki” stands for “they (altogether) break.”
Whereas we have seen that an “n” might be interposed between
two words for the sake of euphony, it no less frequently happens that
two or more words are contracted into one for similar reasons. If, to
quote a simple case, we wish to translate into Arunndta “You give (it)
me,” we have three separate words, “unda” (you), “nuka” (me), and
“dai” (give), which in the above expression are fused into one word,
“nukundai.”
Apart from the full and pure vowel sounds, the Australian
aboriginal dialects include the modified sounds expressed by the
German diphthongs, œ, äu, and ue (i.e. the French u). The pairs of
consonants, p and b, k and g, and t and d, are often interchanged
during speech. Sibilant sounds are extremely rare. My own name
was very difficult, if not impossible, for the Aluridja to pronounce; the
best they could make of it was “Battedu.” So, also, the imported pet
name of the domestic cat, “pussy-pussy,” as it is used by the settlers,
cannot be managed. The Aluridja call it “putte-putte,” and the
Arunndta “put-pudtha.”
Let us look into the construction of the Aluridja personal pronouns
a little more carefully. Every pronoun consists of a stem, which is
different for every person, and an ending, which varies with the case.
The stems are:

First person, singular, “naiu”; plural, “nganan.”

Second person, singular, “nuntu”; plural, “nurangari.”
Third person, singular, “balu”; plural, “tana.”
 And the endings are as follows:

Genitive, “-ba.”
Dative, “-lukuru.”
Accusative, “-na.”
Ablative, “-languru” (from), or “-lawana” (with).

A simple sentence embodying three pronouns would be: “Naiulu

tanalawana nuntulukura ngalierra,” which, literally translated, reads:
“I with them to you have come.”
A few of the Arunndta interrogatives are:

“Ewunna?” What? or What is it?

“Unndana?” Where?
“Nguna?” Which?
“Ngula?” Who?
“Ntakinya?” How many?

The aspirate is very occasionally met with. The local group of the
Arunndta, residing at Arltunga, which styles itself “Herrinda,” is one
of the few exceptions. Even in the settled districts, where the natives
have adopted European names, one christened “Harry” is usually
spoken of as “Yarri.” The sounds which are most commonly
aspirated are the exclamations, e.g. “Hai!” “Aha,” and “Hm-hm!”
Used in conjunction with a vowel, usually an “a,” the consonantal
combination “ng” is common to all Australian dialects. Although to
the modern tongue a little difficult to master, the sound is strikingly
fluent with the aboriginal; indeed, its frequent inclusion in words of
fundamentally simple origin suggests a primitive, natural derivation.
Along the north-western coast, the words for “water” are “ngawa”
(Wave Hill), “ngauwa” (Humbert River), “kornga” (Sunday Island).
In the Arunndta, “nga” stands for either “Here you are!” “There!” or
“Take it!” all phrases being used in the sense of offering something to
a person, such as mother to infant. “Ngaboni” is a modified form of
the last-named, having any of the following meanings: “Here!”
“Look!” or “Behold!” And “ngarai” is yet another modification of
similar significance, usually placed immediately behind the object it
is desired to draw attention to, e.g. “Arre ngarai!” (Look at the
kangaroo).
Verbal greetings, akin to our “Good-day!” are rarely, if ever, made
use of by natives when they meet; but some of the tribes recognize
an orthodox term of salutation at partings, as indicating a friendly
feeling which the speaker bears towards the person he is on the
point of leaving. The Mulluk-Mulluk and some of their neighbours on
the Daly River have adopted the word “mummuk” to express their
farewell, whilst the Sunday Islanders’ vocabulary includes a similar
expression in the word “tchorrogu.”
An alarm, such as we would raise in the form of “Look out!” or “Get
out of the way!” is rendered by the Arunndta “Par-le!”
There are numerous examples which could be mentioned of words
appearing in an aboriginal dialect which have a striking resemblance
to European words of modern and ancient languages, which at this
stage of our knowledge of primitive tongues must be recorded as
curiosities rather than linguistic analogies. One of the most
remarkable, perhaps, is the Arunndta for head, viz. “kaputa”; but to
connect this in any way with the Latin word would be as
unreasonable as calling the “patriarchal” type of aboriginal a semite.
It is, therefore, not my intention to suggest anything beyond mere
coincidence, and it lies far from my mind to attempt theorizing upon
little evidence, yet it must be admitted that similarities in points of
evolution and culture, no matter how trivial and accidental they may
be, are not without interest. Viewed entirely in this light, there is no
harm in mentioning one or two similarities which exist between
certain words of the Australian dialects and those of other tongues,
articulate or otherwise.
Affirmation is expressed in the Cambridge Gulf district by “yau,”
“yo-au,” or “yowai.” During latter years, the same expression has
found its way south, even as far as the MacDonnell Ranges, where it
has largely replaced the original form of “owa.” In the adjoining
coastal districts of the Northern Territory, a similar word is in use as
well as one which sounds more like the German “ja.” It is of more
than passing interest to note that throughout the Malay Archipelago
“yo-au” or “yowai” is the principal form of affirmation in use among
the local primitive peoples. It is not unlikely, therefore, that the early
Macassan trepang fishers, who used to visit the north coast of
Australia long before the white man arrived, brought this word along
with them.
We find, also, that the consonantal expression, “ng,” combined
with a vowel sound, is common among other primitive languages.
Professor Garner, too, has found it included in the inarticulate
“speech” of apes in the form of a note indicating satisfaction, which
can be represented by “ngkw-a.” The speculative mind naturally
wonders whether this simian cry of satisfaction is perhaps
fundamentally of similar, though independent, phonetic origin to the
northern Australian word for water, the essential of life, which we
noted above is “ngawa.”
The di-syllabic muttering of a European child-in-arms, moreover,
which the happy parents flatter themselves sounds like “pa-pa” or
“ma-ma,” is equally characteristic of the aboriginal babe, but the
parents in the latter case interpret the note to be “nga-nga.” And,
indeed, the Arunndta mother responds by handing the infant the fluid
it needs, while she caressingly soothes it with the simple little word
“Nga,” which in our own language would be equivalent to the
sentence, “Here you are!”
 INDEX
Roman numerals refer to Preface.

A
abris, 322
Acacia salicina, 157
acacia seed, 150, 151
Adelaide tribes, xii, 100, 102, 180, 195, 204, 206, 208, 212, 214,
360, 366
administration, tribal, 225 et seq.
adzes, 366, 367
Affenspalte, 38
“alangua” (native pear), Knaninja, 353
albinism, 48
“Algerrigiowumma,” sky-shying act, 238, 239
Alligator River, 197, 249
allotment of infants, 221, 222
“Altjerra,” 279, 295, 341, 342
“Altjerrajara,” Supreme Number, 271, 296
“Altjerringa,” 279, 296, 342
“Aluggurra” women, 343
Aluridja tribe, xii, 4, 47, 48, 50, 65, 78, 82, 83, 92, 95, 111, 114,
121, 147, 149, 150, 151, 153, 155, 170, 176, 178, 184, 192,
200, 205, 213, 226, 231, 236, 239, 240, 243, 255, 259, 264,
 267, 269, 271, 272, 282, 295, 296, 349, 356, 361, 362, 387,
396, 398, 400, 402
amputation of finger joints, 253, 254
ancestor worship, 257
animation, in art, 320, 336, 337, 338
animal tracks, drawn in sand, 70-73
anthill burial, 206;
of bone, 214
Anthistiria (kangaroo grass), 276, 387
anthropomorphous designs, 353-358
“Antjuarra,” tooth-rapping ceremony, 235
anvil-stone, 369
approaching a stranger, 2, 3;
a camp, 105
appreciation, expression of, 399
archer fish, ochre drawing of, 328
armistice, 188
Arnhem Land, 50, 196, 197
Arrabonna Tribe, 4, 200, 237, 269, 362
“Arrarra,” a circumcision ceremony, 239 et seq.
“arrera,” kangaroo, Knaninja, 352
“Arrolmolba” (phallus), 291
art of the aboriginal, xi, xii, 297-358
artificial colouring of body, hunting, 142;
in warfare, 184;
of emissaries at initiation, 254;
 for cosmetic and ceremonial purposes, 324-326
artificial warmth applied to infant, 66
Arunndta Tribe, xi, xii, 4, 6, 48, 50, 63, 65, 70, 76, 77, 78, 82,
83, 86, 92, 95, 103, 106, 114, 121, 125, 142, 147, 149, 150,
151, 152, 153, 155, 166, 170, 172, 175, 176, 178, 184, 192,
200, 205, 214, 218, 220, 226, 231, 237, 238, 263, 264, 271,
272, 274, 275, 282, 287, 291, 292, 295, 296, 308, 311, 321,
328, 330, 337, 338, 341, 343, 347, 349, 350, 352, 361, 362,
363, 386, 387, 390, 391, 398, 399, 400, 401, 402, 403, 404,
405
“Atoakwatje,” water-men, 264, 265
aspirate sounds, 403
attachment of parents to children, 65, 66
“aumba” (Brachysema), 153
Australoid, 58, 59;
migrations, 56, 57, 58
awl, stone, 365
Ayers Ranges, 75

B
bailers, 95
baldness, 50
ball-games, 77, 78
bandicoot, corrobboree of, 383
“banki,” prepuse, 243
bark, canoes, 160-164;
drawings, 323;
shield, 86, 87;
 water-carriers, 92, 93
barramundi vertebræ used as spear heads, 198
barter, with ochre, 113;
with women, 222
bathing, 99
Bathurst Islanders, 76, 77, 93, 95, 96, 115, 159, 161, 163, 168,
207, 238, 309, 310, 319, 323, 373, 379, 380
beard, 50, 51, 117;
of female, 46
bees’ honey, 145
bell-bird, 386
belly, 20, 21
Berringin Tribe, 4, 11, 129, 130, 201, 374
beverages, 153
biological consanguinity between Australia and other continents,
55
bird-like attitude, 107
birds’ eggs, 125, 126
birth of aboriginal, 61-68
biting the initiate’s head, 244, 245
bleeding, stanching of, after circumcision, 243
blindness, following club hit, 37
blonde, aboriginal, 48, 49, 50
blood, drinking of, 154;
stilling the flow of, 186;
thrown at opponent during a duel, 166;
revenge, 187
Bloodwood apple, 152
Bloomfield River, 48
blue eye in aboriginal, 25
Blue Mountains, 57
boabab, carved tree, 309;
carved nuts, 311, 312, 313, 331;
nuts used as rattles, 374;
trees serving as reservoirs, 97, 98
“Bobi,” tjuringa, 270
body decoration, at completion of mourning, 214, 215;
cosmetic, artistic and ceremonial, 324, 325, 326.
See also artificial colouring of body
“Böllier” ceremony, initiation, 250
bone, carving of, 313;
“pointing” the, 174-178, 209
bone-pointed spear-thrower, 201
bones of dead man collected, 214;
radius selected for “pointing bone,” 215
“boning” to death, 174-178, 209
boomerang, practice, 86;
used as a musical instrument, 374, 383;
used in duels, 168;
used in warfare, 187, 188
“boomerang-legs,” 15
boomerang-spear duel, drawing of, 330, 338
boras, 377
boys, apportioned to old men, 65, 66;
taught use of weapons, 85, 86
Brachysema Chambersii, 153
brain of aboriginal, 37, 38
breast, 18-20;
artificial lactation of, 20;
development of, 19;
enchantment of, 19;
touched with charred mulga, 65
Bremer, Sir Gordon, 144
Buccaneer Archipelago, 50, 51
buffalo, drawing of, 325, 337;
hunt, 144, 145, and Frontispiece
bull-roarer, used at circumcision, 241, 242;
at mika operation, 246;
at tooth-rapping ceremony, 232, 233
burial and mourning customs, 203-215
burial ground, signpost erected at, 207
burial in anthill, 208

C
Calamus used as paint brush, 319, 320
Caledon Bay, 115
calvarium, Tennants Creek, 53;
used as a drinking vessel, 214