The Peculiar Institution and the Making of Modern Psychiatry, 1840-1880 1469648431, 9781469648439

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The Peculiar Institution and the Making of Modern Psychiatry, 1840–1880

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Wen dy G onave r

The Peculiar Institution and the Making of Modern Psychiatry, 1840–1880

The University of North Carolina Press ​Chapel Hill

© 2018 The University of North Carolina Press All rights reserved Set in Arno Pro by Westchester Publishing Ser­vices Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Gonaver, Wendy, author. Title: The peculiar institution and the making of modern psychiatry, 1840–1880 / Wendy Gonaver. Description: Chapel Hill : University of North Carolina Press, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018023665| ISBN 9781469648439 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469648446 (pbk : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469648453 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Psychiatry—­United States—­History. | Slavery—­ Social aspects—­United States. | Social medicine—­United States. | Medical policy—­United States—­History. | Discrimination in medical care—­United States—­History. | Psychiatry—­Political aspects— ­United States—­History. | Psychiatry—­Social aspects—­United States—­ History. | Psychiatric hospitals—­United States—­History. Classification: LCC RC438 .G66 2019 | DDC 362.20973—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https:​/­​/­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2018023665 Cover illustrations: Top, photo of Eastern Lunatic Asylum by Thomas Wood, Galt Papers (II), 1840–1862, Special Collections Research Center, Swem Library, College of William and Mary; bottom, prisoner of Virginia State Penitentiary, Virginia Penitentiary Records, Library of Virginia.

Contents

Acknowl­edgments ​ix Introduction ​1 Ch a p te r On e No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed: Slavery and Innovation ​19 Ch a p te r T wo As the Ea­gle to the Sparrow: Enslaved Attendants and Caregiving ​51 Ch a p te r Thr ee Servants, Obey Your Masters: Religion and Re­sis­tance ​82 Ch a p te r Four Now She Is Choked: Gender and the Normalization of Violence ​112 Ch a p te r Fi ve So Dif­fer­ent: The Asylum and the Civil War ​145 Ch a p te r S i x Not a H ­ uman Being: Reconstruction and Racism ​173 Conclusion 194 Notes ​ 201 Bibliography ​ 233 Index ​ 245

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Illustrations

1 Kearney [sic] at ­Battle of Williamsburg ​2 2 Virginia Lunatic Asylum at Williamsburg ​16 3 Permission card to visit the asylum ​17 4 James De Cocy, ­Father of White Indians ​105 5 Prisoner No. 1679 ​198

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Acknowl­edgments

I have lived with the material in this book for a long time, so I’ve had ample opportunity to incur many debts. First, I thank the staff at the University of North Carolina Press for their work in turning manuscript into monograph, especially Mark Simpson-­Vos, Jessica Newman, Lucas Church, and Iris Oakes. I am grateful to the three anonymous readers who ­were so generous with their time and insights, and to Stephen Barichko for overseeing the editing. I cannot name e­ very individual who offered helpful feedback at one time or another, but I must single out Melvin P. Ely for his constant support and Sharla  M. Fett for her commentary at conferences. I also thank Maureen Fitzgerald, Leisa Meyer, and Scott Nelson for reading early drafts. Several organ­izations provided financial support for my research, including the Consortium for the History of Science, Technology and Medicine; ­Virginia Center for Civil War Studies; and the Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation. I am indebted to the librarians at Earl Gregg Swem’s Special Collections for their valuable assistance, especially Susan A. Riggs, Gerald Gaidmore, and Meghan Bryant. Beth Lander of the Historical Medical Library at the College of Physicians of Philadelphia and Stacey Peeples of the Pennsylvania Hospital archives ­were wonderfully accommodating, as ­were the librarians at the American Philosophical Society. Above all, I thank the staff at Eastern State Hospital. Judy Belle Harrell and Bruce Harrell worked at the patient library for many years. It was my plea­ sure to work alongside them for two years, and witness their compassionate caregiving. My deepest appreciation is for my f­ amily. I thank the late Aurora, Bob, and James A. Gonaver for providing the tools with which to build my life. I am grateful for the excellent com­pany of some Hislers and Hufnagels. I thank David Craig, Aurora Dean, and Velia Dean for their love and hospitality. And last but not least, I thank Xiaobo Gonaver and James O’Neil Spady for their love and encouragement.

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The Peculiar Institution and the Making of Modern Psychiatry, 1840–1880

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Introduction On May 18, 1862, the superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum of ­Virginia, John Minson Galt II, died at age forty-­two from an overdose of laudanum.1 It was an ignoble and unforeseeable end for a man who had begun his ­career full of ambitious enthusiasm, ­eager to make unique contributions to the fledgling field of asylum medicine. As the head of the nation’s oldest asylum—­the only U.S. institution to accept slaves and f­ ree blacks as patients and to employ slaves as caregivers—­Galt had presented himself as an expert on insanity among African Americans. Over the unan­i­mous objection of his peers, he argued against racial segregation in hospitals. In the eyes of his colleagues in the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane, of which Galt was a founding member, his racially integrated institution and use of slave ­labor marked him as a regressive provincial. Defiant, Galt continued to court controversy by embracing other unpop­u­lar ideas like outpatient care, for which his colleagues condemned him. Dr. Galt was on the ideological margins of early psychiatry, but his institution was at the center of the Army of the Potomac’s Peninsula Campaign of the Civil War. Williamsburg sits fifty miles east of Richmond, then the capital of the Confederacy, and thirty miles west of Hampton, where Fort Monroe, a federal garrison, was located. In the weeks prior to his death, Dr. Galt supplied the Confederate army with medicine from the asylum’s pharmacy and food from the kitchen. He permitted the cavalry to stable ­horses on the grounds, soldiers to sleep in the chapel, and evacuees from the town to hide valuables in the buildings. He had the foresight to ready a yellow flag to signal disease, but the possibility of vio­lence at the hands of the invading Union army must have troubled him.2 Uneasy questions about punishment and vengeance likely exacerbated the ordinary challenges of hospital management, made all the more vexing by war­time conditions. The federal blockade had caused shortages; imported goods that w ­ ere once considered necessities had become luxuries. To stretch the supply of coffee, enslaved cooks (to whom coffee was not permitted) mixed the grounds with wheat.3 If ­either army ­were to raid the asylum’s vegetable garden or claim more of the already diminished supply of phar­ma­ceu­ti­cals, Dr. Galt knew that he would not be able to feed and medicate the almost 300 patients consigned to his care.

2 Introduction

figure 1. ​Kearney [sic] at Battle of Williamsburg. British-­born American artist Alfred Rudolph Waud (1828–1891) followed the Army of the Potomac for Harper’s Weekly and produced many battlefield scenes. This image of the B ­ attle of Williamsburg on May 5, 1862, features Brigadier General Philip Kearny of the First New Jersey Brigade. LC-­DIG-­ ppmsca-21417, Morgan Collection of Civil War Drawings, Prints and Photo­graphs Division, Library of Congress.

Insalubrious weather aggravated ­these mounting anx­i­eties. A dreary month of torrential rains had turned the countryside surrounding the hospital into pestilential bogs, increasing the risk of malaria and yellow fever. As ­battle grew imminent, half the residents of Williamsburg fled to the west, including asylum staff, leaving patients locked in the wards and trapped in a war zone. Fi­ nally, on May 5, the B ­ attle of Williamsburg (see figure 1) turned the sodden fields just a few miles east of the asylum into a gruesome spectacle l­ater described by a Union minister: “hundreds of dead strewn in e­ very direction, trampled on, mangled, half-­buried in mud; ­great numbers of wounded still lying on the field, beckoning with the hand and pleading with piteous moans for help; hundreds of dead and d­ ying ­horses lay scattered through the field; while broken carriages and abandoned guns added another feature to the scene.” 4 ­Those who remained in the town strug­gled to care for the asylum inmates as well as wounded soldiers, lying in makeshift beds in local churches and in the buildings belonging to the College of William and Mary.5

Introduction  3

The stress of military occupation and the inability to take his habitual two-­ mile walk to the landing on College Creek upset Superintendent Galt’s stomach. He quickly became violently ill. A euphemistically flowery obituary composed by his ­sister notes that Galt was sick for four days before the ailment, “reflecting on the brain,” caused a fatal apoplexy. In truth, Galt had been struggling for several years with a gnawing opiate de­pen­dency and a distressing sense of alienation from his professional peers.6 As a young man, John M. Galt had expressed reservations about slavery. He sought to avoid overt vio­lence and permitted his enslaved staff a surprising degree of in­de­pen­dent power. He advocated for ­mental health care without regard to race, the abolishment of physical restraints, and the opportunity for chronic patients to live and work with families in the community without stigma. Shunned by his fellow superintendents for his views, isolation yielded to despair once he found himself witness to the ghastly consequences of civil war. Although some of his peers publicly besmirched his reputation for having left patients vulnerable at a time of crisis by committing suicide, Dr. Galt’s despondency and sense of loss are understandable. The birth of the asylum and the death of American slavery occurred in the nineteenth ­century. Though the origin of American slavery and of institutions for the mentally ill can be traced to seventeenth-­century Eu­rope, the systematic provision for segregating the insane into specialized facilities in lieu of treatment in general hospitals occurred in the United States a­ fter 1800, just as the strug­gle to end slavery reached its apex. Ideas about blackness and insanity ­were frequently intertwined in the public imagination and rhe­toric.7 Supporters of slavery argued that it was a civilizing institution that benefited slaves just as asylums inculcated self-­control in “lunatics.” Critics of asylums described them as institutions that unfairly deprived ­people of personal liberty just as slaves ­were denied freedom. Yet ­these comparisons ­were mostly a meta­phoric abstraction as the overwhelming majority of asylums did not admit black patients.8 When it was founded in 1773, the Williamsburg hospital was a vanguard institution. Twenty-­five years passed before another public asylum opened in Baltimore, Mary­land. By 1810, t­ here ­were twenty private asylums in the United States, mostly located in the northeast. Two more public hospitals for the mentally ill opened in Kentucky and South Carolina in 1816 and 1821, respectively. A successful national campaign to create state hospitals for individuals who could not afford private treatment followed in the 1830s, led by the members of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for

4 Introduction

the Insane (AMSAII) in conjunction with reformer Dorothea Dix. By the end of the 1850s, t­ here w ­ ere twenty-­nine state institutions in operation throughout the country.9 Some of the first patients at public institutions in the South w ­ ere black, but the admission of black patients was soon discontinued at ­every place except for the Eastern Lunatic Asylum (see figure 2). Although segregation was not pervasive in American society u­ ntil the late nineteenth ­century, it was the norm in antebellum m ­ ental asylums.10 The exclusion of black patients from ­these institutions served to consolidate white identity among p­ eople whose own unusual be­hav­ior, in many cases, had placed them beyond the pale of respectability. Regions with a small or non­ex­is­tent black population could enforce segregation and shore up white identity without explicit acknowledgement that this was a deliberate choice. Williamsburg, however, was located in a slave-­majority area with a significant population of ­free black residents. The Williamsburg asylum participated in a pro­cess of racial differentiation too, but not through exclusion. In fact, the analogy that some asylum critics drew between the suffering of patients admitted against their w ­ ill and that of slaves is problematic as the presence of ­free black and enslaved patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, and the reliance of the institution on slave l­abor, actually pushed its superintendent to champion greater patient liberty. By focusing on anomalous practices in eastern ­Virginia, the role of race and slavery in asylum medicine is rendered vis­i­ble. This book examines asylum care from the 1840s to the 1880s to argue that slavery and ideas about race w ­ ere fundamental to early psychiatry. It challenges the mono­poly of northern and Eu­ro­pean institutions in early asylum historiography to show that slavery and medical innovation ­were mutually constitutive. Slavery ­shaped ideas about patient liberty, about the proper relationship between caregiver and patient, about what constituted healthy religious belief and unhealthful fanat­i­cism, and about gender. Recent scholarship has put to rest the image of the nineteenth-­century U.S. South as a stagnant society, largely by demonstrating the profitability and vitality of slave l­ abor and the centrality of the region to global networks of trade.11 Information about how to construct and administer asylums was carried along the same transatlantic cir­ cuits, but asylums w ­ ere not profitable enterprises; even expensive private institutions found it challenging to balance the books. Financial difficulties w ­ ere most acute for Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­because f­ ree black patients ­were funded by the state at much lower rates than whites, so administrators ­were tasked with providing up-­to-­date care with comparatively less cash. Although some of the costs w ­ ere offset by the cheap l­abor of enslaved ward attendants, demand for

Introduction  5

care always outstripped capacity. Superintendent Galt responded by turning necessity into a virtue, proposing innovative solutions like outpatient care. Slavery itself, particularly the widespread practice of hiring out, offered a compelling example of what might be achieved if patients also lived and worked in the community, with the asylum occupying the role of a distant master overseeing the terms of the contract. Eastern Lunatic Asylum fits within this historiography on southern modernity b­ ecause slavery provided the impetus for cost-­saving initiatives that also maximized patient liberty. Financial considerations ­were not the only ­factor in the development of new approaches to ­mental health care. Like other slaveholders with reservations about the morality of slavery, Superintendent Galt preferred to exercise his authority in ways that preserved the sense of his own benevolence. For this reason, he entrusted enslaved staff members with a g­ reat deal of authority and only intervened in their affairs when prompted by complaints from white staff or board members. He also believed that lenient management was more effective, as it encouraged enslaved staff to feel emotionally invested in the work at hand. This flexible governance extended to patient care as well. Superintendent Galt thought that patients’ dignity would be better preserved if they lived with families, earned the cost of their keep, and moved freely about the local community. A separate historiography has debated the extent to which asylums complemented the aims of industrial capitalism, with some historians emphasizing the disciplinary function of early psychiatry and ­others the ostensibly humane intervention of doctors concerned with the welfare of ­those harmed by the competitive economy. Analy­sis of race, however, is largely absent from ­these studies ­until the late nineteenth ­century, when imperial powers opened asylums in colonial Africa and Asia.12 The absence of ­people of color from most asylums in earlier de­cades does not preclude consideration of the way in which racial differentiation was integral to early psychiatry. Galt’s peers made a deliberate decision to exclude black patients from their institutions and to lobby for racially segregated facilities elsewhere. ­Free blacks might work as janitors in northern hospitals and medical schools, though not as direct care attendants, and the bodies of deceased slaves w ­ ere supplied—­often surreptitiously—­from the South for anatomical dissection, but the poor­house and jail ­were typically the only social welfare institutions open to blacks in the antebellum era.13 This was a policy choice, often framed as a commonsense mea­sure, made by professionals who other­ wise presented themselves as humanitarian reformers. The purpose and operation of northern asylums did not appear compromised by the presence of slaves and f­ ree blacks, as was the case at Eastern Lunatic Asylum. Compulsory

6 Introduction

caregiving and the oppression involved in the restoration of enslaved patients to their forced servitude complicated Superintendent Galt’s mission. All asylums had to wrestle with the tension inherent in the involuntary incarceration of ­free individuals in an increasingly demo­cratic age. Prior to the Civil War, however, only Eastern Lunatic Asylum opted to openly contend with the contradiction of deploying nonviolent curative means within a context of systemic social vio­lence. In emulating the exclusionary practices of the North, Southern superintendents aimed to improve the white public’s perception of their institutions. To many white prospective patients and their families, the mere presence of blacks on the wards denoted pauper disgrace rather than modern medical treatment. Scholarship has tended to inadvertently reify this characterization. Although monographs published in the 1960s and 1970s rejected the racism of antebellum doctors, some historians portrayed Northern institutions as more progressive than their southern counter­parts. ­Others did not consider the South at all in their analyses. Even Norman Dain’s 1971 account of life at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, for example, omitted serious consideration of the topic of race. One can read the other­wise informative Disordered Minds: The First C ­ entury of East­ ern State Hospital in Williamsburg, ­Virginia, 1766–1866 and come away with the impression that the institution’s shortcomings w ­ ere largely attributable to the alleged incompetence of enslaved staff.14 The proslavery publications of Southern doctors, most especially t­ hose by Samuel Cartwright, undoubtedly contributed to the enduring perception that Southern medical institutions w ­ ere especially backwards. In 1851, Cartwright, a Louisiana physician who once served as chair of a state committee investigating black health and physiology, in­ven­ted a series of ­mental diseases that allegedly affected American slaves. ­These diseases included drapetomania, the irrational desire to run away, and dysesthesia, a laziness that caused slaves to mishandle their ­owners’ property. His proposed cure mimicked the language of moral therapy. He recommended consistent treatment that was neither indulgent nor wantonly cruel and physical l­abor, diverging only to sarcastically recommend that masters anoint the body of torpid slaves with oil, then “slap the oil in with a broad leather strap.”15 For good reason, Cartwright’s work has become synonymous with all that was horribly wrong about both slavery and spurious science. Readers may, therefore, be surprised by the con­spic­u­ous absence of ­these so-­called conditions in the only insane asylum in which slaves ­were patients, but Cartwright’s posthumous notoriety does not appear to match his reputation during his lifetime. His fabrications ­were, at least for Southern doctors who considered themselves serious prac­ti­tion­ers, more rhe-

Introduction  7

torical proslavery provocation than legitimate diagnostic. Dr. Cartwright was not a specialist in ­mental illness; he never attended an Association meeting nor was his work discussed at the annual conference. Moreover, ­there are no rec­ ords suggesting that slaves w ­ ere admitted to the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for ­running away nor w ­ ere enslaved patients ever whipped (the same cannot be said for enslaved attendants). A steward once described a newly hired slave attendant as “run mad,” but this observation was made years before Cartwright’s article was published in De Bow’s and meant to highlight the slave’s unsuitability for asylum work. As enslaved attendants w ­ ere usually trusted with authority, this new hire’s undisguised attempt to flee indicated a lack of awareness more in keeping with some of the patients than the staff.16 In fact, many patients, black and white, attempted to run away from the hospital. The rec­ords at Eastern Lunatic Asylum are considerably more nuanced in both the description of irrational patient be­hav­ior and the conceptualization of race. Ideas about race undergirded the operation of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, with slave ­labor the bedrock upon which the entire edifice was built. The quality of patient accommodation was dependent upon racial identity. White patients ­were funded at a higher rate, received preferential admission, and ­were generally ­housed in nicer rooms. Although the men’s wards w ­ ere not racially segregated, by the 1850s effort was made to physically separate white ­women from black w ­ omen. The “worst” department to which obstreperous white ­women ­were consigned was so designated by its proximity to the black ­women’s ward. The type of work patients ­were assigned also depended upon race, as well as gender. Black and white men worked alongside one another as farmhands and in the shops, but white female patients spent their time sewing while black female patients worked in the laundry and the kitchen. T ­ hese distinctions reinforced the importance of a gendered racial identity, particularly the notion that white w ­ omen required more delicate treatment than black ­women, a belief that was enforced even when ­actual patient be­hav­ior contradicted such assumptions. Related discourse about delusions and enthusiasm also contributed to racial and gender differentiation. Excessive enthusiasm, evidenced by religious passion or sexual ardor, was associated with black patients; white patients w ­ ere encouraged to suppress enthusiasm ­because of its supposed deleterious effects. Such biases ­shaped diagnosis and treatment, creating racially inflected norms of be­hav­ior for men and ­women. ­These mutually reinforcing ideas about race and gender ­were also interwoven into two trends that have been identified in the historiography of nineteenth-­century psychiatry: secularization of care and objectification of patients.17 Secularization—­the recasting of despair or

8 Introduction

derangement as a medical disease instead of a spiritual affliction—­occurred at the same time that many African Americans joined Christian churches, and religious debates over slavery reached a crisis point. For this reason, asylum doctors’ interest in religious movements and in defining and containing extremism cannot be understood without analy­sis of race and slavery, most especially in the South. Similarly, the displacement of environmental etiologies and moral treatment by hereditarianism and somatic approaches ­after the Civil War occurred at the moment when African Americans and w ­ omen made impor­tant ­legal gains t­ oward autonomy. Thus they obtained owner­ship of and moral authority over their bodies, only to discover that medicine considered ­these bodies fundamentally flawed. Racial and gender differences also ­shaped interactions among staff and between staff and patients. Enslaved staff members spent the most time with patients, and their living quarters offered the least amount of privacy. Their visibility was not mirrored in asylum reports, however, where their contributions ­were ignored. This omission reflects the intimate nature of caregiving, which required discreet sensitivity, but it was also a strategic effort to minimize the white public’s concern about entrusting the care of vulnerable p­ eople to slaves. It was not unusual for slaves to work as nurses and nannies for families, at times developing personal relationships that might have disguised or mitigated the exploitative nature of servitude. The hospital environment was just as intimate, but more impersonal. Indeed, hospital work posed par­tic­u­lar challenges and offered unusual opportunities for enslaved attendants. A key difference was that the attendants served the patients, but they ­were not answerable to them. Slaves ­were actually in charge of patients, including white patients, and could compel them to work, bathe, move about, and take medicine. This role reversal was unthinkable in any other context. Nevertheless, ­there ­were obvious limits to their power. Unlike white attendants in Northern asylums, enslaved attendants at Eastern Lunatic Asylum could not quit the job. Administrators tended to discount patient complaints about enslaved attendants, but the complaints of white officers carried greater weight. Two enslaved attendants ­were physically punished for infractions on at least two separate occasions. White attendants had to contend with the threat of vio­ lence from erratic patients, but they did not face the possibility of corporal punishment from their bosses. Additionally, the threat of sexual assault was particularly serious for enslaved ­women attendants ­because they ­were neither entitled to ­legal recourse nor regarded as worthy of chivalrous deference. Despite the uniquely complex racial dynamics at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, the Williamsburg hospital was other­wise very much like its peer institutions.

Introduction  9

Collectively, antebellum asylums emphasized environmental explanations for insanity and spread the hopeful message that with benevolent paternalism and proper attention to rational routines, a person whose habits and sense of reason had ­either broken down or been deformed by the stress of misfortune might be restored to sanity. Although physical explanations for insanity, such as a blow to the head, ­were not ruled out, asylum superintendents believed that attention to the psychological or moral aspects of ­mental illness in a controlled milieu offered the best hope for cure. Advocates of “moral therapy” eschewed corporal punishment and sought to minimize reliance on mechanical restraint, depending instead on the power of positive inducements to inculcate sane, temperate be­hav­ior. Two antecedent Eu­ro­pean institutions offered inspiring models of moral treatment. The reputation of Samuel Tuke’s York Retreat in ­England was unparalleled, but as a private institution intended only for Quaker families, its influence was circumscribed. Equally celebrated and with broader reach was Philippe Pinel, superintendent of the Bicêtre and Salpêtrière asylums outside Paris, who treated thousands of pauper inmates. In an apocryphal story widely disseminated in antebellum Amer­i­ca, Pinel was said to have unchained fifty-­three maniacs who he then cured with compassion and reason instead of force.18 American asylum superintendents studied and emulated ­these models, although most endorsed the judicious use of mechanical restraints. They believed that high levels of social mobility and po­liti­cal participation, coupled with freedom of religion and speech, made Americans particularly vulnerable to unhealthful enthusiasm and less receptive to the persuasive authority of superintendents. Suppressing unsavory or overly stimulating activities and promoting salutary, refined practices was thus considered essential not only to individual well-­being but also to the health of the republic. Instead of gambling or attending religious camp meetings, patients ­were encouraged to read edifying lit­er­a­ture, play musical instruments, and stroll in ornamental gardens. Light, practical work in skilled trades such as tailoring and blacksmithing was encouraged and sometimes required. ­Under the kind, watchful eye of the superintendent, patients would participate in activities that purportedly fostered self-­respect and demonstrated their capacity for self-­restraint. The best-­funded asylums ­were pastoral retreats built outside city centers, but ­improved transportation made it pos­si­ble for them to serve as impor­tant ­cultural institutions that offered tours and talks to the curious public (see figure 3).19 For many members of the literate professional classes in the mid-­ nineteenth ­century, asylums epitomized the humanitarian state and faith in utopian reform.

10 Introduction

In the United States, the institution that enjoyed the most acclaim was the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane. Originally just a wing of a general hospital serving colonial Philadelphia’s indigent population, the wing was replaced in 1841 by a free-­standing asylum and relocated to the bucolic outskirts of the city. The move and expansion marked the beginning of patronage by patients from a much wealthier social class, although a small percentage of rooms ­were earmarked for the poor. ­Under the able leadership of Superintendent Thomas Story Kirkbride, the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane became an exemplary institution that attracted paying clientele from other states, including ­Virginia. Through his publications about architecture and leadership of AMSAII, Dr. Kirkbride was able to influence colleagues and standardize the construction and governance of many public asylums created before the Civil War. Superintendent Galt was initially cordial t­ oward Kirkbride, however, their relationship soured due to Galt’s advocacy for racially mixed institutions and outpatient care. Kirkbride’s opinions triumphed during Galt’s lifetime, but historian Nancy Tomes notes that Kirkbride’s formidable power waned in the 1880s, partly ­because he failed to recognize the exigencies that made outpatient care for chronic patients a v­ iable option for cash-­strapped state institutions.20 In this regard, Galt’s clashes with Kirkbride presaged ­later debates. Dr. Kirkbride’s chief concern about alternative modes of care was that they would ultimately weaken the ability to provide moral therapy. Indeed, what took shape nationally in the late-­nineteenth ­century was a two-­tiered system of ­mental health care, with individualized counseling available to the wealthy and poor p­ eople remanded to inferior custodial institutions. In V ­ irginia, black patients ­were consigned to a pavilion-­style former Confederate army hospital that had been converted into a segregated asylum, attached to which was a large farm where patients worked. Conditions t­ here w ­ ere extremely rough and exploitative. Central Lunatic Asylum, as it came to be called, was essentially a plantation where forced ­labor was paired with frequent mechanical restraint. This arrangement was a far cry from what Galt had envisioned with his proposals. He saw farm cottage and ­family living programs as logical extensions of the ideals of moral treatment. With the goal of the asylum being the successful re­introduction of the mentally ill into society, f­ amily living was good preparation for release. For chronic patients, cottage care offered the chance to experience conditions that simulated freedom. Galt certainly viewed ­these outpatient schemes as progressive improvements to an institution that often felt to patients like a prison or, in the best of circumstances, a guarded h­ otel. Interestingly, psychiatrists working in racially mixed asylums in colonial Asia championed cottage care in the early twentieth c­ entury with the same lan-

Introduction  11

guage of liberty and pro­gress that Galt had used. They portrayed cottage living as an experimental, novel improvement upon the old-­fashioned treatment proffered at traditional asylums for the indigent in the metropolitan centers of Eu­rope. Such claims, however, must be counterbalanced with recognition that patient l­abor complemented imperial aims that had nothing to do with medicine or healing.21 Of course any study of psychiatric institutions must contend with the gaps between ideals and actualities. Beginning in the 1980s, scholars attempted to bridge the divide between t­ hose who saw asylum advocates as they wanted to be seen—­as humanitarian reformers—­and ­those who regarded the entire enterprise as a thinly disguised assertion of power over the poor and marginalized. Borrowing the “thick description” techniques of cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz, historians produced studies of individual institutions rich with details about the everyday lives of inmates and doctors. The best of this body of work also attempted a broader synthesis and theoretical examination of issues of power, particularly the ways in which institutions functioned as a symbol of state authority and of “the potential dire consequences of any fall from grace from nineteenth-­century society’s creed of normative be­hav­ior.”22 Equally insightful work examined the influence of psychiatry beyond the asylum walls in the definition of normal be­hav­ior generally, not just among patients.23 The richness of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum archive certainly lends itself to exploration of life on the wards as well as to deeper excavation of the broader ideological under­pinnings of early psychiatry, particularly the importance of race and gender to the field. The archive has been largely untapped ­until now b­ ecause of its original location—­a storage closet in the patient library of the present-­day hospital. To access t­ hese rec­ords, I completed training for volunteers. I then spent over two years organ­izing approximately fifteen cubic feet of papers and ephemera that comprise the collection, now h­ oused at the Library of V ­ irginia. Supplementary material came from Special Collections at the College of William and Mary, which received a portion of the asylum’s papers ­after the hospital was moved to create the DeWitt Wallace Decorative Arts Museum at Colonial Williamsburg. The rec­ords include Dr. Galt’s case notebooks, personal journals, annual report drafts, and sundry notes and lists; correspondence from jailors, board members, white staff, contractors, and patients’ ­family members; and patient drawings, journals, and notes. Some of ­these documents ­were created with an eye t­oward public accountability and posterity, but ­others ­were private musings and jottings that w ­ ere not intended for preservation.

12 Introduction

Unsurprisingly, it is material from the latter category that is often most ­revelatory. Patients came to Eastern Lunatic Asylum in three ways: through families, slave masters, and jails. White families that could afford to pay for the care of a relative obtained the signatures of three justices of the peace, and often a ­local doctor’s note too, before transporting the prospective patient to the fa­ cil­i­ty. In most cases t­ hese families first contacted Dr. Galt directly to ascertain if ­there was available room, but the individual still had to be examined and the admission officially approved by a quorum of board members who met regularly for this purpose. To attract more paying patients, Galt persuaded the state legislature in 1846 to allow him to accept slaves and out-­of-­state boarders as patients. He then advertised the institution in newspapers as far south as Florida.24 The campaign to attract white Southerners from other states was unsuccessful, however, as all of the paying patients ­were from ­Virginia. He had better success treating slaves, albeit all the slaves admitted came from eastern ­Virginia or nearby North Carolina. In one case, a Richmond slave trader who had recently purchased a m ­ other and d­ aughter from an estate sale contacted the asylum b­ ecause both ­women “proved to be insane” and w ­ ere “in an awful condition.” The ­mother had, in fact, been a patient at the asylum three years prior to her readmission.25 Slaves whose masters sought treatment for them also had to obtain three signatures. Administrators d­ idn’t have to worry about violating personal liberty. They likely assumed that a master ­wouldn’t go through the bother and expense to obtain care for a slave ­unless that slave was genuinely ill, but they needed a legally binding guarantee of payment for expenses, including the clothing furnished on discharge.26 Indigent white and ­free black patients who ended up at the asylum ­were typically first arrested for acts of vio­lence, public indecency, or disturbing the peace. Local knowledge determined ­whether the troublesome be­hav­ior that led to the arrest was viewed as an isolated event or indicative of m ­ ental disease. The jailors would then write to Dr. Galt to enquire about space before transporting the applicant. They planned ahead to arrive on the days when the board met to approve admissions and sometimes presented the testimony of neighbors. The cost of travel for ­these patients was paid for by the state, so it was most efficient to send poor patients to the closest public asylum. For this reason, indigent white patients who ended up in Williamsburg w ­ ere usually from the eastern portion of the state. As Eastern Lunatic Asylum was the only institution to accept black patients, ­free blacks at the asylum hailed from all over the state. The majority, however, came from the eastern counties since that is where the largest concentration of ­free blacks lived.

Introduction  13

The families that consigned relatives to the asylum ­were generally of modest means. They had often exhausted themselves trying to care for an ill relative at home, but inability to contain disruptive or menacing be­hav­ior prompted them to seek institutional relief. Some of t­ hese families conceived of asylum care as a last resort; o­ thers believed that early professional intervention would arrest and reverse m ­ ental disease. ­These relatives frequently corresponded with Dr. Galt, and if they lived close to the asylum, visited. Not e­ very f­ amily was so solicitous, of course. ­There ­were instances in which relatives seemed ­eager to get rid of difficult or el­derly ­family members. A few husbands who committed wives, for example, aroused the suspicion of administrators, though ­these feelings ­were expressed privately to keep from damaging public confidence in the institution.27 Some families worried about the safety of committing young white ­women to the care of strangers, so administrators made special efforts to vouchsafe their reputations and fragile sense of privilege by segregating them from black patients. In contrast, individuals and families who committed slaves ­were comparatively wealthy. Some contacted Dr. Galt directly and even expressed concern about the quality of care on offer; o­ thers had an agent or ­lawyer who managed affairs contact the doctor on their behalf. Their reasons for seeking institutional care for slaves w ­ ere, as with f­ amily members, inability or unwillingness to ­handle the challenges presented by someone who was ­either senile or, perhaps, mentally ill. In both cases, however, understanding of what constituted irrational or threatening be­hav­ior varied widely and depended greatly upon cultural expectations. One impor­tant difference was that the willingness to pay for a slave’s care connoted generosity even though, in some cases, it was also about preserving investment value, whereas the commitment of a relative was often mixed with a sense of guilt.28 It was the job of the superintendent to assuage this guilt and consolidate the authority of asylum medicine, and to balance the desires of slaveholders and the families of private patients alongside the needs of publicly supported black and white individuals with chronic health prob­lems, most of whom ­were involuntarily committed. This proved a challenging task. To analyze the complex social relationships that w ­ ere a core part of asylum medicine, I have or­ga­nized this book topically as well as chronologically. The first four chapters examine the respective roles of the doctor, the enslaved attendants, religion, and gender in the making of early psychiatry during the era of slavery. Chapter one considers the life and writings of Superintendent Galt, especially the genesis of his most experimental ideas. In contradiction to Eu­ro­pean criticism of American institutions over the issue of corporal restraint and its alleged connection to slavery, it was the experience of heading an asylum

14 Introduction

in the South that led Galt to become the only American superintendent to publicly endorse total nonrestraint, to reject proposals for racially segregated institutions, and to promote the cottage system of outpatient care. ­These w ­ ere unusual and unpop­u­lar positions that cost him the esteem of fellow superintendents. Shunned by his American peers, Galt sought to stretch his professional network to include Brazil and Russia—­two socie­ties that ­were also ­shaped by systems of unfree ­labor. His advocacy for greater personal liberty and on behalf of black patients should not be mistaken as an argument for abolition. In defending his institution from attacks by professional peers, Galt was like other Southern elites who scavenged from antiquity for examples of slave socie­ties that contributed to civilization and pro­gress. Galt’s views ­were informed by both practical and ethical considerations, but as chief administrator he had fewer intimate interactions with patients than did his staff, most especially the enslaved attendants he employed. Chapter two discusses the lives of enslaved staff, paying par­tic­ul­ar attention to their interactions with patients from 1842 to 1862. Enslaved attendants w ­ ere assigned the dirtiest and most difficult jobs, from preparing hundreds of meals ­every day to shaving and cleaning incontinent patients. They w ­ ere also the gatekeepers and the guardians of the room keys. Surprisingly, slaves ­were routinely placed in the unusual position of exerting power, corporal and psychological, over the patients; they w ­ ere authorized to forcibly medicate and physically subdue unruly or obstinate patients of all races. Reformer Dorothea Dix condemned the authority with which Eastern Lunatic Asylum slaves w ­ ere entrusted ­because she did not believe them capable of providing moral care. Yet in the twenty years u­ nder consideration in which the same core group of slaves ­were continually rehired, only two incidents of abuse ­were alleged and just one putatively substantiated. Instances of solicitous be­hav­ior ­toward patients, over and above the requirements of the job, ­were more common. Administrators recognized this by providing cash bonuses directly to slave attendants in addition to the wages paid to their masters, although w ­ omen’s l­abor was valued at half that of the men despite working longer hours and at tasks with a greater degree of drudgery. Thus the burden was borne most heavi­ly by ­women of color, and the association with coercion reinforced the low status accorded to caregiving.29 Notwithstanding the difficulties of the job and the denigration of their ­labor, enslaved caregivers used their influence to assert their value and capacity for moral judgment. Through nursing, slaves demonstrated their own humanity and recognized that of the patients. This attitude of empathic equality contrasts with the sympathetic paternalism of white administrators. Dependence upon

Introduction  15

slave ­labor incited contradictory impulses and policies at the asylum. Administrators spoke of being unable to fully trust the attendants just as they could not fully trust the patients. The most frequent complaint against slave attendants was that they allowed patients to escape, e­ ither from negligence of duty or direct assistance. The fact that neither enslaved attendants nor patients enjoyed freedom, and both could be subjected to restrictions and punishment, might have fostered a sense of solidarity between both parties in a few instances. Even where a connection was lacking, some asylum slaves appear to have found a sense of spiritual fulfillment and moral rectitude in the act of caring for individuals unable to care for themselves. Discussion of caregiving ethics and spirituality, in turn, prompts consideration of the formal role of religion in asylum care. The religious affiliations of 40 ­percent of the patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­were scrutinized and patients w ­ ere actively encouraged to alter their beliefs as part of their treatment, belying the professed opinion of medical superintendents that religiosity did not cause insanity. The association of enthusiastic religion with African Americans and with abolitionism—­the Williamsburg asylum was located in the very cradle of African American Protestantism—­contributed to the regulation of religious expression. ­Women of all races and slaves who attempted to evangelize ­were specifically targeted for intervention, as ­were white men who identified with African Americans or expressed abolitionist views. While not e­ very evangelical or abolitionist sympathizer ended up at the asylum, chapter three reveals attempts by state authorities to institutionalize radicals, including an Underground Railroad or­ga­nizer and accomplices of John Brown. Asylum medicine attempted to suppress religious enthusiasm by marking it as deviant, while religious rationalism was enshrined as normative and, paradoxically, as secular. Enthusiasm also manifested in sexual passion. Asylum medicine overemphasized the role of female sexual and reproductive organs as an alleged cause of ­mental illness, objectifying w ­ omen to focus on discrete medical pathology and downplay environmental explanations, such as domestic vio­lence or sexual assault. Chapter four shows that the asylum came to the aid of individual ­women, but undermined the religious authority from which many w ­ omen derived comfort, meaning, and power. W ­ omen with relatively l­ittle strength outside the institution could sometimes enlist the medical professionals within it as leverage against abusive men, but the institutional response was inconsistent and marred by racial bias. The modus operandi of moral therapy—­the creation of a peaceful therapeutic environment—­was profoundly complicated by the vio­lence experienced by ­women patients, most especially enslaved

16 Introduction

figure 2. ​Virginia Lunatic Asylum at Williamsburg. To attract more private patients, Superintendent Galt commissioned two lithographs of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. This one by Thomas Wood was completed circa 1846 and features the north view of the institution. An image of the same view by T. C. Millington produced the previous year has fewer trees, a tame buck standing close to a man with outreached hand, a gamboling doe, and a rear view of the central ­couple rather than a partial profile. It seems that Millington’s version did not satisfy the superintendent’s aesthetic demands. Galt Papers (II), 1840– 1862, Special Collections Research Center, Swem Library, College of William and Mary.

­ omen. Administrators ­were frequently confronted with the possibility that w it was the mission of the asylum that was peculiar and not necessarily the patients. The vio­lence of the Civil War and Superintendent Galt’s suicide ­were even more disruptive to the asylum regimen. Chapter five describes the tumultuous administrative turnover during the war and in the immediate aftermath. At times, the fighting was so close to the asylum that patients witnessed ­battles. Enslaved staff faced an especially challenging work environment during the war, even contending with Confederate raids in which some attendants ­were seized and forcibly relocated to Richmond. As the war dragged on, the facilities ­were severely damaged, the quality of care declined, and rec­ord keeping became highly erratic. The close of the war and the creation of the Freedmen’s Bureau did not bring adequate relief. Thousands of newly freed ­people in need of medical attention flocked to eastern V ­ irginia. The presence of insane, senile, and cognitively impaired individuals among t­ hese refugees occupied greater space in the white public’s imagination than was warranted. Neverthe-

Introduction  17

figure 3. ​Permission card to visit the asylum. By allowing visitors to tour asylums, superintendents aimed to promote their institutions and manage the be­hav­ior of the curious public. Critical of eighteenth-­century hospitals that allowed the paying public to gape at and provoke patients, antebellum institutions aspired to reframe tours as educational rather than entertaining by providing guides and issuing ­free tickets that resembled genteel calling cards. This one for the Eastern Lunatic Asylum is from circa 1860. Galt Papers (II), 1840–1862, Special Collections Research Center, Swem Library, College of William and Mary.

less, the issue of what to do for this population was a significant quandary for Freedmen’s Bureau officials. Dr. Galt’s prescient policies could have provided guidance during Reconstruction, but his death assured that t­ here was no one to advocate for racially integrated asylums subsidized by outpatient care. Instead, his former rivals persuaded ­Virginia legislators and Bureau officials to remove black patients from the Eastern Lunatic Asylum and create a separate institution for freedmen and ­women. Efforts to contain interracial interactions, ­women’s autonomy, and enthusiastic religious expression ultimately coalesced in the de­cades ­after the Civil War. Growing disillusionment with inflated cure rates promised by early boosters and damaging exposés by former patients contributed to an erosion of confidence in moral treatment. Analy­sis of race, however, is largely missing from the declension narratives that are typical of asylum historiography even though t­ hese changes occurred si­mul­ta­neously with the expansion of hospitals for African Americans. Chapter six examines the early collapse of the moral

18 Introduction

treatment paradigm in racially segregated asylums, especially Central Lunatic Asylum in ­Virginia. Freedmen’s Bureau officials and influential Northern doctors promoted the creation of separate facilities, then left Southern superintendents to steer t­ hese tax-­supported institutions through postwar financial crises without federal intervention and in the face of widespread racial hostility and vio­lence. The result was egregiously poor quality of care in all-­black institutions run by white doctors who argued that “insane” African Americans ­were a unique threat to public safety. To address this purported threat, they unabashedly advocated corporal restraint and severely restricted patient mobility. From the start, then, institutions treating African Americans did not even attempt to use moral means. Instead of ­family living and cottage care, black patients ­were sent to a penal farm that offered ­little hope for recovery.

chapter one

No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed Slavery and Innovation In the Eastern Asylum, no peculiar strictness is observed in isolating the white from the coloured patients; nor ­under the arrangement a­ dopted in this re­spect is ­there the slightest difficulty in management originating from the presence of the two races in the same asylum. —­John M. Galt, “Asylums for Colored Persons,” 18441

In 1841, the Public Hospital for Persons of Insane and Disordered Minds replaced the office of Keeper with Medical Superintendent and appointed twenty-­two-­year-­old John Minson Galt II to the position.2 One of Superintendent Galt’s first acts was to commission an artist to make a lithograph of the newly named Eastern Lunatic Asylum, which he then used in a circular advertising the institution. The image features the Doric building, as it was called, with its main entry flanked by two evenly sized wings. The building has a ­simple but elegant form, with regular win­dows and a graceful Greek-­style portico typical of federal-­era buildings. Atop each wing is a cupola, offering both decorative appeal and a practical method of ensuring good ventilation to the interior spaces. ­There are no bars on the win­dows and no signs of a gate on the attractively landscaped grounds, which feature a vast expanse of closely clipped lawn flanking both sides of a wide central path. The symmetry of the building’s façade is offset by a flock of birds in flight in the upper left corner, and artfully arranged trees, shrubs, and flowers of dif­fer­ent heights and textures. Two ­couples, both men in dress coats and top hats accompanying ­women in full skirts—­one with a parasol—­stroll the grounds past a well-­dressed man fishing in a stream and a gamboling stag. Of course deer are diurnal and the image appears to capture noontime—­the use of the parasol and the shadowing suggest that a bright sun is directly overhead—­but the aim is not documentary realism. The effect and purpose of the lithograph are to convey the message that the Williamsburg asylum is a pastoral place of peace and plea­sure, to which one should not hesitate to send loved ones in need of ­mental adjustment. In the text that accompanies the image, Dr. Galt writes that historically institutions for the insane w ­ ere “mere places of confinement” owing to their Eu­ ro­pe­ans roots and the need to construct a place where “the insane could be

20  Chapter One

prevented from d­ oing injury to the public.” “The Eastern Asylum,” Galt admits, “was formerly somewhat of this nature.” “Compared with con­temporary institutions in Eu­rope,” however, Galt adds, the neatness of the Eastern Asylum and the “attention bestowed on patients” ­were “always of a high order.” “It was the non-­existence of moral means,” Galt opines, “that led to a greater degree of coercion” in the early institution. Happily, Galt concludes, “the humane princi­ples of treatment which modern science has revealed”—­kindness, nonrestraint, and healthful environment—­“are now most fully and entirely established.”3 ­Virginia families could now expect the highest levels of care heretofore found at expensive private facilities in the North; this was the reassuring message. At the heart of moral treatment was the elimination of shackles and chains—­ and even the threat of such devices—­in ­favor of the salutary influence of a carefully constructed, healthy environment. Moral therapy was challenging to implement, especially in the South where vio­lence and threat of vio­lence ­were endemic to the slave system. From its inception the hospital admitted f­ ree blacks, and ­under John M. Galt’s tenure the asylum further distinguished itself as the only institution in Amer­i­ca to routinely accept slaves as patients and to employ slaves as attendants, though both are conspicuously absent from the commissioned circular.4 Clearly, Galt did not wish to advertise that the Williamsburg asylum did not completely conform to standard practices of nineteenth-­century medicine. The contradictions and tension inherent in moral therapy, especially as practiced at an institution that relied upon slave ­labor and restored enslaved patients to health by deploying kindness so that they might resume their degraded or abusive stations outside the asylum, continually dogged Superintendent Galt. Yet slavery also spurred Galt to experiment with total nonrestraint and endorse outpatient treatment, making the genealogy of ­these ideas considerably more complex than previously understood, and placing race at the heart of prescient innovations that maximized patient liberty.

Who Was John Minson Galt II? John Minson Galt II (hereafter referred without the suffix) grew up around the Williamsburg hospital. His g­ reat ­uncle and aunt, James and Mary Galt, ­were the keeper and matron when the institution opened in 1773. His grand­ father and namesake, Dr. John Minson Galt I, was an apothecary and visiting physician from 1795 ­until his death in 1808. His ­father, Alexander Dickie Galt, studied medicine in e­ ither London or Edinburgh before taking over as a phy-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  21

sician in the early nineteenth ­century. By the time John M. Galt was a teenager following his ­father on rounds, the fa­cil­i­ty h­ oused fifty-­five patients and had expanded from one building to four.5 He prob­ably knew before leaving to study medicine at the University of Pennsylvania in 1839 that he would one day inherit a place at the hospital. The time at university was Galt’s first experience away from home for an extended period. A faithful correspondent, he wrote his f­ amily detailed letters about his studies and exploits. A frequent topic was the differences that he observed between the North and South, especially the perceptions Philadelphians had about the South. In a letter to his m ­ other, for instance, he wrote that the ­woman in whose h­ ouse he boarded “knew a number of the Aristocracy of ­Virginia, but of its institutions she knew nothing.” 6 He also described central heating, with which he was unfamiliar, and observed that e­ very f­ amily he met employed black servants and ­were more “violent against the abolitionists than we are down South.”7 To his ­sister, he confessed that he had become “much less in favour of abolition than before.”8 Just how committed an abolitionist he was to begin with is questionable if he was that easily dissuaded, but his statement w ­ asn’t a complete reversal of opinion e­ ither. Clearly, young Galt had qualms about slavery, an opinion that he openly discussed. He was also aware of key players in the abolitionist movement, writing in 1840 to his ­father to describe David Paul Brown, the abolitionist ­lawyer whose keynote address two years earlier at Pennsylvania Hall prompted a mob to burn down the building.9 Galt reported to his ­mother that his boarding ­house stood opposite Fanny Kemble’s residence, though he could not have known that the famous actress, only recently returned from her husband’s Georgia plantation, was then embroiled in a ­battle with her soon-­to-be ex-­husband over slavery.10 Another frequent topic was the 1840 presidential campaign in which Virginian John Tyler ran as vice president on the Whig Party ticket with William Henry Harrison. The Galt f­ amily was well acquainted with the Tyler f­ amily. In 1839, John wrote to his ­sister that he had met “no one as beautiful as Miss E [Elizabeth or “Lizzie”] Tyler,” and that Northern w ­ omen ­were less refined than ­those from ­Virginia.11 He inquired of his ­father about Tyler’s sons, who ­were then enrolled at William and Mary, and w ­ hether the ­family was pleased about the nomination.12 As the campaign got underway, he kept his ­family apprised of po­liti­cal parades and described the campaign’s headquarters. Perhaps Galt found it absurd to see log cabins carried aloft through the city streets when he knew firsthand the wealth of the Tyler ­family b­ ecause he told his ­sister that he agreed with the “essential princi­ples of the [Demo­cratic] party . . . ​but not with their mea­sures nor their leading men.”13 ­Those princi­ples, in his view,

22  Chapter One

­ ere universal suffrage and equal rights among men. Why, he asked, should w he be denied the vote b­ ecause he d­ idn’t yet own property? To his ­father he wrote rather cynically that the Demo­crats w ­ ere ahead of the Whigs “in every­ thing base & vile.”14 While not exactly a ringing endorsement of the Whig party, John Galt was supportive of Tyler, who was himself a compromise candidate only recently affiliated with the Whigs. ­After the Whigs won, John wrote to his ­father about his hopes that Tyler would adhere to Jeffersonian ideals, especially if the president should die. One month ­later, President Harrison did die and Tyler was in the White House. Apart from a letter to John from a friend about Lizzie Tyler, in which the correspondent snipingly referred to her as the “young princess” and questioned the sincerity of her distress over Harrison’s death, ­there is nothing to indicate that Galt was anything other than pleased about Tyler’s per­for­mance in office.15 President Tyler combined a strong state’s rights agenda with increased spending on the U.S. navy in ser­v ice of an aggressive foreign policy that Galt himself would endorse in the coming years. Tyler proved willing to offend and alienate the party that had put him on the ballot for the sake of princi­ple even if it cost him his ­career, and his views on slavery appeared more moderate than some defenders, including his own secretary of state, John C. Calhoun.16 In both of ­these regards, John Tyler exhibited qualities that also characterized John M. Galt over the course of his ­career. The election of an acquaintance to the nation’s highest office was an exciting diversion, but presumably most of Galt’s time was spent studying. ­There are hints that John’s ambitions might, at times, have diverged slightly from the expectations of his parents. In a letter to his ­father he explained that he “took the ticket” for Pennsylvania Hospital rather than for Blockley.17 Blockley was an enormous alms­house complex with a separate hospital for the insane; a practicum t­ here would have been a logical choice for a man destined to head a public asylum, but Galt demurred that the reputable Pennsylvania Hospital was more con­ve­nient to his boarding ­house and had more surgeries to observe. Galt’s arrival at Pennsylvania Hospital happened to coincide with the imminent transfer of insane patients to a new fa­cil­i­ty in the western portion of the city ­under the supervision of Thomas S. Kirkbride, one of the champions of moral therapy in Amer­ic­ a with whom Galt would eventually clash. Fittingly for the man who would soon implement moral therapy in the Williamsburg asylum, John M. Galt first strove to improve himself through moral discipline. Evincing a faith in the perfectibility of the self, he resolved to “endeavour at once” to find the answers to any medical questions that arose in his mind. Additionally, he wrote in his notebook: “1st feelings. 2nd thoughts.



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  23

3. studies & [4] manner of study. 5. action . . . . ​I ­will try to conquer all listlessness by struggling to have it, or to do something ­else 2nd Whenever I have resolved to do anything, never to give up b­ ecause I partly fail 3rd to conquer ­mental disagreeable views, & habits. [4] To endeavor to govern any thoughts.”18 On the same page where he declared ­these all-­encompassing, lofty goals, he also drew some amusing doodles, so it is not clear w ­ hether his program of self-­ improvement was effective. But it is certain that by time he wrote his doctoral thesis, entitled “An Essay on Botany,” Galt was developing a sense that his contribution to the medical field would draw upon his regional expertise. ­Toward the end of his education, Galt shared his plans to temporarily stay on in Philadelphia a­ fter passing his final exams so that he might acquire more work experience. His parents objected, in part b­ ecause of the failing health of his ­father and younger ­brother, reinforcing that Galt’s destiny was tied to Williamsburg.19 In “An Essay on Botany,” Galt posits that physicians ­ought to study plants both to cultivate “the faculty of discrimination” that is exercised with the classification of species and to enable a practitioner to gather his own medicines. He argues that importing and transporting “vegetable medicines” diminishes their healing powers and renders them liable to adulteration. Why not, he asks, procure them in their purest state? He then lists more than fifty species of flora that he has found growing “within 3 to 4 miles of Williamsburg,” though he does not state w ­ hether or how t­ hese native plants might be used pharmaceutically. But he does assert that he has “no doubt” that “­there are vari­ous native medicines used with success by old ­women and such like prac­ti­tion­ers, which on account of their efficacy might be advantageously introduced into general practice.” He avers that ­these folk remedies would prob­ably be widely used but for “the general want of Botanical knowledge and investigation among country prac­ti­tion­ers.”20 Given his description of Thompsonianism, a movement that emphasized herbal remedies and advocated self-­diagnosis, as “idiotick [sic] humbug” and of ladies’ interest in botany as uninformed and frivolous, it is perhaps surprising that Galt would nevertheless recognize the value of homegrown remedies and prac­ti­tion­ers including, presumably, slave healers.21 While many conventional doctors reviled alternative medicines as quackery and “old ­women’s conjurations,” Galt did not.22 The apparent contradiction is understandable when interpreted as part of his lifelong effort to reconcile regional practices with mainstream medicine. In this sense, Galt was typical of nineteenth-­century Southern physicians who created a distinctive “country orthodoxy” that combined abstract medical knowledge with deference to local know-­how and interpersonal relationships.23

24  Chapter One

The Thompsonian movement was widespread in areas with “heavy slave concentrations” such as Tidewater and Piedmont counties of ­Virginia, with 64 and 66 ­percent of the population enslaved during the 1830s and 1840s, respectively.24 The appeal was multifaceted. Herbs ­were cost-­effective for slaveholders and often more efficacious than the harsh remedies of professional medicine. For slaves, self-­treatment enabled them to draw upon their own medical knowledge. Galt described his approach as “eclectic.”25 Eclectics shared with Thompsonians an interest in botanic remedies made from native plants, but they believed that educated physicians should be responsible for diagnosis and prescriptive treatment. As a professional, Galt insisted that homecare was inadequate at best and harmful at worst. The eclectic movement was also critical of the Thompsonian emphasis on steam baths and purgatives. Galt made liberal use of baths, however, so he was not a purist. His ideas about the potential benefits of local plants did not lead him to gather his own phar­ma­ ceu­ti­cals. And despite the eclectic school’s rejection of chemical and mineral concoctions, Galt’s medical journals indicate that he prescribed capsicum, pennyroyal, and rhubarb alongside drugs like calomel and laudanum.26 His eclecticism was primarily a form of regionalism that led him to embrace traditional treatments based on ancient humoral theories centered on climate and constitutions. For example, he concluded that the use of mercurial preparations—­ which w ­ ere thought to be cooling—­“­w ill prob­ably be found much more suitable to patients in the lower than the upper country.”27 Like most physicians of his era, Galt viewed disease as the result of an imbalance that must be counteracted. Determining the cause of the imbalance was an imprecise art. Beginning in the eigh­teenth ­century, medical prac­ti­tion­ers frequently superimposed newer discoveries, such as the operation of the circulatory system, onto older models like Greek humoral medicine. Eighteenth-­ century physicians conceived of insanity as a disease of inflammation best treated with heroic mea­sures like bleeding and purging. By the nineteenth ­century, insanity was no longer viewed as a disease of inflammation, but of ner­ vous irritation caused by physical or emotional stimulation.28 Doctors believed that ner­vous impulses ­were transmitted to the brain, disturbing the intellect and emotions. However, the tendency to layer conceptual systems persisted so that on the one hand Galt suggested mercury was best suited to t­ hose of sanguine temperament from humid regions, but he also proscribed cool baths and mercury to agitated patients generally ­because he thought ­these treatments ­were calming to the ner­vous system. In this regard, Galt’s practice was typical of American asylum doctors who continued to use a variety of medical means to treat insanity alongside moral methods that they adapted from



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  25

Philippe Pinel. Pinel had stressed the importance of emotions or passions acting directly on the mind, which in turn caused bodily ailments and debilitation. In other words, the cause of insanity for Pinel was psychological and the physical symptoms of ner­vous­ness that followed w ­ ere the effect. Galt also believed that many—­perhaps even most—­cases of insanity ­were “due to emotional prob­lems.”29 Although Galt accepted physical explanations for insanity and prescribed medical remedies, he appears to have hewed more closely to Pinel’s moral etiology than did his Association colleagues. He also championed Pinel’s key practical contributions: revulsive therapy (employing reverse psy­chol­ogy to discredit delusive ideas) and nonrestraint.30 Galt was, at times, “extremely venturesome in his practice,” experimenting on his patients with mesmerism, phrenology, and electric shocks.31 His willingness to try alternative treatments reflected his ambitions; Galt was not content to be just a country physician. For one ­thing, his affiliation with a state institution of considerable size and bud­get placed him in a dif­fer­ent category than doctors who had to earn a living by making h­ ouse calls in the countryside and, when attending to poorer patients, accepting bartered goods in exchange for ser­vices. In fact, the job of superintendent required Galt to curtail his private practice in order to avoid conflicts of interest and allow him adequate time to attend to the asylum’s growing patient population and substantial administrative duties. The quality of an asylum was thought to be a direct reflection of the personality and commitment of the man at its head. The effort to modernize the institution at Williamsburg predated Galt’s administration. In 1835, the ­Virginia House of Delegates had appointed a special committee to visit the hospital. The committee’s report was highly critical of the management of the institution, taking par­tic­ul­ ar offense at the lackadaisical attitude of many of the staff members who regarded their positions as part-­time jobs rather than as full-­time c­ areers. The report also suggested improvements, such as encouraging patients to work in the vegetable garden on the hospital grounds and the introduction of common dining t­ables for staff and patients. Particularly stung by the criticism was visiting physician and the ­father of the ­future superintendent, Alexander Dickie Galt, whom the committee had neglected to interview. Alexander Galt had tried to or­ga­nize activities for the patients on his own initiative, such as permitting ­those he deemed harmless to help with menial chores inside and outside the hospital. He’d also enlisted a handful of male patients to work on the keeper’s private farm as a special privilege, although some townsfolk regarded this endeavor with suspicion and spread rumors that the hospital was forcing patients to work for the personal gain of administrators.32 Although Alexander Galt might have felt

26  Chapter One

slighted by the legislative report, he was prob­ably pleased by the results that it yielded. A new keeper was hired, some games and musical instruments w ­ ere purchased, a common dining ­table for convalescent patients was introduced, and the staff or­ga­nized a few excursions into town and encouraged patients to work in the garden. The main objective was to stimulate the patients and make the hospital less like a prison. Alexander Galt compared it to a “domestic establishment” or “a home, connected with the peculiar advantages of judicious restraint.”33 To observe the latest trends in care, Steward Philip Barziza was sent in 1838 on a tour of asylums in the North.34 It was not u­ ntil just before Alexander Galt’s death in 1841, when the position of keeper was replaced with the more professional role of medical superintendent, that a complete program of reform took shape. ­Under John Minson Galt’s administration, the asylum rapidly expanded the variety of programs and privileges offered. Galt or­ga­nized a carpentry shop; a shoemaking shop; and sewing, spinning, and weaving rooms so that patients accustomed to manual ­labor might be engaged in purposeful activity. He created a patient library ­because he believed that doctors should be familiar with the cultural proclivities of patients in order to direct ­those with “desultory” habits to more edifying material.35 He created a game room, expanded the asylum’s gardens and buildings, purchased more musical instruments, subscribed to journals, offered literacy classes, and instituted in-­house religious ser­vices. He also made arrangements for patient attendance at eve­ning lectures, concerts, outings, and outside religious ser­vices. Reminiscent of Samuel Tuke’s York Retreat, he even invited some female patients to tea parties at his home that he shared with his unmarried ­sister.36 Most importantly, he tried to regularly talk with the patients, engaging them in conversations that ­were about more than just their ailments and complaints. He encouraged the staff to do the same, in part by providing greater opportunities for shared activities. Whereas the 1835 legislative report had decried the fact that patients w ­ ere left to their own devices in the eve­nings when slaves went home, Galt required attending slaves to live at the asylum. In short, Galt encouraged social interaction and physical mobility in the hope that contact with the larger world would positively influence his charges and keep their minds from turning morbidly inward.37 When not treating patients, Galt cultivated professional relationships with other medical superintendents. In 1843, he toured several private and public asylums in Philadelphia, New York, Hartford, Worcester, Charlestown, and Boston.38 The following year, along with twelve other doctors, Galt founded the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  27

Insane (AMSAII), the professional organ­ization that became, in the twentieth ­century, the American Psychiatric Association. With the exception of fellow Virginian Frances T. Stribling, all of the other cofound­ers ­were from the Northeast. Galt also sought out venues for publishing his ideas. His medical library was extensive and included monographs published in Eu­rope, as well as books and essays written in Italian, French, and Latin. He corresponded with book sellers and publishers in ­England and South Amer­i­ca, even ­going so far as to pres­ent his publications on insanity through an intermediary to diplomats at the Brazilian and Rus­sian embassies in Washington, D.C., in an effort to stretch his professional network beyond the confines of ­Virginia.39 Why Brazil and Rus­sia? In a letter to the intermediary, who may have been Virginian Henry Wise, President Tyler’s ambassador to Brazil, Galt wrote: “The reasons which lead me to select ­these two rulers just mentioned, result from the character of my work, & par­tic­u­lar characteristics of the countries over which t­ hese monarchs preside.” 40 The most striking characteristic that all three regions had in common was a system of unfree ­labor. Although Rus­sia’s serfs ­were not of African descent, they ­were mostly agricultural workers, largely illiterate, and viewed by Rus­sian elites as primitively religious and superstitious. In ­these ways, serfs had much in common with African-­descended slaves in Brazil and ­Virginia. Southern politicians, including Tyler and Wise, ­were ­eager to make such connections so as to better mount a strategic defense of slavery. Galt was not a politician, but he astutely discerned that what made both his region and his asylum practice unique was the majority presence of enslaved African Americans. This is why he was interested in asylums in Havana and Rio de Janeiro, and why he chose to fashion his professional identity as an expert on the ­mental diseases of African Americans and the administration of racially mixed institutions. Interestingly, although he pressed his opinions about mixed-­race institutions and, to a lesser degree, the nature of insanity among African Americans upon his colleagues and to ­Virginia legislators in his professional papers and correspondence, Galt’s medical publications say nothing explic­itly about slavery. The “character of his work”—­his published medical work—­differed from that of his colleagues in only one re­spect—­Galt expressed unabashed enthusiasm for total nonrestraint and, ultimately, endorsed a living-­out model of care. Galt’s unique perspective on ­these subjects was condemned by his contemporaries..41 Yet it would appear that it was the example of slavery itself that led Galt to conclude that ­these innovations ­were feasible.

28  Chapter One

Racial Segregation and Exclusion Galt’s first task in establishing his par­tic­u­lar expertise was a special report that he was deputized to make to his AMSAII colleagues on the needs of mentally ill African Americans. In May 1844, full of youthful enthusiasm and invigorated by his recent efforts to overhaul and modernize the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, Galt was appointed chairman of an Association committee charged with looking into the creation of asylums for African Americans. Joining him on the committee ­were Dr. Stribling of the Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton, ­Virginia, and Isaac Ray, Superintendent of the State Hospital for the Insane in Augusta, Maine.42 The black population in Maine was exceedingly small, but a problematic census from 1840 had reported that African Americans t­ here ­were disproportionately insane, subsequently raising concern among state leaders. The black population in Staunton, on the other hand, was significant though not as large as on the Peninsula. Like the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, the Western Lunatic Asylum, which opened in 1828, initially made “no distinction of race” with regard to charitable admissions, but discontinued this practice soon thereafter.43 The men made a preliminary report, promising more substantial research would be presented at the meeting scheduled for May 1846 in Washington, D.C. While Galt was preparing the final report, Amariah Brigham, superintendent at Utica Asylum in New York and editor of the recently founded Ameri­ can Journal of Insanity, used his publication as a bully pulpit on this very subject. About Galt, Brigham opined, “he is still quite a young man, but very zealously devoted to the study of Insanity, and to the improvement of the condition of the Insane.” He summarized highlights from Galt’s recent annual report before taking issue with what he characterized as the “improper and dangerous” actions of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum’s staff to probe the minds of ­those suffering from religious delusions, in imitation of Pinel’s revulsive technique. Brigham then compared the Eastern Lunatic Asylum with the Western Lunatic Asylum, focusing on the admission of “insane colored persons.” Noting the “flourishing condition” of the Staunton asylum ­under the “able” administration of Dr. Stribling, Brigham implied that the presence of black patients at Galt’s asylum might explain white paying patients’ preference for Western Lunatic Asylum. Brigham also extensively quoted Stribling’s last annual report, in which the latter encouraged the ­Virginia legislature to postpone discussion about ­whether Staunton should admit “colored persons,” a discussion that had been initiated by Galt. Barring postponement, Dr. Stribling stated: “for many reasons it would be desirable that an Institu-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  29

tion for colored persons should be entirely distinct from t­ hose occupied by insane whites.” 44 This public attempt to influence the content of the final report was followed by private pressure. William M. Awl, superintendent of the Ohio Lunatic Asylum, wrote to Galt in January 1846 to say that he was pleased to join Galt’s Committee “On Asylums for Colored Persons.” Dr. Awl did not explain why he was added to the committee, but he clearly hoped to shape the committee’s conclusions, and perhaps to warn Galt about the consequences of ideological nonconformity. Dr. Awl shared his strong opinion about the serious errors in the last census with regard to insanity among “negroes.” He confirmed that his asylum admitted only white patients but conceded that a few black patients had been accepted to “Woodward’s institution.” 45 Samuel B. Woodward was not able to be an ally to Galt on this issue, however, ­because he had recently resigned his position as superintendent of the Worcester State Hospital in Mas­sa­chu­setts. Despite Awl’s intervention, and undeterred by the efforts of Drs. Brigham and Stribling to sway fellow superintendents and legislators, Galt chose to ignore the opinions of his se­nior colleagues and reach beyond the borders of the United States in his research. He boldly presented his conclusions at the next AMSAII meeting in May 1846.46 Having surveyed superintendents from an array of private and public asylums and alms­houses from Cuba to Maine, combed through their annual reports, and studied the national census, Galt concluded that separate institutions for African Americans ­were an unnecessary extravagance. Among the thirteen cofound­ers of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane, Galt alone was in f­avor of integrating African Americans into existing institutions and making room for them in ­those ­under construction. In the first place, he argued, African Americans ­were a minority population. Even in regions of the South where they w ­ ere a majority, they ­were disproportionately less likely to be insane than the white population. As Galt explained it, this statistic was attributable to slaves’ alleged freedom from exciting discussions about politics and “the anxious cares and anx­i­eties relative to property.” He conjectured that the physical nature of agricultural l­ abor and the fact that slaves w ­ ere compelled by their masters to work fortified their comparatively healthy constitutions. Galt ignored the more obvious explanation of masters’ reluctance to pay asylum bills while losing a slave’s ­labor even as he asserted that “the only proper question is what is the need of rooms,” as determined by “the price which a master would be willing to pay for an insane slave.” Rather than debate w ­ hether to admit slaves, Galt urged superintendents

30  Chapter One

to simply figure out the appropriate fee based upon “the value of slaves in any par­tic­u­lar state & at any par­tic­u­lar period.”  47 For ­those African Americans who did become deranged, Galt recommended that provision be made for them ­either by erecting a new building in the vicinity of an existing asylum, “appropriating an outbuilding or wing,” or simply admitting them to the wards of white patients. “No par­tic­u­lar difficulty is anticipated in carry­ing into execution e­ ither of t­ hese three plans,” he asserted, adding that in Eastern Lunatic Asylum, “no peculiar strictness is observed in isolating the white from the coloured patients; nor ­under the arrangement ­adopted in this re­spect, is ­there the slightest difficulty in management originating from the presence of the two races in the same asylum.” 48 Despite this breezy assurance, Galt’s colleagues did not rush to integrate their asylums. De­cades ­later, Dr. Stribling claimed that the enlargement of the Staunton fa­cil­ i­ty in 1848 had inadvertently rendered it “impracticable to make suitable provision” for “the accommodation of the colored insane.” 49 But, as Amariah Brigham’s article made apparent, Stribling had stopped accepting black patients long before then. The consensus among superintendents seemed to be that accepting slaves or ­free blacks into asylums would upset white patients and give middle-­class relatives the impression that their loved ones ­were ware­housed at pauper institutions rather than temporarily residing in comfort at the finest medical establishments. The superintendents never fully articulated or debated their reasons for vehemently opposing racially mixed institutions, instead treating segregation as a forgone conclusion based on commonsense. They intuited that the success of an asylum hinged upon its ability to “harmonize with the social needs of the period,” which included reassuring distraught relatives that the disturbing changes they perceived in the character of an afflicted loved one did not change that person’s racial identity.50 Superintendents hoped to convey that white patients ­were temporarily removed from respectable society, but they ­were not, as one critic l­ater wrote of asylum patients in Illinois, permanently “debased like the negro.”51 The purpose of the special report was more practical than scientific. Galt did not profess interest in learning why slaves and ­free blacks became deranged, although this did not stop him from indulging explanations that upheld the slave system. Galt decried the unreliability of statistics, citing a critique of the 1840 census by Dr. Jarvis of Dorchester, Mas­sa­chu­setts, and noted that the numbers of “colored” insane in the South “differed too widely” to be trusted; the “proportionate numbers of the ­free colored insane & insane slaves is made to vary beyond belief,” he wrote. He even asserted that an accurate ratio between the sane and insane of any population was virtually impossible to as-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  31

certain ­because the line between the two was “exceedingly indefinite, and ­whether certain persons s­ hall be classed as sane or insane depends pretty much upon the general tenor of mind of the individual who makes any calculation.”52 Yet Galt seemingly could not resist using the same statistics to allege that the rate of insanity was directly proportionate to freedom and geography—­more ­free blacks meant more insanity, and the further north an asylum, the greater number of insane of all races and social classes—­making it easier for his colleagues to reject his proposal. Ignoring f­actors such as relative population density and the availability of asylums, Galt used his report to indirectly rebut latent abolitionist sentiment among some of his Northern colleagues. Like most apologists of the era, Galt wanted to expose hy­poc­risy in the attitudes of Northern superintendents whom he suspected, and rightly so, had no real interest in accepting African American patients. Of course, using ­these faulty statistics made it easier for hostile colleagues to dismiss his point of view. On some level, Galt must have expected that his recommendations would be ignored. The image Galt presented to his professional peers of a smoothly functioning institution was often belied by the actualities. Nevertheless, Galt remained committed to interracial care. He continued to press his unpop­u­lar opinion in letters to newly appointed superintendents in frontier regions and to ­Virginia legislators, his tone equal parts practical and prideful. In September 1848, for example, members of the V ­ irginia General Assembly asked the state’s two asylum superintendents to report ­whether their respective institutions made provisions for “insane persons of colour.” If the answer was affirmative, they ­were directed to state the cost of providing accommodation “for such patients”; or, in the event that they had deemed it “inexpedient or impracticable to provide for such patients in their respective asylums,” they w ­ ere directed to recommend “a plan for the separate accommodation of such patients.” Galt reminded the legislators that f­ ree blacks had always been welcome at his institution, and commended the Assembly of 1845 for its “wise philanthropy” in allowing for the ac­cep­tance of slaves. Since that time, Galt continued, “very few coloured applicants have been refused for the want of room; and ­those in charge of this asylum have had the privilege of ministering to the wants of all classes of persons labouring ­under the ­great calamity of any insane mind, irrespective of colour or social position.”53 In his report to the Assembly, Galt also included a lengthy summary of the special report he had made to AMSAII three years earlier. He reiterated that it was “incontrovertibly evident on investigation” that “distinct asylums for white and coloured patients” ­were inadvisable for both the North and the South. He

32  Chapter One

asserted that as head of the only asylum to accept slaves and f­ ree blacks in a state with a black population proportionately second only to one (South Carolina), his experience provided “a good test of that demanded in the slave-­holding states generally.” Once again, Galt suggested that slaves, and to a lesser degree ­free blacks, suffered derangement less frequently than whites ­because they w ­ ere ­free from the anx­ie­ ties of property holding, and ­because physical ­labor and relative inability to indulge in “causative influences of a moral character” (such as laziness or overeating) fortified their good health. He also stated that slaves w ­ ere protected from the “­mental excitement” of intense “po­ liti­cal discussion” and “agitating novelties in religion”—­the two topics with which Galt was particularly preoccupied and wrote about in his private journals.54 Ironically, Galt spent a g­ reat deal of energy policing for latent abolitionism and evangelism among his patients—­the subject of chapter 3—­but in his report of 1848, he had the hubris to conclude that slaves ­were neither knowledgeable about nor concerned with current events such as the impending crisis over slavery. The 1849 report also included a few notable amendments to his 1846 report. Cognizant of and deferential to this audience of slaveholders, Galt informed Assembly members that another way to account for the comparatively low rate of insanity among the enslaved had to do with the speedier rate of recovery. The reasons for this ­were twofold. In the first place, he argued, the anxiety relative to loss of property often continued to exert an influence on white patients, complicating their recovery. “Few obstacles of this kind occur to the convalescence of the insane slave,” he noted. Second, he wrote that a master’s financial incentive to seek a quick recovery for an insane slave ensured that treatment was rendered “in the acute or incubative stage of the disease,” improving the odds of a cure.55 By complimenting slaveholders on their willingness to pay for the treatment of slaves, Galt cleverly defended his interests in this regard. In addition, he reasoned, work was essential ­toward the end of convalescence to complete the recovery. The menial nature of slave l­abor and the authority of a master to force slaves to work once released from the asylum practically guaranteed continued ­mental health, rendering unnecessary additional expenditure on separate asylums or prolonged hospitalization. In contrast, f­ree persons could be compelled to work when legally committed to the authority of the asylum, though they w ­ ere likely to resist demands to participate in therapeutic ­labor ­because they ­were “unused to control,” but this regimen was difficult to enforce once they w ­ ere released. Moreover, the nature of white work might be more demanding and induce relapse. Galt concluded that slavery itself acted to



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  33

exert a salutary influence similar to that found at the asylum. This is an idea that he would develop further over the next six years of his tenure.56 Galt made one more curious amendment to his earlier report. Although both reports staunchly defend single institutions caring for all races, Galt was willing to make some concessions in 1849 regarding segregated wards and separate buildings. He again trumpeted the fact that black and white patients at his institution commingled without a prob­lem: “In the Eastern Asylum, no peculiar strictness is observed in isolating the white from the coloured patients; nor ­under the arrangement a­ dopted in this re­spect, is t­ here the slightest difficulty in management originating from the presence of the two races in the same asylum.” But for the first time, he requested 8,000 dollars to build permanent structures to h­ ouse black patients exclusively, with separate walled exercise gardens to prevent cross-­racial fraternization.57 He also admitted that the black female patients ­were currently ­housed in an outbuilding in “ruinous” condition that had once been dedicated to convalescing patients, and had ­little to no contact with white patients. As for black male patients, they w ­ ere so often engaged in l­ abor that they spent l­ ittle time idly socializing on the wards with white fellow patients. And, b­ ecause white male patients w ­ ere accustomed to black slave attendants, Galt suggested that they had no prob­lems inter­ acting with black patients.58 The explanation for this seemingly contradictory funding request is that Galt expected the institution to grow, and he would eventually run out of space to ­house patients if he did not receive more money. Another compelling reason was his mounting frustration that Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton excluded slaves and ­free blacks, effectively forcing Eastern Lunatic Asylum to take African American patients from the entire state while insisting that rules about county bound­aries be enforced for ac­cep­tance of white patients. The state paid 50 to 75 ­percent less for the care of ­free blacks than it did for indigent whites, and masters ­were willing to pay only a minimal amount for sick slaves. In other words, Eastern Lunatic Asylum saw its potential sources of revenue—­white patients—­shrink, while the demand to treat black patients grew. Galt tried to redress this in­equality directly with Superintendent Stribling, but to no avail.59 It must have been infuriating for Galt to receive, as he sometimes did, a letter of rejection from Stribling for a black patient from west of the Blue Ridge Mountains enclosed alongside a letter requesting admission for this same patient to Eastern Lunatic Asylum. In his annual report for 1849, written shortly ­after his report to the ­Virginia Assembly in which he requested funds for separate buildings for black patients, Galt wrote: “. . . . ​it w ­ ill be found

34  Chapter One

that ­free coloured insane persons had previously been received into this asylum; which, it may be remarked, is still done; moreover, that this asylum alone receives such patients. It w ­ ill also be found that the superintendent, from his experience, was (as he still is) of opinion that t­ here was no necessity for separate buildings for the purpose, it being perfectly practicable to accommodate colored and white patients, with entire comfort to both classes, in the same building, whilst it is clearly more eco­nom­ical.” 60 Perhaps Galt was saving face among his professional peers as his report to the legislature was internal, whereas the published annual report was widely circulated. Galt might also have been publicly making a virtue of necessity. The legislature had denied his request for 8,000 dollars and allotted him a mere 2,266 dollars. The asylum ­housed twenty-­eight ­free blacks at state expense at that time, which meant that Galt received slightly less than 81 dollars per capita annually rather than the 285.71 dollars he had requested.61 Not surprisingly, the separate building for blacks was not built. Galt sought out other ways to raise revenue and capitalize on his asylum’s unique willingness to accept enslaved patients by admitting slaves from nearby North Carolina, space permitting. He also attempted to secure a contract from the federal government to admit insane sailors from the U.S. navy. The latter ploy ran afoul of efforts to build an asylum in Washington, D.C. Of the Quaker man appointed to the capitol asylum, Dr. Charles Nichols, Galt privately groused that he possessed “no idea doubtless of naval discipline.” 62 Dr. Nichols was, however, a close ally of reformer Dorothea Dix, who had pushed for his appointment over a local candidate. In 1848, Dix lobbied Congress for the creation of a federal land grant to raise money for the care of the nation’s mentally ill. Although Dix’s formidable effort stalled in the Senate, her presence boosted local advocates’ campaign to build an asylum in the District. Congress earmarked 100,000 dollars in 1852 to build and furnish this asylum intended for District residents, as well as members of the army and navy. In executing the plan, the U.S. Secretary of the Interior, a ­lawyer from Staunton who served on the board of the Western Lunatic Asylum, relied upon the expertise of Dr. Francis Stribling. Stribling, in turn, recommended the guidelines officially endorsed by AMSAII in 1851. ­These guidelines stressed the importance of separation by diagnosis, sex, and race, and drew heavi­ly upon the work of Thomas S. Kirkbride, superintendent of the now-­renowned Pennsylvania Hospital of the Insane.63 Galt missed the 1851 Association meeting. In fact, he never again attended a professional meeting. He had been tasked the previous year with writing a report on the propriety of treating the insane in the same hospital as patients with other diseases, which he was supposed to deliver at the next annual meet-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  35

ing. Instead, he wrote to Kirkbride at the last minute to say that he c­ ouldn’t make it—­no explanation offered—­and enclosed the assigned essay.64 The essay, a banal regurgitation of professional dogma, argues that specialized facilities offer better care to both sets of patients. This was truly Galt’s opinion, but he also appeared to be currying ­favor with the colleagues that he had alienated in years past over the issue of interracial facilities. ­After the new AMSAII guidelines ­were circulated, Galt wrote to Kirkbride in 1852 to inquire about separate institutions based on gender, which made more sense to him. The management of the two sexes in the same fa­cil­i­ty required that staff make sure socializing did not lead to sexual intercourse. Galt was not explicit about this concern, but he flattered Kirkbride by asking for an opinion on the subject since the latter possessed “clear judgment, ability & g­ reat experience.” 65 Galt’s awkward efforts at collegiality might have yielded better results had he not also courted further controversy. Disappointed by the poor reception his work received among his peers and the lack of support he got from his own state, Galt barged into po­liti­cally treacherous w ­ aters by becoming a vocal apologist for slavery.

Peculiar Visions of Modernity It was not unusual for Association members to express opinions about impor­ tant issues of the day. Many superintendents felt that their insights into ­mental health w ­ ere broadly applicable to society at large and used their authority to condemn intemperance, venery, and indolence. Some risked public censure to portray millennialism as injurious to the ner­vous system. Pliny Earle, for example, superintendent at three dif­fer­ent asylums in the northeast, decried the pernicious effect of religious “fanat­i­cism” on the m ­ ental faculties.66 In general, however, superintendents kept their cultural commentary and advisory pronouncements vague; they did not address specific governmental policies except to lobby for funding of public institutions. John M. Galt chose, once again, to depart from this expectation. The practical reasons b­ ehind Galt’s support for racially integrated institutions ­were informed by a regionally specific vision of modernity in which slavery contributed to pro­gress. “The world owes every­thing to slaveholders, the Egyptians, the Jews, the Greeks,” he wrote in his journal in 1848.67 Galt’s perspective was unusual among superintendents, but typical of the Virginians with whom he associated. Despite qualms about the morality of slavery, they resented interference from hypocritical Northerners. They espoused belief in a limited federal government, but supported a robust foreign policy to bolster

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hemispheric relations with other slaveholding nations. Paranoid about international abolitionism, ­these Southern elites welcomed what they perceived as a retreat from ­free ­labor by imperial powers in the 1850s. Many of them concluded that coerced ­labor was essential to the production of tropical goods for the global marketplace.68 Galt began to articulate his vision of a modern society in “On Colored Asylums,” and developed it more fully in Po­liti­cal Essays, which he wrote over seven years (1844–1851) and then self-­published in 1852. The chief purpose of Po­liti­cal Essays was to lambast the “constant abuse on the topic of slavery” borne by the white South.69 He described abolition as a type of fanat­i­cism, indirectly reproaching his colleagues for not responding to it as such. ­Because of their negligence, Galt believed that it was too late to check the insanity of abolitionism. Superintendents frequently stressed the importance of early intervention to prevent insanity from becoming irreversibly chronic, but ­here Galt used the concept to describe the effect of antislavery agitation on the general populace in the North, even ­those Northerners currently indifferent or hostile to the antislavery cause. He predicted that the spirit of abolitionism would become increasingly influential in the North b­ ecause “its origin and growth are dependent on vari­ous characteristics of the northern ­people which are, as it ­were, fixed and permanent.” ­These fixed characteristics included pride in the freedom and prosperity of the nation, a boast that was compromised, in their view, by the existence of slavery. Equally animating was “a spirit of improvement” that was manifest in commendable charities popu­lar throughout the North, especially Mas­sa­chu­setts. According to Galt, this same tendency was also channeled in bad directions, however, such as support for “fanatical doctrines” like “Millerism, Transcendentalism, and the abolition excitement.”70 Given the intractable nature of Northerners and the ­wholehearted commitment of the South to slavery, what could be done to avert the catastrophe of disunion? Galt’s remedy was the annexation of Texas and support for the Fugitive Slave Law. Referencing the determination of Northern abolitionists and “their allies in ­Great Britain and other foreign countries” to harm “the most vital interest of the south,” Galt argued that only the annexation of Texas would effectively allay southern fears of conspiracy. Galt did not exaggerate the extent to which international abolitionist plots dominated the collective imagination of Southern elites. To ­those who believed that adding Texas to the u­ nion would only further entrench slavery and prolong an inevitable crisis, Galt countered that, in fact, territorial acquisition guaranteed that slavery would gradually die out. To support this argument, he cited a letter written in 1844 by Senator Robert J. Walker of Mississippi on the subject.71



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  37

Like Galt, Senator Walker was a Southern moderate. He set f­ree his own slaves in 1838 and l­ater supported colonization to Liberia. Walker also leaned heavi­ly on the problematic census of 1840 to show that widespread prejudice ­toward blacks in the North made genuine social integration impossible. Characterizing white Northerners as “eminently humane, religious, and intelligent,” Walker argued that ­free blacks living amongst them w ­ ere nevertheless miserable ­because they w ­ ere made to feel “a degraded caste, f­ ree only in name, without any of the blessings of freedom,” and they w ­ ere, consequently, without “pride” and “aspirations.” In his view, even intermarriage did not increase social harmony ­because interracial c­ ouples typically faced the “scorn and disgust of the ­whole community.” Due to this harsh real­ity, Walker claimed to oppose immediate abolition out of concern for the welfare of former slaves who would likely stream to the unwelcoming North only to end up in wretched conditions. For Walker, the annexation of Texas would fix this prob­lem in two ways. First, he argued that as slavery advanced to the Southwest it would necessarily recede proportionately “from the more northern of the slaveholding states.” Secondly, he predicted that the tropical climate and predominance of the “coloured races” of Mexico and South Amer­i­ca would gradually draw slaves even further southwest, across the border. Having been “diffused” into a more racially mixed society where they would enjoy not “merely l­egal” but “­actual equality with the rest of the population,” Walker contended that “a rapidly increasing portion of the African race” would “dis­appear from the limits of the ­union.”72 As a defender of admission to the asylum without regard to race, it is not clear ­whether John M. Galt shared Senator Walker’s pessimism about the possibility of harmonious coexistence without slavery. Galt had experience interacting with and treating ­free blacks—­­there ­were approximately 54,333 ­free blacks living in ­Virginia in 1850—­but social and ­legal equality outside of asylum admissions was a dif­fer­ent issue.73 One clear commonality between Senator Walker’s letter and Galt’s writings is the focus on environmental explanations for racial antagonism. Senator Walker did not argue that racial prejudice in the North was justifiable—­or, for that m ­ atter, that slavery in the South was defensible—­­because f­ ree blacks ­were constitutionally inferior. In his explanation, the alleged overrepre­sen­ta­tion of ­free blacks in Northern jails and poor­houses was a consequence of their sense of hopelessness in the face of severe prejudice, not a result of an inherently flawed nature. Similarly, although not one to shy away from controversy, Galt steered clear of public discussion on ­whether ­there ­were innate physiological differences between the races that affected the rate of insanity. His explanation for the relatively smaller population

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of insane African Americans remained strictly environmental rather than biological. While his 1846 report to AMSAII did not contradict the conventional wisdom that “held that ‘primitive’ p­ eoples ­were relatively impervious to ­mental illness,” an idea that “regularly appeared in the leading psychiatric journals from the 1840s through the 1890s,” it ­didn’t endorse pseudoscientific theories of race that ­were also circulating in this era.74 Social science research in the early nineteenth ­century involved mea­sur­ing skulls and cata­loguing phenotypic differences in order to define race. At issue was a debate about ­whether ­humans ­were one species with a common origin or separately evolved entities. The debate over monogeny versus polygeny was central to the emergence of the American School of Anthropology founded by Josiah Nott, a southern physician and slaveholder; Samuel Morton, an American anthropologist from Pennsylvania; and Louis Agassiz, a Swiss-­born naturalist and American immigrant. T ­ here w ­ ere subtle differences in ­these men’s positions on the origins and ontogeny of ­human beings, but ­those collectively identified with American School agreed upon the premise and contributed to the sense that t­ here ­were meaningful, immutable differences between “Caucasian” and “negro” races. And, of course, ­these theories depicted Caucasians as possessing greater intelligence.75 Many proslavery Southerners felt vindicated that international scientists, including some with no ties to or position on slavery, held opinions on race that complemented their own. They believed that discoveries in comparative anatomy proved that “subordination is the normal condition of the negro,” thus revealing the wisdom of the South for having constructed a society based on modern scientific princi­ples.76 John M. Galt was uniquely positioned to contribute to this emerging scientific area of inquiry. He had easy access to African American patients as well as enslaved employees, and, like all superintendents, was expected to offer statistical tabulations as part of his annual reports. He was ambitious and broadly interested in science; he studied astronomy and botany in addition to medicine. He believed that dif­fer­ent regions produced deeply rooted cultural traits that, over time, ­were hard to dislodge. He even corresponded with J. Barnard Davis, British physician and f­uture author of Crania Britannica.77 Yet, interestingly, Galt did not go the route of Nott, Morton, and Agassiz. For many Southern doctors, medical treatment of slave patients responded to practical needs, and was thus ­shaped by the institution of slavery rather than abstract notions of race.78 The quality and type of treatment afforded slaves depended primarily on a master’s willingness to pay, not on notions of separate descent. Since blacks and whites suffered from the same diseases, health talk could be a way in which whites acknowledged common humanity.79 His-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  39

torian Sander Gilman has argued that familiarity with “the Other” can work to moderate stereotyping, since firsthand experience often contradicts or complicates broad generalizations.80 Galt essentially made a similar argument himself when, based on his experience, he lobbied for mixed-­race institutions over the objections of his Northern colleagues. Indeed, Galt was sometimes struck by the similarities between the races. In his essay “Hypochondriasis” published in the American Journal of Insanity in 1856, Galt wrote about the alleged propensity of all Southerners, and especially—­but not exclusively—­ African Americans, to believe in signs and omens, or what he deemed “Superstition.” It may be that a sense of Southern commonality kept Galt from contributing to the American School of thought.81 Perhaps, too, financial expediency and pragmatic concerns ­were of greater importance to Galt than theories of race. Yet privately and over the course of his lifetime, Galt expressed deeply prejudiced and inconsistent views on the subject of race. Youthful attraction to abolition gave way to defense of slavery in the 1850s on the assumption that the “peculiar institution” would eventually die out. On the surface, it may appear that Galt’s firsthand experience with African American patients moderated his opinions, but ste­reo­types are formed by complex po­liti­cal and emotional f­ actors that are often illogically “immune to evidence.”82 For John Minson Galt, the closer a sectional crisis loomed in Amer­i­ca, the more conservative his views became. Even so, despite private expressions of white superiority and spirited public defense of slavery, Galt never explic­itly argued that African Americans ­were a biologically inferior race. Nevertheless, race did emerge for Galt as it did for Southern doctors generally as a “fundamental category for putting patients in their broad social place.”83 Although Galt, like most Southern physicians, did not always distinguish in his case notes the race of an individual, e­ very encounter with a slave was at the behest of his or her master. E ­ very encounter with a ­free black was first mediated by the state; ­free blacks ­were admitted to the asylum from jails and then supported exclusively by the state. In this way, the social relations of slavery structured which individuals “came ­under a physician’s care, and when.”84 Furthermore, the environment of the asylum replicated the status quo of Southern society, partly in preparation for release. The type of work a patient was assigned, the variety of recreation available to a patient, the quality of the accommodations, the amount of state funds allocated to a patient—­all ­were dependent upon race. The desire to manage public perception of Eastern Lunatic Asylum—­ especially to c­ ounter the charge that it was an inferior institution due to the presence of enslaved attendants—­and the constant pressure of dealing with the

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conflicts and intimacies that arose between white and black patients and staff, ­were ­factors that contributed to the sense that the superintendent’s job was to police relations between the races. This responsibility ultimately strengthened what historian Steven Stowe has identified as, “the power­ful double meaning of race as both a social and a biological real­ity.” Conflict exacerbated “the fault lines of southern social relations, exposing fissures of gender, class, and race.”85 For example, patients did not always comply with asylum medicine and their re­sis­tance was met with escalating consequences. One consequence was that enslaved attendants ­were frequently placed in the odd position of exercising power over white patients ­under their supervision. This power was evident in slaves’ access to the keys to the wards and the individual rooms of patients whose mobility was restricted. It was also evident when, despite Galt’s reverence for nonrestraint, enslaved attendants w ­ ere directed to forcibly seize, bathe, and feed patients—­white and black—­who resisted such ministrations. At the same time, both slaves and patients ­were denied true freedom, their subjugated condition made vis­i­ble by the fact that the uniform provided to indigent patients was cut from the same cloth as that provided to the enslaved attendants.86 Above all, race was fundamental to the development of Galt’s ideas about outpatient care. His contribution to modern science, as he saw it, was innovation in asylum care made pos­si­ble by slavery. As superintendent of an interracial asylum in the South, Galt was faced with a paradox—­how to enact a moral therapy that eschewed vio­lence in an institution that was supported by the immoral, violent system of slavery? Galt had seen firsthand the trauma—­physical and psychic—­inflicted upon slaves; he knew that masters could be tyrannical. On one occasion he even acted to prevent a f­ amily of slaves from being broken up through sale.87 But he also knew that families could be callously cruel to relatives. It is not coincidental that the domestic meta­phors used to describe the asylum w ­ ere the same as t­ hose used to defend slavery. The ideal of slavery as it was defended by slaveholders—­that slaves ­were like ­family—­paralleled the ideal role of the asylum. The influence of a kind, intelligent master was supposed to preserve the health and elevate the spiritual condition of slaves, just as the superintendent’s benevolent authority and sagacious treatment regimen would heal asylum patients. Rather than condemn authoritarian power, Galt chose to ignore its excesses and celebrate what he perceived to be the morality of proper discipline. Vio­lence was endemic to slavery and normalized to such an extent that a benevolent master did not need constantly to resort to whipping or other physical punishment to generate compliance. He concluded that just as slaves could be trusted with conditional in­de­pen­dence, so too could asylum patients. Galt proposed a system of outpatient care, in which patients



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  41

would enjoy increased mobility and autonomy, almost two de­cades before other superintendents ­were willing to even debate the idea.

Slavery and Innovation Po­liti­cal Essays did not go over well with the Association members. “Our friend Galt,” Thomas Kirkbride wrote to Dorothea Dix in July 1853, “came nearer getting a slight castigation for some of his foolish writing. He never comes to the meetings, makes no improvements himself, but sits in his armchair criticizing what­ever’s done by his more active brethren, and publishing what he writes at home and abroad.”88 Galt persisted, seeking out other venues for his unpop­u­ lar opinions. Galt had written to Kirkbride just a few months earlier to ask for a copy of his own “Reading, Writing, and Recreation,” presumably for inclusion in Essays on Asylums for Persons of Unsound Mind, which he self-­published ­later that year.89 In a draft of a letter sent to some unidentified London booksellers, Galt explained that his experience as superintendent of the Eastern Asylum had resulted in a volume (Essays on Asylums) “which [,] for vari­ous reasons [,] I think would be likely to meet with better success in E ­ ngland than on this side of the Atlantic.”90 The response was less than encouraging. “Works on Insanity have a very limited sale indeed in ­England,” replied publisher John Churchill, “­those by our best Authors having been published at a loss; this knowledge affords no inducement for me to make you an offer.”91 Professional frustrations ­were exacerbated by private woes. In 1854, Galt’s ­sister Elizabeth, a shut-in with whom he lived, died from cancer.92 In 1855, Galt’s irritation about his colleagues’ poor reception of his ideas led him to a point from which ­there was no return. The Government Hospital for the Insane, also known as St. Elizabeth’s, opened that year in the city of Washington, D.C. At the helm was Dr. Charles Nichols, whom Galt regarded as a dogmatic “ultra.”93 In his first Annual Report issued the following year, Dr. Nichols trumpeted the construction of a separate lodge for black men, writing erroneously that this was “the first and only special provision for the suitable care of the African when afflicted with insanity.”94 Nichols added his smug opinion that the fa­cil­i­ty “is particularly becoming to the government of a country embracing a larger population of blacks than is to be found in any other civilized country.”95 Nichols knew that his asylum was not the first to accept African American patients. His claim hinged on the word suitable; the obvious implication was that Galt’s integrated asylum was not an appropriate model for the treatment of African Americans. Galt was never directly mentioned in the Report, though he was clearly the man who Nichols had in mind when he wrote

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to request funds from Congress. “Opinion and practice vary somewhat in regard to the propriety of associating white and colored insane persons in the same wards of the same institution,” Nichols averred, “but I believe the majority of practical men decidedly condemn such association, and resort to it, if at all, only as a choice of g­ reat evils.”96 Nichols’ contempt for Galt likely also extended to the latter’s endorsement of nonrestraint. In an 1854 letter to Dr. Kirkbride, Nichols complained of superintendents who mislead the public by eschewing mechanical restraints while secretly making “heroic use” of emetics to subdue violent patients.97 Kirkbride also publicly supported Nichols in his new position, writing in the American Journal of Insanity, “the idea of mixing up all colors and classes as seen in one or two institutions in the United States is not what is wanting in our hospitals for the insane.”98 It had been five years since Galt had attended an Association meeting, three years since the publication of Po­liti­cal Essays, and two years since his unsuccessful appeal to Kirkbride regarding separate facilities for men and ­women. Now Galt permanently alienated his colleagues with an article in the Ameri­ can Journal of Insanity entitled “The Farm of St. Anne,” in which he “criticized the AMSAII’s leadership for their preoccupation with asylum design.”99 So long as “­those entrusted with the supervision of the insane,” Galt wrote, “­shall deem the true interests of their afflicted charges not to consist in aught on their part but tinkering gas-­pipes and studying architecture, in order merely to erect costly and at the same time most unsightly edifices . . . ​so long may we anticipate no advancement in the treatment of insanity as far as the United States is concerned.” Comparing the asylums he’d seen in the North to “prison-­houses” or, at their best, “hotel-­like establishments,” Galt instead proposed that ­every asylum have a farm­house and a series of cottages in which patients could live semiautonomously, attending to their own meals and washing. Chronic male patients could work on the farm, and convalescent patients could enjoy domestic privacy.100 Citing the authority of an 1852 article by a British doctor named Dr. Cumming, and in direct opposition to all other AMSAII members, Galt proposed a management system similar to Belgium’s Gheel colony in which male patients, at least, would board with local families. Gheel was a religious shrine dedicated to Saint Dymphna, the patron saint of the insane, dating back to the sixth ­century. ­After Dymphna’s martyrdom, reports of miraculous ­mental healing spread and Gheel became a pilgrimage site for the afflicted. Descriptions of the early treatment detail “a mix of penitential rites, magic, and practical community care for the insane, begun by the S­ isters of the Augustinian order.”101 Centuries of experience as a Christian pilgrimage site allowed the



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  43

residents of Gheel to develop a reputation for hospitality and tolerance, which was formalized in the ­fourteenth ­century through a cooperative system of community hosting for pilgrims. During the seventeenth and eigh­teenth centuries, when Gheel was ­under French domination, Catholic healing rituals ­were suppressed but the hosting of the insane by community residents was still encouraged by the government. By 1838, a permanent inspection system was created and the number of individuals hosted grew rapidly. Gheel became known in 1850 as the “State Colony for the F ­ amily Treatment of M ­ ental Afflictions.” Two years l­ater, the Catholic Church fully relinquished management of the colony and it became the State Colony for the Insane at Gheel. Throughout Gheel’s progression from a community providing care to pilgrims u­ nder the auspices of an Augustinian nursing order to a government organ­ization run by medical doctors, one constant was the practice of community integration. The insane enjoyed freedom of movement, the absence of uniforms, and “maximal integration into the life of foster families with work pos­si­ble (and then remunerated) but not obligatory.”102 In Galt’s opinion, ­there w ­ ere many lessons to be drawn from the example of Gheel. Foremost among ­these was: “that the insane may live in the enjoyment of almost unrestrained liberty, not only with l­ ittle danger to the community which harbors them, but even as useful members of that community.” He speculated that a more dispersed population of patients might also lower mortality during epidemics. Most importantly, living with families would break the morbid fantasies that patients sometimes had about relatives just as time away at an asylum purported to do, but would better activate the “tender and deeply rooted associations of the heart” that spurred positive “psychical action” in ways that an impersonal hospital environment could not.103 With admiration, Galt quoted Dr. Cumming’s observations that an insane person at Gheel was not “wounded by an army of guards in prison-­walls” ­because “he feels himself a ­free man, and instead of being cut off from society, he mingles with his more fortunate fellow-­men.” By emulating the f­ amily living of Gheel and creating a farm with cottages for patients, Galt believed that American superintendents fi­nally had the opportunity to advance “one new princi­ple in the government of t­hose laboring u­ nder m ­ ental alienation.” To date, Galt asked rhetorically, what original contributions had the United States made in the care of the insane? To which he responded: “Absolutely nothing must be the answer with ­every unprejudiced mind.”104 Two descriptions of Gheel had been published in the United States prior to Galt’s laudatory article. The American Journal of Insanity had published “A Village of Lunatics” in 1848, followed by Pliny Earle’s “Gheel” in the same

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journal in 1851. A fellow alumnus of the University of Pennsylvania, Earle had been resident physician at Frankfort Asylum (­later called Friends Hospital) in Philadelphia before he became superintendent of Bloomingdale Asylum in New York the same year that Galt was appointed head of Eastern Lunatic Asylum. Earle had actually visited Gheel while on a Eu­ro­pean tour, but drew ­little inspiration from it. He was, however, “struck with the fact that the Saxons ­were the first reformers of insane asylums in Germany.” He also enjoyed a visit in 1852 to South Carolina, where he attended fancy balls and three lectures by Louis Agassiz on geology and “comparative anatomy.”105 A late-­nineteenth-­ century biography of Earle describes him as “an early abolitionist” who never admired “the peculiarities of Southern society,” despite the fact that Earle never once mentioned his objections to slavery in his travel writing, even ­after witnessing a slave auction where c­ hildren ­were sold. Earle’s “Quaker scruples” appeared exercised only in a humorous aside in which he indirectly admitted to attending a h­ orse race in South Carolina. He ­adopted a similarly wry tone about 328 steamer passengers departing Charleston for California, “crackers” and “60 negroes, a few of them ­free” from the interior of the state, “of primitive habits and uncouth manners,” whose inexperience at sea travel and subsequent sickness amused him. To explain Earle’s moral lassitude, his biographer, who was a personal friend of his subject, l­ ater reasoned: “scientific men, like Agassiz and Earle, might be excused for doubting if their active opposition to it [slavery] could avail to shorten its days.”106 Objection to slavery, however tepid, did not indicate ac­cep­tance of racial equality or integration. In a letter to his m ­ other, Agassiz once expressed disgust at the sight of a black waiter’s hand reaching for his plate, writing “God protect us from such contact!” 107 Condescending mirth is perhaps a weaker iteration of revulsion. In any case, Earle represented exactly the type of physician that Galt had come to resent: worldly, arrogant, partisan, and morally inconsistent. His fellow superintendents objected to slavery but ­didn’t want to admit African Americans to their asylums, nor did they want patient liberties to extend beyond their control. In his private journals, Galt had once derided himself for imitating Northern examples in asylum keeping.108 He spent years thereafter pushing his unpop­u­lar opinions about mixed-­race institutions. In the eyes of his colleagues, with “The Farm of St. Anne,” Galt had fi­nally gone too far. His article aroused the indignation of his peers and he was roundly condemned. Particularly stung by Galt’s article was Thomas Kirkbride, who had published an influential treatise on asylum design and felt personally attacked. In a letter to Dorothea Dix, Dr. Kirkbride complained: “Galt has been writing in such a way, as to make it necessary to give him a ­little attention at the Association, which I hope may



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  45

be of use to him.”109 This “attention” came in the form of several AMSAII colleagues who publicly railed against the journal’s editor for even publishing Galt’s “­wholesale slanders.” Dr. Nichols was unwilling to sacrifice the princi­ ple of freedom of the press, but felt that the editor should have included a statement objecting to the content of the essay. Privately, Nichols was furious. In a letter to Kirkbride, he wrote that Galt’s “most indecent fling at the dignity and usefulness of the class of Superintendents designated who have raised our calling to the respectable position it enjoys . . . . ​was indiscreet and unmanly.”110 The American Journal of Medical Science countered Galt’s criticism with an article that quoted Pliny Earle’s homage to Kirkbride, in which he said that the Pennsylvania Hospital u­ nder the latter’s direction was “near to perfection.”111 In a letter to Kirkbride, Dr.  Horace  A. Buttolph of the New Jersey Lunatic Asylum at Trenton, the first ­mental hospital to be built according to the Kirkbride plan, sarcastically remarked, “I won­der what we ­shall do next? I take it for granted that no Institution north of ­Virginia ever can be finished—­at least I hope not.”112 Galt dug in his heels. In his Annual Report for 1855–1857, Galt characterized the colony at Gheel as revolutionary. He noted that the history of insanity was one of despair up u­ ntil 1792, when the efforts of Samuel Tuke at the York Retreat inspired “the princi­ple of kindness . . . ​in place of force. “Chains ­were abolished,” wrote Galt, “occupation and amusement introduced.” T ­ hese observations ­were accepted wisdom among superintendents, so Galt was on well-­worn ground. He departed from this familiar path with his next set of statements, however. Galt felt that “a second revolution” in asylum treatment was again pioneered in E ­ ngland in 1838 and 1842, when “the entire abolition of restraint and seclusion was declared at the Lincoln Asylum in that Country.”113 Buttressing his position with the authority of Sir John Charles Bucknill of the Devon county asylum, who had experimented with patient cottages, Galt wrote that he viewed Dr. Cumming’s article as: “the eventful precursor of a third and yet more noble resolution—­one in which not only w ­ ill the lonely cell & the irritating strait waistcoat be done away with, but in which the insane ­will be restored to the condition of h­ uman beings, & t­ here w ­ ill ensue a final abolition of all badges of a degrading inferiority.”114 He reasserted that this article was the most impor­tant work relevant to the care of the insane to have come along in years, and quoted Dr. Cumming extensively. Drawing analogies to other contemporaneous scientific discoveries—­such as the discovery of Pluto and the invention of photography—­Galt noted that he had long advocated getting “rid of all arrangements rendering the condition of the insane one of confinement and constraint.” “I rejoice too,” he added in a

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self-­congratulatory manner, “that I can cordially support t­hese new ideas. I rejoice in the fact that for many years ­these princi­ples have been advocated as far as my h­ umble efforts would allow me in the annual reports of the Eastern Asylum, in other writings which I have published in medical journals, and as far as pos­si­ble have been actually been [sic] carried out in part or wholly in this Institution.”115 To what extent had he implemented t­ hese reforms? Although his f­ ather had been criticized for hiring out asylum inmates to work the keeper’s farm, John Galt reinstituted hiring out for stable patients. A white man accompanied an asylum officer off grounds to collect hogs. A ­free black man delivered the local paper. A ­free black w ­ oman worked as a cook for a local ­family, with whom she boarded. A white ­woman boarded with the asylum matron while her ward was ­under construction. Many more patients worked within the confines of the asylum including some, like the ­free black ­woman who worked as a nurse for convalescing patients, in positions that required special trustworthiness.116 Although t­ hese individuals did not reside with Williamsburg families (with the exception of the ­free black w ­ oman who worked as a cook), in likening his institution to Gheel, Galt appears to emphasize the fact that select patients enjoyed mobility beyond the confines of the asylum, “unrestricted social intercourse,” and ­were included in the productive and remunerative work of the broader community.117 Galt admitted that he had been prevented from implementing this system as “thoroughly and entirely” as he would have preferred. The obstacles in his way included “changes in the board of directors” at his institution, and “varying opinions and analogous difficulties” that exerted “so obstructive an influence” as to make innovation impossible. The cessation of a decade-­long practice of allowing “nearly all the male patients” to go “unattended and at ­will about the neighborhood” relieved him of responsibility for their conduct, but was not sought by him since he believed that “the happiness and welfare” of the patients was “so much enhanced” by liberty. Comparing himself to an individual crushed ­under “the chariot wheels of destiny,” Galt implied that he willingly sacrificed himself so long as “the bright pro­gress of the good and true is ever onward to the millennial dawn.” He ruefully predicted that once “a few favored asylums” ­adopted some combination of the cottage system and f­ amily living, then ­these practices would gain broad ac­cep­tance, although institutions like the Eastern Lunatic Asylum would have to “take a h­ umble position in the rear, instead of that which they ­ought to have occupied in the foremost rank.”118 Quoting from his own past reports, he offered proof of his longstanding, prescient interest in increasing patient freedom and mobility. Apart from estab-



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  47

lishing the consistency of his views over time, his aim was to portray his opinions as correct ­because they ­were rooted in firsthand experience rather than a desire for popularity. That his opinions ­were also “associated with a progressive tendency” was a source of gratification that made up for his professional isolation. “Hitherto I have been the sole champion, at least on this side of the Atlantic of [­these] princi­ples,” he resignedly concluded, “ere long ­there ­will be ­others ready and willing alike to bear the attendant censure” that follows the pre­sen­ta­tion of “new ideas.”119 Lest his colleagues object that the Gheel model was too tied to a specific place and historical context to be replicated elsewhere, Galt offered a complex rebuttal. He first established that the national character of Belgians was not “phlegmatic” like that of Hollanders; the u­ nion of t­ hese two nations was one of po­liti­cal con­ve­nience. Belgians ­were a “sprightly” ­people whose culture, religion, and language reflected constitutional differences with their neighbors. Although he did not explic­itly say so, the subtext was that ­these differences ­were analogous to ­those between Northerners and Southerners in the United States. Galt then broadened his scope to affirm that the replication of “any system of government or management, as applied to the sane or the insane” depended upon a number of f­ actors. As in zoology and botany, he conceded that successful transplantation could be challenging. As an example of a failed experiment, Galt provocatively suggested the planting of “a New ­England model” of government into “Spanish-­American republics.” Having thus implied that the revolutions then roiling South Amer­i­ca ­were the fault of meddling Northerners imposing their abolitionist vision of a modern state on slave socie­ties, Galt pivoted to conclude that national attributes did not ­matter, however, when it came to “managing the mentally affected.” The living out system pioneered at Gheel was based on universal princi­ples, as “generally applicable . . . ​as is the doctrine of non-­restraint.”120 Galt understood that the chief reason that his practices would not be emulated or recognized as innovative was ­because his institution accepted slaves and ­free blacks as patients and employed slaves as attendants. However, the feasibility of patients living and hiring out was given support by the l­abor of ­those hired slaves upon whom the operation of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was entirely dependent. E ­ very year, slaves would hire themselves out or their masters would hire them out to the asylum, where they would live with relative autonomy. To ensure their dependability, Galt often paid t­ hese hired hands a small salary in addition to the fees paid to their masters.121 Both slaves and stable patients w ­ ere viewed as subordinates who, with proper guidance and minimal reward, could be trusted to do productive ­labor and interact with the

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community. While t­ here is no direct evidence to suggest that the example of enslaved staff inspired imitation for the hiring out of patients, this is prob­ably ­because the connection was taken for granted. Galt did, however, propose one revealing modification of the Gheel system: a central asylum to oversee the living out program and to which patients might return if they w ­ ere unable to responsibly cope with e­ ither cottage living or f­ amily life. This is exactly what happened to a ­free black patient who Galt had assigned to live with a Williamsburg ­family as their cook. ­After allegedly threatening a child in the home, this patient briefly returned to the wards to regain control of her emotions before resuming her position with the ­family.122 “It is as the literary criticism of the French poet Boileau,” Galt quoted Contre les femmes (“Against ­Women” or Sat­ ire X) to justify his recommended improvement: “Pour le rendre libre, il le faut enchainer” [to become ­free, one must be shackled]. In other words, liberty had its limits. “The greater the degree of liberty allowed [to patients],” Galt argued, “the more is required so entire and unbroken a system as can only result from a single controlling power.”123 Patients would find freedom in exercising self-­ control through ­labor and social interactions, with the understanding that violating expectations might result in a stricter confinement. Galt’s description of outpatient care also epitomized the hiring out system for slaves. Slaves w ­ ere granted a degree of liberty and mobility with the understanding that they ­were to work for the enrichment of their masters, and return at the end of the year without creating difficulty or attempting to escape. For slaves, the laws upholding the “peculiar institution” served as the central asylum overseeing this arrangement. It must have been particularly galling for the members of AMSAII to be lectured on the merit of freedom from a colleague who publicly supported slavery, even if they did not have strong abolitionist allegiances. Dorothea Dix wrote to Dr. Kirkbride in 1856 to encourage him to visit V ­ irginia and speak with Galt personally, to which he jokingly replied, “­can’t Nichols go down to Williamsburg with you and lead the assault—­he is a brave man.”124 In 1858, Galt was sent a form letter from the Association requesting that he write a report on “The practicality and desirableness of keeping some classes of patients in ordinary domestic residences more or less connected with some hospital,” to be delivered the following year. He ignored the request, pasting it into a scrapbook alongside newspaper clippings about current events rather than filing it with other professional correspondence.125 Galt’s ­mother had died seven months earlier, but this fact prob­ably had ­little bearing on his lack of engagement with his peers.126



No Peculiar Strictness Is Observed  49

Dix wrote to Kirkbride and Nichols again in 1861 asking them to change the upcoming Association meeting venue from Rhode Island to Washington, D.C., in order to “conciliate the Southern members.” Nichols thought the gesture unnecessary, asking ruefully, “Is t­ here any quarrel between the southern & northern mad doctors, ­unless we except Galt?”127 Having irremediably offended his American colleagues, Galt tried to find other venues for his iconoclastic ideas. He was perhaps mistaken to think that audiences in ­England would be more receptive. Although he celebrated Lincoln Asylum’s abolition of corporal restraint, the superintendent who initiated that policy was forced to resign and never again obtained an appointment at a public institution.128 Galt’s professional isolation was compounded by an addiction to laudanum, which he privately strug­gled to overcome. He apparently gave up his ambitions to influence the field of psychiatry in his lifetime. His only other publications ­after 1856, apart from his reports, w ­ ere a self-­published essay on “Idiocy” and some poems honoring the South that he published ­under a pseudonym.129

Conclusion Galt had begun his c­ areer as a medical student in Philadelphia, speculating on the usefulness of plants growing near his hometown in V ­ irginia. He attempted to modernize the Eastern Lunatic Asylum by implementing the moral therapy that was the standard practice of asylums in Eu­rope and in the North, while si­mul­ta­neously parlaying his regional expertise on the issue of caring for African Americans. He alone advocated mixed-­race institutions and the abolition of all modes of restraint, publicly exaggerating the harmony that he claimed prevailed at his institution. He succeeded only in alienating his colleagues. His unique experience as the head of the only asylum to accept slaves and f­ ree blacks as patients and to employ slaves at attendants ultimately contributed to his endorsement of the ­family living and cottage systems of outpatient care, for which he was ostracized by his peers. His frustrations ­were further exacerbated by the mounting po­liti­cal tension over the issue of slavery, which he reluctantly supported as a youth and then ardently defended as a middle-­ aged man, culminating in the Civil War that began in April 1861. When the war ended three years l­ater, Galt was dead by his own hand and slavery abolished, but unrestricted patient liberty and interracial care remained controversial. It is challenging to reconcile John M. Galt’s characterization of himself as a progressive visionary with his defense of slavery. Undoubtedly, he was an eccentric with a tendency to portray himself as an aggrieved victim of Northern

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arrogance and slander. But Galt’s complaints about his colleagues and his claims to originality have substance. A ­ fter the Civil War, the doctor whose cottage system in E ­ ngland Galt had admired wrote a scathing essay about the prevalence of mechanical restraint in American asylums. Dr. Bucknill suggested that this practice was a relic of slavery. He ­didn’t bother touring any Southern asylums on his visit to the United States on the presumption that ­these would be the most backward of institutions.130 It would surely have been inconceivable to him that the American superintendent who had gone the furthest in expressing support for patient liberty was John M. Galt of ­Virginia, and that it was slavery and enslaved attendants’ ­labor that had enabled Galt to take such radical positions.

chapter two

As the Ea­gle to the Sparrow Enslaved Attendants and Caregiving The advantage of having a physician as superintendent of an asylum is similar to that flowing to churches in having Bishops: you are thus enabled to have with almost positive certainty, a man of ability at the head of the institution.1 —­John M. Galt, from an unpublished draft of “Ideas on Insanity” ­ here is this difference between our asylum and ­those of the North, that ­there T they have white attendants & ­here coloured.2 —­John M. Galt, from an undated loose paper Coloured p­ eople can only be equal to the white by their g­ reat cheerfulness & devotion. As the ea­gle to the sparrow.3 —­John M. Galt, 1853 entry in his commonplace book

The Eastern Lunatic Asylum could not have functioned without the l­abor of slaves. Members of the Association for Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane stressed that the role of the superintendent in implementing moral therapy was of paramount importance to the quality of an asylum. This emphasis reflected a hierarchical, paternalistic conception of morality that was partly derived from mainstream practices of authority drawn from Euro-­Christian notions of God’s relationship to ­human beings. But the ­people who had the most frequent and intimate interactions with asylum patients w ­ ere typically the subordinate staff. At Eastern Lunatic Asylum, the attendants ­were slaves. Superintendent Galt’s critics believed that slaves lacked the necessary moral refinement to provide proper asylum care. When white asylum attendants w ­ ere accused of mistreatment or neglect of patients, as happened from time to time, the reputation of the institution might suffer but the perception of white p­ eople as a class of caregivers did not. This was not true for black attendants, who had to prove that they w ­ ere capable and compassionate. Yet b­ ecause their very humanity was at stake, enslaved attendants had an additional incentive to provide exemplary moral care. The relationship between administrators and attendants at the Williamsburg asylum was uniquely exploitative. Unlike white staff, enslaved attendants ­were not able to leave the job at w ­ ill nor w ­ ere they paid for their l­ abor, although

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some did receive direct compensation in addition to the money that was given to their ­owners. The relationship between slave attendants and patients was also exploitative, but nuanced and complex. Neither party had entered into the relationship freely; neither enjoyed all the rights and privileges of f­ ree citizens. Superadded to this was a paradox: slave attendants had greater freedom of mobility than most patients within the institution, though not beyond its borders in society at large. They w ­ ere the gatekeepers and the guardians of the room keys; they grew, prepared, and delivered the food; they even seized unruly patients—­black and white—­and subjected them to restraints, forced showers (douching), and isolation. Unlike white attendants at other asylums, however, enslaved attendants at Eastern Lunatic Asylum did not have access to the storeroom; they had a limited diet and poor living conditions; and they could be whipped for insubordination. Although John M. Galt promoted interracial institutions, he was sensitive to the charge that enslaved attendants provided inferior care. He also believed that African Americans w ­ ere socially and intellectually inferior h­ uman beings. Galt nevertheless recognized that he could not have maintained his asylum without slave attendants, and he defended the quality of care that they provided. The scale of the institution and public nature of the care provided to vulnerable strangers, who ­were at the mercy of the attendants rather than in control of them, made it difficult to obscure or minimize the contributions of enslaved staff. Galt possessed greater power and higher status, but he was dependent upon his supposed inferiors. Knowledge of his de­pen­dency elicited an ambiguous response; Galt si­mul­ta­neously championed and demeaned slaves’ caregiving. Rather than view “cheerfulness and devotion” as e­ ither marks of intellectual inferiority or passive ac­cep­tance of slavery, which the epigraph at the start if this chapter implies, this attitude—­which Galt characterized in a ste­reo­typical fashion—­might be better understood as a manifestation of the slaves’ dif­fer­ent conception of moral care: one governed by a sense of spiritual equality and moral integrity rooted in Afro-­Christianity.

Conceptions of Care Feminist phi­los­o­phers have articulated an ethic of care in which the relationship between caregiver and dependent is central to the notion of equality. In theory, this reciprocal and care-­based notion contrasts with a rights-­based, individualistic conception of equality.4 Care often functions ideologically to maintain privilege, however, a function disguised by the characterization of care as a ­labor of love or of caregivers as naturally cheerful rather than delib-



As the Ea­gle to the Sparrow  53

erately empathetic. In order to overturn the status quo, care must be viewed as “not only a moral concept but a valuable po­liti­cal concept as well.”5 In a context in which civil rights w ­ ere limited to white men, the caregiving l­abor of asylum slaves was inherently po­liti­cal ­because it provided opportunities to ­counter the dehumanizing experience of bondage and defy racist ste­reo­types of black inadequacy. Slave attendants ­were an integral part of the institution’s therapeutic mission. In recognizing and cultivating the moral faculties of asylum patients, slaves asserted their own competency, humanity, and dignity. The simultaneous per­for­mance of duties and personhood superficially resembles nineteenth-­century sentimental discourse that naturalized sympathetic caregiving for white ­people, especially ­women, but asylum rec­ords suggest enslaved attendants might have slipped this ideological yoke. Moments in which their conceptions of care conflicted with ­those of white administrators are the most obvious examples of this slippage: letting select patients escape, spreading gossip, refusing an assignment, and deploying conjure. Yet it would be myopic to imagine that alternatives to sentimental modes of care ­were only manifested in ­these incidents of dissension. Disease and death ­were a regular part of life that touched every­one regardless of social status, over which nineteenth-­century caregivers correctly perceived that they had l­ittle control. The tragedies of o­ thers provided opportunities for caregivers to show sympathy, and the value ascribed to the affective and spiritual aspects of caregiving could promote bonding through shared suffering.6 Asylum slaves cared for insane whites who had, in many cases, lost the social contacts and sense of decorum from which they derived and demonstrated higher status. Indeed, upon commitment they lost ­legal entitlement to their own persons. In some cases, too, white patients lost their rationality—­the intellectual acumen that allegedly set them apart as a race or as a class. Despite the centrality of their ­labor and the sensitivity they showed to patients, slaves sometimes faced disrespectful treatment by their charges and white administrators. They nevertheless chose to exercise the authority with which they w ­ ere entrusted in ways that, more often than not, reflected awareness of their own extreme vulnerability to life’s contingencies. While the care provided in this unique environment did not necessarily foster “intimate personal bonds, rooted in a shared recognition of contingency and need” between enslaved attendants and white patients, sometimes it did.7 Eastern Lunatic Asylum also accepted f­ ree blacks and slaves as patients—­ some of whom became attendants themselves—­so the hospital may well have fostered a sense of mutuality between attendants and this set of patients. Even where a connection was lacking, some slaves may have found a sense of

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spiritual fulfillment and moral rectitude in the act of caring for ­people unable to care for themselves. Furthermore, in witnessing the patients’ degradation, enslaved attendants might also have found an empowering proof of equality in the ­human condition.8 It is worth asking how enslaved caregivers might have conceived of both the care they provided to asylum patients and the sacrifices they made to provide that care. At times this l­ abor might have come at the expense of their own families, though a few of the ­women attendants lived with their young ­children at the asylum. ­Women attendants also carried a disproportionate share of the workload, but their contributions ­were valued at a lower rate of compensation. How did they respond to t­ hese inequities? Unfortunately, the slaves at Eastern Lunatic Asylum did not write down their thoughts about the nature of their work. The evidence comes primarily from the superintendent’s observations about the administrative structure of the asylum and the interpersonal dynamics between patients and staff. Some of this rec­ord keeping was self-­ conscious, but the scale of the operation resulted in an abundance of paperwork that, while not unmediated, is characterized by a hurried pragmatism. Against ­these two sets of documents—­supplemented by the rec­ords from commitment hearings, the writings of patients, and the letters of ­family members and jailors—­it is pos­si­ble to outline the daily work lives of the enslaved staff members and get a sense of their attitude ­toward their charges and one another. White administrators wrote about patients in ways that created emotional distance, reinforcing the “asymmetry of sentimental sympathy.” 9 Enslaved attendants, on the other hand, practiced an empathic equality that was intertwined with their physical closeness to the patients. Most arresting is that in the twenty years ­under consideration, t­ here ­were only two incidents in which slave attendants ­were accused of abusing patients; and in one case other patients contradicted the accuser to defend the slave so accused.10 Given the exceptionally difficult working conditions ­under which slaves provided care—­ministering to frequently recalcitrant and sometimes violent patients and being assigned the dirtiest jobs—­the ability of enslaved attendants to remain steadfast is particularly remarkable, and cannot be entirely explained by their l­egal status. Asylum slaves ­were not ­free but most had choices; to get out of the employ of the asylum one simply had to underperform and thus assure being passed over for rehire the following year. Most asylum slaves stayed for at least three years, the maximum allowed by the board of directors in order to prevent nepotism. However, this law was not uniformly enforced and a core group was continually rehired for five to twenty-­five years. At times, too, the slaves belonging to white officers worked at the asylum.



As the Ea­gle to the Sparrow  55

Slaves’ solicitousness ­toward patients cannot be entirely explained by fear of punishment. Punishment did not curtail theft of food, sneaking off grounds or—­the most common complaint against the slaves—­helping patients escape to freedom. And, arguably, the latter might have been acts of mercy on the part of caring individuals who understood the value of liberty rather than evidence of negligent indifference. Some enslaved staff may have derived spiritual satisfaction from their jobs, but recognition of this possibility should not minimize the coercion to which they ­were subjected. An idealized picture of all of the attendants would be equally distorted. The personalities of the enslaved staff members w ­ ere doubtless as varied as any other group of workers, and this variety likely meant that some slaves w ­ ere more empathetic and did a better job than o­ thers. Nevertheless, their status as slaves and the centrality of their ­labor to the successful function of the asylum suggests that many possessed an ethic of care dif­fer­ent from that espoused by asylum administrators. Grasping the nature of that ethic, ­will yield a new, richer assessment of life on the wards.

The Slaves and the Centrality of Their ­Labor The enslaved employees changed over the years, but for the most part the asylum was staffed by a core group of slaves who ­were valued for their reliability, as well as their easily exploited l­ abor. Despite their value, rec­ord keeping about who was hired and for what duties was haphazard and incomplete. By cross-­ referencing the archive for the years 1841 to 1862, a rough outline of slaves who ­were long-­term employees emerges. Although the terms of their hire ­were grossly unjust, it is fair to say that this core group, who ­were continually employed for five to twenty-­five years, performed their jobs with enough dedication to be continually rehired. This group includes “sprightly” Lavinia, who worked at the asylum from 1846 ­until her death while on the job in 1852. Albert Diggs worked at the asylum from at least as early as 1853 ­until 1861 and possibly ­later. His contributions ­were valuable enough that the superintendent met with him privately a­ fter an altercation with a white officer to assuage Albert’s hurt feelings. Patience worked at the asylum from 1846 to 1861, and was defended against charges of abuse by patients who noticed her efforts on their behalf. Leticia, also known as “Tishy,” worked at the asylum from 1841 to at least 1844 and possibly ­later. Dandridge Jones worked at the asylum from 1841 to 1856 and possibly l­ ater. Dandridge was known to behave violently ­toward his wife, who lived on a neighboring farm, but he was entrusted with the position of night watchmen, perhaps ­because of his intimidating demeanor.11

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At least three, and possibly four, married or cohabiting ­couples worked together at the asylum for many years. Eliza Peyton worked t­ here from 1841 to 1854 and possibly ­later. Eliza was married to Jim Peyton, who worked at the asylum in 1841 and perhaps in subsequent years. Tom Peyton was also employed at the asylum, but died in 1843. His relationship to Eliza and Jim is unclear. Nancy worked on the wards from 1841 to 1847 and possibly l­ ater. She “lived with” “Mason’s Thom” who was also employed at the asylum from circa 1842 to at least 1853. Ned, who was married to Betty, worked at the asylum from 1841 to at least 1852. Betty worked ­there from 1841 to 1861. In 1849, “Old Thom died, about 31 or 32 years of age, and having served the asylum for about 25 years.” Old Thom was prob­ably husband to Mourning, who worked at the asylum from at least 1843 through 1845 and possibly longer. Eliza and Albert Marston, who appear to have been a married c­ ouple, also worked at the asylum for a few years, prob­ably in the 1850s.12 The opportunity for slaves hiring out to maintain close contact with loved ones might have made working at the asylum an attractive proposition. One of two slaves named Harriet was ­mother to several young ­children who lived with her at the asylum. Slave w ­ omen ordinarily had to subordinate the needs of their kin to their o­ wners’ demands, but Harriet was able to si­mul­ta­ neously take care of her ­children and the patients, as well as have her ­children treated when sick by the hospital doctors as a benefit of the job.13 Administrators did articulate a preference for hiring ­women without young ­children, so most likely this Harriet was owned by Mrs. Bowden, who also worked at the asylum. In fact, several of the enslaved staff ­were owned by individuals who ­either worked at the asylum themselves—­saving the institution considerable money—­or lived nearby and had a tangential connection. Mrs. Bowden also owned Cinderella, who worked at the asylum from 1841 to 1852 and possibly ­later. Betsy worked briefly on the wards and was owned by a man who sold wood to the asylum and had once worked as gatekeeper. Joanna worked as an attendant for a few years; she was owned by a w ­ oman who sold pork to the institution.14 Shorter-­term enslaved laborers often worked one to three years in succession ­doing a variety of jobs. The shorter tenure of t­ hese workers prob­ably does not indicate administrative dis­plea­sure with their per­for­mance. Joanna, for example, received explicit praise from the superintendent, as did a man named Osway, who worked directly for the superintendent. O ­ thers, Tom the cook, for instance, received cash bonuses.15 Despite the appearance of nepotism, administrators understandably preferred to keep the same enslaved staff in order to avoid the hassle of continual retraining. However, the availability



As the Ea­gle to the Sparrow  57

of slaves for hire depended entirely on the willingness of masters to hire them out; this, and an incomplete historical rec­ord, likely account for most of the slaves who w ­ ere employed by the asylum for comparatively short periods. The scope of work done by slaves at Eastern Lunatic Asylum was varied, combining ele­ments of farm l­abor and domestic ser­vice, but the scale of the operation was daunting. The fact that “Old Thom” died at thirty-­one or thirty-­ two is indicative of the physically taxing life of an asylum slave. Lavinia also died at thirty-­one or thirty-­two while digging a cistern for the asylum, presumably of a heart attack or pulmonary edema since she suffered from pleurisy.16 The jobs that slaves performed at the asylum w ­ ere more often than not difficult and dirty. Their day began before dawn, when the cooks arose to make breakfast. Ward slaves ­were assigned the job of awakening the patients and seeing to their dressing, including washing and dressing ­those who ­were willing but unable to do so themselves. They then brought the patients to breakfast or delivered breakfast before addressing the task of “cleaning out the apartments,” including emptying the chamber pots.17 Hardly a pleasant job u­ nder any circumstance, it was particularly nasty at the asylum where, in 1842–43, approximately sixteen ward hands would have had to empty 93–135 pots ­every morning.18 Patients often suffered diarrhea and constipation due to the medi­cations they took in addition to ordinary bouts with indigestion, viruses, and bacterial infections. In a survey of the hospital rec­ords from 1811 to 1832, Superintendent Galt counted 88 cases of tetanus, 406 cases of congestive fever, and 411 cases of dysentery with inflammation of the bladder.19 Doctor Galt’s own notebooks indicate that patients ­were frequently “labouring ­under diarrhoea.”20 For example, of seventy-­eight men treated at the asylum in 1842–43, two men suffered with constipation, two had unspecified bowel complaints, one had worms, one had diarrhea for an entire month, three more had “intense diarrhea” or “no command” over their bowels, seven men ­were “filthy” or incontinent, one man ate dirt, and another, in the words of the physician, “shits on the floor of his room.”21 This list does not include ­those patients simply described at intervals as “sick,” which included colds, fevers, nausea, and perhaps bowel irregularities. Similar statistics are found in a notebook from 1852 to 1853.22 ­There ­were always fewer w ­ omen patients than men at the asylum, sometimes only half as many, but their habits and health w ­ ere no better. Of thirty-­ one ­women mentioned in the same patient notebook of 1843–44, two had diarrhea, one discharged “many worms” and was “not a clean patient,” and another was similarly “filthy.” This is not a complete list, of course, but it does provide a sense of the ordinariness of bowel trou­ble and of the daily lives of

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the slaves who had to do the cleaning. Loose medical notes from November  1852 note “much diarrhoea and other sickness in the female department.”23 And notes from April 1842 mention a w ­ oman who intentionally broke her chamber pot, for which she was forced to wear restraining mitts.24 In addition to cleaning up such messes, the attending slaves would have been expected to report all irregularities to the superintendent or to a white officer. In May 1843, for instance, Mrs. Ferguson passed “a quantity of worms,” prompting Mourning to inform the superintendent of her suspicions that Mrs. Ferguson had also “had a fit the previous night.”25 The same vigilance applied to any evidence of vomiting, as when Harriet told the superintendent in May  1845 that Miss Lynch “pukes.”26 Indeed, the patients vomited not only food and medicine but also worms, as Betsy Malone did twelve days before ­dying in 1852 and Miss Bear did in July 1857.27 The ­women ward slaves ­were valuable in­for­mants with regard to the menstrual cycles of some of the patients, such as Mrs. Jane Bonney, who was underweight and suffered from amenorrhea.28 The attention to menstruation stemmed from concern about the possibility of pregnancy among the younger ­women patients. In fact, ­there was at least one live birth at the asylum and two stillborn deliveries, all of which w ­ ere potentially scandalous b­ ecause two of the ­women had become pregnant a­ fter their admission. Collection of this information protected the asylum’s reputation, but it was also potentially vital to the health of the individuals involved, who could not necessarily be relied upon to self-­report.29 Sickness among the patients had consequences not only for enslaved ward hands but also for the enslaved staff employed in the asylum’s kitchen. In 1841, Fanny and Major, assisted by one unidentified scullery maid, labored making three meals a day for approximately ninety patients seven days a week.30 Sometime between 1846 and 1852 the cooks ­were Patty, Maria, and Tom assisted by William Henry working as scullion; they served 160–247 patients.31 In addition to regular food preparation, convalescing patients ­were often prescribed special diets. Patients with diarrhea ­were fed broiled chicken, buttermilk and tea, or cheese and sweet potatoes.32 The chicken would have to be killed and plucked; the sweet potatoes cleaned and roasted or boiled; the cow milked and the milk soured. ­Those with scurvy got warm lemonade and salad.33 The lemons would have to be squeezed; the w ­ ater fetched and boiled; the salad greens grown, collected, and washed. It is easy to imagine what an overwhelming amount of work preparing that much food in even the best-­appointed antebellum kitchen, and then cleaning it up, would have entailed. Furthermore, whereas patients previously might have eaten with their hands or crude



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utensils, moral therapy demanded more refined accoutrements. For the staff, this meant more dishes. A typical breakfast was wheat bread with tea and coffee. The cooks would have risen before dawn to stoke the fires and allow enough time for the bread dough to rise. Butter was purchased once a week so the kitchen slaves did not need to churn it. The asylum had one cow in 1841; two more w ­ ere purchased in 1847.34 As ­there is no mention of purchasing other dairy products, it was likely that the enslaved staff ­were responsible for milking the cows. The vegetables from the kitchen garden ­were supposed to be collected before breakfast so that they could be washed, peeled, and prepared in time for lunch. The kitchen staff ate ­after breakfast had been served to patients, then worked at a furious pace to get ready for the largest meal of the day—­lunch (known as “dinner”). Five days a week in 1841, patients ­were given slightly less than a pound of fresh meat—­pork, beef, and chicken—­which would prob­ably have been roasted or stewed.35 In 1841, the kitchen slaves cut up the meat on each plate before serving it. Once Galt took over, most patients ­were given complete cutlery, although that meant that the staff had to count the knives ­every day to make sure that all ­were returned. The other two days a week patients ­were given salt meat or fish with rice and vegetables. Patients w ­ ere provided with molasses upon demand. The vegetables grown for patient consumption in 1841 w ­ ere potatoes, turnips, and corn. Sometime ­after 1846, the kitchen garden expanded—­ Robin, Sam, Henry, George, John, and Jack ­were appointed gardeners working alongside patients—­prob­ably to include a greater variety of vegetables as well as provide activity for able-­bodied inmates.36 ­There are two references to peas, for example, as well as references to the consumption of pears, blackberries, cabbage, watermelon, and persimmons.37 Nevertheless, in June  1853, four patients ­were diagnosed with scurvy, prompting Superintendent Galt to chastise the board: “I said it was a disgrace to any institution & the vegetables should be given five times weekly instead of twice.”38 A typical dinner (supper) was cornpone and tea. Pickles and vinegar w ­ ere occasionally served, and ­were prob­ably made on the premises by the enslaved cooks.39 The kitchen also produced about six to eight gallons of homemade soap ­every week for the institution, using the lard from the meat and the ashes from the fires. The homemade soap was used for ­doing laundry, an especially arduous task. Asylum patients originally slept on straw pallets, but with the advent of moral therapy came bedsteads, mattresses, and linens. A few demented patients who tended to shred their mattresses w ­ ere given only straw, but by and large the female slaves and several black female patients ­were charged

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with tending to the linens. Adding to the regular laundry was the need to wash the bedding and clothing of patients who suffered from incontinence, diarrhea, erysipelas, and skin infections resulting from self-­mutilation and ruptured boils.40 In 1841, the laundry from the men’s ward was done twice a week. The ­women’s laundry was also washed twice a week on alternating days. In 1845, Mourning with the aid of nine other w ­ omen, including some f­ ree black and enslaved ­women patients u­ nder her direction, ­were employed primarily as laundresses.41 With 157 patients in 1845 and 278 just eight years ­later, it stands to reason that washing was an everyday event.42 The laundry would have been scrubbed by hand, then wrung out and dried on racks. It is not clear w ­ hether the ­water was heated, cold, or a combination of both. ­Either way, the skin of the laundresses hands ­were likely cracked from their exertions, which may have added to their risk of bacterial infection and certainly would have been uncomfortable, especially in the wintertime. Fire was a prob­lem at the Eastern Asylum. In 1841, the asylum slaves ­were responsible for tending forty-­nine fires in the wintertime. But other duties prevented them from constantly watching patients who might attempt to burn themselves or the buildings. In 1843, for example, a patient who was locked in his room convinced another to bring him a lighted bit of coal so that he might smoke a pipe. ­W hether intentionally or accidentally, the restricted patient set his room on fire and badly burned his feet before smoke was seen coming from the room and staff ­were able to put out the blaze.43 Ultimately, the steward blamed a slave named John for neglecting “to fasten the cellar door, as he was directed to do,” which allowed the two patients to conspire. Not surprisingly, Galt yearned to replace coal grates and wood fires with a central basement furnace and forced air heat, something he was able to do in ­later building additions.44 Improvements could not guarantee safety, of course. Allowing patients to help in the garden eliminated the prob­lem of idleness, but introduced the possibility that tools might be used as weapons. Similar dangers obtained in the carpentry and shoemaking shop, as when “Gary wounded Henry Searhigh with a saw; the servant had gone for a moment a­ fter a patient whom he missed from the wood-­yard”;45 or when “Mr Thornton[,] taking advantage of the servant’s absence at sunset about preparations for supper[,] severed his fin­ger.” 46 The following week Mr. Thornton managed to cut off another digit.47 Sunset was a particularly challenging time of day for the slaves as it was difficult to see in the dwindling light, and yet slaves w ­ ere responsible for making sure that each patient got supper and was safely returned to his or her room



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for bedtime. In addition to ­these regular routines, slaves ­were sometimes entrusted with additional special duties. Slaves ­were expected to keep watch over suicidal patients. In 1850, for example, Mr. Richeson suffered from a fit of “religious melancholy” and attempted to hang himself. He was consequently restrained and an unidentified servant was charged with sitting up with him.48 This duty meant staying up all night with a patient in his or her room, even ­after having worked all day. When Wilson Lumpkin took a dose of laudanum intended for another patient in addition to his own, slaves had to immediately fetch and give him warm w ­ ater, a mustard emetic, and strong coffee. That eve­ning the slaves w ­ ere instructed not to allow Mr. Lumpkin to sleep for fear the overdose would kill him, which meant that they too had to stay awake.49 Sometimes slaves ­were assigned to sleep in a patient’s room for unspecified reasons. Attendants ­didn’t always readily comply with t­hese demands, as when Eliza refused to sleep in Miss Milner’s room for reasons unknown.50 At other times slaves ­were expected to walk into town with convalescent patients.51 While ­these outings might have provided a welcome break from drudgery, they also entailed considerable risk. A patient might flee or even become violent in public, leading to bad publicity and the worry and expense of tracking down runaways. Even the most routine interactions with patients could be fraught with complications. As with digestion and expulsion, ingestion of food was a carefully regulated event that received significant attention at the asylum. It was a common occurrence for patients to refuse nourishment; enslaved staff ­were drawn into ­these power strug­gles over food. In some cases, the patients ­were suspicious of the food made by the cooks: “Mrs. Cox[,] though denying it, reported to have passed worms . . . . ​said the coffee was poisoned.”52 Mr. Hickson, who was “very weak & thin,” was also suspicious of the coffee and refused to eat generally due to his “fancies about poison.” Dr. Hughlett rejected the cheese for the same reason.53 Edward Ragland was convinced that the assistant steward was interfering with his dinner and therefore refused to eat it. Other patients ­were simply fussy. Archibald Yarborough constantly declined food and Wilson Johnston was “par­tic­u­lar about eating.” Mrs. Yarrington, when treated for measles, refused to drink barley w ­ ater b­ ecause “ ‘its [sic] rich folks’ victuals.’ ” Some, like Miss Milner, would eat but then attempt to induce vomiting.54 For some patients the refusal to eat predated entry into the asylum, while for ­others their denial appears to have been connected to the nausea they experienced when forced to take morphine. In April 1842, for example, Mrs. McMullen threw up her laudanum. Similarly, Miss Whitworth “pukes ­every time she takes the morphine.” She subsequently refused to eat ­until fi­nally a slave

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“fed her with the spoon.”55 Miss Whitworth was frightened of men and would not see the superintendent, so likely the female slave who fed her was also the one who coaxed her to eat.56 Other instances w ­ ere less solicitous, and prob­ ably even escalated into violent encounters. On numerous occasions, the stomach pump was ordered for patients who continually jeopardized their health by refusing nourishment.57 This device was a brass pump with an attached tube that would be inserted down a patient’s throat. Threading it through the esophagus of a resistant patient meant not only overcoming that patient’s gag reflex but also required that the recipient be physically restrained so as to avoid serious injury or even death. If the tube was inserted too roughly it could lead to internal bleeding or suffocation. Although a physician would likely have been the person who fitted the tube, slave assistants would have been pres­ent to both restrain the patient and place food into the pump. The act of force-­feeding patients demanded close physical contact between patients and enslaved caregivers, and likely generated emotional involvement as well. In addition to the stress and strain for the slaves who had to exert force without causing injury was added the pos­si­ble burden of empathy for and/or fear of the patients. Jane Bonney, for example, who had to be force-­fed repeatedly, was convinced that her mouth was attached to the mouth of a dead person. Perhaps this phantom mouth belonged to the dead infant she had killed through neglect ­after having been abandoned by the child’s ­father shortly before or ­after its birth.58 ­There was likely a fine line between intimacy and revulsion for both parties in t­ hese encounters that, at the very least, would have made for a charged atmosphere. Slaves ­were also entrusted to forcibly administer medicine to patients. T ­ here is no recorded evidence that slaves provided their own herbal remedies to patients, but they did coerce patients to take laudanum and other mineral medi­ cations on the doctor’s ­orders. When a noncompliant white patient named John Myers refused medi­cation, Dr. Galt directed an officer to gather together several of the slaves “at the hour for the administration of medicine” in order “to shew him that if it was thought proper, he might be forced to take the dose prescribed him, and indeed to carry this mea­sure into effect.” Moreover, Galt authorized that Myers “be showered when greatly excited.”59 In fact, it was slaves who w ­ ere routinely assigned the uncomfortable task of seizing unruly patients—­­those deemed a danger to themselves or ­others as well as ­those who ­were thought perversely obstinate—­and subjecting them to the shower-­bath or to isolation within their rooms. Such a procedure placed the enslaved in the unusual position of exercising power, corporal and psychological, over white as well as black patients. In addition to being repeatedly force-­fed,



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Mrs. Jane Bonney also had a handkerchief held to her eyes while douched. Mr. Roane was “showered” for stealing Mr. Saunder’s plate; Miss Whitworth (“she thinks she manages the world”) was ordered to have a shower-­bath followed by a warm rinse, a­ fter which she hid from the superintendent the following month b­ ecause “she still thinks me cruel”; and f­ree black patient Miranda Bird was “strait-­jacketed whilst given the cold immersion.” 60 ­These ­were not rare occurrences despite the superintendent’s efforts to introduce nonrestraint. A random sample of existing rec­ords for 1847 and 1844 suggest that, on average any given month, at least three male patients and three female patients would have been subjected to restraints, shower-­baths, or warm baths. For example, in April 1847: —­Mr. Gualtney was given a shower-­bath and restrained. —­Mr. Kennedy’s baths ­were stopped mid-­month. —­Mr. Miller had his legs fastened and restraining mitts placed on his hands to keep from breaking objects at night. —­Miss Arey White was showered, followed by a warm bath. —­Mrs. Cook was prescribed baths. —­Mrs. Altschu was douched, followed by a warm bath. —­Mrs. Miller was given a warm bath. —­Sarah (a slave) was given a warm bath. —­Mrs. Warren’s warm baths w ­ ere “prolonged.” 61 Warm baths might have been comparatively enjoyable, but they w ­ ere not optional. In any case, the close bodily contact between patients and enslaved attendants—­involving nudity in some instances—­in addition to the vio­lence of being forced into physical submission, likely produced a tempestuously confusing intimacy for both parties in ­these encounters. Slaves certainly understood how frightening physical restraint and punishment could be. They might have found this aspect of the job traumatic, but their personal experiences of vio­lence might also have made them more sensitive caregivers. Even if the ele­ment of punishment was removed—­if patients voluntarily bathed—­slaves ­were pres­ent to supervise patients at ­these vulnerable moments. The presence of enslaved staff generated resentment for some patients, while ­others seemed to relish, or at least profit from, the attention. Rebecca Parsley, for example, a white ­woman who suffered from edema, was largely immobile ­until an unnamed enslaved attendant was directed to take hold of Miss Parsley’s hands in her own and make the latter “apply her hands to the rubbing brush & thus force her to rub.” T ­ hese ministrations continued throughout

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the month, and eventually Miss Parley’s condition improved enough that she was able to take supervised walks around the grounds.62 Peter (Elliot), on the hand, “attempted to strike his attendant,” who had carried him into the garden to work. Peter was also a slave, but in the context of the asylum this shared life condition did not always mediate resentment.63 Patient resentment and re­sis­tance could be dangerous for the enslaved attendants. In May 1843, for instance, Mr. Diskler “resisted the efforts of the servants to put him in the shower-­bath.” 64 Two months ­later, Mr. Wallop “struck Robin in the eyes.” In 1844, Mrs. Shivers, who wanted “to go home,” “raised up chair against Letitia.” 65 Mrs. Owen “mashed” Harriet’s fin­ger in a door in October 1848. In March 1850, Mr. Gaines “attempted to stab Jeff.” 66 In December 1852, Washington Corbin “made a threat concerning servants formerly owned by his f­ amily & now hiring in Williamsburg.” That same month he sent a letter to a friend asserting, “I’ve been abused ­here by negros and abolition-­ protectors.” 67 The following month he “got into a scuffle with the servant of his ward.” 68 ­There w ­ ere complaints of Mr. Corbin g­ oing “gunning alone” ­later that year, and unspecified “reports in connection with two of the female servants.” 69 How a man with a demonstrated proclivity for vio­lence managed to obtain a gun while still a patient was, astonishingly, not explained. In January 1853, Mr. Powell eloped with two large knives but was captured when “Albert clasped his arms around him from ­behind, whilst [white officer] Mr. Lindsay approached him in front.”70 Despite the fact that slaves performed all the dirtiest jobs necessary for the function of the asylum and the well-­being of the patients, at times risking physical danger, their ­labor was sometimes unappreciated. Patient Robert  K. Mann “became very angry with servant for cleaning his room when he did not wish it to be done.”71 Mr. Holt, a patient who seriously wounded the asylum steward by stabbing him, wrote a letter to Superintendent Galt asserting, “my health and peace of mind ­will never improve as long as I am placed in a situation unpleasant to me and to be eternally annoyed by the insolence of a Negro.”72 It is not surprising that white patients unaccustomed to being directed by slaves might be offended by the amount of authority with which some w ­ ere entrusted. The potential cost of this power was the possibility of being accused of abuse, misconduct, or neglect. In 1853, for example, Dick was ordered whipped for having struck a male patient.73 In December 1861, Patience—­a slave with nine to fifteen years of experience working at the asylum—­was accused of abusing an el­derly female patient on two separate occasions, the last involving the patient dislocating and fracturing her humerus. This injury is



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consistent with being pulled forcefully by the arm, and was commonly called “nursemaid’s elbow” ­because it was associated with nurses yanking resistant ­children by the arm. Suspicion eventually shifted to Betty, possibly an attendant at the asylum for twenty years. It is entirely pos­si­ble that some of t­ hese accusations of abuse or neglect by slaves ­were true, however a larger injustice lay with imputing mistreatment solely to the enslaved staff rather than the hierarchical arrangement of the asylum and difficult working conditions. Indeed, an investigation of the accusation against Patience yielded conflicting ­accounts, with some witnesses suggesting that the patient had been beaten by another patient while unobserved b­ ecause “Patience had too much to do.”74 It is unclear w ­ hether this testimony also exonerated Betty, or if any resolution was reached. Superintendent Galt understood that patients might not be fair in their assessment of the attendants. One disadvantage of employing enslaved ward hands, Galt wrote, was that patients sometimes indulged “a false idea . . . . ​that they are badly treated by the coloured persons.” “If this ever occurs,” he added, most of them ­were “sure to tell of it . . . . ​Indeed they complain sometimes with a manifest injustice.”75 Miss Elizabeth Pierce, for instance, was transferred to a dif­fer­ent ward ­because she was inordinately and continuously critical of ward hand Judy.76 Galt also knew that the demands made on slaves ­were considerable and recognized that some w ­ ere better suited to the work than o­ thers. He believed that involving slaves in the close management of the patients’ health was critical to the success of his efforts to abolish all restraints. In July 1845, the same month he attempted an end to all forms of restraint, he wrote: “This month I have again ­adopted the precise mode of proceeding, by which I met in the first years of my management, so much success as to cures; that is, paying strict personal attention to each curative case individually in person, and making constant inquiries about them from the servants; this latter proceeding has the effect of making the servant interested in a case.”77 The following year in a letter to a colleague, Galt trumpeted the fact that in all but two of the male wards, “the patients are ­under ­little or no restraint or confinement but go about the premises wheresoever they please, and some of them beyond the enclosures.” He attributed this success in part to the six officers and the twenty-­ four slaves u­ nder him, noting that, “the general organ­ization of the male department depends and grows out of our system of management.” The savings to the institution from employing a slave, Henry, as a carpenter ­were also cause for cele­bration.78 Patient complaints and prejudice, however, made it difficult to manage public opinion, especially the idea that an asylum that employed slaves offered inferior care.

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This was the attitude of Mr. Robinson, who wrote Dr. Galt in 1857 seeking admission for an el­derly slave who had been a nurse in his ­family. Mr. Robinson fretted about rumors that enslaved patients ­were relegated to “coloured servants not suitable for their post.”79 He had heard that “­there had been negligence in their [enslaved patients’] treatment, a want of cleanliness as to their persons and a want of care as to their clothing.”80 In criticizing the attitude of enslaved attendants ­toward enslaved patients, Mr. Robinson may have assuaged his own conscience. But, of course, the irony is that his f­ amily, who had been nursed by this now-­elderly ­woman, ­were revealing that they had no desire to become caregivers themselves even though, in all likelihood, the old ­woman had sacrificed tending to her own f­ amily—­if she had one—­in order to care for theirs. Reformer Dorothea Dix was more than dubious about the quality of care provided by asylum slaves. She toured the Eastern Lunatic Asylum in September 1848. In his journal, Superintendent Galt noted with plea­sure her praise regarding “the neatness and beauty of the floors”—­a testament to the ­labor of the slaves who did the cleaning—­and her apparent surprise “at the want of excitement amongst the patients” and “the amount of liberty allowed to the insane in this & other southern institutions.” Ironically, Miss Dix noted the freedoms given to patients, but found fault with the system of management that produced this freedom. In par­tic­u­lar, she expressed disapprobation regarding “the plunge-­bath, & also the douch [sic] in connection with the warm bath.” Her strongest objection, however, was that the asylum did not employ enough white assistants. And she “condemned the authority entrusted to the servants,” recommending instead that the asylum make an effort to hire nuns associated with the ­Sisters of Charity.81 Afterwards, Superintendent Galt sent Dix a letter acknowledging that the asylum’s organ­ization, particularly the arrangement and duties of higher officers, “is evidently anomalous, and not in accordance with the theoretical ideas in vogue on this subject.” “We may suffer from this,” he continued, “but such is not my experience.” Galt professed to fully support the notion that “a ­great improvement in the treatment of the insane ­will consist in an increase of intelligent minds, to act upon them [the insane] in vari­ous modes,” and denied that ­there was a dearth of intelligent employees at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum looking ­after the patients. He noted that several officers had been absent on the day Miss Dix visited, the matron for example; and that the successor to the chaplain had not yet been appointed. Most importantly, he defensively asserted that the “servants” hired by the asylum ­were “trustworthy.” Their reliability was guaranteed by the premium price paid for them to the ­owners, as well as the



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cash incentives offered directly to them. Moreover, the patients ­were “constantly ­under the inspection of the officers & never ­under the authority of slaves,” except for the black female patients for whom ­there was no officer owing to “the social feelings of the South.”82 Nevertheless, at the close of the month he directed Steward Barziza to speak to a “­Father O’Brien, as to two new officers & ­Sisters of Charity.”83 In a draft letter to the board, Galt wrote: ­ here is one point[,] which I would most strenuously urge, which I conT sider absolutely necessary for the good in this Institution. This is that ­there be appointed in addition to the pres­ent offices, &c a white male and a white female to be entitled merely the male and female assistant . . . . ​ The female assistant should have nothing at all to do with culinary concerns or with attending particularly to the clothing of the female patients [& inserted supra the question: “or to the weaving? Sewing?”]; no[,] far from this, she should even be strictly prohibited from it. Her duties should be simply to act as a companion to the female patients.84 As for the male assistant, he too would act as a companion to the male patients, encouraging them to engage in some occupation or amusement. He would “have the over-­looking of the servants in their communication with the patients,” and be pres­ent to “direct” any restraint imposed upon the patients.85

Gender and L ­ abor The “social feelings” that prevented white officers from taking charge of black ­women patients w ­ ere not unique to the South. Dorothea Dix led an unconventional life as an activist for prison and asylum reform, but she espoused fairly conventional views about gender and race. Apart from her commitment to w ­ omen’s education, she did not support the broader w ­ omen’s movement nor was she in f­ avor of abolitionism. In recommending that nuns replace enslaved female attendants, she argued that care was best provided by ­women much like herself: unmarried, white, and with no ­children to detract from devotion to ser­vice. As nuns w ­ ere supported by their order rather than paid an annual salary (Dix relied upon her wealthy grand­mother for support), it is clear that her explicit objection to black attendants was not ­because their ­labor was unpaid.86 She may have felt that b­ ecause slaves w ­ ere compelled to work, their motivation to help patients was not rooted in sympathy or charity. She might also have believed that slaves lacked the necessary moral refinement and social etiquette to interact with insane patients, especially white ­women of a higher class. E ­ ither way, Dix’s conception of proper care obscured

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her own privilege and excluded slaves, and perhaps all black w ­ omen, from being caregivers even though they had performed this l­ abor for centuries. White ­women working as attendants in Northern asylums also faced a ­labor market in which their skills w ­ ere financially devalued, but at least they w ­ ere able to lay claim to so-­called feminine virtues. Sentimental sympathy was the prerogative of white ­women whose pity and affective work on behalf of ­those deemed unfortunate reinforced their own racial identity. Galt defended the use of slave ­labor from Dix’s critique, but institutional policies did reinforce gender distinctions. In 1841, Steward Barziza explained to a novice John M. Galt that the enslaved men at the asylum “have mostly jobbing work,” while “the ­women work continuously.”87 Despite the fact that enslaved ­women had fewer opportunities to leave the asylum grounds or take breaks and ­were assigned to jobs with a higher degree of drudgery, their wages—­ paid, of course, to their masters—­­were a third that of the men. In 1841, most of the men w ­ ere hired for 90 dollars a year; two ­were hired at 100 dollars, and one at 120 dollars. The w ­ omen ­were hired for 30 to 35 dollars. The highest paid ­woman that year—­Fanny—­was a cook; her l­ abor was valued at 50 dollars.88 Five years ­later the annual fee was down but the comparative ratio remained intact: male ward hands ­were valued at 80.50 and the females at 37.50. The male cook was valued at 100 dollars, but the two female cooks just 45 dollars each.89 From Galt’s point of view, the cheapness of w ­ omen’s ­labor and the essential tasks that they performed made them uniquely valuable to the institution. In w ­ omen employees, both white and black, he observed, “we have the combination of low wages, application, and sobriety.” He even considered supplementing the asylum’s income by asking Harriet to raise poultry and vegetables in exchange for a share of the profit.90 Galt and the matron appear to have encouraged personnel stability by hiring enslaved c­ ouples and allowing the enslaved men regular visits to wives who lived outside the asylum. But the administration also evinced a preference for hiring single w ­ omen between the ages of twenty-­five and thirty-­five with no “encumbrances,” such as young c­ hildren.91 Most of the enslaved staff did not have ­children, at least none that lived with them and w ­ ere still dependent, but a few did. Harriet and Betsy both had at least three young c­ hildren.92 In April 1845, a pregnant Louisa suffered “strain from lifting up a bed.”93 And Jenny and Rose, who ­were employed by the asylum in 1853, each had a child, but it is not clear w ­ hether their c­ hildren lived at the asylum.94 Asylum administrators w ­ ere likely concerned that small c­ hildren would take time and energy that would other­wise go to the care of the patients, and that pregnancy might hamper the heavy physical workload of female attendants. ­There ­were also com-



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plaints about the noisiness of the c­ hildren and occasional injuries, such as when Harriet’s son nearly severed his fin­ger, or when a patient “struck some sharp implement or other instrument through a ­little coloured girl’s cheek.”95 The ­children of slaves who lived at the asylum ­were not directly provided food, but fed from leftover scraps.96 They did receive medical care, however, as did the enslaved staff generally.97 When Lavinia was hired in 1846 at age twenty-­four or twenty-­five, her appeal lay partly in her skills (“superior cook, washer & ironer”), partly in her energetic personality (“sprightly, active ­woman”), and above all in the fact that she had “no c­ hildren & not likely to have any more.”98 In fact, Lavinia, who had been “raised a House servant from a girl,” had a ten-­ or eleven-­year-­old child. That child, however, was clearly considered capable of living in­de­pen­dently.99 The best caregivers ­were thought to be ­those ­women who did not have to care for their own families. In short, slave w ­ omen w ­ ere castigated for being too uncouth to properly tend to white w ­ omen, but any desire to nurture their own ­children—­legally viewed as a master’s property—­ was systemically limited ­because of the incon­ve­nience to the asylum. In recognition of the importance of the enslaved staff, as Galt hastened to point out to Dorothea Dix, the asylum offered slave ­owners 15 ­percent above the ­going rate for the privilege of hiring the best laborers. As an additional incentive, the asylum offered bonuses at the end of the contracted year to the slaves who best performed their assigned duties.100 To avoid charges of nepotism, the board had passed a bylaw prohibiting the asylum from rehiring the same slaves ­after three seasons, but steward Philip J. Barziza assured John M. Galt in 1841 that this “is a rule not strictly enforced.” (That same year Barziza himself was paid 120 dollars for Henry, who worked as a carpenter at the asylum, which netted Barziza twenty to thirty dollars more than the fee paid for the ­labor of the rest of the male slaves).101 Publicly, however, the asylum advertised that hiring “preference ­will at all time[s] be given even over ­those who have been for some time employed in the Institution to such Servants who [“may” supra] come [“highly” supra] reccommended [sic] for sobriety, honesty, and good general deportment.”102 The same gender-­based difference applied to the bonuses, too. ­There are three undated papers in the handwriting of Superintendent Galt in the archive on which dollar amounts of what appear to be annual bonuses are listed next to the names of slaves who served the asylum. T ­ here is also one list from January 1850. ­These lists, together with the 1848 letter to Miss Dix, reveal that the annual bonuses of the most valued men w ­ ere as high as ten dollars, or roughly 7 to 10 ­percent of the wage that was given to their masters. On one undated list, six out of thirteen men got ten dollars, three received seven dollars, and

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the rest apparently got nothing. Of the six w ­ omen on this list, three received five dollars, one four dollars, one two dollars, and one just one dollar. On another undated list, five men out of ten w ­ ere given ten dollars, two got seven dollars, and the remaining three received five dollars. On that list, the highest paid ­women—­Harriet, Nancy, and Eliza—­received only five dollars. Four ­women received three dollars and one received two dollars. A third list is incomplete and so cannot be used in a comparative context. As for the list from 1850, the eight ­women received amounts ranging from two dollars to five dollars while nine men received gifts ranging from seven to ten dollars, with one man receiving five and another three dollars.103 Although the practice of giving end-­of-­year bonuses to hired slaves in addition to what was given their ­owners might have been tolerated, it did undermine the ­legal right of masters to all of their slaves’ earnings. Cash gifts ­were also periodically awarded throughout the year, as when Galt gave three dollars to George “out my own purse” for apprehending a patient—­a slave—­who had attempted to escape.104 Nancy felt entitled to argue with Superintendent Galt about receiving only three dollars in 1850 when Harriet, Eliza, and Jenny had gotten five dollars. She “complained to me much about not receiving the full premium,” he wrote.105 ­There are no recorded complaints about men receiving more than ­women on average. Most surprising, however, is a note from January 1862 in which Galt rec­ ords that he “gave 5 dollars as a Christmas gift to Judy,” as well as cloth to Celia and one dollar each to Ellen and Eliza. In this instance, the gifts w ­ ere given at a time in which the asylum was experiencing severe shortages ­because of the Civil War. The very next entry mentions a proposal “to make the coffee last by ­union with wheat,” and the one just previous recorded the opinion of the assistant physician that “­there ­were more deaths than he [had] ever known before in the Asylum” due to “the want of proper food at this epoch of confusion.”106 Perhaps this is why Galt added that “all ­were employed in direct and daily attendance & only asking me a Christmas or p. year gift & last an old time honoured custom.”107 In some cases, it is pos­si­ble to correlate the slave thus rewarded with the type of duties he or she performed. Osway, for example, received ten dollars on three separate lists. He was described as “a ward hand” with “special duties in connection with superintendent.”108 ­These duties included seizing unruly patients and completing any work left undone in the men’s ward.109 In 1852, Osway was also personally responsible for the care of three male patients on the first floor of his building, and four patients on the second floor of the same building. Among the patients ­under his care ­were at least two paying white



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patients, Mr. Christian and Mr. Armistead, who ­were from the “better class” of patients. In other words, they ­were literate, professional men prior to their admission to the asylum. Their ­family members and respectable acquaintances periodically visited and inquired a­ fter their well-­being, and they would have expected to find the men comfortably situated.110 Osway’s per­for­mance and station with the more gentlemanly patients presumably entitled him, in the superintendent’s estimation, to a higher bonus. Tom, identified on two lists as a cook, was also rewarded with the highest prize. Tom’s reward was prob­ably in recognition of the essential ser­vice he provided and the difficulty involved in preparing food on such a large scale.111 Henry, who worked as a carpenter and therefore would have been considered a skilled laborer, also received ten dollars. Many of the enslaved ­women worked as laundresses, which was viewed as unskilled ­labor. ­There w ­ ere eleven female slaves in 1846. Twelve years ­later ­there ­were fourteen female slaves, all ward hands and laundresses but for two who worked in the kitchen and the dining room, respectively.112 The matron was responsible for delegating work to the female slaves and she did not leave written rec­ords, but ­there are two rec­ords that reveal some details. One undated list notes that Judy and Frances had “special duties” in addition to their work as ward hands, and that Corinna was responsible for accompanying visitors to the asylum.113 Another list from July 1844 shows that the ­women in the best department ­were u­ nder the supervision of Nancy and Eliza, both of whom received the highest bonus.114 And t­here is another reference in which Superintendent Galt expresses regret that her own­er’s husband removed Joanna from the asylum ­after several years of ser­vice in which she distinguished herself as “A very useful servant—­very intelligent, attentive to her duties, & respectful in her deportment.”115 The 1844 list shows that Joanna was also placed in the best female department. While menial ­labor was an impor­tant part of life as a female ward hand, clearly interpersonal skills mattered too. Nevertheless, being attended to by slaves had dif­fer­ent connotations for male and female patients. Osway could look a­ fter gentlemen like Mr. Christian and Mr. Armistead without them experiencing any diminution in their status. Similarly, laboring white men might work alongside slaves in the gardens or the carpentry shop without incident. But female slaves, in addition to being relentlessly employed in cleaning and cooking, w ­ ere presumed too coarse to be companions for ladies. Indeed, the superintendent was determined to “put the graces again in the female department” a­ fter a perceived lapse.116 Consequently, the better class of white female patients w ­ ere supposed to spend

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most of their time sewing with the matron and her assistant, or riding out in a carriage with a white ­woman hired just for that purpose.117 Assigned work reinforced racialized gender distinctions. White female patients apparently objected to kitchen assignments. It was, in their eyes, work meant for slaves only. In his notes about rival Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton, Superintendent Galt noted that Superintendent Stribling of that institution “Does not attempt to overcome dis-­inclination of patients to be with servants in culinary affairs.”118 ­There is only one reference to a white patient in the kitchen, whereas black female patients often worked alongside the enslaved staff in the kitchen. ­Free black patients Mary Crippin and Miranda Bird, for example, worked shelling peas.119 Similarly, enslaved staff members who overstepped proscribed bound­aries, such as attempting to work in the flower garden, ­were reprimanded for this initiative. The vegetable garden was an appropriate place to work given its association with cooking, but the flower garden was ornamental and therefore open only to white patients and staff.120

Status and Empathy Differences between the privileges, responsibilities, and public perceptions of the enslaved men and ­women who worked as attendants ­were not the only significant bound­aries enforced at the asylum. Distinctions between enslaved staff, white officers, and patients also ­shaped asylum life in ways that sometimes fostered resentment and confusion. At other times, however, asylum rules created a sense of common interest between enslaved staff and patients. ­There does not appear to have been any gender in­equality with regard to the distribution of food among attendants, for example, but t­ here was in­equality between enslaved staff and patients. In 1841, the annual allotment for food was fifty-­five dollars for the patients as opposed to thirty-­eight dollars for each slave attendant. It is not clear ­whether fifty-­five dollars per patient included all patients; in l­ ater years the general annual allotment (covering food, lodging, and medicine) per patient varied by race.121 Rations included whiskey—­with Fanny and Betty permitted to receive extra sugar in lieu of alcohol—­but they ­were not especially generous. Enslaved staff ate only preserved meat and fish, whereas patients w ­ ere given fresh meat five days a week. The quality of the preserved meat also varied, with slaves receiving “middling bacon” and patients getting the “best pork.”122 Enslaved staff ­were also forbidden coffee and tea, which the patients ­were given daily.123 Once, when a lapse in asylum funds temporarily reduced their already small allowance, the board voted against providing back rations to slaves ­after accounts ­were settled. Superintendent Galt



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argued against this decision, saying that meager rations led to pilfering and hog raising, but to no avail.124 On another occasion Dandridge was found with meat, for which he was punished “severely . . . ​whilst blindfolded ­until he confessed.”125 In lean times nonpaying patients also suffered from diminished food supply, with few to no opportunities to satiate themselves elsewhere. Slaves sometimes complained to the administration about inadequate rations on behalf of the patients who they served. In 1852, for example, the matron reported that she had heard “from a servant that ­there was not enough to eat, and that the patients complained of it, and too to persons from town.”126 According to Superintendent John M. Galt, some slaves preferred being hired out to the asylum than working for their masters.127 If this was true, it might have been ­because slaves enjoyed greater autonomy in an institutional setting where the needs ­were substantial and supervision was spotty. Slaves ­were particularly aggrieved by any treatment that likened them to animals, so the opportunity to engage in work that required intellectual acuity and emotional sensitivity was comparatively welcome.128 Asylum work was demanding, but slaves found ways to seize control of the ­labor. In addition to lobbying for more food on behalf of the patients, sometimes slaves took the initiative to take patients out for walks around Williamsburg. For example, John took an unnamed patient out, which made a white officer uneasy. Superintendent Galt, however, told the officer that he “wished him to understand that I did not forbid it.”129 Additionally, as employees of a public institution, enslaved attendants ­were relatively ­free from the private tyrannies of individual ­owners. On the other hand, working at Eastern Lunatic Asylum could seem like serving multiple masters at once. At times ­there was confusion as to who had the authority to command the enslaved staff, and which duties rightfully took pre­ce­dence. In part, this confusion resulted from administrative changes over the years. Ironically, given the recommendation that the asylum hire more white officers, the addition of white staff and the creation of new positions only made administration more complex. When John M. Galt first became superintendent, he possessed the sole authority to hire all subordinates and to assign them duties, though he deferred to the matron with regard to the hiring of w ­ omen attendants.130 In 1851–52, however, ­there was a po­liti­cal coup in the board that oversaw the asylum. The first year that ­Virginia’s gubernatorial election was determined by popu­lar vote instead of appointment was 1851; a Demo­crat won. An influential resident of Williamsburg named Henry Bowden, who served as sergeant at arms to the Senate, convinced the general assembly to limit the terms of Eastern Lunatic Asylum Board members, ousting the reigning

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Whigs and opening opportunities to Demo­crats. Henry’s elder ­brother, Lemuel, was appointed president of the board in 1851. Henry joined the board the following year, and his wife became matron. This new board intentionally neglected to extend hiring authority to the superintendent while keeping all the rest of his duties the same. In this way, new members w ­ ere able to consolidate power, funneling profitable contracts to fellow partisans to supply food and lease slaves to the asylum.131 Consequently, lower officers began to hire and direct the slaves, including their own personal slaves, at times making contradictory demands. Privately, Galt fumed about the chaos that ensued. In response to board members’ interference and complaints about the grounds and needed repairs, Galt wrote in his journal that, “­these ­were completely taken out of my hands, and yet this was a part of their diatribes . . . . ​They themselves go around with a subordinate Officer, & then sulk of my being responsible.”132 Quoting from an admired British proponent of nonrestraint, Galt noted that the idea of staff members being selected “without reference to the medical superintendent of an asylum is so extremely absurd.”133 He quietly made plans to go into private practice, apply to another Southern asylum, or return to the Northeast to reexamine medical subjects that he had previously neglected.134 Publicly, in an 1857 letter to the board upon his reelection to another three-­year term, he wrote: “In continuing to hold the position of Superintendent, I deem it necessary to observe that I do so with more hesitation than ever.” He went on to specifically complain about the “power of appointment being wholly obliterated,” and concluded by pointedly declining an increase in his salary.135 Enslaved attendants also complained. One journal entry from July 1852 describes “a very disagreeable scene at the Asylum” involving angry officers in “private quarrels” and slaves gossiping (“she prob­ably did not think the visitors heard her”). In January 1853, Mr. Moore, who worked as a shoemaker at the asylum, struck Albert Diggs in “a fit of passion” though, in Superintendent Galt’s estimation, “A. Diggs did not intend to insult him [Mr. Moore].” Galt called Diggs into his study and attempted to assuage his feelings, as well as direct him as to the proper procedure for ­handling what­ever it was that had so upset the shoemaker.136 Galt also had to speak to Mr. Moore about yet another unspecified incident, this one involving Louisa, which resulted in her master being “angry.”137 In June 1853, Eliza complained to Superintendent Galt of having been beaten by the asylum’s storekeeper, Mr. Clowes.138 Mr. Mason, Dandridge’s master, was also upset with Mr. Clowes for whipping Dandridge the following month for the alleged theft of food. He pointed out that Dandridge’s suspected accomplice—­William the scullion—­was not punished,



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and he requested that the authority to punish be restricted.139 Shortly thereafter, William was reassigned dif­fer­ent work. He was “aiding John for balance of week, so as to learn his duties.”140 The administrative changes of 1852 may also have contributed to conflict between the enslaved staff. That year Harriet complained to the superintendent about Cinderella. The nature of the dispute is unknown, but the two ­women had, by that point, worked together for eleven years without recorded incident. Galt’s solution in this case was as rudimentary as it was likely in­effec­ tive: “I told her she was not to speak to Cinderella, nor the latter to her.” The following year Judy got sick, and then was upset ­because Harriet had not spoken to her since her recovery.141 In addition to conflicts over the authority to direct the enslaved staff and ­under what circumstances, some of the biggest disputes ­were about space. Salaries w ­ ere set by members of the board and approved by the legislature, but private space within the institution appears to have been assigned ad hoc according to status and need. ­Because the officers worked and lived at the institution, arguments about private living arrangements ­were a source of public tension. Although the asylum preferred to hire slave ­women without “encumbrances,” the institution had to be more flexible with white officers. By 1856, ­there w ­ ere no fewer than twenty-­t wo and possibly more c­ hildren living at the asylum.142 Former ambassador to Brazil and now governor of V ­ irginia, Henry A. Wise, made an unannounced visit to the asylum that year, and complained about the presence of ­children. Galt indirectly responded to Wise’s criticism in his annual report by extolling the therapeutic benefits of a homelike environment, asserting that “the presence of the young in the wards of an asylum seems to light it up like a sunbeam.”143 Apparently, not all the officers ­were in agreement about the benefits of c­ hildren playing on the wards or the allocation of extra space to staff with large families. At issue w ­ ere not just who got how many rooms and where—­and ­whether they ­were occupying rooms that ­were not officially assigned them—­but also who had access to private privies, smoke­houses, and garden plots. Superintendent Galt lived in a ­house nearby with his unmarried s­ ister. Lower white officers w ­ ere given apartments in the upper floors of the residential buildings.144 Slaves often found places to sleep in the buildings where they worked. ­There ­were two kitchens in 1841, one an outbuilding made of brick and the other of wood. The brick outbuilding featured three rooms on the lower floor composed of a locked storeroom (to which the slaves had limited access), the kitchen itself, and a clothes room. Up above in four small rooms, which w ­ ere heated by the fireplace below, lived Eliza Peyton, Betty, Fanny, and Keziah.

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Eliza was married to Jim, and Betty was married to Ned; both men worked odd jobs around the asylum. Fanny and Keziah w ­ ere also married, but their husbands w ­ ere not employed at the asylum. The floor plan of the wood kitchen was the same, but it was more crowded at night. Tishy (Leticia) slept in the kitchen ­there, Henry in an empty storeroom, and an alternating group of enslaved men slept in the laundry room. Major, however, went home a­ fter dark ­every night.145 Major was also given a day off ­every other Sunday, with Billy Wickham taking over as cook. Fanny was given e­ very other Sunday off, too; Cinderella filled in as cook. Up ­until Superintendent Galt took over, only two enslaved men on any given night w ­ ere required to sleep at the asylum. The rest, t­ hose who w ­ ere hired from neighboring farms and ­house­holds in town anyway, ­were able to return to their o­ wners and their families at night. Even a­ fter 1842, however, the men alternated once-­a-­week visits home ­unless widespread illness among the patients broke out, necessitating additional ­labor. The w ­ omen employed by the asylum appear to have returned home only when they needed to recuperate from a prolonged illness.146 This may well have been to protect patients from contagion more than to preserve the health of the enslaved female staff. Cinderella, Nancy, Minerva, and Harriet and her c­ hildren occupied the second floor of the wooden kitchen in 1841. Cinderella’s husband lived in Richmond. Nancy was married to Mr. Mason’s Thom, who apparently had not yet been hired by the asylum, so they likely did not live together that year. It is not clear who Harriet’s partner might have been. Mourning and her husband, Thom, lived in an unheated outbuilding that held potatoes and oats. Dandridge shared the space with them, though on at least two occasions Dandridge slipped home when it w ­ asn’t his turn; once he was accused of stealing a ­horse to travel.147 In 1847, the asylum contracted for a new brick kitchen to replace the wooden one, which was a fire hazard. According to the terms of the contract, the new kitchen was two stories high, fifty-­five feet long ­running north and south by thirty feet wide ­running east and west, divided in half along the width on the bottom story with two fireplaces at the north and south ends. A win­dow abutted each chimney. Another win­dow was situated on a perpendicular wall to allow for ventilation. The interior walls ­were plastered and painted white with green trim, and the floor was ­either brick or finished heart pine plank, ­free of knots. The second story was divided into four rooms that w ­ ere each twelve feet square, separated by a central hallway with a win­dow on the north and south end. Each room had its own win­dow on ­either the east or west wall, just opposite a green-­painted door to the hall



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(painted brown on the hallway side) that had a pivoting transom win­dow above it to allow for cross-­ventilation. The ceiling was eight feet high, the floor was tongue-­and-­groove pine plank, and the walls ­were plastered and painted white. A small cupola with transom win­dows on all sides graced the center roof of the hallway, increasing the light and air circulation. Given the amount of finishing and detail, it is unusual that this improved space seems to have been designated for the exclusive use of the servants. In January 1848, it was noted that the “servants moved in kitchen.”148 Unfortunately for the health of all concerned, the paint was lead based and the roof leaked despite the fact that it was covered with “best quality slate.”149 Adequate ­water supply was a larger prob­lem at Eastern Asylum. This shortcoming was borne most heavi­ly by the enslaved staff responsible for laundry, food preparation, the bathing of patients, and the scrubbing of floors. A spring in the brickyard fed a small open reservoir, supplemented by captured rainwater, which together supplied the drinking, cooking, cleaning, and laundry ­water for the institution. The reservoir posed a danger to suicidal patients, as was demonstrated when George W. Matthew had to be talked down from the top of it in 1852.150 Lavinia died that same year while digging a cistern for the asylum.151 The biggest material prob­lem for the asylum was a lack of culverts and drainage pipes. As Superintendent Galt saw it, the difficulty stemmed from the fact that the buildings ­were erected “at wide intervals of time & the major part of them when the princi­ples of scientific drainage w ­ ere ­little understood.” Waste ­water, slops, “sweepings, ashes and other scavanage [sic]” ­were thrown above ground just south of the wood yard, in proximity to the building that ­housed black female patients and their attendants, “where all washings from rain &c flow out on the surface on the lower side producing very bad odours.”152 At a time in which it was widely believed that vapors could cause disease, the bad smell was perceived as more than a mere incon­ve­nience. Despite the importance of their ­labor, slaves ­were obviously at the bottom of the institutional hierarchy. In many ways, however, their status was ambiguous. It was slaves who did most of the hands-on l­ abor of caregiving: cleaning apartments, food preparation, bathing patients, shaving the men, transporting the patients, and, at times, restraining them. Administrators knew this and reacted ambiguously to their dependence on slaves. Superintendent Galt defended the asylum against charges that slaves provided inferior care, even to the point of disregarding patient complaints. At the same time, administrators complained of the authority entrusted to slaves, and w ­ ere quick to castigate enslaved workers for any perceived disciplinary lapses. For example, the

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shoemaker, Mr.  Moore, complained to Superintendent Galt that blankets ­were missing from one of the wards, to which Galt replied: “I said the servants ­were each answerable in his individual ward; for they certainly o­ ught to be watchful as to each other as to this extent, & to be blamed if they d­ on’t.”153 More serious complaints involved patients injuring themselves, as when patient Mr. Lynch broke a glass in his room and then used it to slash his wrist. The unnamed slave in charge was faulted for neglecting to call a white officer “at the time that Mr. Lynch made the disturbance.”154 The most common complaint was that enslaved attendants w ­ ere responsible for patients escaping, ­either through negligence of duty or direct assistance. Sometimes the elopements happened when patients w ­ ere accompanying slaves, as when Mr. Haywood fled “on g­ oing with the servant a­ fter vegetables in the morning,”155 and when Mr. Moore “consented on Dick’s petition to let him take this patient [Mr. Cubbage] out,” and then “an axe in Moore’s kitchen was taken advantage of by [Cubbage] to steal off.”156 Other escapes happened in the eve­ning ­after the patients had been brought back to their rooms, but their clothes ­were not taken from them or the doors ­were not locked. For example, “Mr. Christie again got out from the hospital. He escaped at night from his room, by the servant being changed, and not taking his clothes away entirely & locking the door.”157 Some escapes w ­ ere attributed to inexperience: “Peyton by reason of being a new hand let [a patient] get out by the door.”158 ­Others ­were attributed to carelessness: “Mr. Reynolds eloped, owing to the carelessness of the servant, Dandridge, who left the gate of Shoemaker’s department, open.”159 Or, “Mr. Tucker eloped through the carelessness of Billy,”160 and “Gordon Miller eloped from carelessness on part of John.”161 Errors of judgment (“Jarvis escaped, owing partly to ­mistake as to one servant’s being placed in the yard”162) and confusion due to “enigmatical” instructions w ­ ere also offered as explanations for patients escaping from slave attendants.163 While doubtlessly some of t­ hese escapes w ­ ere accidental, t­ here was also the unsettling possibility that slaves might be willing to let some patients escape, as in the following case: “Watkins escaped, went aboard steam boat, passing himself as an agent for [illegible: newspaper?], then put on shore on being recognized by a [illegible: neighbor?] of the Asylum. Then passed through Williamsburg & was permitted by 2 of the Asylum servants to go ­free.”164 Certainly elopements ­were frequent enough—­about ten each year—­that Superintendent Galt determined in 1847 that “some indulgence [must] be taken from the servant to whose neglect the accident was owing.”165 Even more sweeping was the following punishment: “If any patient elope [sic], so long as he re-



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main away up to the time of the week; the whiskey & sugar of all the servants in the Institution to be stopped during that time, or at the par­tic­ul­ ar ward.”166 The possibility that slave attendants conspired with patients to assist in their escape, or made l­ ittle effort to apprehend them, speaks to the ambiguous nature of their relationship with patients. Perhaps they had empathy for patients whose freedoms ­were so severely curtailed. Attendants themselves sometimes absconded for brief periods of time. Mourning, Louisa, and Dandridge all slipped off without permission. An asylum officer spoke to Superintendent Galt in 1852 about a “run-­mad” asylum attendant; he said, “Henry bored through a tobacco-­box, ­under the impression that he was boring through a door.”167 Enslaved staff members w ­ ere not generally locked up a night. In fact, enslaved staff served as night watchmen, so Henry’s situation appears to have been unusual. He was prob­ably a newly hired slave owned by the College of William and Mary who was unhappy with this more stressful work environment.168 More importantly, this incident shows that mobility could be curtailed for slave attendants as well as for patients locked in their rooms. The desire to leave the asylum was, perhaps, a dream that was shared by patients and slave attendants. At the very least, slaves understood the desire to leave an oppressive situation. Similarly, just as patients sometimes resisted the shower-­bath or medicine, enslaved staff sometimes rebelled against authority, such as when Jack refused to obey the ­orders of Mr. Clowes in January 1853, and “Albert resisted correction” in May 1848.169 ­There ­were other commonalities between enslaved staff and patients. Slaves’ clothes, made by the patients, w ­ ere cut from the same cloth as ­those of the nonpaying patients who did not have their own wardrobe, visually reinforcing the connection between caregivers and indigent patients, as well as compounding perceived indignities associated with both slavery and insanity.170 A letter from a fellow superintendent in the Northeast cautioned Galt against this practice, arguing that “nothing can be more offensive than a uniform dress” to a curable patient. A uniform was a “mortification” and “a mark of disgrace and humiliation [sic].” He urged Galt to forswear economy by allowing all of the patients to dress in clothes “that w ­ ill not distinguish them from citizens of the same rank & standing in society.”171 Although Galt was e­ ager to enable patients’ integration into the broader Williamsburg community, Eastern Asylum did not abandon the practice of uniform dress for nonpaying patients, prob­ably ­because of bud­getary constraints. In a sense, however, the uniform dress epitomized a few truths about the asylum: enslaved attendants and patients ­were linked by the bonds or obligations that caregiving entailed; neither party enjoyed “rank & standing” in society; and both groups incited contradictory impulses

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and policies at the asylum. Superintendent Galt sought to do away with all restraints at the same time that he confessed, “we can rarely trust a patient entirely.”172 He expressed the same sentiments about the enslaved staff while relying on them to keep the asylum functioning.

Conclusion In September 1853, Superintendent Galt recorded a conversation he had with Louisa, a slave who worked at the asylum. He found the conversation particularly amusing. “Louisa,” he wrote, “pretended to say that she was a witch . . . . ​ In this pretended knowledge she evidently intended surprising me.” Assuming Louisa to be insincere or calculating, he noted wryly, “I was quite surprised about one circumstance, her intense sprightliness.” In spite of his desire to mock her, Galt was nevertheless intrigued to realize that Louisa had knowledge of the asylum that he did not (“I learned several ­things not understood by me before, internal asylum ­matters”), information she was willing to share with a few stipulations. Galt acceded to her terms, which he described in this way: “1st that I would pay regularly . . . ​Two, grounds should be taken in Speaking to Strangers relative to slavery[:] 1. That slaves are excelled by none in happiness.”173 Galt was correct in his assessment that Louisa wanted something from him—­she wanted to change the way he understood her ser­vice. If, unlike Galt, one also assumes that Louisa meant it when she described herself as a witch, then it may be that her intention was to inform her employer that she had powers to heal and to harm. She asserted her suitability for the position of attendant in a place where she could use her magical gift—­a fitness borne out by the fact that she had acquired information about the asylum that Galt did not have and for which he was willing to pay. It was common for conjurers to earn substantial sums as many white Virginians w ­ ere more inclined than Galt to re­spect hoodoo and witchcraft. Louisa’s demand that he pay her “regularly” for ser­vices rendered was, nevertheless, surprisingly forthright. Conjure was more than just a set of profitable skills, however; it was a worldview that empowered prac­ti­tion­ers to transform society by upending the relationship between victim and oppressor. Theologian Theophus Smith argues that African Americans combined conjure with Chris­tian­ity, emulating the life of Christ in the hope of learning how he used his victimization to change his oppressors.174 An asylum was certainly an appropriate venue to imitate Christ’s ministry to the sick and the outcast, and Louisa clearly aimed to influence her employer’s perspective.



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Asylum superintendents might conceive of their work as secular, but that does not mean that attendants shared this outlook. The most remarkable feature of Louisa’s exchange with Dr. Galt was her audacity in instructing him as to what he ­ought to say to strangers about slavery. She demanded that he first and foremost assert that “slaves are excelled by none in happiness.” What did she mean by that? Was she playing up to Galt’s own ste­reo­type of slaves as cheerful in their subservience? It is impossible to say with certainty what Louisa meant by ­these remarks—­or even to be certain that Galt d­ idn’t alter her words intentionally or unintentionally. But suppose that her statement about possessing happiness unequaled by anyone e­ lse was an expression of strength of character. Just as she had valuable insights into the operation of the asylum, Louisa might also have had valuable information into the nature of happiness. Slaves at the asylum had the lowest status among workers and did the dirtiest jobs. W ­ omen slaves worked constantly and their ­labor—­and bonuses—­was valued at half that of the men. Yet in d­ oing the work that no one ­else wanted to do, they may well have reaffirmed their own humanity through the care that they administered. This is not the same t­ hing as happily accepting one’s compelled servitude. ­After all, Louisa managed to extract money from Galt in this encounter, material proof that she had temporarily but effectively altered the terms of their relationship. Perhaps what Louisa was articulating was an ethic of care, one based on spiritual equality and moral rectitude—­­doing what is right b­ ecause you want to and not b­ ecause you must. If so, then it w ­ asn’t just Galt who flouted professional conventions to deliver moral therapy, but also the enslaved laborers upon whom he relied who defied pernicious ste­reo­types to assert their own moral worth.

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Servants, Obey Your Masters Religion and Re­sis­tance Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ; Not with eyeser­vice, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, ­doing the ­will of God from the heart . . . ​ And, ye masters, do the same ­things unto them, forebearing threatening: knowing that your Master also is in heaven; neither is t­ here re­spect of persons with him. —­Ephesians 6:5 Oh! that Almighty God might be with me, and my kinsman, and the same gentleman who is in com­pany with us . . . ​Servants obey your Master’s [sic] and Masters Obey Me[,] James de Cocy as your ­father. —­from a sermon by James Cossy, a f­ ree black patient at Eastern Lunatic Asylum.1

One of the key cultural functions of nineteenth-­century asylums was to reframe ­mental suffering as a medical illness—­a secular experience—­rather than a spiritual malady, while si­mul­ta­neously promoting the values of mainstream Protestantism. For most white Southerners, a healthy worldview included the preservation of slavery. Not all patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum shared this conviction. Galt’s tenure began just as the denominational schisms that divided the nation’s churches and permeated po­liti­cal discourse reached its apex. In 1844, the Methodist Church separated into Southern and Northern branches over the issue of slavery. The following year saw the creation of the Southern Baptist Convention, again in response to the divisive issue of abolition. At a time in which religious debates dominated the po­liti­cal landscape, the perceived need for state agents to distinguish between acceptable religion that promoted social conformity and unacceptable religion that fomented radical dissension was exacerbated, but not always openly acknowledged. Asylum doctors, including Galt, suggested that excessive religiosity was an effect of insanity rather than a cause.2 By ostensibly shifting the focus away from sacred ­matters, physicians aimed to create a rational, more effective (they hoped) niche in the treatment of insanity. ­W hether religion was seen as a cause or an effect, however, the attempted cure was the same—­change the way patients understood religion by intervening in their spiritual lives.



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Of the thirty-­one ­women and thirty-­four men admitted in 1842–43, Superintendent Galt deemed noteworthy the religious affiliations and/or propensity ­toward enthusiasm of thirteen ­women and twelve men. In other words, religion factored into diagnosis for a ­little more than 40 ­percent of the ­women and slightly less than 40 ­percent of the men.3 This statistic seems to belie the notion that religious explanations for insanity w ­ ere outmoded. Patients found themselves in a bind ­because their religious beliefs and be­hav­ior ­were scrutinized as part of the diagnostic pro­cess and could be used against them as evidence of insanity. At the same time, they ­were encouraged to take comfort and guidance from the religious ser­v ices provided by the asylum. Equally confounding was the indistinct boundary between secular and spiritual realms. The very concept of “moral therapy,” even as it demonstrates the elision between medicine and m ­ atters previously the province of the church, suggests an incomplete differentiation. Some of the medical methods employed ­were similarly quasi-­religious. The per­sis­tence of w ­ ater baths in the asylum, for example, did not have an exclusively scientific rationale. The calming property of the bath (not the shower-­bath or douche, which was forcibly administered and akin to drowning or, in con­temporary parlance, “waterboarding”) was similar to the peace that Methodist patient Eliza McGuire—­who wished to be baptized—­felt at the touch of spray on her face while riding the ferry to the asylum from her home on the Eastern Shore.4 Yet McGuire’s interpretation of the spray was framed in her admission papers as evidence of a deluded mind. In an essay on delusions that he published in the American Journal of Insan­ ity, Galt claimed knowledge of credible reports about individuals affected by bizarre fantasies, such as one ­woman who “occasionally fancied herself a tea-­ urn, and, u­ nder that impression, would assume a suitably imitative position.”5 Ten years earlier, Edgar Allan Poe—­Galt’s distant cousin—­had published a story satirizing moral treatment in which the author observed, “­There is scarcely an insane asylum in France which cannot supply a ­human tea-­pot.” 6 Galt chose to deploy this hackneyed cliché to make the argument that some delusions are relatively harmless and, therefore, d­ on’t necessitate asylum intervention. Contrary to Galt’s claims about the existence of delusional ­women who thought themselves teapots—­in another instance he mentions a ­woman who thought herself a goose and behaved accordingly—­the rec­ord books of Eastern Lunatic Asylum reveal inmates whose beliefs w ­ ere decidedly less silly. By 1856, when his essay was published, Galt certainly would have known better. In fact, nowhere in his private correspondence and rec­ ords does he mention encountering ­people who thought themselves farmyard fowl or inanimate objects. Instead, Galt’s firsthand observations of patients

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centered on their alleged religious delusions. Of special concern to him ­were patients who preached abolitionism or participated in camp meetings. The peculiarity that mattered most at Eastern Lunatic Asylum was a patient’s relationship to the peculiar institution—­slavery.

Madness and Religious Expression: The Long View The association of religion with madness is ancient. Historian Roy Porter writes that Christian Scriptures even “welcomed certain modes of madness,” regarding as holy both the “innocent otherworldliness of the Pauline fool or . . . ​ the ecstasy of the Old Testament prophet.” Reformation piety, especially, “was sympathetic to speaking prophetically or hearing voices from Beyond, as marks of a divine madness.”7 This sympathetic view existed alongside a more negative framing of religious “madness” as the work of the devil, although neither super­natural explanation for insanity ruled out natu­ral ­causes such as accidents and passions. Treatment was equally eclectic, combining physical remedies with spiritual mediation offered by a variety of healers. In the eigh­teenth ­century, however, ­there emerged in Eu­rope a new field of medicine devoted exclusively to the ostensibly secular treatment of the deranged. By the nineteenth c­ entury in Eu­rope and in Amer­ic­ a, doctors specializing in insanity subsumed religious madness into medical discourse, creating the modern experience of ­mental illness. The prac­ti­tion­ers who sought to cure m ­ ental illness through kind treatment, occupational therapy, and carefully controlled diet and environment believed that the asylum represented the ideal, regulated environment in which to provide this moral treatment. Although many asylum superintendents w ­ ere Christian, they saw asylum medicine as a largely secular enterprise. On one level, this meant only that their institutions ­were not beholden to any church for funding or administrative policy. But on a deeper level for most physicians, even ­those whose faith underpinned their sense of charity or duty on behalf of the insane, secular medicine also meant a rejection of the notion that insanity was a sign of possession by demons or a punishment from God. Though illness might be viewed as God’s ­will, physicians’ cures ­were not considered exorcisms. The moral treatment that was the hallmark of progressive, secular asylums had originated in the care previously provided by religious healers. Philippe Pinel, the founder of modern French psychiatry, incorporated the pastoral care of the Catholic Church by retaining nuns as caregivers, but he limited the participation of priests and secularized the rationale for treatment, turning it



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“into a tool to wrest medial jurisdiction and expertise of madness from the Church in a campaign to exclude the religious ­orders from the care of the insane.”8 As noted by historian and phi­los­o­pher Michel Foucault, this transition paralleled the growing power of a centralized state whose authority was supported by institutions that promoted the values of ­those who benefited most from the expanding government bureaucracy—­the burgeoning professional class. While one might deplore the cruel treatment of the insane that allegedly preceded secular asylum care in France, at least the physical punishments and deprivations of the ­Middle Ages demanded only outward compliance; a patient was not required to internalize or change his or her values or beliefs, as was the case with enlightened moral means.9 Anticlericalism was not a major issue in Germany, but ­there was tension between “the adherents of rational religion—­­those who sought to render theology compatible with natu­ral law—­and [the adherents of] neo-­orthodoxy,” with asylum doctors tending t­ oward the former.10 One exception was J. C. A. Heinroth, who “insisted that moral depravity alone—­sin, guilt, and evil conscience—­produced insanity.”11 En­glish institutions eagerly employed clerics and offered regular religious ser­vices. As in Germany, religious rationalism triumphed over evangelical orthodoxy. Even the famously influential York Retreat was created by Friends who had “retreated from their original free-­spirit Antinomianism, becoming quietistic and respectable.”12 The founder of Quakerism, George Fox, had practiced faith healing, but religious madness at the York Retreat was considered a morbid condition. Seriously disturbed patients, ­those who thought they could perform miracles or who claimed to be biblical figures, ­were barred from meeting for worship. Secular care did not mean an absence of religion but rather an endorsement of “rationalism” over orthodoxy and enthusiasm. It was at this transitional moment in the late-­eighteenth c­ entury that Ameri­ can institutions first opened.13 American superintendents distrusted religious revivals for producing too much excitement. The occurrence of religious movements such as the Millerites—­preacher William Miller predicted the Second Coming of Christ would occur around 1844—­afforded them the opportunity to denounce “a popu­lar religious error.”14 Most educated Americans ­were wary of sectarianism in public office and believed that revivalism contributed to insanity, an idea that was supported by “the fact that the insane often had religious delusions.” For this reason, an evangelical Christian would have been considered “a highly unsuitable choice for asylum work.”15 Animal magnetism, spiritualism, and mesmerism ­were also viewed with suspicion by some, as w ­ ere expressions of hostility or indifference to ­family members.

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­ amily members and superintendents w F ­ ere particularly critical when they perceived a change in an individual’s nature, so zealotry in and of itself was not necessarily regarded as a fixed symptom of insanity. Nevertheless, beliefs and be­hav­iors that might once have been regarded as admirable religious piety or passion came to epitomize unhealthy instability in the nineteenth ­century. Former asylum patient and Millerite Elisabeth T. Stone, for example, wrote that describing her spiritual crisis to a doctor “seemed to me like mockery.” She thought a minister was a more appropriate counselor, and she wondered, “if holiness was liable to become a disease and medical men knew it.”16 Her question went unanswered, and she was pushed into voluntarily committing herself to McLean Hospital in Mas­sa­chu­setts for several months. Asylum physicians worked to redirect and reshape marginal religious beliefs like Stone’s precisely b­ ecause they conceived of their agenda as secular—­as science—­ despite the fact that they ­were attempting to reconfigure the spiritual lives of their patients. Additionally, doctors tended to regard religious enthusiasm and adherence to marginal sects as tangible proof of inferior intellectual capacity, which they attempted to ameliorate with their own more sophisticated form of religious indoctrination. Asylums offered religious ser­vices and sermons that emphasized the values and beliefs of mainstream Protestantism, and rebuked enthusiasm for fringe sects through punishments and inducements. Asylum superintendents ­were sometimes conflicted about the proper role of religion in their institutions. Some worried that attention to religious topics would make depressed patients more morose and delusional patients more agitated. ­Others emphasized religion’s capacity to soothe troubled minds, regarding attendance at church ser­vice as part of a salubrious plan to cultivate disciplined habits. Religiously devout superintendents felt that their mission to cure ­mental illness did not preclude their Christian duty to missionize. British superintendent Nathaniel Bingham, for example, argued that it was not wise to treat religion “like a bale of goods coming from an infected port” when the majority of inmates would benefit from sacred “antidotes” for disordered thinking.17 He also compared the insane to former slaves in the West Indies, arguing that both had been humbled by God and ­were, therefore, more tractable and accepting of Providence. Though Bingham condescended to both groups by speaking of them in infantilizing terms, his praise for their supposed lack of pretentious refinement was intended as a compliment. Of former slaves, he celebrated “their regard to truth, their forgiveness of injuries, their mutual love as brethren, their strong attachment to their teachers, the extent of their liberality, though poor, their habitual assurance of God’s pardoning love, and their happy deaths.”18 Not ­every observer of West Indian emancipation



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agreed with this assessment. One worried plantation overseer in Jamaica complained that Chris­tian­ity emboldened newly freed blacks to strike for better wages and working conditions.19 Writing from London, where he had ­little contact with former slaves, Bingham’s analogy was a benign abstraction. For John M. Galt, however, the religious faith and proclivities of slaves and asylum patients was a concrete concern. In his first year in office while preparing his report on asylums for African Americans, Galt studied etiological statistics. He was particularly interested in the frequency of intemperance as compared to fanat­i­cism. The results of his study w ­ ere alarming. “What an astounding curse is intemperance!” he observed, “But how infinitely more fatal is the curse of fanat­i­cism!” Like his peers, Galt distinguished between religious perplexity and excitement. Perplexity implied intellectual obsession with religion, especially one’s own damnation; it was dangerous ­because introspection could lead to suicide. But enthusiasm was arguably more frightening b­ ecause it was viewed as an extroverted mania that could inspire the formerly meek to brazen acts of vio­lence and re­sis­tance. Criticized by his professional peers for probing patients’ religious ideas, the threat of abolitionism nevertheless compelled Galt to be on the lookout for pious agitators.20 In his analy­sis of the gradual transformation of British attitudes t­ oward religious “madness,” historian Roy Porter argued that “the medicalization of divine madness was not crudely manipulative or conspiratorial.” The medical materialism of elite physicians and the “waning of the spirit-­drenched cosmos” ­were, in part, unintended consequences of developments in mechanical science and “the extension of man’s dominion over Nature.”21 Porter asserted that the belief in “demonomania” and the faith healings and “mass ecstasies” that characterized John Wesley’s field preaching declined precipitously in ­England ­after only one de­cade of Methodism, leaving very few adherents by the mid-­ eighteenth ­century.22 This narrative is problematic in the American context, however, ­because of the comparatively late timing and widespread influence of numerous American “awakenings.” The emphasis on sanctification—­the bodily experience of God’s grace, power, or presence—­blossomed in E ­ ngland in the late 1750s and 1760s, just prior to the arrival of the first Methodist itinerants in the colonies, thus ensuring “the centrality of the sanctification experience in the early years of American Methodism.”23 While the weeping, crying, falling to the ground, gyrating, and shouting for joy that characterized sanctification may have failed to gain an enduring foothold in ­England, t­ hese practices rooted very deeply on American soil, especially in the South. The development of asylums in Amer­ic­ a cannot be understood without

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appreciating concurrent developments in American religious institutions, especially the mass conversions of African Americans to Chris­tian­ity. For this reason, the Eastern State Asylum—­the only institution in Amer­i­ca to routinely accept slaves and f­ree blacks as patients and to employ slaves as attendants—­offers unique insights.

In ­Virginia Eastern Lunatic Asylum was located in the very cradle of evangelical religion, particularly African American Protestantism. The first revivals in the Chesapeake Bay region occurred in the 1770s and 1780s and w ­ ere dominated by Baptists and Methodists. Between 1774 and 1777, the Brunswick Methodist cir­cuit near Petersburg went from 218 members to 1,360. By the 1790s, approximately a quarter to a third of Separate Baptists (a radically evangelical group that formed in ­Virginia in the 1760s) and Methodists in ­Virginia ­were black.24 Most evangelical churches in Williamsburg and the surrounding counties w ­ ere biracial, and black Baptists, whose numbers had continued to multiply exponentially following local revivals in the 1820s and 1830s, in some areas comprised nearly two-­thirds of all church members.25 Churches in Richmond set apart pews for 1,000 blacks, but that estimate only accommodated one-­sixth of the total black membership.26 Despite unsatisfactory accommodations, f­ ree black and enslaved converts continued to flock to Sunday ser­vices, eventually leading to the establishment in some cities and towns of separate but affiliated churches for blacks and whites. By 1841, ­there ­were two black churches in Petersburg with 2,000 members and two churches in Norfolk with 700 members. The First African Baptist Church in Richmond had 2,000 members. In Gloucester, Ebenezer Church had 50 white and 804 black members, and Petsworth Church had 16 whites and 246 blacks. The Dover Association, formed in 1783 ­after the General Association of Separate Baptists divided at the James River into upper and lower districts, reported 20,000 members, 12,000 of whom ­were black.27 Additionally, in the majority of biracial Baptist churches in V ­ irginia, ­women outnumbered men and African American ­women predominated in both biracial and all-­black churches.28 The enslaved staff members at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, and many of the patients—­white and black—­­were drawn from this body of believers. This huge influx of African American church members was controversial for many white Christians. John Fanning Watson, author of an anonymously published 1814 pamphlet entitled Methodist Error; or, Friendly Christian advice



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to ­those Methodists who indulge in extravagant emotions and bodily exercises, derided enthusiastic worship associated with biracial camp meetings. He described such enthusiasts as “persons of credulous, uninformed minds” without education, refinement, and good manners. Castigating the poor and illiterate in general, Watson located the origins of ­these “errors”: “ ‘It began,’ he said, ‘in ­Virginia, and as I have heard, among the blacks.’ ”29 Class propriety and racial identity w ­ ere not all that was at stake. The mass conversion of African Americans contributed to growing tension over the issue of slavery. In a self-­published book defending noisy worship, clapping, and speaking in tongues, author G. W. Henry argued that God granted Southern slaves the authority “to sing and shout” in anticipation of freedom, just as the Israelites joyfully celebrated their liberation from Egypt.30 Many white Methodists and Baptists, though not abolitionist, condemned the slave trade. The Religious Herald, the newspaper of the Dover Baptist Church, strongly condemned the slave trade, “charging that ­those who engaged in the traffic forfeited the esteem of the community, and contending that the traffic was incompatible with the New Testament.”31 Religious antislavery in the late-­eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries had “made more headway in ­Virginia than elsewhere in the South,” and support of colonization “was stronger in ­Virginia than in other Southern states.”32 Although the extent and significance of antislavery sentiment in ­Virginia should not be overestimated, the attitude of many influential white Virginians was that slavery was a necessary evil that, in time, would be eradicated. This was John M. Galt’s view, which he expressed in a letter to a Northern colleague. “Living in the South, being a Southern man in all my associations & feelings,” he wrote, “I view slavery as a not unmixed evil. But w ­ hether this be so or not, it is a feature of society, which the increasing density of population must destroy. This must be perfectly evident to any reflective man.”33 All ­Virginia religious denominations officially approved of the American Colonization Society, with the strongest support coming from Presbyterians and Episcopalians. Episcopalian Bishop William M ­ eade was an ardent supporter of colonization who denounced slavery as “ ‘one of the most tremendous evils that ever overhung a guilty nation upon earth.’ ”34 Most Virginians, however, did not openly endorse the elimination of slavery. Even fewer envisioned a harmonious multiracial society. The notorious few who did attracted negative attention. One of the most famous large-­scale manumissions involved a wealthy Virginian named Richard Randolph, who liberated his slaves in his ­w ill and provided them with land a­ fter emancipation. Although debts prevented the immediate manumission of all of Randolph’s slaves—­some ­were

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sold off to pay creditors—­Richard’s ­widow, Judith, ultimately freed about a hundred slaves.35 John Minson Galt was interested in the Randolph ­family from a medical standpoint, asking, “What persons in the Randolph f­amily suffered from ­mental disease?” Especially noteworthy was Richard’s b­ rother, John, whose alleged insanity was manifested by his purportedly “advertising negroes & then wishing to abuse persons offering to purchase.” John was also parsimonious and abstained from hard liquor. Galt noted that John experienced a “religious frenzy” in 1818, which led him to read the Bible to his slaves and explain it to them. He apparently “talked only then of freeing his negroes. Said he had a vision.”36 At the root of his query was suspicion that John’s desire to ­free his slaves stemmed from insanity rather than genuine religious princi­ple. Galt observed that the men who witnessed Randolph’s ­will in which he freed his slaves, his stepfather St. George Tucker and a Mr. Leigh, apparently had second thoughts about it. According to Galt, Tucker, who was himself a supporter of colonization, thought Randolph “merely a ­little unstable,” but Leigh found him “clearly unfit.”37 Years earlier when still a medical student, Galt had joked in letters to his s­ isters about John Randolph’s contrarian presence in ­Virginia politics, but ­these eccentricities w ­ ere given new form through the frame of asylum medicine. While intrigue, scandal, and maybe even m ­ ental illness did plague the Randolph ­family, it is evident that Galt regarded the abolitionist feelings and politics of its vari­ous members as symptoms of derangement. Even if John Randolph was mentally unstable, emotional volatility does not preclude a person from having a conscience or from making a rational decision. Galt’s search for evidence of insanity among prominent Virginians also led him to the Car­ter ­family. Noting, “Bishop Tobius says that he never knew a Swedenborgian that did not have some ­mental kink,”38 Galt appears to refer to Robert “Councillor” Car­ter, III, who embraced the Swedenborgian faith in 1787 and subsequently freed almost 500 slaves, the largest manumission by an individual in U.S. history. Emanuel Swedenborg himself believed that “the ­human form divine” was to be found in the center of the African interior, where a new celestial day was dawning among “a more Interior p­ eople than the rest.” Divine revelation led Swedenborg to assert that the original Christian Gospel—­once known as an unmediated vision and understood by man—­ had been corrupted and forgotten over time except by a tribe in Africa, which, undisturbed, had preserved the original Gospel and therefore possessed the highest degree of inner knowledge. Swedenborg concluded that Africans “possessed a greater genius and a greater capacity for spiritual illumination than did Eu­ro­pe­ans.”39



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Although Swedenborg did not specifically address the issue of slavery, the notion that Africans represented a spiritual ideal was outrageous to most white Americans and Eu­ro­pe­ans. Several Swedenborgians besides Car­ter w ­ ere actively involved in international abolitionism. Two men, C.  B. Wadström and August Nordenskjöld, published a pamphlet in En­glish describing a plan for establishing a colony on the coast of Sierra Leone founded and run on Swedenborgian princi­ples. Entitled Plan for a ­Free Community upon the Coast of Africa u­ nder the Protection of G ­ reat Britain; but Intirely In­de­pen­dent of All Eu­ ro­pean Laws and Governments, the pamphlet lays out demo­cratic princi­ples of governance, making connections between the literal bondage of Africans and the “abject servility to innumerable monied Tyrants” of Eu­ro­pe­ans. It argues for suffrage for all adult males, the dissolution of all social class, the eventual abolition of slavery, and a prescription that the “Eu­ro­pean” and the “Negro” should live together in harmony.” As a member of the abolitionist African Institution, Wadström also worked with abolitionists Henry Gandy, Thomas Clarkson, and Granville Sharp in ­England to turn public opinion against slavery.40 In Amer­i­ca, however, the actions of prominent men like Car­ter and Randolph had ­little effect on public opinion. Western expansion and the profitability of the cotton trade reinvigorated the South’s commitment to slavery in the nineteenth ­century. Consequently, by the 1830s Northern abolitionists had grown disenchanted with gradualist approaches and colonization schemes. In 1835, abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison launched a postal campaign to blanket the South with antislavery lit­er­a­ture. The result was a flurry of public meetings and published letters from Southern clergy denouncing Garrison’s tactics and abolition in general. Presbyterian synods, Baptist associations, and Methodist conferences throughout the South passed resolutions condemning abolitionist agitation. The Presbytery of East Hanover, ­Virginia, resolved to “unequivocally & entirely disapprove of & condemn the princi­ples, plans, and efforts of the Abolitionists, as impolitic, unscriptural, & cruel.” Across the James River from Williamsburg, the “citizens of Surry County” publicly fretted that “the abolitionists . . . ​are formidable both from the means which they appear to command, and the activity with which they employ them.’ ” The Richmond Whig was filled with similar statements of anxious outrage. At public meetings throughout V ­ irginia, concerned citizens concluded that abolitionism was cunningly presented “­under the garb of philanthropy, and in the sacred name of religion.” 41 The Baptist Goshen Association felt he need defend itself in the Richmond ­Enquirer against pos­si­ble rumors with the following: “We regret that in

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consequence of having certain incendiary publications addressed to us, without our knowledge or consent, our ministry should be censured and suspected in some degree as aiding and abetting the Northern fanatics in their nefarious designs.” 42 This, then, was the contentious atmosphere patients such as James Cossy had to navigate.

Religion and Respectability James Cossy, a longtime asylum resident and f­ ree black man originally from Gloucester, V ­ irginia, was a patient whose religious ideas Galt examined with ­great interest. Admitted in June 1822 for mania, he was between forty and fifty years old when John  M. Galt became superintendent twenty years l­ater. Superintendent Galt took a special interest in Cossy, who posed a real challenge to conventional classification schemas. “In the incoherence of conversation,” Galt wrote about Cossy in 1842, “­there would seem to be dementia. And yet the wildness of the ideas would show mania; which is also shown in the rationality of his general conduct.” In his habits, Cossy seemed more “eccentric” than “mad.” His disposition was typically quiet and mild, though Galt noted that Cossy “occasionally gets in a passion, from false ideas of having been ill-­treated.”  43 In February 1847, James Cossy delivered an impassioned sermon before a group of his “kinsman” and one “gentleman” at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. Cossy had been a seaman prior to 1822. His time at sea had exposed him to a much wider world than rural Gloucester, and had taught him about navigation—­ knowledge upon which he drew when crafting meta­phors for his sermon. Cossy continued to travel locally even ­after his institutionalization. A September 1853 entry in the Patient Register notes: “He [Cossy] has become Carrier for the ­Virginia Gazette.” 44 Galt speculated that Cossy’s “­going into the world” outside the asylum kept his mind from stagnating and “sinking into a low stage of dementia” unlike t­ hose patients who w ­ ere constantly confined. Galt nevertheless considered Cossy—­an occasionally loquacious and apparently literate man—­grandiose in his delusions, a trait allegedly exacerbated by his job as carrier. Galt noted that Cossy, “has been more excited both before and since undertaking this. He evidently imagines himself to be an impor­tant personage in connection with the Journal.” 45 Indeed, if the transcription of his 1853 sermon is accurate, James Cossy also proclaimed himself James de Cocy: a ship’s captain, sexton at Christ Church of Eu­rope and Baltimore, “King of Africa,” “Master of Arts and Sciences over Africa which I call Hell on Earth,” and keeper of the “Gates of Hell.” 46



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Cossy’s sermon, which Galt may have considered “wild” and incoherent, might be better characterized as audacious and meandering. It begins with the following verse from James 1:5: If any of you lack Wisdom, Ask of God that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not, and it s­ hall be given him From ­there, Cossy articulates what he means by wisdom. Punning and analogizing the celestial sun to the Son of God, Cossy asserts that wise ministers know that the earth turns to the sun, which shines its light on the path to “the Redeemer[’s] love.” They also “know the course of the moon or stars that aid the moon by night.” But, he cautions, “See how the moon ­will dis­appear not to be too high for the Sun,” suggesting that spiritual navigation t­ oward redemption parallels a h­ umble, possibly covert, knowledge of earthly navigation by the stars. Cossy also implies that his knowledge of the Lord and ability to plot a course ­were superior to ­those who considered him a delusional fool or who would deny him the pulpit of Christ Church. Lest t­ here be any doubt about his superior knowledge of God, Cossy reframes Ephesians 6:5–9 to command: “Oh! that Almighty God might be with me, and my kinsman, and the same gentleman who is in com­pany with us . . . ​Servants obey your Master’s [sic] and Masters Obey Me[,] James de Cocy as your ­father.” 47 ­After that he concludes: “All ministers ­ought to preach Christ Jesus his son as the Holy Ghost and all their business h­ ere below!!! Three days and nights did he lay in the body of the Earth and paid the debts and then he came out and shined his Celestial body and came out of all the Ends of the Earth[.]” 48 In short, he exhorts his listeners to feel the presence of the Holy Ghost in all realms of life, not just in church. One won­ders w ­ hether Cossy was familiar with Swedenborgian theology given the shared predilection for astronomical meta­phors and the centrality of Africa in their respective cosmologies. James Cossy was described as merely “eccentric rather than mad” in his habits, yet authorities determined that he was incapable of living outside the confines of the asylum, and so he was maintained at state expense for de­cades. Cossy’s case dramatizes a central fact of the asylum—­administrators and patients often held dif­fer­ent, and at times divergent, religious values and viewpoints. Moreover, religious differences ­were tied to racial and class identity and, frequently, to debates about the immorality of slavery. Understanding ­these differences is fundamental to understanding how seemingly secular medicine became the dominant paradigm for treating ­mental illness. Although Cossy’s

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be­hav­ior was generally “inoffensive,” his religious exhortations placed him at odds with the white, mainstream Protestant idioms and ideologies officially sanctioned and encouraged by the institution. What, then, constituted acceptable religious expression? Unlike James Cossy’s fiery sun, Superintendent Galt perceived God as a more distant sun from a dif­fer­ent galaxy whose rays w ­ ere not capable of scorching the earth. He believed that God was best appreciated by marveling exclusively at “the ­great phenomena of nature” rather than through divine manifestations in ­human transactions or, to paraphrase James Cossy, in earthly business below. For Galt, prayer was formed in his heart as if in “the midst of a dim twilight” in which “the form of ­things”—­doctrine—­was not distinct, but rather like the distant stars “ever gleaming softly, silently, calmly above us.” Not surprisingly, the enthusiastic worship style of “the Evangelical Protestant sects” was anathema to him. Consistently, Galt failed to grasp the substance beneath the style. He evinced instead a desire to sweep aside doctrinal difference in ­favor of an ecumenical recognition that all Christian sects bowed down “unto the ­Great Creator,” while at the same time asking rhetorically in the pages of his journal, “does it not seem like fanat­i­cism & presumption in ­those who preach as though they w ­ ere intimately, thoroughly & fully acquainted with the nature & ways of the Diety [sic].” 49 Superintendent Galt did not think enthusiastic faith to be ipso facto a symptom of ­mental illness, but his class background militated against a personal embrace of evangelical religion. His Protestantism emphasized conventional respectability, discipline, and the belief that divine revelation and miracles ­were a ­thing of the past. “Perhaps modern discovery may be given by Providence instead of additional revelation,” he wrote, “Chris­tian­ity must sooner necessarily have led to it.”50 He associated religious enthusiasm with epilepsy and intellectual weakness, and regarded it as a medical prob­lem when it inspired a believer to behave dangerously or in a way that exceeded his or her station in life.51 For example, Galt contended that “a prominent delusion” among African American patients was “to imagine themselves white.” He did not necessarily mean that t­hese patients ­imagined that they had pale complexions (although Galt did allege that James Cossy preferred the com­pany of light-­ skinned individuals) but, rather, that they claimed social privileges which belonged only to white men. “In the male patients,” he added, “­there has been usually some form of religious delusion.”52 Thus he noted disparagingly in his casebook that Richard G., a f­ree black patient who had worked in the Richmond city jail before coming to the asylum, “frequently asserts himself to be a minister; ­will preach, pray & exhort to prove it.”53 Galt sought to discourage



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t­ hose religious beliefs that encouraged patients to lay claim to a spiritual or social equality that they did not legally possess. ­Little won­der, then, that Galt did not think much of James Cossy’s sermon. Galt was impressed, however, by a prayer composed by a white male patient. He saw fit to publish verbatim this prayer in the asylum’s annual report in order to raise awareness that patients “are capable of far greater intellectual exertion, than a person unaccustomed to the insane would suppose.” Like Cossy’s sermon, this anonymous prayer also begins with a reference to James 1:5: “O Lord our Heavenly F ­ ather, with reverence and humility, would we make prayer and supplication unto thee. We read in thy word that thou givest liberally to all men, and upbraidest not, and thou has erected a throne of grace, and made propitiation for our sins.”54 Confessing with “shame and confusion of face, that we have ten thousand times erred,” the composer of the prayer notes that sinners rightfully deserve to be “banished from thy presence and the glory of thy power,” yet are afforded “a day of probation.” ­Those whose lives “have been cast in pleasant places” are positioned “to serve thee in newness of life, and to fear thee continually.” The prayer ends with a request that all who listen continue to humbly “walk in wisdom’s narrow way” and in fear of the Lord, for this fear “is the beginning of reason.”55 Apart from the common biblical reference, the penitent tone of this sermon is quite dif­fer­ent from James Cossy’s bold exhortations, which partly explains why Galt considered the former exemplary and the latter evidence of a disordered mind. The message of the two compositions is also dif­fer­ent. This anonymous penitent explic­itly advised his audience to humbly walk a narrow path set out by God. He recommended fearful resignation in order to receive God’s grace. For Cossy, on the other hand, God’s light or grace was cast upon ever-­wider paths around the world and in worldly business for all who wish to possess it, and was also reflected covertly through the moon for ­those who claim it in secret. In both the substance of his sermon and his extravagant claims to authority that he did not legally possess, Cossy preached re­sis­tance.

Religion and Re­sis­tance John M. Galt frequently ruminated on the religious debates of his era. As a medical student at the University of Pennsylvania, Galt had made a point of visiting other churches and experiencing other ser­vices, including Presbyterian, Dutch Reformed, and the Universalist Church. He made several visits to Catholic churches for the m ­ usic, but found the sermons offensive and “utterly false.” His harshest opinion he reserved for Quakers: “the more I see

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of Quakerism, the more I am disgusted with it.” He deplored the ­simple, brown clothes that many Quakers wore as ugly. Most importantly, identifying abolitionism almost exclusively with Quakers, he eventually concluded that Quakerism was “absurd, stupid, and evil in its consequences.” In short, Galt’s peregrinations ultimately served only to recommit him to the idea that the Episcopalian sect was, in his estimation, the only “true church.”56 That a man who once expressed abolitionist sentiments, however tepidly, would si­mul­ta­neously denounce Quakers for a more emphatic expression of the same opinion is perhaps confusing. The apparent contradiction is resolved by framing Galt’s objections as scorn for hy­poc­risy. He was similar in this regard to Henry A. Wise, President John Tyler’s appointed minister to Brazil. Wise alienated his Brazilian hosts by railing against the African slave trade despite his support for slavery in general. His denunciation of the slave trade, however, focused on illegal Northern participation. Wise even went so far as to allege that Americans involved in the trade w ­ ere Northern abolitionists. One ship carry­ing 600 slaves from Brazil, he reported, “was owned by a Quaker of Delaware who would not even eat slave sugar.”57 Accusations like t­ hese earned Wise a reputation among his enemies as a strident, paranoid, and ineffectual politician. Galt attempted to disseminate his views on asylums in Brazil through Wise, but he described the unlikely diplomat as someone whose “order of mind” was “peculiarly suited” to being a contrarian.58 Galt was not alone in this negative assessment. John Quincy Adams characterized Wise as “the personified caricature of ­Virginia,” writing in his diary, “­great conception, wild but energetic elocution—­bathos of conclusion, small and pitiful result.”59 Over time, John M. Galt’s peers came to view him in much the same way and for similar reasons. Superintendents Thomas Kirkbride and Charles Nichols, the two Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane colleagues with whom Galt had the most contentious relationship, ­were both Quakers. Pliny Earle, who came to Kirkbride’s defense ­after Galt published his critique of Kirkbride in 1855, was also a Quaker. ­These men ­were, however, Orthodox Quakers. Orthodox Friends w ­ ere generally wealthier and more urban than their non-­Orthodox counter­parts. They ­were also more accommodating to slaveholders on the issue of abolition and less egalitarian in the practice of their faith; their mode of worship was influenced by Anglicanism.60 According to historian Nancy Tomes, Kirkbride’s “conservative Quakerism marked him as a devoted Christian, yet one who eschewed the potentially divisive force of enthusiasm and had no religious designs on his charges.” 61 It is not clear ­whether John Galt was fully aware of the diversity within Quaker-



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ism, but it seems likely that the professional rivalry with ­these two men was exacerbated by Galt’s religious chauvinism. Galt’s prejudices definitely ­shaped his interactions with patients. During his tenure as superintendent, he encountered few Catholics and just one Quaker. In the case of Quaker patient Catherine Brabbs, Galt’s contempt was directed at her plain appearance and poor personal hygiene. Galt likely attributed her lack of vanity to her religious identity rather than to her suicidal state of mind.62 More revealing w ­ ere Galt’s interactions with Catherine Lockran, an Irish Catholic servant employed by a Mr. Tipping. According to Tipping, Lockran had exhibited no unusual be­hav­ior for the first few months of her employment. But one eve­ning, upon Tipping’s return from a church meeting, he found Lockran dressed and holding a Bible u­ nder her arm, asking to speak with a Presbyterian minister. Tipping deci­ded that her desire stemmed “not from genuine conviction but a disordered mind” and so refused her request. How Tipping arrived at that conclusion ­isn’t clear, but his refusal apparently upset Lockran. The next day and eve­ning she grew increasingly agitated, wailing and “deploring her case as a sinner.” Tipping must have responded by locking her in a room ­because he stated that on the second night ­after their initial exchange, Lockran escaped and was found on top of the three-­story h­ ouse. W ­ hether she intended to jump to her death is unclear, but in the days that followed she remained distressed—­especially on the subject of “her guilt as a sinner”—­and at some point took a large quantity of laudanum, ­either “to destroy herself or ease her mind.” 63 Although Tipping noted that Catherine Lockran was “sometimes more rational than at ­others,” she ended up in jail in the fall of 1842. The jailor testified that she “talked rationally & begged me not to put her in a room by herself & asked me to stay with her.” He did stay to listen, whereupon he discovered that Lockran was “much distressed, & timid, & fearful, & expressed uneasiness about something which she would not reconcile to her conscience.” She “appeared afraid to be left by herself ” and “said she had been brought up a Catholic; [but] had become dissatisfied [with Catholicism] & thought they w ­ ere in the wrong.” Her strongest objections w ­ ere “against Priests.” She “read the Bible much, & seemed desirous to unite with some church.” Having unburdened herself to the jailor, Lockran grew more composed. As a precaution, however, the jailor removed every­thing from her cell before retiring for the night. In the morning he returned to find apron strings “tied tight around her neck.” The jailor kept Lockran for a week—­­until she tried to escape “by ­running down stairs & injured herself ”—­ then removed her to a private h­ ouse where she remained for several days

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u­ ntil she was returned to an exasperated Mr. Tipping, who then sent her to the asylum.64 Galt did not dispute Tipping’s assessment of the crisis. Although Galt expressed interest in understanding his patients’ experiences, and Catherine Lockran’s views on Catholicism may well have complemented his own, he apparently did not encourage her to share her thoughts.65 Instead, he observed that she seemed frightened upon admission. Fear apparently yielded to “abusive,” that is resistant, be­hav­ior. Within a month she became “less abusive,” a fact Galt attributed to the efficacy of his treatment program as mea­sured by Lockran’s willingness to work. Lockran’s new religious convictions, however, remained intact. She was, in Galt’s words, “­Little changed. Sings and prays much.” Like her employer, Galt eventually grew exasperated by Lockran’s obstinacy. Temporarily abandoning his determination to forgo mechanical restraints, Galt recorded that his patient “Behaved badly u­ ntil the 16th, when [the] straitwaistcoat made her act rightly.” 66 Galt’s prejudices also surfaced in his published work. In 1852, he published an essay on the Mexican War—­which he supported—­in which he attributed the weakness of the Mexican state in its northernmost territories to the enervation of “Romanism.” 67 His feelings about Catholicism did not, however, prevent him from turning to Catholic countries such as France and Italy for professional inspiration. Any superintendent would have been expected to know about Salpêtrière hospital in Paris, where Jean-­Etienne Esquirol had taken over from his famous teacher, Philippe Pinel. Galt’s notes on Esquirol’s published cases reveal what Galt found most useful for his own practice. He paid par­tic­u­lar attention to cases involving ­women with suppressed menstruation, suppressed lactation, suppressed appetite, and mystical or enthusiastic religious expression. In one such case, a ­woman who had grown despondent over the death of her d­ aughter and was very much affected “by certain po­liti­cal prophecies at the time afloat” became morosely quiet and stopped eating. When she fi­nally began to speak again, it was only to lament and wax loquacious on the subject of “God & the ­great events he had announced to her, that the messiah would appear &c.” For this she was committed and, apparently, calmed immediately. ­After a short relapse, this ­woman signed an agreement with Esquirol stating that if the ­great events that she alleged ­were ­going to happen did not occur by the date she had prophesied, then she would admit to insanity and consent to treatment. When the date had passed and no messiah came, the ­woman apparently conceded her error and was able to go home soon ­after “entirely recovered.” 68



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Esquirol’s revulsive technique inspired Galt. In 1846, the American Journal of Insanity published excerpts from Galt’s first annual report calling for the probing of a patient’s religious misconceptions. Amariah Brigham, Utica Asylum’s superintendent at the epicenter of the Millerite controversy, denounced such ideas as dangerous since such confrontation “could only deepen a patient’s delusion.” 69 Galt did not agree. He concluded that Phebe Epps, a fifty-­ eight-­year-­old white w ­ idow, suffered from “ner­vous crises as M. Esquirol would call them.” This was evidenced by excessive shaking, the fact that her mind centered on “ideas of being possessed by Satanic agency,” and her professed belief that the devil entered her body through her leg. Galt engaged Phebe directly and apparently taught her to regard her religious thoughts about evil as a symptom of insanity, so that when the feelings of possession twice resurfaced during her eight months at the asylum, “she subdued them” and “overcame them.” As was the case with Esquirol’s patient, having conceded her errors with the aid of medicine and “strong exertions,” Phebe Epps was discharged.70 Mary C. Britt, a white ­widow about forty years of age with three ­children living, was also admitted for religiously induced violent be­hav­ior, including an attempt to burn her hand ­because she “­imagined something living in [it].” Like many ­women in her position, the death of her husband six years earlier had left her in “straightened” circumstances. To support herself and her c­ hildren she had opened a boarding ­house with the aid of her ­mother. Then her ­mother and son died, and she began reading Scriptures in lieu of her previous passion for novels. Mary’s first evidence of insanity was “loud singing of hymns & extemporaneous exhortations.” She was not a church member, but it was noted that she regularly attended Methodist ser­v ices. Although she was “always healthy” before this “attack of insanity” and “religious excitement,” it was also noted that as a girl Mary had been “affected with St. Vitus’ dance.”71 Like epilepsy, St. Vitus’s dance (Sydenham’s chorea) is a disorder characterized by spasmodic movements that since medieval times had been associated in Eu­rope with religious frenzy. For Galt, St. Vitus’s dance was readily linked to the kinetic worship of camp meetings that offended men like John Fanning Watson, and in this instance suggested a predisposition ­toward insanity. Glossolalia (speaking in tongues), crying out, falling down, spasms, and other means of calling for or signifying the presence of God at a sacred meeting ­were interpreted at the asylum as symptoms of insanity. The challenge for the superintendent was getting patients to see it that way as well. In Mary Britt’s case, as with Phebe Epps, Galt judged his efforts a success. He concluded that although Mary was “Inclined to talk, sing & gesticulate,” she appeared “conscious of her derangement . . . . ​I

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think [she] is not wedded to her religious notions, having a latent sense of their unreality.”72 When Galt encountered Patsy Campbell, a f­ ree black ­woman whose symptoms allegedly first appeared ­after she attended a camp meeting, the disease was “turning & twisting her about in a strange manner.” ­After eight months, Patsy remained “very boisterous & cheerful” but she too was discharged.73 Preventing patients from injuring themselves or ­others might have been judged an adequate cure, but superintendents had grander ambitions. T ­ hese ambitions ­shaped a subtle yet far-­reaching expectation that patients abandon super­natural explanations for affliction and embrace instead a new concept of themselves as individuals suffering from a medical disease that required secular care.74 What a patient might perceive as the symptoms of soul sickness, doctors might diagnose as mania or melancholia. Coming from rural, “burned over” areas, many patients at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum had a religious or spiritual worldview that was not always shared by the legislators and doctors responsible for their institutional care. The pressure to accept a medical model of well-­being created real dilemmas for them. For example, doctors regarded speaking in tongues as gibberish indicative of disordered thinking. Patients, however, may have viewed “­these peculiar exercises” as the Holy Spirit demanding the self-­mortification that preceded God’s saving grace.75 In this view, to suppress the desire to speak or shout, as was required by asylum doctors, might result in a loss of opportunities to experience divine power and forgiveness. Moreover, the religious worldviews of some patients led them to advocate racial egalitarianism. Sometimes this was an explicit politics, as with abolition. More often, ­these patients’ prioritization of religion coupled with the belief that all p­ eople ­were spiritual equals in the eyes of God affected their personal conduct in ways that ­were deeply unsettling to the hierarchical plantation system. Just how unsettling is revealed by a brief note on the same page where Galt scratched down information about the Randolph ­family, in which he asserts that Randolph’s case is “pretty much like Turner’s case & Rudd,” two asylum patients ­under his care.76 ­There is very l­ittle ­else of substance written about ­these two patients, except for one other document in which Galt wrote of Mr. Rudd: “This was a case in which I believed insanity to exist; but it was a case in which eccentricity melted into insanity. The Board in such cases must be governed by expedience.” Expedience apparently required temporary institutionalization. Although Rudd’s accompanying papers attested to only “a slight degree of insanity,” an assessment supported by his unremarkable appearance and acceptable “mode of conversation,” it was deci­ded that “a short



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incarceration might be of ser­vice to him as a restraint, inducing him to restrain himself ” from what­ever eccentric be­hav­ior or beliefs had caught the attention of his detractors. From that brief note on the page dedicated to outlining insanity in the Randolph ­family, one might reasonably infer that Rudd’s only eccentricity—­and Turner’s as well—­was abolitionist conviction.77 Fortunately for Mr. Rudd, it was agreed that should ­there be no change in his be­hav­ior or opinions, he would nevertheless be discharged at the end of the month since “it appeared hard to keep such a man in the institution all his life.”78 Although the line between eccentricity and insanity was thus acknowledged by asylum administrators to be fine, and not ­every evangelical abolitionist ended up in the asylum, Rudd and Turner w ­ ere hardly the only such cases. One patient, J. E. Scott, tried to send a letter to an anonymous “Dear Sir” stating: “I have been confined in Williamsburg. I am a northerner. I am opposed to the institution of Southern Slavery . . . . It is my design to divide the United States. I have been overrun by the state of ­Virginia.”79 If the intended recipient was someone outside the Asylum, it is evident that that person never received Scott’s letter. Asylum patient L. Lee found himself in a similar predicament. Lee may well have been Luther Lee, a Wesleyan minister hired by the American Methodist Association (AMA) to preach the peaceful abolition of slavery throughout the southwestern ­Virginia cir­cuit.80 Luther Lee, who was also a conductor on the Underground Railroad, wrote in 1846 that the aim of the AMA was “to send anti-­slavery missionaries to the south, or aid in supporting t­ hose whom God in his providence may rise up in that land of whips and chains and gags, to preach deliverance to the captives, and the opening of the prison door to them that are bound.”81 Reverend Lee was based in Ohio from 1857 to 1859, where he was preacher in a Wesleyan and Congregational Church, united in opposition to slavery. Lee’s memoirs are circumspect about his underground journeys, but he had Methodist allies in V ­ irginia. On July 4, 1860, Reverend Lee delivered the funeral ser­v ice for abolitionist revolutionary John Brown in North Elba, New York. In his own words: “That was the oration of my life, the most radical and, prob­ably, the most able I ever delivered.”82 The following October at the fifth General Conference, Lee was elected “a general missionary to travel through the ­whole connection to preach, lecture, or­ga­nize Churches, and promote its interests.” ­After moving his ­family from Ohio to Syracuse, Lee began his organ­izing work “with more zeal and energy than was prudent in the circumstances.”83 An L. Lee was arrested in Prince George County soon thereafter and sent to the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. He escaped a­ fter a short stay, taking the unusual

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step of notifying administrators as to his whereabouts. It is not clear who opened the asylum door for Lee, but as discussed in chapter two, enslaved caretakers ­were routinely accused of assisting runaways through ­either direct aid or disciplinary negligence. Having left ­behind a sealed note intended for Galt that bade the superintendent “an affectionate goodbye,” Lee took off through the meadow that lay southeast of the asylum to an anonymous friend’s h­ ouse along York River Road. From t­ here he caught a steamer home and, upon his arrival, sent another note, dated November 12, 1860, explaining his actions: I feel now about like one translated [sic] from Hell to Heaven and I think it ­will be a long time before I ­shall return again ­unless I should be disposed to pay you all a friendly visit. I am not mad and have only been thought so by ­those who do not possess diagnosticatorial discrimination enough to determine a Lunatic from a Solomon. I think I understand the Constitution of our beloved Amer­ic­ a as well as the most of ­people, and also the laws of ­Virginia. I conclude that no man has the right to arrest or imprison me as Felon or a Lunatic ­until I violate or threaten to violate some law of the code, and this is something I have never done or threatened to do. I feel now that I have a right to shout when I am happy and also to express my opinions verbally or typographically on Religious or Po­liti­cal subjects. This is all I have ever claimed.84 Lee concluded his statement by informing Galt that he would deliver an address the following month at the Prince George court­house decrying his unlawful incarceration, and he invited the physician to attend. Lee also asked that Galt direct the asylum steward to ship his belongings to a friend’s ­house along with a signed discharge notice “when you think I am worthy of it.”85 Lee’s identity and the exact nature of his public proclamations prior to his arrest are uncertain, but the “Religious or Po­liti­cal subjects” power­ful enough to scandalize and arouse the ire of Virginians in 1860—­one year ­after John Brown’s raid in Harper’s Ferry and one year before V ­ irginia seceded—­­were slavery and its abolition. Just one year earlier, Superintendent Galt had received a letter from a Winchester sheriff looking for information about a patient g­ oing by the name of “Major Leigh,” whom someone at the asylum suspected was an accomplice of John Brown’s. The sheriff believed that many sympathizers, “aiders and abetters [sic] of Brown,” had made their way to ­Virginia following the raid on the armory at Harper’s Ferry.86 The enquiry did not produce the accomplice—­perhaps ­because the accomplice was Luther Lee—­but it surely drew attention to the importance of the state in policing beliefs, and the role of the asylum in that endeavor.



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Given this volatile climate, it is unsurprising that a man such as Edward Peticolas would also end up in the asylum. As with Rudd, Turner, Scott, and Lee, Peticolas was a patient who was confined expressly—­and perhaps unfairly—­ ­because he subscribed to increasingly unpop­u­lar religious beliefs and practices. It was he who copied “verbatim” “A Sermon by Capt James de Cocy,” also titled “The Gate of Heaven” or “Sermon for a young man who wishes to be a clergyman of Christ Church Baltimore.” Presumably Peticolas was the “gentleman in com­pany with us” mentioned in the epigraph of this chapter. But who was he and why was he listening so assiduously to James Cossy? Like Cossy, Peticolas was described as a lifelong “eccentric.” He was a sixty-­ one-­year-­old white artist who had lived in the city of Richmond prior to his involuntary admission to the asylum. In the same notebook as the transcribed sermon is a skillfully drawn picture of two birds, one holding a feather in its mouth, under­neath which is the caption: “Capt., James De Cocy, The F ­ ather of White Indians” (see figure  4). The term “white Indians” referred to European-­descended p­ eople who chose to live as and with Native Americans. The abduction of colonists that sometimes occurred in previous centuries had long ceased by the mid-­nineteenth ­century, but romantic writers found in indigenous culture appealing, if idealized, motifs. Several captivity accounts became bestsellers in the 1820s and 1830s. ­These included true stories of individuals who chose to remain with their indigenous abductors, rebuffing attempts at rescue. Petticolas, who was born and raised in Pennsylvania, was old enough to have witnessed or heard firsthand accounts of the border wars and abductions along the Pennsylvania frontier. More importantly, Peticolas seems to have identified with the nonconformist “white Indians” who preferred Native American culture and com­pany to their natal communities. According to the testimony of his son, a physician teaching in the Medical Branch at Hampden Sidney College in Prince Edward County, Peticolas had always exhibited strange proclivities. For example, though unaccustomed to outdoor work, twenty years prior to his commitment, Peticolas “suddenly” took up gardening, a hobby he continued to pursue despite worsening rheumatism. Peticolas also disliked his wife “without real cause” and burnt up every­thing connected with her ­after her death, declaring it “impure.”87 A decades-­old interest in gardening and an unhappy marriage do not seem aberrant enough to merit involuntary commitment as a lunatic, even by the comparatively loose standards of the nineteenth ­century. Peticolas’s son, whose own testimony indicated that his ­father was “entirely lucid” on all topics except religion, was nevertheless able to convince three magistrates that his f­ather was a lunatic. That the son was a doctor—­a respectable man with medical

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knowledge—­surely helped persuade. He alleged that his two paternal u­ ncles ­were also insane, suggesting that the illness was hereditary.88 Edward Peticolas’s own be­hav­ior, however, was prob­ably the most impor­tant f­ actor in his admission. In addition to his unspecified peculiar “religious notions,” Peticolas’s putative insanity manifested in his living arrangements; he lived by himself in “a home half-­furnished,” and he “permitted a ­free coloured ­family to live on the same premises, who attended to his dif­fer­ent wants.” Peticolas’s son was especially alarmed by his f­ ather’s “­great tendency to give away property,” presumably to the aforementioned ­family. By consorting with a f­ree black ­family—­choosing to remain with them like a “white Indian”—­and giving away his property to them instead of to his lawful heir, his doctor son, Peticolas’s lifelong eccentricity was recategorized as insanity.89 ­After his f­ ather’s commitment, the son’s only letter—­or at least the only extant letter—­makes no inquiries about his ­father’s well-­being, requesting only that Superintendent Galt attest to Peticolas’s insanity in order to enable the son to gain l­ egal authority over his f­ ather’s property. Galt seemed to enjoy the elder Peticolas’s com­pany, reporting their conversations about politics and ­music in his personal journal.90 In the medical casebook, Peticolas was observed to be “melancholy and anxious for his account books” and unable to play the violin, and was frequently described as excited and dirty.91 He broke two win­dow panes early in his incarceration, but claimed that he was “only ‘playing the madman.’ ”92 His apparent preference for the com­pany of f­ ree blacks was lent credence by the attention he paid to fellow inmate James Cossy. He was not judged a physical danger to himself or o­ thers.93 Rather, the threat he posed was that of socially inappropriate be­hav­ior—­giving away property to ­free blacks—­possibly justified in his mind by some unpop­u­lar religious notion about racial equality. Peticolas’s son may have intended for his ­father to remain in the asylum only ­until he could take over any remaining assets—­a temporary incarceration as with Mr. Rudd—­but his ­father had one remaining power. On November 21, 1847, just nine months ­after entering the asylum, Peticolas killed himself. Asylum rec­ord books indicate that his death was natu­ral. However, a surviving letter that Steward P. J. Barziza wrote to Superintendent Galt makes it clear that Peticolas committed suicide and that asylum administrators conspired to hide that fact from his f­ amily. A ­ fter passing an uneventful eve­ning in his usual fashion, Peticolas’s body was found the next morning by Jefferson, the slave who had entered his room to build a fire. He had hanged himself with fabric from his pants. In the words of Barziza, “As I was the first and only person to see him, except three of the servants, it immidiately [sic] occurred to me



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figure 4. ​James De Cocy, Father of White Indians. This drawing (circa 1847) by Eastern Lunatic Asylum patient Edward Peticolas accompanies a transcription of a sermon by fellow patient James Cossy. Peticolas was an el­derly white artist from Richmond, and Cossy was a ­free black seaman from Gloucester. Eastern State Hospital Rec­ords, Library of ­Virginia.

to send for Mr. Clowes, and enjoined upon him and the Servants pres­ent to observe a profound silence, but to state about, upon my assertion, that he must have died in a fit.” It is striking that Barziza described himself as the “first and only” witness when he was, in fact, the fourth, and that he was confident that he could trust the o­ thers to maintain this ruse. Upon l­ater discovering a note from Peticolas, which requested that his f­ amily not learn of the manner of his death and instead be informed simply “that he was found dead in the morning,” Barziza admitted to feeling “­great plea­sure” that he had “resorted to this deception” in the first place.94 Peticolas’s son went on to briefly serve as superintendent of the Eastern Asylum a­ fter the Civil War, when it became a whites-­only institution, but it is unclear w ­ hether he ever saw the letter to Galt about his f­ather’s death or was other­wise informed of the truth. Sadly, Dr. Peticolas also committed suicide at the asylum in a lurid fashion. In 1868, he jumped from an asylum win­dow, “dashing his brains out on the sidewalk below.”95 In a draft essay entitled Ideas on Insanity, Superintendent Galt speculated that “lunatics like Joan of Arc & Nat Turner (we should apologize for their mentions together) attain success by producing such an [energy] as would not

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be pos­si­ble or probable in individuals moving in the routine track of life.”96 Nat Turner, who in 1831 led the bloodiest slave revolt in North American history, was from Southampton County in ­Virginia. Turner “was viewed by his fellow slaves as a preacher, healer, and seer” who read celestial events as signs from God ordaining violent revolt.97 Despite Galt’s hesitancy to compare Turner to Joan of Arc, both claimed divine intervention as the source for their revolutionary action, and therefore both w ­ ere insane in Galt’s estimation. At Eastern Lunatic Asylum, one goal was to stop any would-be prophets from following the example of Nat Turner or Joan of Arc by inculcating the habits and thoughts of ­those on “the routine track of life.” Arguably, however, the biggest threat to slavery was not the occasional firebrand like Lee or Scott (or Nat Turner) but the possibility that sustained interpersonal connections might undermine the institution, as it apparently did for the el­derly Peticolas. As with caregiving, Chris­tian­ity sometimes encouraged opportunities for reciprocal relationships. Blacks and whites “preached to, prayed for, and converted each other,” the status of master and slave temporarily suspended by shared emotional fervor and conviction.98 The difficulty interracial worship posed to slavery, in the words of historian Albert Raboteau, was “ensuring that the egalitarian tendencies of Christian instruction would remain safely within the bound­aries of slave management.” Control was potentially weakened “when some masters admitted that they had been converted to a more spiritual view of their slaves.”99 Perhaps this is why patient John T. Williams was “removed from habitual position amongst the coloured insane” in March 1853.100 The asylum’s promotion of rational Chris­tian­ity devoid of po­liti­cal radicalism offered a means of containment. Superintendent Galt knew firsthand slaves’ influence on white society. Viewing himself as an expert on issues pertaining to the care of mentally ill African Americans, Galt authored a treatise on what he deemed “superstition.” Galt explained that “a belief in omens & signs is not uncommon in ­Virginia: many families have par­tic­u­lar t­ hings falling ­under this category, which they have a sort of faith in as predicting by their occurrence [sic] some good or evil.”101 To illustrate, Galt mentioned “hearing voices which do not r­ eally sound,” seeing persons or spirits “where all is thin air,” and imagining that some animal or t­ hing is preying upon an organ of the body, as was the case with Mary Britt and Phebe Epps, both white ­women.102 ­These delusions or illusions w ­ ere, he asserted, particularly common among African Americans and slaves in the West Indies. But anyone who regularly “permitted his imagination to succumb” to superstitions increased the risk of insanity.103 For example, white patient Narcissa Cox, who may have been practicing voodoo, “on one occasion killed a chicken, upon the pretense



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that the devil was in it[;] that it came ‘staggering’ up to her.”104 And Ann Burton, a thirty-­three-­year-­old seamstress and a native of ­England, also spoke of persons “bewitching her and ­doing injury by secret influences.”105 Most of the individuals who held what Galt considered superstitious notions ­were not insane. Jane Deacon, for instance, a recently widowed white ­woman, answered the board’s questions at her commitment hearing “calmly” and in “quite an accurate & sane manner.” Much to Dr. Galt’s perplexity, however, she evinced “a belief that persons are interfering with her by witchcraft.”106 Eventually, Galt concluded, a superstitious person’s excitability or gullibility might snowball into insanity. Thus, he argued, t­ hose who fancy themselves “tricked” might bring about their own demise. In Galt’s estimation, they imagine themselves “tricked” e­ ither b­ ecause they are hypochondriacs or ­because, initially, they are suffering from some disease. Their imagination, in turn, “increases the effect of the disease or of itself ­causes the patient to waste away.”107 Jane (Duerson), a thirty-­two-­year-­old slave and ­mother of four living ­children, may have exemplified this pro­cess for Galt. Jane “­imagined herself ­under a spell/ in negro phrase tricked.” She exhibited “no perversion of intellectual functions,” but she refused to “hold communication with ­others” and was “greatly excited” against “a ­woman with whom she supposed her husband to be intimate.” According to her own­er, Jane experienced some relief a­ fter “­going to a negro-­doctor,” but eventually t­ hose remedies failed and she grew severely emaciated. Yet it is unclear w ­ hether the asylum treatment—­which attributed her illness to a “uterine if not puerperal origin”—­proved more effective for Jane.108 Accounts of slaves and ­free blacks who believed that they ­were tricked reveal that a telltale symptom was snakes crawling u­ nder the skin. T ­ here is evidence to suggest that some patients at Eastern Asylum explained their condition in this way. The 1852–53 Register notes, for example, that Amanda Roby “continues to imagine herself infected by a scorpion and a serpent.”109 Even Galt himself, in private, admitted to occasionally feeling a strange stirring u­ nder his skin—­“an unimpeded motion in incubus”—­that he intellectualized by asking, “was this not the origin of the witch craze?”110 Some believed that it was pos­si­ble to see a snake inside the mouth of a victim of conjure.111 It would not take much imagination to regard parasitic worms as small snakes, and asylum patients with helminth infections frequently passed or vomited worms. A ­ fter Narcissa Cox killed the chicken she was “said to have passed worms, though she denied it,” and she claimed as well that her coffee was poisoned, essentially implying that the staff ­were tricking her.112 From the patients’ point of view, a super­natural explanation that accounted for physical symptoms undoubtedly

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seemed more rational or plausible than a medical theory of insanity that addressed itself vaguely to the ­matter of “nerves.” Perhaps it was the quasi-­religious aspects of medical care that might have made it easier for patients and their families to accept institutional methods and curative measures—­the connection of ­water baths to baptism, for example. Yet the doctor could remain oblivious to patients’ spiritual interpretations of his “secular” treatment, allowing both parties to come away satisfied from their interaction. Galt’s public dismissal or denigration of African American explanations of disease as “superstition” might have been partly an effort to contain its influence on white society. Late-­nineteenth and early twentieth-­century accounts of hoodoo attest to widespread belief among white Southerners. Between 1877 and 1913, for example, ­there w ­ ere twelve white patients at the South Carolina State Hospital who claimed to be the victims of conjure.113 Galt’s attitude was also typical of white physicians who overlooked or misinterpreted the broader “pharmocosm” in which conjuration occurred in order to bolster Eurocentric diagnoses and treatments.114 By locating the source of affliction in patients’ imaginations, Galt ignored their insistence on a relational vision of health in which affliction and well-­being ­were inextricably linked to “broader community relationships.”115 This is not to say that all of the African American patients at the asylum ­were sane; even within their own communities some of them ­were doubtlessly perceived as deranged. But the explanation for their derangement and the prescribed treatments w ­ ere dif­fer­ent, and without asylum intervention, the ultimate outcomes might have been as well. The same or similar might be said of the white patients about whom Galt noted a propensity for religious enthusiasm. The religious beliefs and expressions of many of the patients stand in marked contrast to the faith espoused by the asylum administrators. Sometime circa 1844, Superintendent Galt wrote a letter to the Eastern Asylum’s board of directors seeking approval to offer regular Sabbath ser­vices to the patients. His appeal was multidimensional. First, he quoted Pliny Earle, who had alleged in 1840 that only four institutions in the United States failed to provide regular religious ser­vices to inmates, in effect shaming the directors for being at the head of a comparatively deficient enterprise. (Fifteen years ­later the relationship between Galt and Earle was less collegial.) Further, Galt asserted that the same could be said of Eu­rope, giving the example of Aberdeen in Scotland, where ser­vices ­were viewed as a “useful occupation.” At no other time w ­ ere patients observed to behave “so like rational & accountable beings.” The curative influence to which so many superintendents attested was, in part, due to the “powers of self-­controul” that w ­ ere called upon in order to sit through a



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ser­vice. At minimum, ser­vices ­were something to do—­an activity preferable to idleness. In turn, the exercise of self-­control was said to increase “the self-­ respect of the patient.”116 Galt’s argument on the efficacy of religious ser­vices was bolstered not only by quotations from respected figures like Earle and Samuel Woodward of the Worcester State Hospital but also by his own experience. He pointedly thanked Reverend Leak “for the religious ser­vices which he was kind enough to conduct in this institution.”117 Notably, Galt did not argue that religious ser­vices ­were necessary at the asylum in order to preserve the souls of his patients. Religion served a purpose at the asylum, but its function was material rather than spiritual. Although John  M. Galt was dismissive, and even contemptuous, of all sects save Episcopalians, he was considerably more permissive in his attitudes than some of his colleagues when it came to the religious freedoms granted to enslaved attendants. He allowed for separate Sunday ser­vices for the slaves that ­were led by fellow slaves and involved loud singing, which several board members found objectionable.118 Galt also granted permission for a burial ceremony for an enslaved attendant, in which “the servant George” proposed to “sing a praise” in lieu of or in addition to usual ser­vice provided by white officer Mr. Clowes. He was similarly sympathetic when the matron reported that Harriet was “almost distracted about Ned’s not being buried in the country,” and confronted white officers ­after a “col’d congregation” was refused a room to preach despite his expressed willingness to give it to them.119 Galt’s permissiveness is remarkable given the social context. Rebellions such as Nat Turner’s had generated “a vehement white backlash that manifested itself in stringent mea­sures that severely curtailed the in­de­pen­dence of African churches and the rights of assembly of black Christians.”120 By 1832, in fact, ten years before Galt took over the asylum, the African Baptist Church of Williamsburg was closed and slave members at Elam Baptist twenty miles up the James River in Charles City “­were transferred by their ­owners to a church ­under white control.”121 Galt nevertheless continued to allow a ­free black patient, James Cossy, to wander and preach despite complaints from board members and fellow patients.122 In short, Galt’s attitude t­ oward the asylum slaves and their right to practice religion as they saw fit w ­ ere considerably more relaxed than the attitudes of some of his colleagues. Perhaps it was Galt’s open-­minded disposition that prevented him from fully realizing his vision of a regular chaplain who would also act as a teacher at the asylum.123 The board of directors approved, but the turnover of ministers at the asylum remained high, especially compared with the lifetime tenure of most of the other staff. In addition to Mr. Leak, Galt’s correspondence

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mentions ser­v ices provided by Misters Withers, Clarke, Totten, Dennison, Minnigerode, Morris, and Joyner (also spelled Joiner).124 The parade of ministers was occasionally punctuated by gaps in which t­ here ­were no ser­vices offered.125 The asylum’s role as promoter of rational religion may be one reason it proved difficult to retain ministers. Even the most conservative ministers prob­ably regarded their primary purpose as saving souls and not just helping patients pass time. They might also have resented mea­sures to regulate their message, such as when Galt noted in his journal, “Should always determine character of ser­vices before ­going in the officiate.”126 But another reason surely had to do with the fact that the asylum minister had to please superintendent, patients, staff members, and members of the board of directors, who did not always agree with one another. Board members complained about the nature of some of the sermons. “Mr. Morris preached a funeral sermon,” wrote Galt, and the next day “Mr. Waller spoke to me about Mr. Morris’ sermon, whereupon I said that I did not understand what Mr. Morris had done to be in accordance with the views of the Board, but that we must yield to the Directors, & Mr. M would s­ ettle the m ­ atter with the Directory.”127 Steward Barziza even threatened to kill Joiner for some unspecified transgression.128 Through it all, Galt tried to keep track of patients attending ser­vices and promote what he thought was in their best interest. In November 1853, he noted, “Col. Armistead asked if ­there was any change in the Chapel. I said I thought that perhaps t­ here ­were more patients in attending [sic], but that nothing positive had taken place.”129 The meaning ­behind this negative assessment is unclear. Did Galt mean that the patients ­were dazed and uncomprehending? Or ­were they restive, their worship remaining, in his view, irrational? In ­either case, Galt’s disappointment might not have been shared by the patients in attendance. Like the baths, patients and administrators might have come away from a Sunday ser­vice having understood the event in dif­fer­ ent ways.

Conclusion In the Annual Report of 1843, Superintendent Galt wrote, “most c­ auses of insanity arise from some infraction ­either of the moral or the physical laws of our being.” Chief among moral ­causes ­were “strong feelings” aroused by domestic trou­bles and affliction. Emotional turmoil was, he suggested, more pronounced in rural communities of the South since ­there ­were fewer ­people and events to divert attention from “the ­family circle.” He cautioned that the “proper safeguard” against passionate feeling was “resignation to the ­w ill of



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Providence,” indicated by the “calm conviction” that every­thing that happens in this lifetime and in the world “springs from the one g­ reat cause, and in answer to some good purpose.”130 Based on their letters, it would appear that many white patients’ f­ amily members did indeed take solace by resigning themselves to God’s w ­ ill. They accepted that the m ­ ental illness afflicting their loved one was preordained by God. “I endeavor to resign myself to the ­will of God,” wrote one wife about her husband who was a patient, “humbly hopeing [sic] that this affliction[,] however severe it may seem as this Time, w ­ ill work for us a far more exceeding weight of Glory.”131 A letter that one m ­ other wrote to her ­daughter named Mary Barrett, a patient, also typifies this attitude: “I hope by the blessing of Divine providence you ­will be restored to health and be able to be returned to your ­family and friends; my dear child[,] try to be contented.”132 Clearly, however, ­there ­were many asylum patients (and enslaved asylum staff) for whom resignation was not an attractive option. For ­these patients, religious faith was transformative, spurring one to action and, sometimes, rebellion. Moral therapy dismissed the idea that the insane w ­ ere possessed or cursed as unscientific superstition. Like his peers, John M. Galt maintained that religious enthusiasm was more often a symptom of insanity rather than a cause. At best, he argued, religion was sometimes an exciting, secondary f­actor for ­those predisposed to insanity. This distinction was crucial as it enabled administrators to promote their own vision of acceptable religion and to deride marginal beliefs. One of the key functions of the asylum was to shape patients’ understanding of illness as a secular experience rather than a spiritual malady. Secular medicine was not, however, completely divorced from religion. Superintendents tamped down enthusiasm while si­mul­ta­neously promoting the values and worldview of mainstream Protestantism, which in the South, included ac­cep­tance of slavery. For enslaved and ­women patients especially, this cognitive reframing of suffering diminished the sense of peace and empowerment that religious faith sometimes provided.

chapter four

Now She Is Choked Gender and the Normalization of Vio­lence Has beaten herself & her head against the wall . . . . ​says now she is choked. —­1842 Patient Notebook entry for Jane Bonney1 bern this litter [Burn this letter] I am in a ­great deal of truble [sic] I hope you ­will help me out. —­1858 letter to Superintendent Galt from Sarah Mosby, wife of a patient.2

Just as the values and beliefs of enslaved caregivers and patients did not always complement ­those espoused by asylum administrators, the tenets of moral therapy ­were often at odds with the realities of patients’ chaotic and violent lives, most especially w ­ omen patients. This disjuncture raised provocative and irresolvable questions about the purpose, efficacy, and ethics of institutionalization. Administrators ­were forced to consider ­whether the be­hav­iors that brought w ­ omen to the asylum ­were symptomatic of m ­ ental illness or constituted a normal response to stressful, frightening, and painful situations. Equally confounding was the need to decide w ­ hether the sense of empowerment and righ­teousness many ­women derived from their religious faith was a legitimate form of moral authority that enabled them to defy oppression or evidence of a mind in need of moral reform. In sum, staff and patients w ­ ere daily faced with the possibility that it was the asylum’s mission—­and the slavery that ­shaped and supported it—­that was peculiar, and not necessarily the patients. Asylum administrators increasingly chose to focus on ­women’s reproductive and sexual organs as productive of insanity rather than address what may have destabilized so many ­women—­vio­lence. This somatic emphasis was at odds with the environmentalism of moral therapy, but the contradiction was less troubling than a complete interrogation of patriarchy and slavery would have been. By viewing ­mental illness as an individual ­woman’s prob­lem, doctors, jailors, and justices of the peace w ­ ere able to ignore or suppress the most obvious prob­lem that plagued many candidates for admission—­the deleterious effect of slavery and systematic vio­lence. Medical anthropologist Arthur Kleinman writes that to interpret the suffering of individuals whose personal lives are damaged by “ruinous social policies” is “to medicalize (and therefore trivialize and distort) their significance.” While the experience of trauma does



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produce “intimate physiological consequences,” in converting ­these “bodily idioms” into medical diagnoses, “their moral significance is weakened or even denied entirely.”3 The asylum expressly denied ­women’s authority in religious m ­ atters, paid inordinate attention to female reproductive organs as the cause of insanity, and promoted a racialized vision of healthy womanhood that ignored the trauma of abuse. In so d­ oing, administrators fostered de­pen­dency or passivity in white ­women and disproportionately characterized black ­women as recalcitrant imbeciles, laying the foundation for late-­nineteenth-­century medical and po­liti­ cal discourse that conceptualized “white ­women’s strug­gle for social and po­liti­cal autonomy from white men as a racial threat” and portrayed black ­women as naturally promiscuous.4 Ultimately, the per­sis­tence of trauma and the re­sis­tance of many w ­ omen to the asylum’s therapeutic regime prompted Galt to campaign for separate asylums for men and w ­ omen, something he eschewed when it came to separate institutions for blacks and whites.

­Women’s Bodies, ­Women’s Lives The association of w ­ omen with insanity, particularly hysteria, reaches all the way back to ancient Greece, as demonstrated by the etymology of the word, which comes from hysterikos or womb. By the mid-­nineteenth c­ entury, Western medical consensus and popu­lar opinion alike frequently asserted that female reproductive organs enervated or compromised w ­ omen’s capacity for intellectual and civic engagement. Conversely, too much education and participation in politics could negatively affect ­women’s reproductive health. This was Superintendent Galt’s view, which he expressed thus: “­Women ­ought not to vote, ­because physically incapable; first menstruation, secondly, pregnancy; the insane should not b­ ecause most incapable.”5 It is telling that Superintendent Galt grouped healthy ­women with individuals who ­were diagnosed as insane, implying that neither was capable of making a rational choice in an election for public office. The only ave­nue open to ­women for influencing public policy was moral suasion, which depended greatly on the perception of ­women, particularly white w ­ omen, as the virtuous sex. For w ­ omen whose virtue appeared compromised by illegitimate ­children or violent or strange be­hav­ior, as was the case for a ­great many of the ­women who w ­ ere committed to Eastern Lunatic Asylum, their capacity to shape public dialogue about issues such as domestic vio­lence and slavery was all the more circumscribed. Galt’s core beliefs about ­women’s bodies and capabilities influenced the treatment of t­ hose who came u­ nder his care. Appended to the essay on botany

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he wrote to obtain his medical degree w ­ ere “Medical Fragments,” which included a lengthy piece detailing his “peculiar ideas on the subject of menstruation.” 6 Like many antebellum physicians, Galt found the physiology and reason for menstruation perplexing.7 He postulated that “certain portions” of ­women’s genitals ­were undeveloped versions of parts of men’s genitals, with the chief difference being that men secreted semen (“the highest of secretions”) and ­women “sanguineous fluid.” With the onset of puberty, “a large flow of blood & ner­vous influence ­towards the genitals” stimulated physical growth and the production of semen in the testes. The equivalent flow of blood and “ner­vous influence” was directed t­ oward the ovaries in w ­ omen, but ovaries “do not secrete” and so the blood passed to the womb, where it gradually accumulated before being ejected. The purpose of menstruation, Galt speculated, was to “accustom the system to a large quantity of blood,” preparing a w ­ oman’s body for pregnancy.8 Thus regular menstruation was considered crucial to good health for ­women. Continuing the analogy, one could infer that regular ejaculation was impor­tant to the good health of men, but Galt did not make such an assertion in his thesis. However, in a letter to a correspondent who had requested a prescription to prevent masturbation, Galt cautioned that “marital exertions” ­were “very necessary” to keep men from indulging in “self-­ abuse.” He also recommended a plain diet, keeping busy, and a hard mattress.9 As for sexual desire in w ­ omen, excessive ardor could be due to a “fullness of the system” caused by amenorrhea or pregnancy.10 As noted in chapter three, Galt combed through the published cases of famous Eu­ro­pean asylum physicians, paying par­tic­ul­ar attention to cases of suppressed menstruation and lactation as well as “abuse of conjugal pleasures,” which ­were allegedly connected to expressions of mysticism and religious fanat­i­cism. Galt also took notes on a case of “acute hystero-­mania” in an Italian asylum in which the patient, a baker’s wife, became barren a­ fter the birth of a ­daughter. ­After ten months without evacuation of menstrual blood she also became constipated. As a result of ­these blockages, the ­woman’s body became overheated and her countenance distorted by “abnormal twitching” and “sparkling eyes.” Her personality also changed. She became excitable and eventually lost all modesty, exhibiting “obscene acting.”11 Galt’s interest in ­these cases was more than just idle or prurient curiosity; he was looking for guidance about how to ­handle similar cases involving the uterus that he encountered at Eastern Lunatic Asylum. Ann Shivers, for example, had “a false conception” and si­mul­ta­neously complained that her soul was “lost, or deprived of the influence of the Holy Spirit.”12 With the aid of w ­ omen slave attendants and the matron, Galt kept track of the menstrual cycles of patients



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who suffered from amenorrhea as well as recorded the religious proclivities of ­these patients. Regular menstruation was also suspect, however, as it allegedly weakened the body and mind.13 Lucy Fankersby was said, at times, to be “quite rational,” “but as the monthly period of w ­ omen comes upon her, she is quite deranged.” Ultimately the “defect in her monthly disease” was thought to be “too much evacuations generally.” This physical excess had its analog in her extreme emotions; she would sometimes attempt to strike her caregivers, and her “fits of laughing sometimes terminate in crying.” She also evinced an unladylike “disposition to profanity.”14 Superintendent Galt also noted, without comment, contrary opinions culled from annual reports and meetings of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane. Galt wrote that Dr. Luther Bell, for instance, posited “much less connection of obstructed menstruation than commonly supposed in insanity.” Similarly, he observed that Dr. Amariah Brigham of Utica, the asylum that ­housed the most Millerite patients, reported “Seven cases of clitoris being amputated. Only one got better.” Dr. Kirkbride of the Pennsylvania Hospital recommended a catheter, identifying the urethra as a source of m ­ ental illness on the recommendation of the French surgeon Allemand. Although he dutifully recorded ­these interventions, ­there is no rec­ord of Galt having ever resorted to surgical remedies or instruments.15 Galt did not explain why his colleague performed clitoridectomies when, historically, the uterus was thought to be the source of hysterical mania. Perhaps, as Galt speculated in his student thesis, “any ­little circumstance” could “turn” the blood intended for monthly evacuation to the “the vagina and the parts constituting the vulva.”16 This might cause a dif­fer­ent, albeit related, type of disorder. In a separate note on his readings Galt wrote, “if nymphomania from clitoric initiation, may be occasionally advisable to remove the clitoris, as recommend by DuBois.”17 Like Allemand, Antoine DuBois was a French physician who had advocated surgical intervention, ­either lancing or cauterizing the clitoris.18 But both men ­were eighteenth-­century physicians, against which moral means ­were counterpoised. It is, therefore, surprising to see how heroic mea­sures persisted when it came to ­women’s bodies even among the most vocal proponents of moral medicine. Asylum doctors ­were not the only medical men interested in ­women’s anatomy. General prac­ti­tion­ers promoted the idea that menstrual health was impor­tant to reproductive and productive ­labor, becoming early pioneers in the emerging fields of gynecol­ogy and obstetrics. In the 1850s and 1860s, British doctor Isaac Baker Brown gained transatlantic fame ­because “he

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developed a use for clitoridectomy on w ­ omen with ner­vous disorders, most often what he described as excessive masturbation.”19 Closer to home, Southern surgeon J. Marion Sims performed clitoridectomies as well as cervical amputations for a wide array of female complaints, having first pioneered treatment for fistulas by performing experimental surgeries on slave ­women.20 By and large, however, moral therapy eschewed such interventions. Superintendent Galt did rec­ord some incidences of masturbation amongst his w ­ omen patients, but t­here w ­ ere apparently few detected cases. It is also pos­si­ble that Galt was particularly uncomfortable with this aspect of the job, a discomfort that may have been exacerbated by his status as an unmarried physician. Even in his private journal, Galt could not bring himself to rec­ord verbatim a crude exchange with a female patient who accused him of groping another female patient.21 Erratic be­hav­ior following a difficult pregnancy was a more commonly noted phenomenon and conduit into the asylum. Generally, references to patients’ sexuality at Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­were subsumed into discourses about marriage and motherhood. “Motherhood was ­woman’s normal destiny,” historians Carroll Smith-­ Rosenberg and Charles Rosenberg have written of the nineteenth c­ entury, “and t­hose females who thwarted the promise immanent in their body’s design must expect to suffer.”22 Yet motherhood was a profoundly dif­fer­ent experience for white and black w ­ omen. For slave ­women, becoming a ­mother meant becoming further entrenched in the slave system. What­ever love and nurturance slave m ­ others felt for their offspring, particularly if the ­father was chosen by them and the c­ hildren ­were not the product of sexual  assault or coercion, was offset by their relative inability to protect their ­children from harm. Comparatively poor nutrition and the routine overwork of pregnant and lactating w ­ omen contributed to poor health outcomes for slave ­children. Added to this, of course, was the burden of slave ­children being put out to work, with their parents unable to prevent them from being abused or sold away by their masters. Although the c­ hildren of ­free black ­women did not have the specter of being sold away shadowing them, limited opportunities for social and economic advancement constrained their ­future prospects. In comparison, the experience of motherhood for white w ­ omen was largely dependent upon the status and character of their husbands. A tyrannical husband could make life miserable for his f­ amily, a misery made all the more wretched if he was also unable to provide for his f­amily’s material needs. But if a husband was not routinely violent and he met or exceeded his financial obligations to his ­family, then a white m ­ other might be able to enjoy both her ­children’s love



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and the satisfaction of knowing that she was considered a key player in their moral development. The differences between white and black m ­ others ­were extended to perceptions about the physical experience of childbirth, too. Although the majority of physicians thought that w ­ omen’s bodies w ­ ere anatomically the same regardless of race, this implicit recognition of the essential humanity of black ­women did nothing to c­ ounter the widespread idea that black w ­ omen w ­ ere better able to withstand pain. It was this specious notion, first widely publicized by gynecological surgeon Charles Atkins in 1825, that contributed to the aforementioned physician J. Marion Sims’s decision to perform experimental surgeries on slave w ­ omen.23 Advocates of moral therapy argued against earlier notions that the insane ­were oblivious to physical discomfort like cold temperatures, but perhaps b­ ecause t­ here ­were few asylums that treated African Americans, asylum physicians did ­little to contradict similar notions about black ­women. Superintendent Galt did admit that the bad odors and decrepit condition of the cells that ­housed the black female patients failed to boost their health, he nevertheless felt it more expedient to keep them ­there rather than risk offending white paying patients by instituting mixed-­race female wards.24 The idea of the physically tough black ­woman who could deliver c­ hildren with comparatively ­little pain reinforced a related belief that black w ­ omen w ­ ere also more sexually robust or passionate. This ste­reo­type was perpetuated by slaveholders to justify the treatment of w ­ omen slaves as “breeders” and the sexually predatory be­hav­ior of many white men.25 This pejorative portrayal had an enduring effect in psychiatry. Historian Elizabeth Lunbeck writes that early twentieth-­century psychiatrists considered the sexual immorality of white girls a sign of disease, but “they deemed that of black girls entirely normal.”26 Although the meaning ascribed to sexuality was dif­fer­ent depending upon race even when the ­actual be­hav­ior was the same, in both cases the ­women w ­ ere objectified, with medical attention drawn to their sexual organs. Lunbeck asserts that the “hyper-­sexual female,” the willfully passionate ­woman who could not control her desire for sexual plea­sure emerged as a central player in Psychopathic Hospital psychiatrists’ “drama of the everyday.”27 Ann Goldberg offers similar observations about racially homogeneous Eberbach Asylum in nineteenth-­century Germany, where one-­third of all the female cases ­were diagnosed with nymphomania.28 In contrast, no patients at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum during Galt’s tenure ­were diagnosed with “nymphomania.” However, hypersexuality and/or nymphomania ­were not defined in terms of specific acts, but as “a state of being—­of overexcitement.”29 This excitement could manifest in terms of sexual promiscuity, but it also encompassed loud talk, vulgar

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discourse, and rejection of feminine virtues like modesty and self-­sacrifice. When viewed broadly, it is clear that the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was involved in regulating and interpreting the sexuality of its female patients, and that racial differentiation was an impor­tant part of this exercise. From 1842 to 1843, twenty-­seven w ­ omen ­were admitted to Eastern Lunatic Asylum and diagnosed with mania, monomania, dementia, or moral insanity. ­These ­women joined twenty-­eight ­women already in residence, including two who died that year. Of the recent arrivals, six died within the year. Out of all fifty-­five cases, only three ­were discharged.30 Of the thirty ­women about whom Superintendent Galt noted details about their history and be­hav­ior while ­under his care, three ­were black. All three ­were characterized as violent. Of the twenty-­six or twenty-­seven white ­women (one ­woman’s race is unclear): fourteen evinced a disposition to injure o­ thers; eleven ­women ­were inclined to self-­injury, from self-­mutilation to suicide; eight ­women w ­ ere considered boisterous or vain; and six ­women—­four white and two black—­­were explic­itly characterized as promiscuous.31 Fanny Jett, a “licentious” twenty-­seven-­year-­old white w ­ oman who was “once pretty,” was refused the privilege to join the Baptist Church “­because she had been living in violation of the law with Peter Jett—­an old man” with whom she had four ­children.32 One church member “consented to her admission on condition that Jett would marry her,” which he did, but all the same Fanny became fixated on “the subject of [the] hereafter” and she began to take “no care of herself or ­children.” Fanny’s disreputable relationship carried over into the description of other aspects of her character. She was “loud,” she smoked “a g­ reat deal,” and answered questions “in a half joking way.” The board was not sure what to make of her communication style b­ ecause she answered their questions “in such a manner as to appear to them idiotic, repeating what they have said, &c.” Even her productivity—­an attribute that was ordinarily praised, was viewed as symptomatic of her excessive and passionate personality. She worked “constantly & well,” but her good work ethic was said to be “almost a delusion.”33 Elizabeth Hockman, on the other hand, did not work well, and she complained about the food. The story b­ ehind her commitment to the asylum contributed to the portrait of her as a self-­indulgent, lazy character. She was a married white w ­ oman with one child who had developed a “fondness” for a Mr. Lawson, a man who had lived with her ­family. Her attraction to Mr. Lawson led Elizabeth to neglect her “house­hold business,” which together with her reputation as “rather a loose character,” convinced her husband and brother-­ in-­law to commit her. Not surprisingly, Elizabeth Hockman was “rather



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obstreperous about her confinement” at her commitment hearing before the board, and she spoke “in a mystical manner.” Five months ­later, the superintendent thought her “much improved” but “still delusion[al] as to [her] husband.” Galt did not elaborate on the nature of t­hese alleged delusions.34 Mr. Hockman wrote to the superintendent two years ­later—­Elizabeth was still a patient—­to share his discovery “that a criminal connection had existed between [Elizabeth Hockman] and Lawson,” which led to “certain transactions in public of the most disgusting character.” Mr. Hockman suspected that his wife had been “hired to go mad” by Mr. Lawson to get out of their marriage and obtain the additional promise of 100 acres. Superintendent Galt, on the other hand, concluded that “­these actions . . . ​­were the primary symptoms of her ­mental disease.”35 No one, save perhaps Elizabeth Hockman herself, construed her alleged be­hav­ior as an ill-­considered but sane love affair by a ­woman who had perhaps hoped to improve her station in life materially and personally. Mary Bilby strongly desired an improvement in her life condition. She was a white ­widow with four ­children. Although she had once been “sober & industrious,” her “circumstances [­were] low.” She was “lean & poor.” Perhaps Mary understood that her economic prospects would be better if she w ­ ere married. Her neighbors believed her to be “most deranged on matrimony” (although religion was also bandied about as an exacerbating ­factor). Some thought her “very amorous.” She had become “talkative & ill-­natured” and her speech was “vulgar.” The likelihood of attracting a husband was perhaps diminished by the fact that Mary “snore[d] very much” and had experienced a painful, fetid skin eruption on her face. To keep her from acting upon her desires and ­because she was occasionally “very violent,” Mary was sometimes bound and confined. She herself expressed a longing to cut off her hands and legs with an axe. Once committed to the asylum, she remained “excited” with “many desires.” Within a month she had improved, but she still had desires about which the superintendent did not provide details. He was equally vague when he noted that Mary was “mischievous in some other re­spects.” Nevertheless, ­after a four-­month-­long convalescence, Mary was one of just three patients discharged “nearly if not quite recovered.”36 Lucy Beasley was a “flighty” w ­ oman, married with seven c­ hildren. Her insanity was also particularly manifest on the topic of marriage, and it was noted before the board that one of the witnesses seeking to institutionalize her “thinks she o­ ught to be divorced and married again.” Although Lucy was “well behaved,” Superintendent Galt found her annoyingly “conceited, fancying herself pretty.”37 Vanity was also allegedly a ­factor in Nancy Greenlee’s

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insanity. At forty-­two, she was a single w ­ oman who lived with her parents. They complained that Nancy was “not obedient for [the] last six or seven years as formerly.” She was said to be “exceedingly intelligent & industrious, more so than any member of the ­family.” Perhaps this was the reason she chafed at their attempts to control her. Her first signs of insanity w ­ ere said to be “hatred of the ­family ­because they would not let her dress with the greatest extravagance.” Her ­family, however, attributed her be­hav­ior to monthly “periodical derangement.” They responded by keeping her “in a room to herself where her meals ­were sent.”38 Mary Richardson was a ­widow and a ­mother to twelve ­children. Much to the alarm of her community, Mary “sought e­ very opportunity to expose her person before ­every lady who ventured out, or dared to show her face at the door or win­dows.” She even “stripped & lay on a bridge, along which carriages would pass.” She was also known to “use ­every kind of indecent language and abuse,” although apparently she “never exactly injured anyone.” Some neighbors thought her condition hereditary, o­ thers attributed it to “ill treatment of [her] husband,” who was “a bad man” known for “intercourse with Indian ­women.”39 Celia Lane—­a patient whose race is uncertain—­was similarly inclined to public indecency. A single ­woman between thirty and forty years of age and possessing only about ten dollars’ worth of furniture, she would tear her clothes, “shouting as if happy.” Predictably, “religious excitement” was the suggested cause of her alleged illness. Regulation of w ­ omen’s sexuality often was accompanied by effort to undermine their religious expressions and beliefs, as hysterical excitement was thought to be the root cause of both enthusiastic sexuality and religiosity.40 On August 14, 1843, Sally Cary Williams appeared before the members of the board of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. A f­ ree black ­woman arrested in Frederick County, Sally had resided at a poor­house, where she had given birth to one child (fate unknown) before being “committed as a lunatic to jail” in 1835 when she was between twenty and thirty years old. Her habits pronounced “disagreeable & offensive,” her character “ill-­tempered, vulgar, and abusive,” Sally spent eight years in jail chained by one leg. Her derangement was thought to be general, but it was noted that she was especially excitable on the subject of marriage. Sally had been “engaged to a slave”—­possibly the f­ ather of her child—­whose owner would not permit marriage, “& sold the man & sent him away.” “She often complains of it, perhaps everyday,” the jailor stated in his deposition to commit Sally, adding that he had “heard from persons knowing her before derangement” that she was once considered “to be a handy, smart



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person.” In fact, the deposition concluded with an assessment that Sally was “sound.” 41 Nevertheless, she was committed to Eastern Lunatic Asylum as a maniac. Sally was assigned one of two cells in the basement of the convalescent ­house, the most decrepit building at the asylum. The neighboring cell was given to Lydia, who was admitted that same day. Lydia was black and aged twenty to twenty-­five years old, although her identity was something of a mystery. She had been found pregnant, hungry, “wild and almost naked” wandering in the woods near Richmond. Like Sally, Lydia had spent time in jail chained by one leg where she acquired a reputation as abusive, having reportedly struck the jailor when he came close to untangle her chain saying calmly “turn the other cheek & I w ­ ill give it a slap too.” Like Sally, she had given birth in jail (child’s fate unknown), from which fact the jailor “inferred [that she was] a ­woman of loose habits.” Unlike Sally, however, Lydia seemed forgetful and confused so she was diagnosed with dementia rather than mania. However, the fact that Lydia “would not tell where she was raised & from whence she came” and appeared to know “nothing of friends, relations or neighbors” may just as likely have been a rational strategy to avoid being forcibly returned to a place from whence she may have been endeavoring to escape. Despite repeated attempts, the only ­thing her captors and keepers learned about her was that she had once worked barreling herring. Perhaps Sally learned more, but if the two ­women talked late at night when they w ­ ere by themselves in the basement, their conversation remained private.42 The day of their commitment, Sally was “calm & peacable [sic]” but Lydia was observed “making mouths” and “twisting her head.” Both ­women ­were peacefully working two weeks ­later, although Superintendent Galt noted that Sally “was mischievous in taking up the bricks, & does not do much work.” Like all patients at the asylum, Sally and Lydia ­were required to work, ostensibly for therapeutic benefit. However, the nature of assigned work varied greatly based on age, class, gender, and race. The division of ­labor at the asylum reflected hierarchies in the world beyond the institution’s grounds, partly in preparation for release. Work in the kitchen, the laundry, and the brickyard—­as well as floor scrubbing, was relegated to f­ ree black and enslaved patients, and mostly to the female patients. Sally’s assignment to the brickyard was typical, and by the following month her work per­for­mance had improved enough for the superintendent to observe that she was “not mischievous now” but, in his estimation, her l­abor still seemed a “disordered constructiveness.” By July, Sally was employed primarily as a washer alongside Lydia and other black female patients. Watching over them all was a slave attendant named

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Mourning.43 By the end of October, the superintendent noted that both Sally and Lydia had improved and that Sally “works admirably,” concluding without elaboration that her “delusion seems confined to religion.” 44 As African American w ­ omen who had given birth outside of marriage, regardless of the circumstances, Sally and Lydia fell short of the ideal m ­ other of the nineteenth ­century. Arguably, both of t­ hese ­women ­were better off at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum than they had been in jail. At the asylum they ­were fed and clothed, never again chained or even restrained, and they had each other to talk with as well as a broader community of enslaved attendants who cared for them and alongside of whom they labored. Although institutionalization may have been the best pos­si­ble outcome among limited options for them, the relative respite t­ hese ­women and o­ thers like them attained came at a price. The asylum normalized domestic vio­lence by treating the social prob­ lem of vio­lence, from wife beating to the sexual abuse of slave w ­ omen, as the medical pathologies of individuals. For black w ­ omen, this unfortunate real­ity was compounded by the pernicious presumption that they ­were innately lascivious. Like Lydia and Sally Cary Williams, Mary Britton arrived at the asylum from jail and was a ­mother to an illegitimate child. Of t­ hese three w ­ omen, only Lydia was expressly described as “loose.” But b­ ecause all three had c­ hildren out of wedlock, they fell outside the category of respectable ­woman. Lydia and Sally, as black ­women, w ­ ere already precluded from feminine idealization. Their compromised motherhood only added to their degradation in the eyes of white society. Mary Britton, however, was white. In her case, “a young man promised her marriage & disappointed her.” In his deposition to commit Mary, the jailor said that he had no idea what became of her illegitimate child, “­whether living or not.” Like Lydia, Mary was described as “a hearty eater” who, if provoked, could become violent, “ready to fight any person.” Like Sally, the jailor noted that “before disappointment,” Mary was “orderly, industrious & well-­ disposed.” Superintendent Galt found her “incoherent” and only marginally productive.45 Nancy Zinn also gave birth to an illegitimate child, but she was a married thirty-­three-­year-­old white ­woman who had previously borne seven ­children to her husband. The f­ ather of the eighth child was “some man unknown,” the pregnancy resulting from Nancy having wandered away from her parents’ home in a state of derangement. Prior to her illness, Nancy was said to be “industrious & moral.” Her downfall was attributed to a bad marriage to a small farmer. Her husband was “unfaithful,” eventually abandoning Nancy and their ­children to s­ ettle with another w ­ oman in Pennsylvania. Worse, “on g­ oing out



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sometimes, [he] would tie her even before she became deranged.” The vio­ lence Nancy experienced at the hands of her husband undoubtedly contributed to her own acts of aggression. Her f­ ather testified that Nancy was known “to attempt stabbing persons with knives & in one case stabbed her ­mother with a fork in the arm two or three times.” She even managed to “whip the ­whole ­family of the jailor, he being absent” before r­ unning away. Upon Nancy’s commitment, Superintendent Galt noted her “soft dark hair, light eyes & pleasant expression of countenance” and opined that she “must have been very handsome.” Her attractiveness, however, did not disguise her traumatic affectation. She “says she is only fourteen years old,” Galt continued, “No knowledge of where ­going to &c.” He concluded that Nancy Zinn was s­ imple as much as she was mad. Arguably, however, the “weakened powers of mind” that he witnessed ­were a response to her harrowing experiences.46 At the very least, it is in­ter­est­ing that Nancy reverted to an age before marriage and all the horror that came with that adult passage. Nancy was not the only patient to have been harmed by her husband. Nine other ­women on the 1842 Register ­were said to have been ill-­treated by a partner; for four of ­these nine, their abuse or abandonment was triggered by pregnancy. This included one ­free black ­woman named Juliana Jones. The cause of Juliana’s insanity was said to be “merely treatment of husband, who was a trifling fellow.” Juliana had given birth to seven ­children, only three of whom ­were alive. She strangled the last child while an infant and, upon her commitment, was diagnosed with a uterine infection and suppressed menstruation.47 Asylum medicine did not address Juliana’s troubled relationships or the strain of poverty as the cause of her desperation, but instead focused on her as a diseased individual and paid inordinate attention to her reproductive and sexual organs. An unwanted pregnancy also brought Mary Ann Webb, a married white ­woman with five ­children living, to the asylum. It was not Mary Ann herself, however, who expressed a desire to terminate the pregnancy. A month ­after the birth of her last child, Mary Ann’s ­brother sought to have her committed so as to “prevent her [from] having more [­children].” Although she lived with her husband, he was said to be “a worthless character.” It would seem that the men in Mary Ann’s life ­were in total control of her body and fate. Fittingly, as with Nancy Zinn, Superintendent Galt noted that Mary Ann displayed a dissociative speech pattern, referring to herself in the third person exclusively. He attributed this to dementia rather than to abuse.48 Perhaps the most egregious case was that of Mary Barrett, whose distraught ­mother provided more details than what customarily accompanied

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patients to their commitment hearing before the board. Mary was admitted from Frederick on July 24, 1843. Mary’s first symptoms had appeared three years earlier at age twenty-­eight or twenty-­seven, shortly ­after the birth of her third child. At that time she began to talk incoherently, evincing fear of her acquaintances and every­thing she saw. According to her m ­ other, ­sister, ­family doctor, and an officer who testified at her hearing, Mary’s strange and timid be­hav­ior was the result of mistreatment by her husband. Bankrupt and destitute of property, James R. Barrett had apparently behaved harshly ­toward his wife during and a­ fter pregnancy; he “made her work hard whilst in an unfit state from child-­bed.” Strenuous manual ­labor and, perhaps, postpartum intercourse following a complicated delivery, severely compromised Mary’s health. Apart from the psychological effects of her ordeal, Mary also suffered injuries that required surgery. As was common for nineteenth-­century operations, an infection followed that prostrated her with severe burning and pain for seven months.49 Mary’s case also illustrates the ways in which the idealization of motherhood celebrated virtuous white womanhood and excluded black ­women. According to her anguished ­mother, Mary’s disposition was naturally “mild and affectionate.” She never spoke “harshly or in an unkind manner of her husband or any other person.” A Methodist for five years, Mary was “fond of reading the Bible” and “her common exercise was a mixture of sorrowful devotion, in which she would frequently speak of her ­children and sometimes of her husband in prayer indicating the deepest feelings of grief and at other times bringing the same composition with parts of hymns that she thought appropriate.” ­After her seven-­month confinement, during which her suffering was “past description,” Mary was no longer disposed to “converse or take any interest in anything.”50 Indeed, the day of her commitment to the asylum for “dementia” Mary was “calm & perfectly quiet.” She answered questions “tolerably well” but seemed “abstracted” and took no notice of the proceedings.51 Within two months, Mary Barrett “worked well” at sewing and knitting, with only one brief interlude in which she became “fractious” and less productive.52 A year ­later it was observed that she was, generally, a productive worker, although she was not particularly talkative. However, the doctor noted that one could “excite her, or attempt it, by speaking of her ­children.”53 Indeed, Mary’s ­mother wrote that her d­ aughter’s sorrow at the loss of her c­ hildren to their ­father was acute. She had not been permitted by Mr. Barrett to see their ­children for two years prior to her commitment, and “the sight of strange ­children was so distressing to her mind that some 3 or 4 times she started out to hunt a­ fter her ­children.” “I believe,” Mary’s ­mother asserted, “that it ­will always hurt her



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mind to speak to her about her husband or her ­children.”54 For her part, according to the asylum doctor, Mary “says she was never deranged.”55 Mary died at the asylum two years ­after her admission.56 Mary Barrett was about the same age and from the same town as Sally Cary Williams. Both ­women ­were committed to Eastern Lunatic Asylum within one month of each other; both w ­ ere burdened with grief over domestic affairs complicated by the exhausting experience of pregnancy and parturition. The similarities and differences between t­ hese two inmates are instructive. Mary Barrett’s ­mother described her ­daughter as a good wife and ­mother—­modest and loving—­prior to mistreatment by her husband. Mary’s feminine demeanor continued even ­after her protracted illness, which she apparently bore like a saint. Her religiosity, while considered inappropriately excessive, was portrayed as an expression of grief rather than an assertion of righ­teousness. Sally Cary Williams, on the other hand, was viewed as vulgar and mean by the jailor who kept her. Worse, she was a physical threat to her keepers. While her deposition hinted at sympathy for her plight by noting that she was rumored to be clever and useful prior to the sale of her betrothed, ­those qualities attested to her aptitude for work rather than any inherent femininity. Furthermore, although Sally yearned for marriage, she was not married. She nevertheless bore a child, which placed her in the category of “loose” w ­ oman. Mary Barrett was married to an abusive man who was possibly a danger to their c­ hildren who remained in his custody, but ­because she was married and the ­children legitimate, she was designated a virtuous w ­ oman. Fi­nally, Sally’s religiosity was viewed as not only excessive but delusional, even ­after her deportment was considered improved. Moral management promoted a gendered vision of health that encouraged submissive manners, particularly for white w ­ omen in the best department at the asylum, and mild piety for all w ­ omen. ­Women who preached ­were subject to special scrutiny at Eastern Lunatic Asylum for acting authoritatively and speaking publicly on religious topics. A white ­woman named Louisiana Woddy, for example, was pronounced cured. The proof of her cure was that she produced fancy needlework, had a cheerful disposition, and avowed that she was “not aware that she ever asserted or thought that she possessed the power of converting persons.”57 Similarly, Patsy Campbell’s first evidence of insanity was “at a camp meeting, by being in a violent passion and attempting to get in the pulpit.”58 The nature of the message she wished to deliver from the pulpit was apparently irrelevant; what was perceived as abnormal was that a ­free black ­woman presumed to minister to a congregation. Her boisterous, cheerful ­demeanor was also an affront to proper femininity.

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Another case in point is that of a fifty-­year-­old enslaved midwife whose owner wrote to the Superintendent in 1855 seeking her admission. He described her as “partially insane,” and postulated that her disease was due to rejection by her white lover, a man with whom she had cohabited at age twenty and had two c­ hildren. He had promised to marry her but had instead made her despondent by marrying a white w ­ oman. The owner complained that although his slave had a good memory and replied “with good sense [sic] when spoken to,” she refused to work. She “says she is f­ree,” he wrote, she “has been baptised [sic] and says she ­will be saved—­Prays—­Dances and curses—­Looks upon ­every one as her ­enemy.” In addition, she sometimes worked “herself into violent passions ­because she cant [sic] have t­ hings as she likes.” The man concluded that although she had “some fear of punishment” and could be “calmed by whipping,” the asylum was where she belonged.59 The stakes w ­ ere high for this w ­ oman. In addition to what­ever personal heartbreak such a betrayal might have provoked, the breakup of this relationship spelled the end of any protection it might have afforded. The prospect of freedom, provisional or ­legal, for herself and her c­ hildren vanished. Her distress and refusal to accept her status as a slave does not seem abnormal in this circumstance, but rather perfectly understandable and rooted in a spiritual worldview that was both curative and transformational.60 The religious under­ pinnings of this w ­ oman’s rebellion can be interpreted in at least two ways. On the one hand, the experience of conversion—­being “saved”—­countered the degrading experience of slavery. An incarnational view of the suffering, humiliation, death, and eventual triumphant resurrection of Jesus resonated more with the experiences of the oppressed than did an “abstract concept of an impersonal God.” 61 The black sacred cosmos also stressed “the Old Testament notion of God as an avenging, conquering, liberating paladin.” 62 This emphasis could instill confidence in the devout to confront their oppressors. Secondly, this w ­ oman’s role as a midwife or healer might have been intimately connected to a religious perspicacity that, as for Nat Turner, informed her that she was ­free. African American midwives interviewed in the twentieth ­century often expressed the belief that they had been divinely called to their profession.63 Anyone who put God’s law above ­human law would agree that it was this midwife’s master who was in denial about her freedom, and that he was the one who got worked into violent passions by whipping her in order to enforce his own blinkered vision. Her suffering at his hands might quiet her, but it likely also deepened her commitment to her faith. The ­women at Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­were not committed exclusively for ministering or claiming religious authority. Patsy Campbell, for example, was



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committed for acts of vio­lence against ­children, including an attempt to take her own child’s life.64 Nevertheless, ­women’s desire and efforts to preach or use religion to defy oppression ­were seen as inappropriate, symptomatic of insanity, and worthy of medical attention. Commitment usually occurred when religious beliefs w ­ ere accompanied by aberrant or dangerous be­hav­ior. The definition of aberrant—­and even dangerous—­is, of course, somewhat relative. Perhaps Patsy, like the infamous escaped slave Margaret Garner, had a rational reason for wanting to kill her child. While infanticide is criminal and morally appalling, it is pos­si­ble that an equally la­men­ta­ble fate awaited Patsy’s child regardless of her ­mother’s homicidal vio­lence. Erratic and harmful be­hav­ior on the part of m ­ others following childbirth had been long recognized by midwives, doctors, courts, and juries in E ­ ngland and colonial Amer­i­ca. During the nineteenth c­ entury as psychiatry and gynecol­ogy became specialized fields, understanding of this phenomenon was further refined.65 The publications and practices of two French physicians, Esquirol and Marce, w ­ ere particularly influential. T ­ hese authors “posited a causal relationship between pregnancy, childbirth, and subsequent maternal disorder.” 66 One reason for the correlation between disorder and childbirth was the ballooning rates of infection associated with early gynecol­ogy. The effects of puerperal fever appear with regularity in the admission and medical books at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. According to the census of 1850, white Southern w ­ omen ­were twice as likely to die in childbirth than ­were white ­women in the North.67 ­There are no figures for enslaved ­women, however t­ here is consensus among historians that the birth rate among African American w ­ omen was high, and therefore it is pos­si­ble that many black ­women died in childbirth. The census did not tabulate complications arising from childbirth, but it can be inferred that the statistical likelihood was g­ reat. Although mortality rates began to decline in the mid-­nineteenth ­century concomitant with the gradual rise of obstetrics as practiced by male doctors and the related decline of midwifery, the former is unconnected to the latter. Mortality rates declined b­ ecause birth rates in the South dropped, following the trend of middle-­class families in the North. In fact, in an era when surgical enthusiasm exceeded knowledge about hygienic practice, a hospital delivery at the hands of a doctor often resulted in life-­threatening bacterial infection and fever-­induced delirium. Even when postpartum difficulties did not lead to ­either delirium or violent be­hav­ior, childbirth was a highly charged encounter. As a specialist in asylum medicine, Superintendent Galt was not in the habit of delivering c­ hildren. Yet even he was implicated in dramas surrounding pregnancy. In 1849, for

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example, a man named Burwell  B. Wilkes wrote to Superintendent Galt about his wife, who had formerly been an inmate at the asylum first admitted in 1847. According to her husband, Mrs. Wilkes was again deranged and could not “be controlled at times.” He questioned w ­ hether she had truly recovered before her previous release, although he conceded that she had been “comparatively well, cheerful and happy.” He continued: “Her bodily health too has greatly improved so much so that on the 22nd February last she became the ­mother of an in­ter­est­ing ­daughter. ­After the birth of her child, she was very cheerful ­until about the 10th of April. Her mind then became very much unsettled & has continued so more or less ever since. She nurses her child when necessary.” 68 [italics mine] By prefacing the narrative of the birth with an admission that he could not control his wife, and by repeatedly identifying the baby as the child of his wife exclusively, it is clear that Mr. Wilkes did not believe himself to be the ­father. How did he arrive at such a conclusion? One possibility is that he and his wife did not have intercourse ­after her return home from the asylum. But Mr. Wilkes did not focus on the conception itself as miraculous or surprising. Instead, he described the baby as “in­ter­est­ing,” implying that it was the infant’s appearance that prompted him to deny paternity. As no doctor was called to attend to the newborn and Mrs.  Wilkes nursed her as needed, it appears that the baby was healthy and not deformed. What, then, about the infant’s appearance was arresting to Mr.  Wilkes? Although it is impossible to discern with certainty the story b­ ehind Mr. Wilkes’s vague statements, his roundabout description may refer to the possibility that Mrs. Wilkes conceived a child with a slave or a ­free black man. Apart from his admission that he was writing with a sense of “­bitter regret,” Mr. Wilkes conveyed ­little of the crisis that this controversial birth must have precipitated. He also never addressed the circumstances of this conception. Of his wife’s state of mind, he wrote only that she was cheerful for about two weeks following the birth, ­after which time her mind “became very much unsettled,” her fancies “vari­ous, strange & unaccountable.” In all likelihood, Mrs. Wilkes’ discomfort was commensurate with her husband’s reaction to the birth and what that augured for her f­ uture in the f­ amily. Two physicians who examined Mrs. Wilkes, on the other hand, apparently attributed her disturbed state of mind to her uterus; one suggested that she had “a very slight prolapsus utere.” Twice asserting “I do not know what is to become of my f­ amily” should Mrs. Wilkes’s condition grow worse, Burwell Wilkes begged to Superintendent Galt to readmit her to Eastern Lunatic Asylum.69 Asylum rec­ords indicate that Mr. Wilkes had to wait almost three years before Lucy Wilkes was readmitted. ­There is no mention of what became of the



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d­ aughter she bore in 1849, who, if she survived, would have been weaned by then and walking and talking. Lucy Wilkes was a quiet and easy patient; within six months it was reported that she had become “industrious.” She was usually “­silent” and, the doctor noted, “does not speak of home.” In fact, over a year passed before Lucy showed any “excitement.” For the most part she was “entirely tranquil and industrious,” which suggests that her condition did not require institutionalization at all.70 Perhaps the main reason Lucy Wilkes was again placed at the asylum was to spare her husband further embarrassment due to her infidelity. Lucy Wilkes was still at the asylum almost ten years ­later. In a letter to ­Superintendent Galt, Burwell Wilkes wrote: “I feel some solicitude to know the exact situation of my poor wife. Without asking particularly about her, be pleased to give me such a statement of her case as you know I should be glad to get.” He then requested that Galt arrange to have her likeness in ­either ambrotype or daguerreotype so that he and their ­children might see what she looked like, promising to pay once it had been done.71 It is not clear ­whether Lucy Wilkes ever again saw her ­children. Although the connection between pregnancy and erratic or dangerous be­ hav­ior was universal, explanations for infanticide varied based on the divergent historical experiences of motherhood among white, ­free black, and enslaved ­women. Historically, among the white population abortion and infanticide ­were linked to illegitimacy. Largely considered a crime committed by unmarried w ­ omen, the charge of infanticide, or concealment where a live birth could not be definitively proven, was directed at white female servants and wage workers. Married m ­ others, it was thought, “­were not driven to their crimes by the same desperate or deviant motives as unmarried w ­ omen. Infanticide by married ­women was considered so shocking and unlikely that the only motive assigned to it was insanity.”72 While a diagnosis of insanity may have saved married white w ­ omen who committed infanticide from jail or execution, arguably the disease explanation obscured greater understanding of the social pressures that may have contributed to the crime. In other words, the medical model centered on irrationality, but t­ here may have been rational f­ actors ­behind infanticide, such as vio­lence at the hands of a partner and irremediable poverty. ­These considerations crop up in the case of Jane Bonney, a married white ­woman from Frederick County who appeared before the members of the board in 1842. Although she answered members’ questions “almost rationally,” a review of the papers that accompanied her convinced them that Jane was an appropriate candidate for admission. According to t­hese documents, the first

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indications of Jane’s insanity appeared in December 1839 when she was observed chewing her food, then spitting it out onto her plate and saying it was raw. At other times she would hoard food, then eat it while “acting foolishly, jumping up & down frequently during the time of eating.” Other odd be­hav­ iors, such as tearing clothes and showing “no regard to decency,” ­were observed. Attempts to curb or “restrain her by speaking sharply & cracking her with a switch” failed. She sometimes beat herself and her head against walls.73 Once admitted to the asylum, Jane’s strug­gles with food consumption continued, but she was no longer subjected to lashings. Overt vio­lence was antithetical to the asylum’s moral therapy, which relied, initially anyway, on persuasion by means of reasoning and example. Five months a­ fter her admission, however, Jane’s condition worsened and the asylum staff “had to use [the] stomach pump several times.” This ordeal changed nothing as Jane continued to refuse food for several more months. Her weight was so low that she suffered from amenorrhea, prompting the doctor to induce uterine bleeding with mercury and track her menstrual cycle. When Jane did fi­nally eat, she expressed revulsion in other ways, complaining that “now she is choked” or repeating “every­thing over twice.” Eventually she was observed to continually press her mouth, “saying her jaws are locked to ­those of a patient who died.”74 Although Jane never articulated why she would not eat, witnesses testified that her trou­bles began shortly ­after the death of her baby, whom she was alleged to have starved, and grew worse with her “continued meditation on religious subjects.”75 In February 1840, Jane’s husband deserted her e­ ither shortly ­after or before the birth of their child. Jane then neglected the baby, resulting in a premature death. The confluence of t­ hese events offers several pos­si­ble explanations for Jane’s alleged lunacy. Perhaps Jane was attempting to end an unwanted pregnancy by refusing nourishment and jumping. Jane Bonney clearly felt desperate about her impending motherhood, a situation that would have been exacerbated by her husband’s desertion. Asylum rec­ords reveal numerous examples of w ­ idows whose sudden impoverishment contributed to their breakdown. What­ever the reason, the cure—­institutionalization—­focused on Jane as a diseased individual rather than as a w ­ oman entangled in a familial web that had become insupportable to her. For Jane Bonney, desperation led to the neglect and death of her infant, and ultimately to Jane’s death as well. She died within two years of her admission to Eastern Asylum. To suggest that Jane’s be­hav­ior, including the murder through neglect of her child, may have been a rational or understandable reaction to her situation in life is to raise complicated questions about moral



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responsibility. Was her husband partly to blame for the death of their child? What about the caregivers who struck her when she refused to swallow food? What of her friends and neighbors, who attributed her insanity to “continued meditation on religious subjects” but did not intervene earlier or offer the solace that Jane may have been seeking through prayer? Asylum rec­ords suggest that ­mothers who attempted or succeeded in killing their ­children ­were deeply distressed individuals facing extraordinary difficulties without adequate support of friends or ­family. While parturition may have exacerbated that stress, reproductive organs ­were not necessarily responsible for a breakdown. Perhaps no case illustrates this point more forcefully than that of ­Virginia St. Clair who, in 1862, became deranged “upon the subject of starvation” due to her “pres­ent poverty” following the death of her husband and the loss of his estate. She hanged her four-­year-­old child ­until dead and then attempted suicide. Physicians who examined her, however, attributed her disease to “suppression of her menses.” It is not clear w ­ hether her suppressed menses indicated a pregnancy or meager diet, but in ­either case her grief and desperation ­were keenly felt.76 For enslaved ­women, whose offspring ­were the property of their masters, the issue of legitimacy was moot in the eyes of the law (though not for the ­women themselves). A separate but parallel popu­lar discourse evolved for ­these ­women, epitomized by ­Virginia planter and diarist William Massie. Between the 1840s and the 1860s, Massie recorded his suspicions regarding the deaths of slave ­children on his plantation. One, he claimed, “ ‘was murdered outright by his m ­ other’s neglect and barbarous cruelty.’ ” Another child was “ ‘neglected . . . ​ by its m ­ other and died like a dog,” and two more c­ hildren, Massie alleged, died from “ ‘the natu­ral neglect’ ” of their m ­ other.77 In short, slave m ­ others ­were characterized as naturally negligent and malicious. Medical publications, such as t­hose by French physicians Jean Barthélemy Dazille and Joseph Jacques de Gardane, legitimated and perpetuated this ste­reo­type.78 The 1850s saw nearly a 60 ­percent increase in the rate of convictions of slave ­women for infanticide. Between 1851 and 1858 in V ­ irginia, nine slave ­women ­were sentenced to transportation beyond state lines for the crime of infanticide. Before then, only one ­woman had been convicted in 1833 and another in 1834. The reasons for this increase include the abolition of the benefit of clergy in 1848, general revisions of the criminal code for slaves from 1848 to 1850, and “public authorities’ concern over the incidence of [slave] infanticide.”79 As slavery grew increasingly profitable and controversial, the vigilance with which slave ­women’s fertility and mothering was policed also increased. Infanticide

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was, in the eyes of many slaveholders, theft; it was not merely a moral outrage. ­There seems to have been nothing separating ­those enslaved ­women who ­were transported beyond state bound­aries and ­those who ­were sent to the asylum other than the predilections of their ­owners. Two slaveholders wrote to Superintendent John Galt seeking advice or placement for female slaves who ­were accused of acts of vio­lence against their ­children. One thirty-­two-­year-­old slave, ­mother to seven c­ hildren including a six-­month-­old, “attempted vio­lence to one of her ­children.” Another was accused of smothering her infant.80 Historians Michael P. Johnson and Todd L. Savitt have argued that the disparaging accusations of planters and high infant mortality among slaves must also be understood within the material context of slave life. Overwork and malnutrition during pregnancy, poor ventilation, and unsanitary ­water are all contributing ­factors to what is known t­ oday as sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS) and neonatal tetany.81 In blaming slave ­mothers exclusively for the deaths of their c­ hildren, planters like Massie sought to exculpate themselves and the slave system for its cruelties. Other scholars, like Barbara Bush and Stephanie Shaw, have recognized that while some slave ­mothers did intentionally kill their c­ hildren, their motivations w ­ ere complex. For some w ­ omen, infanticide might be read as “a power­ful example of w ­ omen’s opposition” to “sexual and economic exploitation.” It is pos­si­ble that some slave ­mothers, like the infamous Margaret Garner, may have “possessed such a reverence for humanity and a level of self-­determination that they deci­ded to prevent a child, whose life they felt responsible for, from growing up in a system in which their ­owners demonstrated ­little re­spect for e­ ither.”82 Infanticide did not dis­appear ­after slavery ended. In fact, in Richmond the number of infanticides r­ ose precipitously during the depression years of 1873 to 1877. The number remained high for African Americans well into the 1890s, as African American w ­ omen “had access to fewer social welfare institutions” and a higher rate of poverty.83 It was not the social inequities that helped produce infanticide that came u­ nder scrutiny, however, but w ­ omen themselves who ­were increasingly examined and probed for evidence of uterine infection, amenorrhea, and “vaginismus” to explain their allegedly hysterical, sometimes violent be­hav­ior.84 This attention to the female body may have helped some ­women; a medical model linking pregnancy and childbirth with pathology was instrumental in the creation of a humane and relatively consistent set of laws in ­Great Britain. But for the vast majority of American ­women in the nineteenth c­ entury, most especially black w ­ omen, the narrow aperture of the speculum occluded a broader understanding of infanticide as a tragic but normal response to detrimental social constraints impressed upon mothering.85



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The Normalization of Domestic Vio­lence Despite ample evidence, asylum physicians did not write essays decrying vio­ lence against ­women. The mid-­nineteenth ­century did, however, see the creation of what one scholar has referred to as, “a new genre of captivity narrative: that of the patient wrongfully deemed insane who, upon release from an asylum, bravely exposes the institution that deprived him or her of the rights of an American citizen.”86 A prominent theme of t­ hese narratives was unjust incarceration ­because of religious beliefs, and an equally common trope was the comparison of the confined asylum patient to a slave. The most notorious and influential of ­these memoirs was published in 1873 by Elizabeth Packard, who had been confined by her husband in a state asylum in Jacksonville, Illinois. Packard alleged that her husband, a Calvinist minister, committed her to keep her from sharing her controversial religious views (she believed that the Holy Ghost was the ­mother of Christ just as God was the ­father) with members of his congregation. ­After three years, she managed to be seen by a judge who ordered her release. Her husband then locked her in the bedroom of their home ­until sympathetic neighbors managed to ­free her. She spent the remaining years of her life chronicling her experiences—­she was able to support herself from the sale of her memoirs—­and lobbying state governments to pass laws limiting superintendents’ ability to admit and detain patients.87 Comparing her ordeal as both an asylum patient and mistreated wife to the plight of slaves whose liberation had recently been won, Packard also advocated for laws that ensured a ­woman’s property rights a­ fter marriage, which she referred to as “Married ­Woman’s Emancipation.”88 As distressing as the circumstances of Packard’s confinement w ­ ere, the rec­ ords at Eastern State Hospital suggest that they ­were not unusual. Packard’s release and subsequent ­career, however, w ­ ere quite extraordinary. She nevertheless framed her critique of marriage as a defense of traditional gender roles; her husband was faulted for persecuting her instead of acting as her protector. For similar reasons, Packard’s attacks on the abuse of authority at the asylum ­were not viewed as unfeminine since the hospital was perceived as a domestic space rather than a po­liti­cal arena. Institutionalization might have also been less stigmatizing for ­women ­because the passive de­pen­dency required of female patients did not contradict expectations for their lives outside the asylum, as it did for male patients. Packard’s confinement narrative drew upon “nineteenth-­ century literary conventions that feminized victims of social injustice.”89 Elizabeth Packard’s adroit use of compelling, familiar tropes to promote a conservative reform agenda on behalf of married white ­women should not

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obscure the fact that a significant number of female asylum patients ­were victims of social injustice. As unpleasant as Packard’s marriage appears to have been, her experience was easy compared to the ordeals of ­women who had fewer resources and even less re­spect, including survivors of violent assault. Historians Elizabeth Pleck and Linda Gordon have argued that wife-­beating was not widely accepted in the nineteenth c­ entury, but was considered a “disreputable, seamy practice, and was effectively illegal in most states of the United States by 1870.”90 Similarly, Eugene Genovese has argued that most nineteenth-­century slaveholders w ­ ere paternalistic as opposed to cruelly patriarchal. Antebellum proslavery rhe­toric frequently employed the ­family as meta­phor to describe slavery; slaves w ­ ere ­family—­they ­were dependent—­as ­were ­women and ­children. This is why defenders of slavery frequently tied abolitionism together with feminism “as challenges to the God-­ordained authority of white men.”91 Yet most p­ eople’s intimate lives are only marginally governed by the contents of advice books and the latest statutes, especially laws that are sporadically enforced.92 ­There was, in fact, tremendous latitude regarding acceptable vio­lence in antebellum society. Certainly what went on privately—­and even sometimes publicly—­in families generally did not concern the antebellum state. Slaves, ­children, and wives ­were abused; this was regarded as a private m ­ atter ­because private property law governed dependents, and intervention might cause social and economic disruption. In the South, to confront the prob­lem of domestic abuse would have also required a simultaneous reassessment of the slave system. Wives and ­children ­were not, strictly speaking, “property” like slaves, who had no rights before the law. Nevertheless, freedom from government intervention in private life is a longstanding po­liti­cal tradition in the United States, upheld by ­legal pre­ce­dent in which ­family discipline and governance are considered a private m ­ atter. Throughout most of the nineteenth ­century, freeborn wives and ­children had l­ ittle to no ­legal recourse in the face of abuse or neglect. Only gradually over the course of the twentieth c­ entury has the state been empowered to terminate, ­either temporarily or permanently, parental authority in the event of extreme abuse. Similarly, f­ ree black w ­ omen could not testify against white men ­until ­after the Civil War, and sexual assault within marriage was not legally recognized ­until the late-­twentieth c­ entury. And although wife beating was made illegal in the late-­nineteenth c­ entury, prosecution was rare and conviction even rarer. Physical assault was treated in the judicial system as an isolated event rather than a chronic, escalating feature of a marital relationship. It was also difficult for w ­ omen to gain sole custody of ­children and owner­ship of their husband’s property, making it that



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much harder for wives to actually leave abusers.93 In short, patriarchal norms ­were widely accepted, perhaps more so in the rural South than the urban North, and could be violently enforced without fear of reprimand. It is also true that when vio­lence became routinely disruptive to a community or neighborhood, especially when the victims became objects of charity (and thus represented the abdication of patriarchal duty to support), state involvement was sometimes solicited. The asylum was not a f­amily, rather it was seen as an improvement upon the ­family. For this reason, the asylum discouraged—­although it did not prevent—­families from visiting their institutionalized relatives.94 The asylum staff stepped in where families failed, in effect taking up the role of correct nurturance in the teaching of proper religion, clean and moral habits, and gender-­specific work skills and be­hav­iors. Although the first social agencies devoted to the amelioration or eradication of domestic vio­lence arose in the 1870s, state-­supported asylums and prisons before that time dealt routinely with f­ amily vio­lence. The state response was provisional, not necessarily part of an articulated agenda or policy. But it was not haphazard in that the care provided reflected and reinforced the values of the privileged and the power­f ul. In a sense, the asylum became the paternalistic caretaker to t­hose who had been wounded by the abuses of patriarchal power and, for a number of reasons, w ­ ere unable to fend for themselves. ­Women sometimes voluntarily entered asylums to escape abusive husbands.95 Not e­ very ­woman was eligible for institutional care, however, so t­ here was a limit to paternalistic protection. For instance, Catherine Tucker’s neighbors brought her to Eastern Lunatic Asylum to get her away from an abusive ­father. Catherine lived alone with her ­father, “an old man about eighty years of age,” who apparently treated her badly. Given widespread ac­cep­tance of corporal punishment in the nineteenth c­ entury and the reticence most p­ eople felt, especially in small communities, regarding interference in other ­people’s private lives, the abuse Catherine faced must have been especially objectionable. Neighbors attributed the cause of her derangement to love, evidenced by her becoming uncommonly talkative. No explicit connection was made between her abusive f­ather and her alleged love-­induced insanity. However, ­because she was deaf and spoke inarticulately—­and her deafness might have been a consequence of physical abuse—­Catherine was discharged immediately ­under the Idiot Law.96 Slaves, of course, ­were only eligible if their masters saw fit to commit them. And although ­there was no stated policy, asylum administrators ­were not e­ ager to accept pregnant w ­ omen even if they ­were private, revenue-­generating patients. T ­ here ­were two reasons for this. First, other patients and the general

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public might not realize that pregnancy preceded admission, and so ­there was risk that the asylum’s reputation would suffer should word get out that babies ­were being born to female patients. Secondly, the medicines that ­were routinely prescribed to patients might adversely affect a fetus. On a related point, while asylum administrators w ­ ere loath to admit the possibility of vio­lence on the wards, the fact is that they could not guarantee that ­either a pregnant ­woman or a vulnerable newborn would not be harmed by other patients. Both of t­ hese points w ­ ere made quite forcefully in an 1859 letter to Caspar Altschu, whose wife was delivered of a premature fetus of three to four months’ gestation. “I do not hesitate to censure your course of conduct in this m ­ atter,” wrote Steward Barziza. “You o­ ught for once to have abandoned false modesty, when about to assign a young wife to an Insane Asylum and have unhesitatingly acknowledged to the Physician the recent intercourse of married persons, so as to have placed that office and all the other officers on their proper guard.” Characterizing Mr. Altschu’s conduct as “reprehensive [sic] and calculated to injure in public estimation both this asylum and yourself,” Barziza concluded that a frank dialogue might have averted the miscarriage and “would have reflected much honor and credit on an affectionate husband.”97 Despite the tone of benevolent paternalism, which the above letter eloquently captures, at times the asylum only reinforced and intensified abuse, such as when Mrs. Storkman, whose husband had infected her with syphilis, was ordered showered “as long as she refuses to acknowledge her husband.” She was relieved of this treatment only when the shower was accidentally omitted despite her continued refusal of her husband. She then began “talking mystically” and grew “very excited,” so her dosage of laudanum was increased as well.98 And Mrs. Storkman w ­ asn’t alone in facing coercive treatment for asserting her ­will. The aforementioned Mrs. Altschu was restrained for masturbation.99 Mrs. Brown was douched for simply saying she would rather dash her head against the wall than stay at the asylum, and administrators threatened to douche her again if she d­ idn’t stop crying afterwards and start sewing or spinning.100 The state’s response to domestic vio­lence also depended on the reputation and status of the ­woman involved. In December 1858, Superintendent Galt received a letter from a gentleman named Edward Hebard, who wrote on behalf of his neighbor, Joseph Mosby. Mr. Mosby felt that his son, Alfred, who had recently been committed to Eastern Lunatic Asylum, should be released. To this end, Mr. Hebard wrote to give “a plain statement of all the facts in regard to the unfortunate difficulty between young Mosby and his wife,” something he thought necessary ­because “Mosby’s wife . . . ​represented to you that her life



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might be in jeopardy w ­ ere her husband discharged from the hospital.” Claiming to be a friend to all parties and a reluctant correspondent, Mr. Hebard described Alfred Mosby’s f­amily as poor but “esteemed by their neighbors.” Alfred, in his view was “a remarkably harmless inoffensive man” who had “always sustained the character of a peaceable man.” However, Alfred had ­“always been regarded as rather a weak minded young man and lacking in good judgment,” as evidenced by “his alliance to a w ­ oman of rather questionable character notwithstanding the remonstrances [sic] of his parents and friends.” Why did ­family and friends object to the ­union? ­Because “his wife[’]s ­father had abandoned her ­mother—­that one ­sister had deserted her husband and had taken up with another man—­and yet another had been living for several years as the mistress of [another]and had one or two ­children.” Having thus excoriated Mrs. Mosby’s character based on hearsay, Mr. Hebard added that Albert was “­under the influence of jealousy when he attempted to take her life and it is believed by many that he had good reason for being jealous.”101 He concluded his letter by asking that his name be kept confidential. He also reiterated Mr. Mosby’s opinion that Albert posed no danger to his estranged wife, even though this contradicted his earlier admission that Albert had attempted to kill his wife. Alfred Mosby’s wife had a dif­fer­ent story to tell. She wrote to Superintendent Galt in August 1858. Unlike Hebard’s letter, written with fancy script and flourishes, Sarah Mosby’s letter reveals her to be barely literate: I have some noshion of aplying for a devorse lsis [divorce license] Cort september 10th evry body advised me to aply for a devors for if Mr Mosby comes out he w ­ ill wonte to live with me and I am determed not to live with him a nother day be cause I am afraid of Him & ­will be as long as he lives but I hope that it wonte be long that he ­will live for I would be happy to heare of his deth for I ­shall nevor see no pice in this world while he lives I do ernistly hope he may die & nevor return so I can see him oh Dr Galt you w ­ ill think I am veary hard hearted but it is so hard to heare for evry body in this naborhood all but a few says he was drunk when he Shot me & he ­will get drunk a gain if he was at liberty . . . ​please write to me what you think I ort to I ­w ill be much oblige to you for advise as I am veary young and have not got no body to advise with I hope I w ­ ill be ­free one of ­these days you ­will please to aswer this letter as soon as you can as I wont to heare from you be fore cort in september the 10 bern this litter [Burn this letter] I am in a ­great deal of truble I hope you ­will help me out102

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Alfred Mosby does not appear to have been released immediately, but his name does not appear on ­later asylum Registers. It is, therefore, not clear ­whether Galt was swayed by Sarah Mosby’s letter. Her pleading tone and reference to her young age might have been an effective appeal for paternalistic protection, but this was perhaps undermined by her assertive desire for freedom and l­ egal remedy, as well as her failure to couch her disappointment about her marriage in religious terms. It is pos­si­ble that Galt weighed his options and deci­ded to keep Alfred Mosby long enough to prevent another violent outburst, but not in­def­initely. He had, ­after all, pursued a similar course of action regarding eccentric patients with abolitionist tendencies. Antebellum physicians in Southern towns frequently witnessed f­ amily dramas about which they w ­ ere inclined to say nothing and do even less lest they jeopardize community stability and their own c­ areer prospects.103 Galt was the head of a large state institution but subjected to the same pressures that produced similar results. A conciliatory attitude contributed to the failure of asylum medicine to explic­itly decry w ­ omen’s vulnerability to vio­lence and poverty as a social prob­lem. It made the asylum complicit in abuse in some cases, most especially with regard to enslaved ­women. Asylum administrators instead chose to focus on ­women’s sexual and reproductive organs as generative of insanity at the expense of articulating a public message that linked mistreatment and economic de­pen­dency to poor ­mental health. Selective vision also made administrators insensitive to the ongoing vulnerabilities of the patients ­after admission. In June 1846, for instance, Superintendent Galt was faced with the unpleasant task of reporting to the directors of the asylum that one of the female patients, a Mrs. Dorothy Loer, had given birth two years a­ fter her admission. Loer’s pregnancy had gone undetected, her increasing girth apparently regarded as a sign of robust health.104 Loer was a married German immigrant whose husband had abandoned her. She had worked in a ­hotel kitchen and as a chambermaid in Wheeling, ­Virginia (now West ­Virginia), prior to her involuntary commitment in 1844. No one had ever come to visit her at the asylum. Although she did not speak En­glish “intelligibly” according to Galt, her calm demeanor led to an initial placement in a department of patients “of quiet deportment,” where the matron attempted to teach her to sew and knit. She was also taken out on carriage rides a few times in the com­pany of other female patients and a white female attendant. However, a scrofulous infection on her face characterized by “a very fetid discharge from the nostrils” proved “a ­great annoyance to ­those near her,” so Mrs. Loer was “removed to the department for the worst patients” and denied additional outings despite her good conduct.105



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To protect female patients from sexual predation of men (and to prohibit them from voluntarily engaging in heterosexual intercourse), the asylum did not assign male attendants to w ­ omen and required that “a sane female” be pres­ ent when men passed through or visited the w ­ omen’s wards. Clearly, however, the system was imperfect. In the case of Mrs. Loer, Galt had assumed that “a female characterized and situated as she was” was not likely to become pregnant.106 In other words, given that she was a lunatic w ­ oman with a bad-­ smelling, tubercular face, no man would find her attractive. It apparently did not occur to Galt that Loer might have been raped. As her husband had abandoned her, Superintendent Galt did not need to worry about his reaction. In short, his chief concern was not Dorothy Loer or her f­amily but the reputation of the institution. Galt correctly perceived that relatives sent their wives, ­sisters, and ­daughters to Eastern Lunatic Asylum to be cured of ­mental illness if pos­si­ble, not to be disgraced through sexual impropriety. The incident with Loer was not an isolated event. In 1858, Superintendent Galt received a letter marked “confidential” from a distressed f­ ather, Mr. Peary, regarding his unnamed ­daughter who was an asylum patient. The ­father wrote that he had received “an extraordinary letter . . . . ​of a most painful character” from his d­ aughter in which she “describes an unhappy state of affairs between her and Dr. Burness.” Although the f­ather was uncertain w ­ hether to believe his ­daughter or attribute the content of her correspondence to “a paroxysm of ­mental alienation,” he noted that she had claimed to receive a letter from Dr. Burness—­no one by that name worked at the asylum—­which would, presumably, prove her assertions about the nature of their relationship. The patient’s f­ather did not give details about the allegations, but in his own letter he expressed his “keenest anguish” and demanded to see any incriminating correspondence.107 It prob­ably d­ idn’t help m ­ atters that a patient named Mrs. Burness was delivered of a stillborn fetus estimated to be about seven months gestation five months earlier.108 Presumably, Mr.  Peary was her ­father and Dr. Burness her husband. Moreover, Dr. Galt recorded a conversation in May 1853 between himself and a board member regarding what might have been an illicit affair between an asylum physician and an unnamed w ­ oman, ­either a patient or a member of the staff, which resulted in the birth of an illegitimate child. The discussion began with his observation that he would prefer to have “more white & less black assistance.”109 ­W hether this preference implied a lack of oversight by black staff that would have allowed for the impregnation of a patient or that the ­woman in question was a black staff member is uncertain. The board member asked ­whether Dr. Galt “knew anything as to a child at Dr. Martin’s.”

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Galt’s initial response was cagey; he suggested that the inquisitor already knew the details since he had been a director when “this unfortunate” was born. When contradicted and pressed for more details, Galt laid out “the mode in which it [the child] was supported, & that I would like the Board to continue the same management.” In his opinion, the best policy was “a complete laying open of the subject to the public in the first instance, & subsequently the having ­little press about it.” Furthermore, he explained, the board’s investigation had yielded “no results to account for the circumstance, nor was any blame cast on any par­tic­u­lar in the general system of management at the time existing in the establishment.”110 When it was ­later suggested that the asylum ban visitors, Dr. Galt pointed out that such a ban would only raise public suspicion of “concealment” and “pointed out the example in the case of the child whose history had been discussed above.” He concluded that the institution “did not suffer ­because so many persons knew that this sad occurrence was the exception and not the rule.”111 Clandestine affairs, both coerced and consensual, prob­ably w ­ ere exceptional. Nevertheless, asylum administrators failed to fully appreciate the power dynamics at play when evidence of physical intimacy was brought to light, focusing instead on minimizing damage to the institution’s reputation. Patients ­were not the only vulnerable group; female attendants also incurred risk. As was the case with Dorothy Loer, the possibility of rape was never raised when enslaved attendant Corinna was accused of sexual intercourse with male patients. When her enslaved coworker, Peyton, brought up the accusation in a conversation with Superintendent Galt, the latter responded forcefully: “I told Peyton to oblige me by not mentioning my name in connection with that of Corinna, first ­because I never had anything to do with any w ­ oman hired by the Hospital, and secondly no Gentleman would have anything to do with a parcel of w ­ omen who e­ ither let the male patients have intercourse with them, or acted so as to cause such a report.”112 Legally, of course, the definition of rape did not include forced intercourse with a black w ­ oman ­until ­after the Civil War. It is also pos­si­ble that Corinna willingly engaged in a sexual relationship with one or more male patients. But given the frequency with which patients sometimes assaulted each other and their caregivers, as detailed in chapter two, Dr. Galt’s unwillingness to entertain the possibility of a sexual attack in a private conversation is all the more noteworthy, especially since one of the patients with whom Corinna was said to be involved—­Mr.  Powell—­was known for making threats against slaves and had even escaped in 1853 with two knives, which had to be wrestled from him by enslaved ward hand Albert and a white officer.113



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In addition to outright assault, the hierarchy of the institution also allowed for the possibility of coercion on the part of superior staff. Neither patients nor enslaved staff w ­ ere ­free, a fact that may have affected decisions about how to respond to sexual overtures from officers and their ­family members living on the premises. In addition to the aforementioned incident involving an asylum physician, ­there are two more references involving the son of the asylum storekeeper, Mr. Clowes. In one instance, Texas Clowes was accused of a liaison with one or more of the female slaves. The latter incident prompted asylum steward Barziza to speak to Superintendent Galt “of female servants being too young & [to say] that he wished a change.” The next day Texas’s ­father openly acknowledged that the steward referred to his son. Barziza also intimated that his reasons for wanting a change involved the be­hav­ior of his own son as well.114 In yet another episode six years l­ater, young Clowes was seen “romping” with a female patient, who was then locked in the basement as punishment for this be­ hav­ior. No punishment, however, was meted out to Clowes.115 In fact, Texas Clowes was hired to work as an asylum attendant ­after the Civil War.116 ­After a de­cade of dealing with scandals, Galt deci­ded that single-­sex institutions would be preferable to mixed. He jotted down some notes on the subject in order to build a case in support of this opinion. Among the reasons listed are: “Having so many servants & officers of the two sexes complicates the management” and “Difficulty in keeping the sexes apart.” He also observed that the patients might be permitted more liberty in a single-­sex institution.117 In May 1853, he wrote to three superintendents of Northern asylums, including Thomas Kirkbride, soliciting their thoughts on the subject.118 Galt also wrote a letter to the board the following December regarding the pos­si­ble appointment of an additional female officer. Acknowledging that, “­under ordinary circumstances it would doubtless be presumption in me even to make the slightest suggestion on this subject,” he nevertheless deemed it “a most indisputable fact” that “the welfare of the insane requires in the highest degree that the sexes should if pos­si­ble be received into separate institutions.” And, as ­there was discussion at the State Assembly about the creation of a third asylum in ­Virginia, Galt wanted it on rec­ord that he was “in favour of the plan of sending only male patients to the Eastern Asylum & to the new establishment in Western V ­ irginia, whilst the asylum at Staunton would be devoted to females.” For this reason, Galt concluded, he felt it unwise to add or replace any more female officers.119 This was a presumptuous move as he had only just sent a letter to Dr. Stribling of Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton that same day making the proposal.120 Ironically, the next day Galt received a letter requesting admission for

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a black patient accompanied by an enclosure from Dr. Stribling rejecting the same patient b­ ecause the Staunton asylum did not accept patients of color. Galt received a response to his proposal a few weeks l­ater. Stribling was unwilling to consider single-­sex institutions just as he had been unwilling to consider an interracial asylum.121 And, just as he had been unable to persuade Virginia politicians to override Stribling’s policy of refusing to admit ­free blacks and slaves, Superintendent Galt was unable to muster support for his newest plan for hospitals segregated by sex. Once again, Galt’s efforts to innovate w ­ ere frustrated. A final irony is that when a third asylum did open in 1870, it was for African American patients exclusively.

Conclusion In May 1845, Eliza Ann Stainback was admitted to the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. A young white w ­ oman from Petersburg, V ­ irginia, Mrs. Stainback had been married four years to Edward Stainback. In that four years’ time, she had miscarried twice and given birth to two ­children. She was said to behave “roughly” with her eldest child, having held “it from an upstairs win­dow by the dress.” ­Toward her youn­gest she was said to behave “very affectionately.” In keeping with the medical establishment’s emphasis on the uterus as the source of insanity, Mrs. Stainback was diagnosed with puerperal mania. While parturition may have contributed to her state of mind, other ele­ments of her story suggest that her abusive and erratic be­hav­ior might also have been a response to her social condition. For one ­thing, the sheriff who brought Mrs. Stainback to the asylum attributed her insanity to “ill treatment of husband.” Although no details about Mr. Stainback w ­ ere offered, he did send a letter to the superintendent that hints at his attitude ­toward his wife.122 Mr. Stainback wrote that he was “astonished” that the directors had requested that he remove his wife from the asylum “on account of her pregnancy,” the possibility of which, like Caspar Altschu, he had apparently failed to disclose. He then, rather presumptuously, informed the superintendent of both the medical benefit to his wife to stay at the asylum and the ­legal obligation of administrators to keep her ­until she could be declared “cured.” Although he was “a poor man,” he was willing to pay as much as he could “to defray an expense that may be incurred to have her attended in proper manner ­until she is delivered.” He promised, “as soon as the child can be taken away from her—­I ­will do so.” He concluded rather threateningly, “removal ­under existing circumstances would be fraught with danger in the extreme and might be the cause of her never again returning to her right mind.”123



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In and of itself, Edward Stainback’s letter might be interpreted as advocacy on behalf of his wife. But read against the sheriff’s assessment of his character and the description by a con­temporary of such conduct as “reprehensive,” it would appear that Mr. Stainback was a selfish and insensitive man. Add to this Eliza Stainback’s constant pregnancies and the ­couple’s financial woes, and a portrait emerges of an overwhelmed and undersupported wife. It may also be that Eliza’s abusive treatment of her eldest child mirrored her own treatment at the hands of her husband. While this does not excuse dangling a child from second-­story win­dow, it does explain it in a way that “puerperal mania” does not. To paraphrase historian Linda Gordon, whose book Heroes of Their Own Lives examines public agencies and private charities that dealt with child abuse in early twentieth-­century Boston, most ­women’s stories from the Eastern Lunatic Asylum archive are sad. Vio­lence and degradation ­were common experiences. Even though some ­women may have been better off at the asylum than in jail or in abusive homes, to end one’s life on a m ­ ental ward is not inspirational. Knowing, too, that the relative peace some of the ­women may have attained as asylum patients precluded better and broader understanding of domestic vio­lence is also sad. But it would be a disser­vice to the ­women and to history to neglect small moments of agency and triumph in the face of adversity, or to portray the f­ amily life of ­every female inmate as utterly deficient.124 The archive is also full of letters from caring ­family members whose distress about the ­mental alienation of a loved one is palpable. ­These letters are full of grief, hope, confusion, and, sometimes, righ­teous anger—­such as expressed by Mary Barrett’s ­mother t­oward her former son-­in-­law—­as well as resignation. When Thos. C. Byassie writes plaintively to Superintendent Galt about his “three ­little ­children” and asks ­whether t­ here is “some povision [sic] made for a man placed in my condition or shal [sic] I stand debard [sic] from the injoyment [sic] of a companion all my days,” his questions about the possibility of remarriage should not obscure his pain about having been told that his wife’s condition was incurable.125 The point of this chapter is not that w ­ omen who ­were not mentally ill w ­ ere committed to the asylum, although that is quite likely true in some cases. The existence of postpartum depression and postpartum psychosis is not disputed, and the question of w ­ hether ­women who abuse or kill ­children should be universally exonerated if they are in abusive relationships themselves is not answered affirmatively. What this chapter asserts is that vio­lence was, and is, a social prob­lem and not an individual pathology, though the consequence of vio­lence can be damaging to individuals. By focusing on female reproductive and sexual organs as a primary cause of insanity, nineteenth-­century

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medicine failed to address what may have destabilized so many w ­ omen—­​ vio­lence. Ignoring the social context of w ­ omen’s suffering also permitted the asylum to ignore the noxious effects of slavery, especially on enslaved and ­free black ­women, and to discount the religious faith that gave comfort and strength to suffering w ­ omen by treating it as a symptom of insanity. Although asylum medicine ignored domestic vio­lence, the vio­lence of the Civil War was recognized as a source of trauma. “War” and “freedom” w ­ ere listed as c­ auses of insanity in the Register from the 1870s, which shows that structural explanations for ­women’s ­mental illness w ­ ere selectively proffered. Fi­nally, the asylum’s paternalistic mode of care and its emphasis on ­women’s sexual organs reinforced oppressive and racially specific sexual and gender norms. White ­women w ­ ere taught to be modest and ladylike while they spun, sewed, and rode out in carriages, while black ­women ­were viewed as naturally more vulgar as they laundered and made bricks. As for small moments of triumph, it is impossible to say what became of many of the patients about whom Galt wrote in his casebooks, but ­there is a bit more to the stories of Sally Cary Williams and her cellmate, Lydia. Although Sally prob­ably never altered her religious beliefs to suit Superintendent Galt, he did ­after a time consider her stable enough to leave the brickyard. Sally spent the remainder of her years working at the asylum as a nurse for convalescent patients. Perhaps Sally found meaning and satisfaction in caring for o­ thers, having been denied the opportunity to care for her child and the enslaved man whom she had hoped to marry years earlier. In 1854, eleven years a­ fter her admission, ­mother and child may have been briefly united. A letter to the superintendent from Richmond reads: “the ­bearer, William, is the son of servant Sally, now in the asylum. He wants to know if she can be brought home.”126 If this letter referred to Sally Cary Williams, then she remained at the asylum but at least got to visit with her child. A reunion with her partner, however, likely never happened. It is clear that she never forgot him, ­because in the last Register that recorded her presence she is identified for the first and only time as, “Sally Cary Williams, ­widow.” Sally died of dysentery near the close of the Civil War and was likely buried by her colleagues, the enslaved staff with whom she labored for twenty years.127 Thus was she was granted in death what had been denied her during her lifetime—­recognition of her relationship to her former lover. Lydia, on the other hand, survived the war. A ­ fter de­cades of denying any knowledge of her ­family background or place of origin, in the Register that recorded her transfer to another hospital for newly freed blacks, Lydia fi­nally ­either revealed her last name or ­adopted a particularly fresh and resonant one—­Newman.128

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So Dif­fer­ent The Asylum and the Civil War The disposition, temper and habits of the colored race are so dif­fer­ent from ­those of the white and the management of the two classes so dissimilar, that it would be impossible to keep and successfully treat them in the same institution. —­Hunter McGuire, president of the board of Central Lunatic Asylum in 18701

The Civil War affected every­one connected to the Eastern Lunatic Asylum and ultimately led to the creation of separate institutions for black and white patients. A ­ fter having been administered by members of the Galt f­amily since the late eigh­teenth ­century, responsibility for ­running the asylum fell to a series of appointees, many of whom had few prior ties to Williamsburg. The authority to appoint the superintendent passed from the Union Army to the recently defeated Confederate-­sympathizing V ­ irginia legislature, which gave way to the briefly constituted Reconstruction-­era ­Virginia legislature that operated u­ nder martial law and in cooperation with the Freedmen’s Bureau. The turnover, particularly during the unpredictable years before the end of the war, posed unique challenges for enslaved staff, whose status remained uncertain even ­after President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. For patients, administrative chaos and war­time exigencies led to a diminished quality of life. The end of the war brought some stability, but the quality of care worsened for black patients. The end of slavery and subsequent passage of the f­ ourteenth and fifteenth amendments to the U.S. Constitution ­were joyfully celebrated by the black community outside the asylum walls, but institutionalized inmates ­were not affected ­because, as before, they w ­ ere not legally entitled to the liberties of ordinary citizens. Black patients, including some who had been at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for de­cades, w ­ ere not even permitted to remain in Williamsburg. In 1869, they ­were transferred to a segregated fa­cil­i­ty outside of Richmond initially ­under the auspices of the Freedmen’s Bureau. The void created by Galt’s death had created an opening for his professional adversaries, ­those colleagues who had never approved of his experiments with integrated and outpatient care, to influence the postwar reconstruction of the asylum. Yet in implementing their vision of proper management, Northern reformers and their Southern allies actually hastened the end of moral therapy for African

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American patients. The Eastern Lunatic Asylum, which ­under John M. Galt might have offered a model for Reconstruction governments to emulate, instead became an obscure and inconsequential institution.

Eastern Lunatic Asylum during the Civil War (1862–1865) John M. Galt’s suicide presented an immediate challenge for Union forces occupying Williamsburg. General George  B. McClellan appointed Dr.  W. Clinton Thompson of Indiana to temporarily act as asylum superintendent.2 ­Virginia Governor John Letcher in Richmond initially took a sanguine view of this arrangement. Letcher had been narrowly elected in 1859 on a moderate platform, but he ultimately supported the Confederacy. With permission from General McClellan and wearing a blindfold as he crossed military lines, a state representative at the behest of Governor Letcher assessed the occupied asylum. Content that the patients w ­ ere in fine condition, and no doubt relieved that their care was provided at federal expense, Governor Letcher resolved to let the Union army keep control. A month l­ater, Dr. Thompson was replaced by Dr. Gillet F. Watson, who was appointed to the position by Francis Pierpont. ­After secession, ­Virginia’s u­ nionists had convened in Wheeling to form the Restored Government of V ­ irginia, of which Pierpont had been unanimously elected governor in 1861. Finding the attending physician and most of the officers to be “extreme Rebels” who w ­ ere unwilling to take an oath of allegiance to the United States, Dr. Watson fired eleven ­people, including the late superintendent’s cousin, Assistant Superintendent Dr. John Galt Williamson. Watson replaced ­these officers with local workers willing to take the oath, including the wife and nephew of Henry Bowden. Bowden was the man who had successfully advocated in the 1850s for term limits at the asylum and had redirected lucrative contracts for supplying the institution to partisan cronies ­after his own election to the board of directors. Longtime enslaved staff members ­were directed to remain at their posts in exchange for board and rations, although a­ fter the war a disgruntled officer accused Bowden’s nephew of inappropriately trying to pay black staff with hospital funds.3 One Williamsburg diarist complained that Galt’s Yankee successor had triggered “a complete revolution in the Asylum government.” 4 This alleged revolution was short lived. ­After Union forces failed to capture Richmond, many companies mobilized to move north. In his capacity as acting superintendent, Dr. Watson wrote to General McClellan seeking instruction on what to do and was told to make his own arrangements. He then wrote to President Lincoln, who allegedly advised him to “leave the institution, take



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care of your officers, and leaving nothing that you carried ­there.”5 On August 20, 1862, Watson departed on a chartered boat along with Henry Bowden and his relatives. Former asylum ­lawyer Talbot Sweeney accused the men of stealing furniture and provisions, caustically remarking that they “buckled on their armor (plunder), and, in the choice language of the Yankee nation, ‘did everlastingly skedaddle.’ ” Somersett Moore, a ward supervisor at the asylum for over a de­cade and the only white staff member to stay ­behind alongside the black staff, ­later testified that the evacuating officers left “only enough supplies for the dinner of the inmates that day—­not enough for supper.” 6 That eve­ning, Moore approached the military governor of Williamsburg, Col­o­nel David Campbell of the 5th Pennsylvania Cavalry, to explain his quandary. Campbell then ordered an assistant surgeon for the unit, Dr. Peter Wager, to investigate. Dr. Wager confirmed the destitution, prompting his own appointment to the job of superintendent on August 21 despite a lack of experience treating insanity. With Col­o­nel Campbell’s permission, Dr. Wager then invited the officers who had been previously dismissed for refusing to take the loyalty oath to return to the institution. Dr. Williamson, the former assistant superintendent, however, had since died, ending the near century-­long Galt f­ amily connection with the asylum.7 On September 9, 1862, the Confederate cavalry raided Williamsburg, stealing provisions and ammunition and capturing seven Union officers, sixty soldiers, and twenty unidentified African Americans. Thirteen men ­were wounded, seven killed, and two asylum patients went missing in the melee.8 In the immediate aftermath, remaining Union soldiers searched the town for conspirators and angrily ransacked homes. Several suspicious fires added to the confusion and destruction. A large quantity of wine was carried off from one residence, thirty-­five b­ ottles of which ­were ­later recovered and taken to the asylum for safe storage. Federal troops garrisoned in Yorktown came to reinforce Williamsburg and gradually restored order. Not surprisingly, when a Confederate Col­o­nel presented himself a few weeks ­later at an outpost outside of town bearing a flag of truce and asking to tour the asylum, as per the last time, he was denied entry.9 This volatile situation was incredibly challenging for enslaved asylum attendants. In the twenty years preceding the war, enslaved staff had occasionally been scapegoated and targeted by white coworkers and patients. Tension had never before been this high, however, and it was unclear to whom enslaved staff could turn for protection and advocacy given the constant turnover, which made it difficult to know who was actually in charge and for how long. Moreover, several attendants had been forcibly evacuated by their ­owners before the

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­ attle of Williamsburg, necessitating the hire of untrained replacements with B comparatively ­little knowledge of the asylum’s administrative bureaucracy.10 On top of ­these tribulations, Confederate raids threatened capture and dislocation, yet enslaved attendants who remained at the asylum rather than fleeing to Union strongholds w ­ ere neither recognized nor rewarded for their brave reliability. But the most exasperating part of life for asylum attendants at this time was prob­ably the uncertainty regarding their status as workers. On September 22, 1862, following the B ­ attle of Antietam, President Lincoln removed General McClellan, the man responsible for the Union retreat from Richmond, from the battlefield. Lincoln also issued the preliminary Emancipation Proclamation, which gave Confederate states ­until January 1 to return to the Union or ­else slaves in ­those territories would be permanently freed. Despite Lincoln’s cautiously incremental approach to emancipation, the proclamation offered hope to enslaved attendants. White staff members, on the other hand, ­were alarmed by the possibilities that freedom offered their black coworkers. Talbot Sweeney, the former asylum l­awyer, wrote to Richmond in October to apprise Governor Letcher of the poor condition of the asylum patients, allegedly a consequence of newly emboldened black attendants’ disinclination to work. Although the inmates ­were receiving rations, he asserted that they suffered greatly “from want of clothing and attention of ­every kind.” Sweeney reported that Dr. Wager was on leave in Philadelphia for ten days, and he claimed that hired slaves ­were neglectful. He was incensed that slaves appeared to have “taken their freedom.” T ­ hose slaves “who remained to this time,” he wrote, “are ­under no restraint, it would seem, and are wholly indifferent to the wants of the inmates.” Sweeney’s attitude ­toward indifferent white asylum staff, however, was sympathetic. He argued that their half-­hearted approach stemmed from concern that their l­abor u­ nder Dr. Wager was a tacit endorsement of federal authority. Sweeney even advised Governor Letcher to give official permission for ­these Confederate sympathizers to work at the asylum, and, most audaciously, to authorize surreptitious payment of their salaries in U.S. currency, “for Confederate money the ­enemy ­will not take, and ­Virginia money is now at a discount of fifty per cent.”11 Sweeney complained about enslaved attendants’ work ethic, insensible to the fact that slaves ­were working an already-­difficult job u­ nder extraordinary duress and without adequate compensation. Reinstalled steward William Douglass also wrote to Governor Letcher in early November to plead for winter clothing and fuel, and to share his fear that the remaining enslaved attendants would leave over the Christmas holiday and not return once the emancipation deadline had passed. Rumors ­were also swirling that federal



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authorities planned to move all the patients in order to distribute them among Northern hospitals. “White servants cannot be procured in this region of the country,” Douglass wrote, “and it ­will be impossible, I suspect, to hire negroes [sic] for the ensuing year u­ nder existing circumstances.” Like Sweeney, Douglass’s concerns ­were not rooted in empathy. He did not propose making the job more rewarding as an inducement to get trained black staff members to stay at the hospital. His concern was primarily the preservation of white authority. He described the state of affairs as “intensely embarrassing” b­ ecause the remaining enslaved attendants w ­ ere “in such a state of insubordination as to make it almost impossible to have anything done,” and concluded by asking the governor to act immediately with some kind of “correction.”12 By the end of the month, Confederate General and former V ­ irginia Governor Henry A. Wise wrote to Union General Erasmus Keyes, whose corps had remained b­ ehind on the Peninsula. In the letter, which was published two weeks ­later in the Richmond Times Dispatch, Wise reported that relatives of patients w ­ ere distressed by unsubstantiated reports that their loved ones might be evacuated north. He asked Keyes to address ­these rumors, as well as confirm ­whether a large portion of the asylum was being used for military purposes. Families ­were also alarmed by rumors that significant numbers of troops at the asylum had “so disturbed all discipline and regulations of police as to crowd the two sexes and the vari­ous classes of inmates in the Lunatic Asylum together in the same wards and apartments.”13 “Now that the State of V ­ irginia’s ­children of affliction are said to be inhumanely harmed,” Wise concluded, the president of the Confederate States “appeals, in behalf of t­hese ‘­little ones,’ if they are or have been injured, to no lower authority than that of Heaven to Chris­tian­ity.”14 The infantilizing language was consistent with the language of benevolent paternalism that antebellum superintendents had honed for de­cades, and Keyes was righ­teously insulted by the implication that federal authorities would intentionally harm patients. He assured Wise that the patients w ­ ere attended by an army surgeon, received full rations, and that coal would soon be supplied for warmth over the winter. “Who knows which deserves the greater pity,” he responded, “the poor lunatics in the asylum at Williamsburg, or the men who have made this war.” The emissaries from Richmond w ­ ere denied direct access to the asylum, but Dr. Wager, apparently unaware that William Douglass had a role in sparking this investigation, invited them to interview Mr. Douglass to pacify their concerns.15 As promised, on January 1, 1863, President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which decreed that all persons held in bondage in rebel states would henceforward be considered ­free by the federal government.

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Slaves living in rebel states currently held by Union forces, however, ­were excluded. Enslaved patients and attendants at the asylum ­were, therefore, still legally in bondage, as ­were all the slaves on the ­Virginia Peninsula. Despite this disappointing caveat, Lincoln’s new tactic to win the war engendered hope for the ­future amongst slaves. T ­ hose who could do so took advantage of the obstacles to enforcing servitude on the occupied Peninsula to enjoy de facto freedom. Slaves who lived on the border zone of conflict, however, could not be too confident in their deliverance. Williamsburg remained vulnerable. Indeed, residents awoke on April 11, 1863, to find the town swarming with Confederate soldiers who appeared near the college and began driving Union forces back to Fort Magruder, the earthen fortification about two miles outside of Williamsburg on the road to Yorktown. Patients looking out upper-­story win­dows could watch the ­battle unfold in front of them.16 With explosives detonating on the main streets of town, frantic residents threw belongings into trunks and tried to scurry out of danger. Many rushed to the asylum, including slaves and slave ­owners who hoped to evade conscription as well as death. “Such confusion you never saw[,] not even at the evacuation,” one chronicler said of the scene. True to its name, the asylum offered a place of refuge from the worst of the chaos. Another witness described fleeing with her slaves to the asylum, where Dr. Wager welcomed them all “with a feast of Coffee which was very agreeable as most of them had not eaten or drunk anything that morning.” Still in mourning, John M. Galt’s unmarried ­sister, Sally, refused to join the throng at the hospital.17 As for the patients, the activity and noise must have been disruptive. General Wise ­later claimed that he pulled his troops west ­toward Richmond around noon “to preserve the Asylum its quiet,” though the move was likely an effort to get out range of Union shelling. What­ever the reason, the lull allowed ­those sheltering at the asylum to briefly return home. Just as one w ­ oman finished unpacking, she received word from Dr. Wager that shelling was about to recommence so she must once again “hasten up to the Asylum as quickly as pos­si­ble.”18 Dr. Wager was apparently as coolheaded as he was considerate. That eve­ ning he wrote to General Wise to inquire ­whether he was a prisoner of war. In a reply that revealed the material weakness of the Confederacy, Wise stated that he did not intend to interfere with the asylum and wished Dr. Wager “to go on with its conduct & superintendence at pres­ent at least as he had been d­ oing heretofore.”19 Wise requested only that Dr. Wager, on his honor, not divulge to his commanders any of the Confederate operations that might come to his knowledge, an incredible response given the doctor’s access to the asylum’s nine-­story observation tower. A few days l­ ater Dr. Wager wrote Wise again, this



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time to report that he needed food for the patients. In the meantime, he had purchased on credit supplies from local farmers and merchants. Astonishingly, General Wise replied that he would not take responsibility for the patients, but he agreed to allow a wagon sent by Dr. Wager u­ nder a yellow flag to pass through lines to acquire provisions from Union headquarters. Naturally, Wise omitted that the reason for this unorthodox arrangement was ­because the Confederacy was having trou­ble feeding its own soldiers and was, therefore, in no position to take charge of an insane asylum. Just a week earlier Confederate troops had been called upon to suppress a bread riot in Richmond provoked by rampant inflation due to confiscatory tax laws and impressment. In fact, the Rich­ mond Times Dispatch euphemistically reported on April 16 that “the loyal ­people” of Williamsburg had set aside large quantities of forage for the Confederate cavalry, and that forces ­were also able to “secure” some bacon and salt. The paper also noted without detail: “A considerable number of conscripts and contraband ­were captured by our men.”20 Among ­these, sadly, w ­ ere members of the asylum staff. ­After Dr. Wager sent a wagon from the asylum past the Confederate line, as had been agreed upon, soldiers deci­ded to inspect the asylum. “It was found that several of the servants & nurses ­were fugitive slaves,” Wise ­later explained, “belonging to masters who claimed their private property” and “­were allowed to take them away.”21 A terrible irony was that the staff members in question ­were considered ­free by the federal government only a­ fter they had been seized and carried off to Richmond. The identities of t­ hese captured attendants are unknown, but experienced asylum slaves would have been valuable to the struggling Confederate Medical Department. It is likely that the asylum slaves w ­ ere seized for the purpose of providing care to soldiers in Richmond. Richmond was the hub of medical activity for the Confederacy; more than 60 ­percent of the Confederate wounded received treatment t­ here over the course of the war.22 By May 1862, 256 slaves had been impressed into hospital ser­v ice ­after the Confederate Surgeon General wrote to the Medical Department about the need for slave ­labor. Of the slaves working in the largest fa­cil­i­ty, he observed, “it ­will be entirely impossible to continue the hospital without them.”23 In early 1863, just a few months before the Williamsburg raid, the Medical Department reor­ga­ nized, closing smaller private hospitals and enlarging camp hospitals into massive, pavilion-­style complexes that treated hundreds of patients at a time. Up ­until then, the only hospitals rivaling the scale of ­these facilities ­were the two ­Virginia asylums. Consolidation increased the need for trained staff, and competent workers w ­ ere in short supply; the staff never reached the numbers allowed by law. Unlike the North, which employed 9,000 w ­ omen as nurses,

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the majority of Confederate nurses ­were enslaved men. Typically, each hospital ward employed three nurses. Their duties included lifting, bathing, and feeding patients, as well as providing medi­cation and changing ban­dages. Nurses also changed the bedding, emptied chamber pots, and cleaned the rooms. The job required strength, stamina, and sensitivity. Although hospital administrators would have preferred to assign the position of head nurse to a white man, this ideal was rarely realized. Hospitals also employed f­ ree black men and ­women and hired slaves as cooks, laundresses, and manual laborers. ­These laborers transported patients and worked in the hospitals’ bakeries, ice ­houses, dairies, and on the affiliated farms. In short, just as slave l­abor was indispensable to the functioning of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, it was now critical to the Medical Department of the Confederacy. In recognition of its dependence on slave ­labor, the Confederacy authorized hospital physicians to do exactly what John M. Galt had always done—­pay the hospital slaves directly. For working during the holidays, slaves w ­ ere given one dollar per day during Christmas week from hospital funds despite the fact that the Medical Department was plagued by shortages of food, medicine, and other necessary supplies.24 Following the raid on the asylum and the refusal of Confederate leaders to provide food and medicine to the patients, Dr. Wager’s commander ordered him to withdraw. One panicked Williamsburg resident warned General Wise about the vulnerability of books in the college library, writing, “Yankees talk of selling them for the benefit of the E.  L. Asylum,” but Wise did not respond.25 On April 17, 1863, Dr. Wager surrendered the keys to ­lawyer Talbot Sweeney, who was dismayed to learn that General Wise still had no intention of taking responsibility for the patients or even leaving a significant number of Confederate troops in town. General Wise did contact a physician in the area named Dr. William Martin, possibly the same man whom Galt had once accused of concealing an illegitimate child, and asked him to attend to the asylum patients. Wise also permitted Dr. Martin and Talbot Sweeney to meet with Union authorities at the picket line just east of town in order to obtain five days’ worth of supplies from the federal government. Although angered by this request, Union General Keyes doubled the rations since the 250 patients ­were “on the borders of absolute starvation.”26 In exchange for his generosity, General Keyes demanded that Sweeney first deliver to General Wise a letter of reproach. Stubbornly, Sweeney refused, possibly ­because he expected that federal forces would soon reoccupy Williamsburg. The patients ­either went hungry or Sweeney leaned on his neighbors, ­because three weeks passed before federal forces returned. ­After securing the town, Union General



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Dix warned that if t­ here w ­ ere any more raids, he would direct Union soldiers to send the asylum inmates to Richmond in order to relieve the U.S. government “of the burden of their support.”27 The federal government appears to have retained many of the local ward officers that Sweeney had hired during the brief interlude in which he was in charge of the institution, but the rec­ords from this transitional period are spotty. Dr. James L. Watson of the 139th New York Volunteers took charge as superintendent, assisted by a private from his com­pany who acted as a baker, and two soldiers from the 5th  Pennsylvania Cavalry who took on the roles of steward and gardener. On June  17, 1863, a month into this ad hoc arrangement, the U.S. Secretary of War ordered John  M. Galt’s former colleague and rival, Dr. Charles H. Nichols of the Government Hospital for the Insane in Washington  D.C. (St.  Elizabeth’s Hospital), to visit Williamsburg and make a report.28 Joining Dr. Nichols was his close ally, reformer Dorothea Dix, who had been appointed superintendent of Union ­women nurses. Miss Dix stayed with Sally Galt, the late superintendent’s unmarried ­sister, and insisted that the two visit the patients together. Sally ­later admitted that she “dreaded” the excursion “­because of the tide of sad (though they ­ought to be proud) remembrances” such a visit would invite. However, she afterwards admitted that the patients’ joy in seeing the two ladies again following many months of hardship “made me very thankful that I went.”29 Sally’s plea­sure might have diminished had she been privy to the report that Nichols submitted afterwards. Nichols’s report offers an intriguing glimpse of an asylum in a war zone, as well as insight into the ways in which professional rivalries ­were exacerbated by sectional tension. Noting that the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was the first hospital in the country exclusively for the insane, Nichols then observed that ­there w ­ ere 191 white and 25 “colored” patients in residence. Although he did not comment further, this census was fraught given Nichols’s and Galt’s dif­fer­ent opinions about the suitability of racially integrated asylum care. The report, excerpted a few months ­later in the American Journal of Insanity for all of their mutual acquaintances to read, also contained explicit jabs at Galt’s reputation and legacy. Taking into view the past reputation of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, which has not been high even in ­Virginia, and the fact that ­there is not a water-­closet nor a urinal within any one of the hospital buildings, nor any sewerage worthy of the name, and that the means in use of supplying ­water and the facilities for bathing, washing clothes, and cooking are, as they without doubt always have been, rude and inadequate, I think the

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patients are now substantially as comfortable as they have been at any ­period of the history of this ancient institution.30 Nichols’s portrait of the fa­cil­i­ty might have been brutally accurate, but he overlooked the moral methods by which the institution had been governed. His description reified perceptions of the South as culturally backwards or insufficiently modern despite the fact that V ­ irginia had provided for the indigent mentally ill de­cades earlier than did other states. His judgment justified his and his colleagues’ rejection of Galt’s critiques and unique contributions to the field. It must have been crudely satisfying for Nichols to imagine his good friend, Thomas Kirkbride, who had been so insulted by Galt’s comments about the pointlessness of fixating on facilities, to read about the lack of basic amenities at Eastern Lunatic Asylum. The substance of Galt’s critique, however, was overlooked. In a similarly veiled manner, Nichols addressed the question of staffing. He described the Union officer in charge as inexperienced but “intelligent, humane, and zealous.” The other recent appointees w ­ ere “kind, intelligent, and faithful.” As for the experienced staff whose tenure had antedated the war, they “­were reported to be in the main attentive and kind to the patients, and disposed to cooperate with the physician in abolishing some radical abuses.”31 The nature of ­these alleged “radical abuses” was not specified, but it is fair to assume that t­ hese ­were the same objections that Dorothea Dix had laid out a­ fter her previous visit: the use of the douche and the authority entrusted to enslaved attendants. Dix’s objection to enslaved caregivers was never centered on the exploitative nature of unpaid, exhausting l­ abor. This fact was all the more obvious now with the Union army in charge of the asylum. Though the status of the African American workers was undetermined, Nichols reported that now all the previous staff members w ­ ere working for rations but no pay. If the staff resented the uncompensated demands placed on them and subsequently took out their frustrations on the patients, this concern was not raised. The biggest insult to John M. Galt, however, was the fact that his death was utterly ignored by his former colleagues. One month a­ fter he died, the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane (AMSAII) held its annual meeting in Providence, Rhode Island. The meeting commenced with a notice that Dr.  Chipley of Kentucky and Dr.  Mc­ Farland of Illinois ­were unable to attend ­because they ­were busy tending to battle-­wounded soldiers in their respective states. The members then gave a stirring tribute to Luther Bell, a prominent asylum doctor from New E ­ ngland



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and an original cofounder of the Association who had recently died, but nothing was said about Galt’s death. His legacy was indirectly alluded to in a discussion about the misrepre­sen­ta­tion of the numbers of colored insane in the North in the 1840 census, which, members agreed, had “done an im­mense amount of po­liti­cal and scientific mischief,” but Galt was not mentioned by name.32 Lest this omission be attributed to oversight or uncertainty about how to eulogize a man ­behind ­enemy lines, subsequent obituaries make clear that the lack of public commemoration was intentional. At the annual meeting the following year, the deaths of three minor participants in the organ­ization ­were announced. Moreover, in 1865 the Association submitted to the House and Senate a letter asking that Southern colleagues be “relieved from all t­ hose disabilities resulting from the late rebellion.”33 In gratitude, Dr.  Stribling of ­Virginia’s Western Lunatic Asylum addressed the assembly. Stribling expressed a heartfelt desire to blot out “­bitter memories” caused by the war, and suggested that asylum superintendents had a special duty to soothe sectional frenzy and “popu­lar excitement.” With bittersweet reverence, he recalled the names of his cofound­ers who’d since passed away—­Luther Bell, Amariah Brigham, Samuel Woodward—­leaving out only one: John M. Galt.34 In the twenty-­year history of the Association, John M. Galt was the only doctor who did not receive the courtesy of an obituary. In September 1863, three months ­after Nichols and Dix had visited Williamsburg, another prominent Northern colleague toured the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. John P. Gray, superintendent of the Utica Asylum in New York, was sent by President Lincoln to Fort Monroe to evaluate the sanity of a V ­ irginia doctor who had fatally shot a U.S. army lieutenant ­after witnessing a com­ pany of African American soldiers march through downtown Norfolk. Having fulfilled his civic duty by interviewing the prisoner—­he found the doctor sane—­he stopped by the asylum in Williamsburg to offer management advice. Gray published an account of his visit in the New York Times, excerpts of which reappeared a few months l­ater in the American Journal of Insanity, of which Gray was the editor. Clearly labeling Galt’s death a suicide, Gray described him as “accomplished,” but lambasted the fact that asylum patients “­were without medical supervision or support” u­ ntil the occupying army took over. In contrast to the superintendent, Gray noted that the matron and some other attendants “to their praise, remained faithful to their posts.” By his ­account, between August  20, 1862 (the start of Dr.  Wager’s oversight) and September  1863, some sixty-­one patients w ­ ere discharged or died almost immediately.35

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Gray was kinder than Nichols in his portrait of the facilities. He described the grounds as “spacious, nicely laid out and reasonably well kept,” and the buildings as “commodious and in fair repair.” Echoing Dix from years prior, he noted that the wards ­were “scrupulously clean” and reassured readers that the patients “seemed orderly and well cared for, and t­ here was everywhere a general air of quiet and comfort.” The point of the report to which he dedicated the greatest number of paragraphs, however, was to praise the efficiency of federal oversight and the benevolence of Northerners in general. Gray was moved by the charitable and cheerful manner by which the U.S. government had assumed the support of the insane relatives of its enemies; the shouldering of this burden, in his words, reflected “the highest credit on the humanity and munificence of the Government and the character of the military.” He contrasted the scene at Williamsburg to the havoc that ensued when the Confederate army “robbed and sacked” an asylum in Fulton, Missouri, leaving “the helpless inmates” to find shelter wherever they could. Gray concluded that the advanced Christian character of the Northern states was evident in the fact that the region maintained educational and charitable institutions during a time of crisis, with donations continuing even in the face of rising taxes to support the war effort. The advancement of “personal liberty” and “the sacred duty” to protect the “helpless” was part of the bedrock upon which Northern society was founded. Southern society, Gray implied, had comparatively weak institutions and ­little re­spect for individual freedom.36 That this contrasting observation was inspired by a visit to Eastern Lunatic Asylum is ironic ­because Gray’s institution was best known for the eponymous “Utica crib,” a long and narrow caged bed used to restrain patients in the mid-­nineteenth ­century. While some patients might have found this invention soothing—­it was sometimes hung from the ceiling so that the occupant could be rocked in it like a cradle without fear of falling out while sleeping—­it was certainly used involuntarily in ways that defied commitment to personal liberty. Gray was, in fact, notorious for his reliance on mechanical restraint. By the 1880s he had fifty cribs in use.37 ­Under John Galt’s administration, on the other hand, Eastern Lunatic Asylum did away with mechanical restraints and experimented with unrestricted movement beyond the confines of the asylum grounds. Certainly with regard to patient freedom, the Williamsburg asylum was far more liberal by the standards of the nineteenth ­century than Utica. As for the duty to protect the helpless, many of Galt’s Northern colleagues in charge of prosperous private institutions failed to effectively advo-



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cate for the mentally ill who languished in Northern prisons and poor­houses out of fear that the presence of indigents in asylums would damage their ability to attract wealthier clientele. John M. Galt’s contributions to asylum reform and moral management might have been wholly ignored by his colleagues following his death if not for essays by Dr. J. Parigot that ­were published in the American Journal of In­ sanity in 1863. Dr. Parigot had been a physician at Gheel prior to immigrating to New York. Although he was critical of the administrative shortcomings that arose ­after the transition from Catholic charity to state colony, he wrote to defend Gheel from “unjust criticism” and reassure American superintendents that the ­Free Air and ­Family Life system was “but the continuation of Pinel’s idea.”38 About Galt, he wrote: “I must not forget to state the excellent reasons and articles written by the late Dr. Galt of V ­ irginia, on the Belgian system. He was the first American psychopathist who commenced ­here what may be called the Free-­Air Agitation. All honor, for it belongs to him. May we soon unite our efforts for such cause in our common country.”39 Echoing Galt’s criticism of Kirkbride and other asylum-­building boosters, Parigot believed that “constructions and plans are opposed to real therapeutical success.” In his view, the recreational amenities and diverting amusements that superintendents spent money to acquire and maintain ­were often, at best, mere instruments to improve public opinion of the institution; at worst they w ­ ere “an offense to good sense and charity.” Most cutting, Dr. Parigot characterized private asylums for the wealthy as “cap­i­tal­ist” endeavors “whose principal object is to make money” rather than heal or comfort the sick. Perhaps ­under the impression that Galt’s opinions carried greater weight than was actually the case, Parigot naively theorized that the Gheel model could most easily be replicated in “rising and power­ful nations” like the United States, Brazil, and other countries in South Amer­i­ca.40 In Eu­rope, he opined, t­ here w ­ ere too many entrenched interests and professional rivalries that prevented reform. Apparently unaware of the factions within AMSAII, and the ways in which ideas about race affected ­those alliances, Parigot reintroduced one of the topics for which Galt had been derided a de­cade earlier. The “­free air” or “cottage system” did not become a major point of debate among physicians ­until the 1860s.41 The growing number of chronically insane patients gradually undermined earlier confidence in asylums as curative institutions, so it was perhaps inevitable that eventually ­there would be a discussion about what to do for individuals who did not recover and remained incapable of self-­support. But it was the Civil War, especially the large numbers

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of African American refugees, that created a sense of urgency around this issue. In V ­ irginia in 1865, for example, Union officials estimated that over 5,000 of Alexandria’s 8,000 black residents had fled from plantations in the Deep South. The following year, Freedmen’s Bureau officials in ­Virginia warned that the thousands of “helpless, naked, starving” former slaves from elsewhere who had surged onto the Peninsula needed to be relocated lest they s­ ettle into “counties that cannot support them.” 42 The presence of mentally ill, cognitively impaired, and senile individuals among t­ hese desperate mi­grants complicated federal plans to transform former slaves into ­free laborers. The absence of asylums in rural counties throughout much of the South posed a secondary challenge. To overcome the reluctance of general hospitals to admit insane freedmen and ­women, federal officials sometimes deliberately stoked fears of dangerous black madmen roaming the countryside.43 Ultimately, the prob­lem of what to do with insane freed p­ eople led to a radical transformation in federal policy and withdrawal from the South.44 The prospect of a surge in asylum admissions of migrating freedmen and returning soldiers traumatized from years of brutal fighting also forced AMSAII members to confront the limited capacities of existing asylums, and consider the projected cost of accommodating more patients. Even Northern physicians who ­were removed from the misery of mi­grant life could not avoid the issue entirely. In January 1865, Major Edward Ord assumed control of the Army of the James and ordered a census and inventory of the Peninsula. He found no appropriation for the Eastern Lunatic Asylum in the department bud­get, and believed that he did not have the ­legal authority to impose or collect taxes and penalty fees from Virginians in support of the institution. In a letter to Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, Ord recommended that asylum patients be transferred to a Northern asylum. “It ­will not do to let them starve,” he reasoned, “and they can be supported much easier at the North than where they are now.” 45 Stanton disagreed, but offered no solution to the dilemma. Instead, he passed the prob­lem onto General Ulysses S. Grant, who he commanded to inform rebel authorities “that ­these insane ­people ­will not be supported by the United States, but must be provided for by them.” He suggested that Grant “propose that a part of the fund lately raised for the relief of rebel prisoners by the sale of cotton in New York be appropriated for this purpose.” 46 The sale of seized and impounded cotton might have offered a temporary reprieve, but the question of how to pay for medical care for the indigent insane loomed large at the end of the war. It ­shaped federal policy and factored into the heated debates between Association members over the f­ uture of moral therapy and asylum care.



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Martial Law and the Transition to State Governance (1865–1869) The Civil War came to end on May 9, 1865. ­Virginia’s politicians ­were apparently as e­ ager to wrest control of the Williamsburg asylum from federal ­authority as they had been to avoid the responsibility during the war. Dr. Wager, who had earned the re­spect of many local residents, was confronted with a new state-­appointed board of directors. The president of the board was Lemuel G. Bowden, son of Lemuel J. Bowden, the Unionist V ­ irginia senator who had died in Washington, D.C., in 1864, and nephew to Henry Bowden who had fled the asylum in 1862. Dr. Wager, however, refused to give over control u­ ntil commanded to do so by the U.S. government that had appointed him. Federal ­orders fi­nally arrived on November 1, 1865, and then Dr. Leonard Henley became superintendent.47 Dr. Henley was from Williamsburg. He had graduated from William and Mary before moving north to study medicine at the University of Pennsyl­ vania. Following his graduation from medical school in 1847, he had spent seven years working at the insane hospital inside Philadelphia’s Blockley Alms­ house. At the start of the Civil War, he enlisted as a Confederate surgeon and was put in charge of hospitals in Petersburg u­ ntil his appointment as superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum.48 One month into his appointment, Dr. Henley and the board of directors issued a report to the V ­ irginia legislature. The tone of their report was defiant, as if the directors had been unfairly prevented from administering the hospital during the war. Addressing Governor Pierpont, the clerk wrote, “your board found the asylum in a most deplorable condition as regards the general appurtenances of the institution and the habiliments of its inmates.” Board members complained that they had received only three days’ notice to order enough supplies to “meet the responsibilities hurried upon us.” Dr. Henley asserted that the storeroom contained only enough food for one meal, and that the patients w ­ ere wearing the only clothes to be had. “The institution might well be said to be in a debilitated and deranged condition,” he wrote. Of par­tic­ul­ar concern to the doctor was the ­water supply and drainage. During heavy rainstorms, the basement filled with ­water with no means of drainage besides buckets, prompting Dr. Henley’s request that the legislature send out a committee to assess for themselves the need for sewerage. The laundry machines for supplying w ­ ater and drying ­were out of repair, forcing the attendants, with the aid of female patients, to do all of the laundry by hand just as they had the previous ­century. Dr. Henley singled out the attendants for praise, noting that “notwithstanding ­great

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care” on their part, employing patients for this arduous work frequently resulted in damaged clothing that had not been replaced during the war. In fact, Dr. Henley noted that patient clothing was so scant in some cases that he was forced to restrict poorly dressed inmates to the enclosed grounds for the sake of decency. “The appearance of the patients is a power­ful appeal,” he warned, “which not to heed would indeed by criminal.” Even worse was the fact that attendants had to haul tubs of ­water “some distance to the buildings by hand” in order to bathe patients. This onerous and time-­consuming task also made it impossible to prescribe baths of a specific temperature.49 In addition to the broken ­water works, the gas works ­were a major concern. The asylum was functioning as it had before John M. Galt first took over in 1842. The condition of the gas apparatus rendered it “useless” in Dr. Henley’s estimation. The result was unacceptable. “The pres­ent method of partially lighting the buildings,” Dr. Henley wrote, “is dangerous, expensive, inefficient and uncleanly.”50 Similarly, the furnace in the building for female patients was out of order, forcing the patients to rely on drafty and potentially dangerous fireplaces for heat. But, of course, this source of heat was limited to the common area and could not keep individual patient rooms comfortable on cold winter nights. In addition to providing insight into the grueling working lives of attendants at that time, Henley’s report makes it clear that what Nichols had observed and shared with colleagues was not the norm ­under Galt’s tenure but was instead a result of war­time damage and inability to maintain older infrastructure. Dr. Henley concluded by acknowledging the challenges facing the legislature (“I know her debts and liabilities are heavy, and her citizens poor”) reminding politicians responsible for funding that “insanity is not confined to any rank or station in life.” He called upon them to honor their duty to provide humanitarian aid, and appealed to their sense of pride in the face of recent defeat. In direct opposition to Nichols’s characterization of the asylum, Dr. Henley wrote: “The enviable reputation which this noble charity has enjoyed, at home and abroad, makes one the more anxious to see that reputation preserved.”51 Perhaps ­because some of the rec­ord books ­were missing or destroyed, or maybe ­because he knew that war­time disruptions had made it difficult for families to keep track of hospitalized relatives, Dr. Henley also took the unusual step of publishing patient names and vital information that would ordinarily have been restricted to a register. Lucy Wilkes, whose husband had confined her ­after ­she’d given birth to a child he suspected ­wasn’t his, was still ­there. Fanny Jett (misidentified as Gett) was still t­ here as well. Sally (Cary) Williams, who died less than three weeks ­after Henley took over, was said to hail from



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Richmond although she had been admitted from Winchester. Lydia was not listed, although ­later documents make clear that she was ­there. A man named “Lem” who was identified as “colored,” but whose age and provenance ­were “unknown,” was t­ here. This is likely the same individual who was moved to the basement in April 1862 ­because his gesticulations attracted the notice of the soldiers.52 In January 1866, just two months into Dr. Henley’s superintendence, the ­Virginia Legislature conducted an investigation of the asylum in response to accusations of fraud and nepotism, particularly with regard to the Bowden ­family. One staff member claimed that Dr. Henley had once promised him a position in exchange for voting for Lemuel Bowden to be president of the board; another disgruntled employee implied that Henry Bowden had attempted to siphon money to overpay black attendants in 1862.53 Although the investigation did not result in any charges, Governor Pierpont deci­ded to remove Dr. Henley and the entire board of directors. Dr. Robert M. Garrett took over as superintendent in March 1866 and appointed a new board. The following September, Dr.  Garrett published his report. ­There ­were 175 patients when he took over, and he had admitted thirty-­one w ­ omen and thirty-­ one men since then. Including deaths and discharges, t­ here ­were 206 patients then in residence, thirty-­five of whom w ­ ere African American. The cause of insanity for eigh­teen of the newly admitted men and twenty of the newly admitted ­women was identified as “the war.”54 Dr. Garrett’s tenure precipitated a significant decline in the number of white patients. A few months a­ fter the March report was issued, Laura S. Haviland, a missionary and former Underground Railroad operative working for the Freedmen’s Bureau, visited Williamsburg ­after learning that ­there was ­great suffering on the Peninsula. In a memoir that she published years ­later, she wrote about listening to “a very sweet voice singing a hymn” as she passed through the wards of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. The voice allegedly belonged to a man who had lost two plantations and all his worldly possessions during the war and then, with the fall of Richmond, his sanity. Now, according to Mrs. Haviland, this man was one of 101 patients, forty-­two of whom w ­ ere “colored.”55 Of course it is pos­si­ble that Mrs. Haviland was mistaken with regard to the change in the number of patients, but Dr. Garrett’s report does corroborate her account of trauma caused by the war. Garrett wrote: “That the late events which have tran­spired in our country have added largely to the list of the insane, I cannot doubt. Many recent cases received ­here are clearly to be traced to the excitement, depravations, and horrors of the late war, and many more ­will be added to the list. It is safe to calculate that, by this time next year,

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this asylum ­will be much crowded, if not overflowing.”56 Garrett concluded that he would try to accommodate as many patients as pos­si­ble for economy’s sake so that the state would not have to build another fa­cil­i­ty. The apparent exodus of white patients u­ nder Dr. Garrett might have been a case of correlation and not causation. He took over at a moment in which it was pos­si­ble for the first time for white families west of Richmond to easily retrieve their institutionalized relatives, and ­there may have been concern among them that the transition from federal rationing to state support would lead to diminished quality of care and overcrowding. Although the number of black patients r­ ose slightly from thirty-­five to forty, not ­every eligible black person ended up at the asylum. In the first place, recently freed men and ­women ­were not ­eager to voluntarily surrender the liberty of a loved one to a white doctor in charge of a locked ward. Secondly, the main goal of the Freedmen’s Bureau, which periodically conducted surveys to determine the level of need in a given region, was to encourage the able-­bodied to work. For example, when Mrs. Haviland traveled five miles east of Williamsburg to meet a sixty-­year-­old former slave who had “lost his mind” from grief ­after the sale of his wife and c­ hildren twenty years earlier, she did not recommend his admission to the asylum. Instead, she noted that he seemed harmless, pious, and, most importantly, that he helped to care for his two el­derly ­sisters with whom he lived by carry­ing ­water and firewood for them. To have admitted such a man to the asylum would have deprived the ­sisters of his assistance, increasing the likelihood of their dependence on government aid in their dotage.57 ­Under the authority of the War Department, the Medical Division of the Freedmen’s Bureau built more than forty hospitals and alms­houses and employed over a hundred doctors and other staff to provide treatment to over a million slaves.58 The need for medical ser­vices was acute, however, and frequently exceeded the organ­ization’s ability to provide care. With regard to insane freedmen, Bureau officials also had to contend with the added challenge of public indifference or hostility. All superintendents of publicly funded asylums had to generate support for a dependent class of p­ eople who tended to violate social norms and w ­ ere frequently perceived as frightening. But up ­until the end of the Civil War, only John M. Galt had done this, imperfectly, on behalf of f­ree black and enslaved patients. Now Bureau physicians from the North with limited experience treating African Americans had to convince white Southerners, who w ­ ere ­bitter about the end of slavery and the prospect of widespread economic devastation, to admit freed p­ eople to asylums and hospital wards. The goal of the Bureau since its creation in 1865 had



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been to transfer the care of the indigent to state authorities, but former slaves’ status as citizens was not resolved u­ ntil the passage of the f­ ourteenth and fifteenth amendments in 1868 and 1870, respectively. This loophole enabled some Southern counties and municipalities to rationalize their refusal to admit f­ ree blacks to hospitals. This was not the case in V ­ irginia, however, b­ ecause the law that had been created for the Williamsburg asylum already recognized the right of f­ ree blacks to gain admission at public expense. Nevertheless, in January 1867, the V ­ irginia Assembly voted against ratifying the ­fourteenth amendment to protect the rights of freedmen. In response to this recalcitrance, the federal government placed ­Virginia ­under the military control of General John M. Schofield the following March. U ­ nder his direction, African American men w ­ ere able to vote for the first time for delegates to a constitutional convention, which met from December 1867 to April 1868. In January 1868, General Schofield appointed to the Eastern Lunatic Asylum a “mixed Board of military and civil gentlemen.” According to the editors of the Staunton Spectator, the members of this board ­were motivated “by a desire to do justice to the State, and not to the unfortunate inmates of the Institution.” However, the editors conceded that this board had opted to elect new officers for the wards who ­were “native Virginians,” selected without “personal or po­liti­cal” considerations. Among t­ hese men was Dr. A. E. Peticolas, who succeeded Dr. Garrett.59 Dr. Peticolas was the former professor of anatomy at the Medical College of ­Virginia whose ­father had committed suicide at the asylum twenty years earlier ­after being forcibly committed by his son for living with a f­ree black ­family. It was ­under Dr. Peticolas’s administration that African American patients at the asylum w ­ ere permanently removed and sent to a segregated fa­cil­i­ty. As an ardent supporter of the Confederacy with a demonstrated history of antipathy ­toward racial equality, Peticolas was willing to discard the controversial aspects of John M. Galt’s legacy. Nevertheless, the Staunton Spectator reported that ­under Peticolas, the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was again “becoming what it was in the day of the lamented Galt.” The walkways ­were shelled, the buildings painted, the patients properly clothed and fed, and the gas works and laundry w ­ ere close to operational. The neglected drainage was slated for repair, and the construction of a billiard room and bowling alley was also planned. Embracing the standards endorsed by AMSAII was of paramount importance, especially since Peticolas had no professional experience caring for the insane. The new board of directors ordered him to visit Galt’s colleague and rival, Dr. Stribling, at Staunton.60 The Richmond Whig reported in July 1868 that an unnamed northern physician, “an unprejudiced medical gentleman of

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high position,” had examined the Western Lunatic Asylum and pronounced it “the best in the world.” The following month, Dr. Peticolas, “who is emulating the Doctor in the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of the Williamsburg institution,” visited Dr. Stribling with an eye to copy his admired management.61 Although racial exclusion was a critical component of Dr. Stribling’s administration, the question of ­whether Southern institutions that had previously refused black patients should now accept them remained unresolved. In 1867, the Journal of Insanity lauded Nashville authorities for being “the first to move for the special provision of the colored insane,” allocating $27,000 for the construction of a permanent fa­cil­it­ y for African Americans to replace the temporary one then in use. “We are glad to see a disposition on the part of medical officers of Southern Hospitals,” editor John P. Gray wrote, to encourage state legislators to address “the proper care of the colored insane.” “Proper” was a euphemism for racially segregated just as it had been when Dr. Nichols used it to describe St. Elizabeth’s. Writing on behalf of his closest colleagues, Gray expressed hope that other states would follow Tennessee’s example.62 The debate about how best to accommodate freedmen and support white indigents was taken up with renewed vigor at the Association meeting a few months ­later. The previous year’s meeting had ended in a stalemate on this issue. Some physicians had argued that separate colonies where the chronically insane poor would earn their keep undermined “the very fabric” that men like Dr. Kirkbride had “been building for years.” 63 One oppositional superintendent from the Boston Lunatic Asylum had insisted that colonies w ­ ere a reasonable solution to overcrowded public asylums, but most AMSAII members had favored Dr. Nichol’s recommendation to expand existing facilities. At the 1867 meeting in Philadelphia, doctors from the Northeast resumed the debate about w ­ hether the indigent insane confined to poor­houses and jails throughout the region would be better served by enlargement of current state asylums or the creation of new colonies built exclusively for chronic patients, whose care would be partly subsidized by their farm l­ abor. For Southern institutions, the admission of African Americans to the same asylums as white patients and the challenge of supporting chronic cases w ­ ere related issues ­because few African Americans, if any, could afford private treatment. Dr.  Rodman of Kentucky, for example, interjected that he had no opinion about identifying and separating chronic from curable patients ­because his state’s hospitals ­were built for “the reception of all classes of insane.” He proudly added that the state legislature managed to make ­these appropriations despite lower tax revenue from the loss of property—­including “the sudden emancipation of more than two hundred thousand slaves”—­that “­those [states] more happily situated



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cannot realize.” 64 Upon further questioning, however, Dr. Rodman admitted that ­these generous accommodations ­were not yet realized, but he was confident that Kentucky would soon enlarge the existing fa­cil­i­ty in imitation of Dr. Nichols’s model of separate facilities for blacks and whites. ­After a de­cade of administering the Washington, D.C., asylum, Dr. Nichols now endorsed the inclusion of a working farm to help subsidize the cost of care and provide activity for able-­bodied but idle inmates. Perhaps Nichols realized, as Galt had before him, that public allocations for African American patients tended to be considerably lower than t­hose for white indigents, which made it hard to maintain an institution. Yet noticeably absent from the ensuing debate about the merits of erecting a “Farm of St. Anne’s” for poor and chronic patients was any mention of John  M. Galt, who had first proposed the idea in 1855. As the glaring omission of an obituary in the Journal of Insanity had obviated, the perspicacity of some of Galt’s ideas remained unmentionable. Nichols was not, however, in f­ avor of patients residing outside of the main asylum. Dr. Gundry of Southern Ohio Lunatic Asylum argued that it was commonplace for asylums with farmland to induce patients to engage in agricultural l­ abor, but he agreed that having patients live in cottages was too experimental; only Bucknill in E ­ ngland, he alleged, had tried such an arrangement before abandoning the idea.65 Dr. Walker of the Boston Lunatic Asylum, on the other hand, derisively declared, “we do not need pictures, nor carpets, nor billiard ­tables . . . ​and not quite so many attendants,” but, rather, a working farm with rudimentary facilities so that the basic welfare of chronic cases currently languishing in poor­houses could be established.66 Dr. Fischer of Raleigh, North Carolina, interjected to again connect the cost of expanded ser­vices in general to the care of freed ­people specifically. Perhaps emboldened by Dr. Rodman of Kentucky, Dr. Fischer pointed out that North Carolina had experienced a sudden onslaught akin to an avalanche in the number of cases requiring charity. From 1856 to 1865, he said, he had received applications from about twenty slaveholders looking to commit their slaves. (He did not mention that t­ hese cases had been refused or referred to John M. Galt.) By contrast, in the two years since then he had admitted approximately thirty “negroes” and had rejected several more. What, he demanded of his colleagues, is “the proper status” for this class? “With regard to adequate provision for them ­there is no question; the duty of our legislatures is to provide for them; but the question to be determined is the status of this class of ­people as compared with the whites. ­Shall t­ here be recent cases of negroes [sic] thrown into your excited wards of whites? Or ­shall ­there be a separate institution connected with the institution proper, as is the case in Washington, exclusively

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for the blacks?” 67 Based on his recent experiences with mixed-­race wards, Dr.  Fischer felt that separate facilities w ­ ere a more judicious choice. White Southerners w ­ ere angry about the end of slavery and their animosity had “operated, in some cases, very prejudicially” on the wards. The implication was that white patients had attacked black patients. “We have not yet got to the point when the sympathies and prejudices of the dif­fer­ent castes of color,” he asserted, “can be thrown aside at plea­sure.” 68 The presiding association president, Dr. Kirkbride of Pennsylvania, responded to Dr. Fischer’s query by directly calling upon participants dealing with freedmen, all of whom became suddenly uncommunicative. The two superintendents from state asylums in Ohio refused to comment, saying their position was clear. The Ohio asylums ­were built on the Kirkbride plan, and separate facilities w ­ ere provided for African Americans.69 The prospect of building cheaper institutions to accommodate the insane in poor­houses and jails in the North was thus conflated with the debate over the propriety of racially integrated wards in the South. Although Dr. Kirkbride recognized the need for all public institutions to accommodate more ­people, he preferred to hold out u­ ntil legislatures built the “right” kind of institution, one modeled on his private retreat.70 “If you tell our Legislatures that a cheaper kind of institution ­will answer the purpose,” he warned, “you ­will never get a more costly one.”71 His views on racially mixed hospitals ­were more circumspect, but ultimately more influential. The Kirkbride plan insisted on segregation by race, class, gender, and diagnosis. Dr. Walker of Boston, whose patients frequently came from the impoverished Irish immigrant community, remained vehemently pragmatic in arguing that asylums must be cheaper than ­those following the Kirkbride plan. He also objected to discriminatory admissions based on class, nativity, or race, and accused Nichols, Gray, and, implicitly, Kirkbride of railroading the Association’s proceedings to get their way on ­these issues. “While it is a very delicate ­matter to speak of,” he posited that ­these three men had done the most to increase the number of chronic insane in the United States and render the status of t­hese unfortunates “pitiable” ­because of their inflexibility.72 The Freedmen’s Bureau did ­little to help mitigate this real­ity ­either. Bureau doctors ­were not specialists in insanity so they did not attend Association meetings. The Medical Division of the Bureau was understaffed, underfunded, and singularly focused on the goal of creating able-­bodied workers who would not become permanently dependent upon aid. Bureau officials ­were sometimes unsure how to h­ andle the cases of m ­ ental disability that they encountered, but usually they requested superintendents of local asylums to take ­these



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individuals. To facilitate this pro­cess, Bureau physicians created a “Certification of Insanity” that authorized the transfer of insane individuals to state institutions.73 Superintendents frequently rebuffed ­these requests, pushing Bureau officials to circumvent asylum officers by contacting local mayors and county authorities for support.74 While some Bureau officials clearly strug­gled against discriminatory practices to meet the needs of insane freedmen, ­these same policies ­were commonplace in Northern institutions and endorsed by some of the most influential Northern reformers. For de­cades, AMSAII leadership had discouraged admission of black patients to white wards. John M. Galt’s noncompliance on this point had contributed significantly to his marginalization within the profession, yet the Eastern Lunatic Asylum might have provided a useful model during Reconstruction. Instead, Bureau officials perceived re­sis­tance to racial equality as uniquely Southern—­a symptom of a backward society—­and cast about for ways to deal with the crisis presented by the growing number of former slaves in need of medical attention. One solution was the creation of home colonies or home farms, as they ­were sometimes called.75 In other words, the Bureau created something akin to the Farm of St. Anne’s despite the reservations expressed by some Association members about similar plans. Within ­these farms or colonies, ­there ­were schools, orphanages, hospitals, and insane asylums. While t­ hese institutions offered temporary respite, the Bureau was anxious to transfer financial responsibility for the care of dependents to state and municipal authorities. To minimize recipients of aid on the V ­ irginia Peninsula, Bureau officials identified freed p­ eople ages twelve to fifty-­five who “­were unable to take care of themselves,” a group that included individuals missing limbs as well as the insane. Of the forty-­nine men identified as indigent invalids in 1865, one was considered insane; t­ here ­were two insane ­women out of twenty-­eight total. This census did not include the thirty-­four African American patients at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum in 1865, 73 ­percent of whom ­were u­ nder age fifty-­five, presumably ­because the federal government was already providing assistance to asylum patients. The attitude of Bureau officials ­toward t­hese aid recipients was largely derogatory. Asylum patients w ­ ere regarded as hopeless dependents. In one report, the assistant provost marshall for Williamsburg wrote: “I am happy to state that the number of indigent and infirm ­people are rapidly decreasing and that the large issue of rations heretofore rendered necessary by mistaken ‘philanthropy’ for that and other less needy classes, has been recently reduced at least fifty (50) per cent, without entailing ­either want or suffering on any of the parties concerned.”76 This same report mentioned African American ­women working as prostitutes near Fort Monroe,

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but framed this fact as a moral failing indicative of idleness as opposed to a decision driven by economic necessity. Indeed, some of the federal bureaucrats expressed racist and uncharitable ideas about the ­people they ­were supposed to help adjust to freedom. Another Bureau reporter for the Williamsburg region wrote derisively: “A large portion of the Negroes are governed entirely by their fear, and not from any apparent sense of right and wrong.”77 Unquestionably, the presence of the Freedmen’s Bureau offered some benefits for Williamsburg’s African American community. The Bureau negotiated ­labor contracts and created courts to resolve disputes. For example, a white asylum employee testified on behalf of a f­ ree black man who tried to use the Bureau court to collect a debt.78 Another former slave successfully defended himself from the charge of ­horse theft brought against him by Texas Clowes, the son of the asylum steward who had “romped” with female patients and attendants as a teenager before the war.79 In 1867, the Bureau was also instrumental in preventing armed secret socie­ties from mustering in public places. That same year Bureau officials negotiated with civil authorities in Williamsburg and James City County, who expressed willingness to “give, so far as they are able, support to all destitutes regardless of color.”80 The year 1867 was especially challenging as drought had caused widespread crop failure and the death of livestock throughout the South at the very moment that the Bureau was expediting its departure. Yet the withdrawal of federal support placed the financial responsibility for care entirely on governments that w ­ ere not equipped to ­handle the additional responsibility. Only twenty of the forty-­two hospitals that the Bureau had opened remained in operation by 1867.81 Even Williamsburg, with its long history of integrated asylum care, did not have the necessary resources readily available. Local authorities had agreed to provide food and clothing to the needy without regard to race, but the tax for the support of the poor that year had not included an assessment of “colored destitutes” since this group had previously been rationed by the Freedmen’s Bureau. Moreover, Bureau officials’ castigating attitude ­toward black indigents likely contributed to the sense that the insane and infirm w ­ ere burdensome and deserving of contempt. Given this context, it is not surprising that newly appointed Superintendent Peticolas sought to increase number of white patients at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum and decrease the number of black patients. Dr. A. E. Peticolas, of course, did not serve long enough to improve the financial and physical condition of the asylum. He killed himself at age forty-­ four by jumping out of an upper-­story asylum win­dow in November 1868. A lengthy obituary in the Richmond and Louisville Medical Journal extolled Dr. Peticolas’s many virtues, but noted that asthma and anxiety “threw a tinge



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of melancholy over his character.” His “want of worldly tact” and h­ umble background also inhibited an other­wise promising c­ areer. The author of the obituary hinted at the doctor’s troubled ­family history, too, which suggests that access to asylum rec­ords had fi­nally revealed to Peticolas the true cause of his ­father’s death.82 Dr. John Clopton, a former surgeon for the Texas Infantry who was assistant physician ­under Peticolas, acted as superintendent for a month ­until Dr. D. R. Brower was appointed in January 1869.83 One year ­later, all of the African American patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­were transferred, thus ending a unique and experimental era of interracial hospital treatment and moral therapy.

Conclusion On November 10, 1873, the Eastern Lunatic Asylum celebrated its centennial anniversary. To mark the occasion, Superintendent D. R. Brower invited prominent guests to speak before a crowd assembled in the asylum’s chapel. The chapel was decorated with flowers and evergreen wreaths. A banner bearing the names of all of the superintendents who had preceded Brower, not including the military doctors who had administered the asylum during the Civil War, stretched across a raised platform at the front of the room. On the dais ­were chairs for members of the board of directors and invited guest speakers. In the center of the platform facing the audience stood a pedestal bearing the bust of John M. Galt. The asylum choir sang “Exalt Him All Ye ­People” as the honored guests took their seats. A reporter from Richmond Dispatch took notes. The speakers ­were ­Virginia Governor Gilbert Walker, Reverend Wilmer of Williamsburg, Dr. Charles Nichols of St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, D.C., Dr. Francis Stribling of the Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton, and Dr. Brower himself.84 Reverend Wilmer gave a sermon on the theme of pro­gress. His message was that pro­gress without religion is just superficial novelty, and he decried the tendency of empiricists t­ oward atheism. Dr. Charles Nichols, who was now the president of the Association of Medical Superintendents for American Institutions for the Insane, followed. He announced that he ­hadn’t realized that he would be asked to address the assembly, but he extemporized by comparing predominant attitudes t­ oward the insane when Eastern Lunatic Asylum first opened in 1773 with modern treatment. Conflating the late-­eighteenth c­ entury with previous eras, Nichols erroneously stated that popu­lar opinion a hundred years earlier was that evil spirits possessed the insane, and so they ­were admitted into a hospital that was custodial and punitive in nature. Though physicians

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of the time had “a somewhat more humane and philosophical knowledge of insanity than the masses,” they did not have the cultural power to conquer “the cruelties of ignorance and superstition.” With the Reverend seated ­behind him and the bust of Galt standing before him, Nichols managed to subtly insult both men by portraying religion in the South as a hindrance to humane treatment and the work of Galt’s ancestors as woefully inadequate. Nichols’s mention of “the wretchedness of cells and chains, and of the lash and douche,” which prevailed in the past, also had deeper resonance since the presence of slaves and the use of the douche ­under Galt’s administration had been a source of controversy.85 Patients at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum had not been whipped, but on at least two occasions enslaved attendants had been. Nichols prob­ably did not know about t­ hese two instances, but the association of slavery with corporal punishment was so strong that Nichols assumed that this practice was prevalent. In fact, the perception that the South was especially violent made the use of the douche at Eastern Lunatic Asylum seem worse in his eyes than the routine use of mechanical restraints in Northern asylums. Nichols’s own institution embraced mechanical restraints and the notion that black and white patients manifested dif­fer­ent pathologies, with black patients thought to be predisposed to mania and more likely to act violently ­toward o­ thers. This racial logic encouraged the staff at St. Elizabeth’s to treat black patients as though they ­were uniformly dangerous and contributed to the rationale for segregated facilities.86 All of ­these ­factors made it impossible for Nichols to see that the Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­under Galt had actually offered patients greater liberties than comparable institutions. This blind spot surfaced in Nichols’s final remarks at the centennial cele­bration, which he framed as “practical suggestions.” Undoubtedly recollecting Galt’s proposal eigh­teen years earlier to emulate Gheel by having patients live and work in the community, Nichols observed the proximity of the asylum to the “heart of this ancient city” and the frequent personal contact that occurred between patients and Williamsburg residents. Perhaps imagining a medieval village in which the insane ­were mocked and abused, he asked that citizens treat the insane in their midst “with that respectful politeness and kindness, f­ ree from rudeness or familiarity, that they would accord to any other class of invalids that might seek the sanitary advantages of their town.” Having thus condescended to the members of the audience, he concluded by encouraging them to offer Superintendent Bower their full support.87 Frances Stribling spoke next. As he was unwell, his remarks w ­ ere brief. He claimed that he had reverenced from boyhood the Williamsburg asylum “as a pioneer in the good work of relieving the unfortunate.” He said that he



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“had known intimately, honored, and loved Dr. John M. Galt, and had highly esteemed o­ thers of his co-­workers” pres­ent at the commemoration. He expressed confidence in the ability of Superintendent Bower. Dr. Bower gave an equally brief address. Seizing upon the aged Dr. Stribling’s oblique reference to the passage of time, Dr.  Bower asked rhetorically: “Is this asylum what it ­ought to be?” In his estimation, though the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was the oldest, it was “by no means the best in the country.” He concluded by sharing his earnest desire to overhaul the asylum and make it worthy of its history and mission.88 All of the speakers danced around controversies that had affected the institution, but Governor Walker’s opening remarks ­were the most directly confrontational. He began by lauding the progressive benevolence of ­Virginia’s founding ­fathers for being the first to erect a ­mental hospital for the insane in North Amer­ic­ a. He then announced that ­there was another fact worthy of mention. Although he “would not discuss the dead issues of the slavery question, or the means by which the institution was abolished,” he wanted it on rec­ord that: ­ irginia, in her deep poverty, had established the first asylum for the poor V colored man ever or­ga­nized. ­Others had made some partial and inadequate provision, but this State had been the first to draw on her trea­sury (depleted though it was) for the means of amply providing for and caring for the insane of this unfortunate race. And while with grateful pride h­ ere to-­night we recall and celebrate the fact that one hundred years ago our ­fathers established this Eastern ­Virginia Asylum, the pioneer institution for the insane, and that the State has also established the noble Asylum at Staunton, we should also be proud of the Central Asylum at Richmond, and the noble provision made ­there by ­these Virginians—­the former ­owners of ­these ­people—­for that race upon whom so much miserable hy­ poc­risy and cheap philanthropy have been expended by ­those who have not done a tithe of this for their real good.89 Governor Walker did not acknowledge that Eastern Lunatic Asylum had provided for African American patients long before the creation of Central Lunatic Asylum, but his rebuke of Northern philanthropists is the most striking feature of this speech. Walker was a former Republican politician who had switched to the Demo­cratic Party, partly out of disgust with the United States government for inadequately funding Reconstruction. A recurring complaint in many of his public speeches was meager federal allocations for the education and medical treatment of former slaves and impoverished white Southerners.

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His attitude ­toward both groups was patronizing—­he portrayed them as ignorant and in need of rescue—­but his frustration with financial abandonment and poor post-­emancipation planning was justifiable.90 The federal government had created the Freedmen’s Bureau, but had not apportioned funds commensurate with the level of need. The consequence of this myopic policy proved a real burden for Southern states. Sympathetic Bureau officials had sometimes been reluctant to acknowledge the extent of the poverty, misery, and poor health to which they ­were witness for fear that such a discussion would empower proslavery ideologues who had warned that emancipated slaves would die en masse if expected to fend for themselves.91 Governor Walker’s caustic remarks ­were not rooted in ste­reo­ types about black incapacity; elsewhere he professed to believe that freedmen ­were unprepared but capable of citizenship. Instead, he seemed to castigate ­those Bureau officials who w ­ ere hostile t­ oward the p­ eople whose interests they ­were supposed to defend. By prioritizing self-­support and withdrawing federal dollars, the U.S. government left a vulnerable population to fend for itself in a period of crisis and heightened racial antipathy. The most vulnerable ­people ­were mentally ill and cognitively impaired African Americans, and yet influential members of AMSAII ­were indifferent to or complicit in their suffering. With indignation and pride, Governor Walker celebrated the creation of Central Lunatic Asylum as an act of benevolence. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a punishment for many of the patients sent t­ here.

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Not a ­Human Being Reconstruction and Racism He claims that he is not a h­ uman being ­because he says he has not been allowed to vote. —­1895 admission form to Central Lunatic Asylum for Isham Thomas1

The two de­cades a­ fter the Civil War saw the creation of a handful of all-­black insane asylums in the South. The first of ­these institutions was in ­Virginia. Central Lunatic Asylum, as it was called, was a radically dif­fer­ent institution than the Eastern and Western Lunatic Asylums. From the start, it abandoned moral treatment and even the pretense of employing moral methods. The quality of care in public asylums generally declined in this period due to overcrowding and underfunding, but asylums for African Americans exclusively ­were especially bad. Southern states experienced bud­getary crises a­ fter the war, and black patients w ­ ere funded at a lower level than white indigent patients. Financial difficulties w ­ ere only a part of the larger story, however. Another major influence was the widespread dehumanization of African Americans. Before the war, most American superintendents believed that restraints ­were necessary but should be used infrequently and as a last resort. ­After the war, some argued that the hundreds of black inmates in asylums ­were not capable of responding to moral therapy ­because they had not developed a moral conscience and lacked refined sensibilities. ­These white doctors characterized their patients as sexually profligate and viewed African American religious culture as proof of intellectual incapacity and savagery rather than as a source of moral strength. Superintendents of all-­black institutions became unabashed proponents of mechanical restraint, and their institutions became places of punishment rather than treatment.

The Creation of Central State On December 17, 1869, General Order No. 136 required Eastern Lunatic Asylum to transfer all African American patients to Howard’s Grove Hospital, located near the city of Richmond in Henrico County. Originally a Confederate barracks hospital dedicated to the treatment of soldiers with measles and

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smallpox, it was taken over by the Freedmen’s Bureau in 1868 and converted into a private hospital for African Americans. Dr. Brower had worked t­ here prior to becoming superintendent at Eastern Lunatic Asylum. It was situated on land belonging to Bacon Tait, who leased it out to the Bureau before the fa­cil­i­ty was turned over to the state in December  1869. Although newly elected African American members of ­Virginia’s General Assembly protested the removal of patients to a segregated fa­cil­i­ty, insane persons held in jails around the state and patients in Williamsburg ­were sent to the hospital the following month.2 Among the seventeen w ­ omen transferred to Howard’s Grove from Williamsburg was longtime patient Hannah Cole, who had been admitted to Eastern Lunatic Asylum in 1828. Practically, emancipation meant very ­little to someone like Hannah, for whom the loss of familiar ­faces and milieu prob­ably outweighed any potential gain that might have been optimistically envisioned for an all-­black institution. ­Women like Lydia (the mysterious patient who had been found pregnant and half-­naked in the woods near Richmond in 1842) and Juliana Jones, on the other hand, appear to have embraced the opportunity to reinvent themselves as best they could despite the constraints placed upon them as forcibly committed wards of the state. As discussed in chapter four, ­after years of denying any knowledge of her ­family background or place of origin, Lydia fi­nally ­either revealed her last name or chose one: Newman. Lydia Newman’s clever caginess apparently went unobserved by the administrator who recorded her transfer, as the diagnosis that accompanied Lydia to Howard’s Grove was: “Imbecility. Congenital.”3 The turnover in staff meant that ­there ­were few individuals around who knew the complete history of each patient. Juliana Jones, for example, the cook from Rockbridge County who had been burdened by an abusive marriage and had committed infanticide, apparently identified herself as “Julia Jones,” “single.” 4 The most striking feature of the final document that pertains to African American patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum is the unusually high percentage of African American w ­ omen identified as imbeciles. Seven of the seventeen ­women ­were classified this way, including one twenty-­five-­year-­old ­woman admitted in 1869, whose imbecility was allegedly due to religion.5 Four of the ­women identified as imbeciles had been admitted when John M. Galt was superintendent and ­were not, at that time, so classified. ­Under Galt, both Lydia and Hannah Cole had been diagnosed with dementia on the 1842 Register. Harriet Jordan of Williamsburg was admitted in 1854, and Barbara Washington of Fredericksburg—­identified as Barbery Washinton in 1869—­was admitted in 1857. T ­ here are no extant rec­ords about Harriet, but Barbara was originally identified as a religious evangelical and was said have to suffered from St. Vi-



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tus’s Dance (Sydenham chorea) since childhood. In fact, idiocy was considered incurable, and therefore the asylum had refused admission to anyone Superintendent Galt judged to be an idiot or imbecile.6 Perhaps Galt’s asylum rec­ords w ­ ere not readily available to his successors, or perhaps an attitude of carelessness ­toward African American patients had overtaken staff as they prepared to transfer their former charges. Regardless, the high ratio of African American ­women diagnosed as imbeciles in 1869 seems to presage the feebleminded diagnosis characteristic of turn-­of-­the-­century psychiatry. Of the eigh­teen men who ­were transferred, eight had been at the asylum prior to the Civil War. None had been at the asylum longer than Richard Clayton from Norfolk, who was admitted in 1845. The rest w ­ ere admitted as ­free men, including one man whose “mania” was supposed to have been caused by “freedom.”7 Unlike the w ­ omen, only four of the eigh­teen men w ­ ere labeled imbeciles. Of ­these, one man’s condition was allegedly due to “softening of the brain” and “paresis,” leaving open the possibility that his cognitive abilities w ­ ere considered normal prior to advanced syphilitic infection. Similarly, another man’s imbecility was attributed to exposure to cold. Moreover, among the men the Register differentiates imbecility from dementia, with two African American men diagnosed with the latter. House servant Charles James was seventy-­ nine years old—­the cause of his dementia was said to be old age—­and farmhand Samuel Jackson, who was sixty, ­were both diagnosed with dementia as opposed to imbecility. Curiously, although female African American patients Hannah Cole and W. Douglass ­were sixty-­five and seventy, respectively, neither ­woman was said to have dementia. Just what criteria ­were used to distinguish dementia from imbecility is unclear, but the rec­ord, limited though it is, suggests that gender may have influenced the outcome, with black ­women being perceived as naturally less intelligent. This gendered pattern did not, however, persist in ­later rec­ords.8 By July 1, 1870, the hospital at Howard’s Grove was being called Central Lunatic Asylum (CLA). An eleven-­person board of directors was appointed by the governor of ­Virginia, which included three African American members: Thomas C. Campbell, James Tyler, and Isaac H. Hunter. Former Confederate army surgeon Hunter McGuire was appointed president. “The disposition, temper and habits of the colored race are so dif­fer­ent from t­ hose of the white and the management of the two classes so dissimilar, that it would be impossible to keep and successfully treat them in the same institution,” McGuire wrote in his 1870 report, antagonizing his African American colleagues.9 McGuire ignored or dismissed the fact that for almost a ­century in ­Virginia, black and white asylum patients had been treated in the same fa­cil­i­ty. Daniel Burr

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Conrad, former Confederate naval surgeon, was appointed physician and superintendent. Four months ­later, Isaac Hunter was accused of peddling his influence and was forced to resign from the board, leaving just two African American members to advocate for patients.10 What ultimately became of the thirty-­five patients transferred from Williamsburg is unknown. When the Freedmen’s Bureau turned the asylum over to the state, t­ here ­were seventy patients total in residence, forty-­six ­women and twenty-­four men. The 1872 and 1877 Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of CLA do not identify any of the patients by name.11 The names of two men from the Eastern Lunatic Asylum transfer list—­Samuel Jackson from King William County and William Tyler of Accomac County—­appear on an 1892 accounting of male patients, though ­there is no certainty that the names on both lists refer to the same individuals.12 The fate of the rest of the men is unknown. In short, they w ­ ere ­either released at some point or they died in custody. ­There is no 1892 accounting for female patients. The reason for this discrepancy is that the state’s interest in finding out the names of black male patients was solely to disenfranchise them. As ­women ­were already ineligible to vote, their identities ­were irrelevant to the state. Remarkably, the number of patients treated at Central Lunatic Asylum more than qua­dru­pled in the two years between the departure of the Freedmen’s Bureau and the 1872 Asylum Report, jumping from 70 patients to 454. Between 1874 and 1881, another 922 patients ­were admitted.13 This large-­scale involuntary institutionalization of a recently freed population was astonishing in its scale and the rapidity with which it unfolded. It was pos­si­ble b­ ecause of preexisting infrastructure, material and l­egal, that had allowed for it at Eastern Lunatic Asylum. But the humanitarian spirit that Galt had once displayed, or aspired to display, appears to have evaporated a­ fter the Civil War. Of the 130 patients in the Central Lunatic Asylum as of July 1870, Superintendent Conrad judged 77 ­percent of them to be “incurably insane.” Of the additional 132 admitted thereafter, only 38 w ­ ere discharged by the time of the 1872 Report.14 The exceptional rate at which the patient population grew, and the dim outlook of the superintendent with regard to their curability, suggests that from the start Central Lunatic Asylum was viewed as a custodial institution above all e­ lse. In this regard, CLA was at the opprobrious vanguard of a shift from the optimism of moral therapy to the therapeutic pessimism of the late-­nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. During the early nineteenth c­ entury, the position of asylum superintendent had been prestigious and remunerative. At Eastern Lunatic Asylum, however, Superintendent John M. Galt’s commitment to mixed-­race institutions meant



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that he had been forced to accept a disproportionate number of charity cases for whom state officials felt l­ ittle sympathy and even less concern, all while trying to combat the public’s sense that the presence of African American attendants and patients diminished the overall quality of care. This experience was costly and demoralizing for Galt, but it also prompted him to embrace the unpop­u­lar idea of outpatient care as early as 1855, partly modeling it on the practice of slaves hiring out. In the wake of the Civil War, an era of falling state revenues and rising admissions, many asylum authorities found it harder to manage their institutions, too. In V ­ irginia, hostility ­toward newly freed African Americans further compounded the general sense of diminished professional status and futility of purpose that Superintendent Conrad and the CLA board might have felt. The 1872 Report showed that Central Lunatic Asylum received from the state 201.45 dollars per patient annually, which was only 12 to 25 ­percent of the per patient allotment at other comparable institutions.15 ­These stark facts did not, however, encourage Conrad, McGuire, et al. to embrace Galt’s ideas about outpatient care. They found containment a much more appealing option for treating African American patients despite bud­getary restrictions. In fact, Galt is conspicuously absent in the Report of the Central Lunatic Asylum, which instead cites the 1848, 1868, and 1870 reports from his rival and colleague, Dr. Francis Stribling of the Western Lunatic Asylum, to argue for a permanent and separate fa­cil­it­ y for black Virginians.16 Warning that the “Colored Insane [are] a class now rapidly increasing,” the CLA board urged state legislators to appoint a commission tasked with locating a permanent site. To save on transportation costs, the Report suggested that the location be closest to where the majority of African Americans in ­Virginia lived. This was a sensible recommendation as the majority of patients came from two cities: Richmond and Petersburg. The authors also honed in on the alleged differences between white and black patients, stating emphatically that “the colored race are healthier when ­free from the fatal effects of cold,” and therefore should be ­housed in a climate “congenial to the[ir] constitution.” This rationale, based on pseudoscience, was weakened elsewhere in the Report, which showed wide distribution in the nativity of patients. Fi­ nally, the authors suggested that an ideal location would be near a city or town “whence manure could be cheaply obtained and ready cash market be [sic] found for all the products of the garden and farm.”17 Concern with putting inmates to work, consistent with the main goal of the Freedmen’s Bureau, preoccupied the found­ers of this new institution. Indeed, farm ­labor or “daily, constant outdoor work” was to be “the chief, if not the only means of cure” at Central Lunatic Asylum. Some ­women patients

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also worked laundering, sewing, and helping prepare meals. A “policing party” of patients was responsible for cleaning courtyards, drains, and “earth closets.”18 “Coming as they all do from the totally uneducated former slave class,” the Report authors deemed amusements and libraries irrelevant.19 They expressed no interest in creating educational programs to remedy the lack of other moral methods. The Report of the Farmer, who was paid 360 dollars annually for overseeing patient laborers, reveals the extent of the agricultural operation and institutional priorities. ­There are few details about the patients, but a ­great deal of information about the productivity of the asylum’s farm. In one year: just u­ nder thirty acres of potatoes, black-­eyed peas, kale, beets, En­glish peas, onions, turnips, radishes, broom corn, and rye w ­ ere planted and/ or harvested; nineteen bushels of oats ­were sowed; 74,700 melon, cucumber, snap pea, cabbage and sweet potato plants w ­ ere put out; 2,250 yards of ditches dug and/or cleaned; 434 loads of manure ­were hauled from Richmond; and two large hot beds and eight cold beds w ­ ere created. The vegetables and crops supplied the food for the asylum, with excess sold at market in Richmond, yielding a profit of 1,692 dollars a­ fter costs (including rent to Tait) ­were deducted. Yet despite the profit from the patients’ l­abor—­and notwithstanding Dorothea Dix’s donation of a few decorative prints—­the accommodations w ­ ere substandard. In fact, overcrowding meant that many patients ­were forced to sleep in corridors and in the dining room. In the ­women’s ward, deranged patients had to share what should have been private rooms, contributing to the strangulation death of one patient at the hands of her roommate.20 This orga­nizational structure was exactly what Dr. Parigot, formerly of Gheel, had decried in his 1863 essay in the Journal of Insanity. Fresh air and farming was not the same t­ hing as the “­free air” and “­family life” of colonies where the insane lived with and worked alongside families. “It may be a good specimen of organ­ization for field l­ abor,” he wrote, “but it has nothing in common with Gheel, and less with the ­future therapeutic Gheels.”21 He had cautioned that asylum superintendents who aimed to superficially emulate aspects of the Gheel model—­or copy the farming enterprise of the Fitz-­James colony near Clermont in France—­would gain none of the salutary benefits for their patients.22 As a foreigner, Parigot might not have been sensitive to the ways in which racism and nativism affected American physicians’ responses to ­family living schemes. Parigot did, however, suggest that he would prob­ably be able to persuade a few German-­speaking families from Belgium to immigrate to New York State to pi­lot a ­free air program. This offer was not pursued. Notwithstanding superintendents’ disinclination to cede the authority to oversee patients’ daily lives to families living outside the institution, the ethnic



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and racial diversity and mobility of American society made the prospect of finding willing host families appear impracticable. John  M. Galt had been willing and able to do so to a degree in Williamsburg by using the same network by which slaves w ­ ere annually hired out, but this arrangement prob­ably made the potential for exploitation of patients all the more apparent to his Northern detractors. In any case, the efforts of Galt’s former colleagues to suppress his attempts to emulate Gheel had succeeded before the war, and the prospect of this approach gaining momentum in ­Virginia ­after the war was null. The state was not in a position to subsidize patients at a level that would have made it appealing to white families to h­ ouse, clothe, and feed mentally ill strangers; and state-­sanctioned placement of African Americans in white ­house­holds was too similar to slavery to be acceptable to federal authorities. Black families might have taken in needy members of the community (and prob­ably did, unofficially), but the white electorate would not support tax payments to black families, and Afro-­Virginians ­were systematically disenfranchised ­after Reconstruction ended. Instead, with the assistance of the Freedmen’s Bureau and the approval of members of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane (AMSAII), the state created a segregated institution where inmates lived in what Dr. Parigot referred to as a “claustral confraternity” while being forced to work as farm hands.23 Conditions at Central Lunatic Asylum w ­ ere far worse than any institution that Parigot or the other AMSAII members might have ­imagined. The matron, a white w ­ oman named Sallie Hardiman, had been dismissed in 1872 a­ fter she reported the cruelties t­ oward the patients that she had witnessed some of the white attendants commit.24 She then disclosed to several black politicians the suffering that she had observed, prompting the board of directors to authorize the superintendent to prohibit members of the Richmond City Council from ­future inspection visits.25 Thus, t­ here was no matron or female doctor to supervise the ­women’s ward, which was instead inspected daily by the assistant physician, Dr. Robert Cabell. Only two men and two w ­ omen w ­ ere hired to oversee an average of 187 patients e­ very night. Even more shocking is that of the twenty patients who died that year, seven succumbed to “acute dysentery,” one from gastroenteritis, and five from “marasmus” (severe malnutrition).26 Given the prevalence of hookworm and other parasites in the nineteenth-­century South, ­these deaths might not have been the result of poor institutional diet. But the overcrowded and underfunded facilities, coupled with the constant work in dirt and manure, undoubtedly weakened patients’ immune systems. Patients could bathe and change soiled clothes just twice a

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week.27 ­These substandard living conditions and lack of treatment options ­were far from the norm nationally, even when compared with the war-­ravaged Eastern Lunatic Asylum. White administrators’ view of African American patients as rough and uneducable peasants also pervaded diagnosis, which emphasized etiologies associated with irrational and primitive religiosity or innate incapacity. The cause of insanity for the majority of 338 patients accounted for in 1872 was unknown (120 patients or 35.5 ­percent), but the largest category ­after that was “religious excitement.” Thirty-­six patients, 10.65 ­percent of all cases, ­were thought to be insane ­because of exciting religious fervor. The second largest category a­ fter religion was “hereditary cause,” which included a parenthetical codicil in ­capital letters: “WELL AUTHENTICATED HEREDITARY INSANITY.” Thirty-­one patients, slightly more than 9 ­percent of all cases, fell into this diagnostic category. Twenty-­three patients, representing just u­ nder 7 ­percent of all admissions, ­were said to be “Congenital (­Idiots & Imbeciles).” ­There was no codicil ­here indicating ­whether malnutrition had hindered cognitive development. The emphasis was clearly on the inherently flawed individuals rather than the problematic, impoverished environment from whence they came. The fourth largest category was epilepsy (fifteen patients or 4.4 ­percent), with masturbation in eleven men (3.25 ­percent) and uterine affection in thirteen w ­ omen (3.8 ­percent) accounting for the fifth largest category. All three of ­these ­causes ­were associated with m ­ ental decline, though only untreated epilepsy could actually contribute to brain damage. The explanations for the remaining patients ranged from abortion and “excessive venery”—­some physical c­ auses ­were intertwined with moral failing—­to gout and fever. “Sudden emancipation” was reported to have rendered four men insane.28 The fact that the vast majority of patients w ­ ere committed involuntarily coupled with the prevalence of ambiguous explanations for the purported cause of insanity suggests that Central Lunatic Asylum was, for many, a purely carceral institution. In the admission papers for “Gregory Smith” from Halifax County in 1875, for example, the justices of the peace who committed him wrote that that they had “nothing to state in regards to his insanity, except his general deportment as a man who loafs and refuses to l­ abor for any consideration.” Sixteen-­year-­old “Martin Davis” from King George County was admitted in 1873 for similar reasons. He was jobless, homeless, and suspected of theft.29 It is unclear why ­these men ­were taken to the asylum instead of jail for violating the racist vagrancy laws that proliferated in this period, but the two institutions ­were clearly viewed by authorities as somewhat interchangeable. Other patients ­were brought to the asylum ­because they ­were allegedly delu-



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sional, but the nature of some of their delusions seems suspect. “Mabel Harris,” a thirty-­seven-­year-­old black ­woman from Petersburg, was said to be insane ­because she insisted that she owned a property that had been legally recognized as belonging to someone ­else.30 ­There w ­ ere, of course, some deranged individuals who ­were admitted by their alarmed and overwhelmed families. But a ­great many ­people seem to have been admitted as punishment for defying white authority. In e­ ither case, the despair that afflicted some patients might have been better alleviated in other ways. Isham Thomas, for example, who said he was “not a ­human being” ­because he was “not allowed to vote,” might have avoided the institution altogether had he not been so beaten down by disenfranchisement and degradation.31

Race and Restraint In accounting for the demise of moral therapy, the role of race in the discussions about restraints among superintendents ­after the Civil War must be considered. Moral therapy idealized the persuasive power of kind treatment and the disciplinary power of healthful habits to overcome erratic be­hav­ior without force, but most American superintendents agreed that mechanical restraints ­were sometimes necessary. Physicians who refused to use straightjackets, for instance, might still prescribe sedatives to subdue unruly patients or seclude them in cells. John M. Galt authorized enslaved attendants to forcibly seize patients when necessary and douche them, yet he publicly celebrated the absence of restraining apparatus at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. ­These inconsistences and the careful parsing of the definition of restraint contributed to behind-­the-­scenes grumbling and gossip among Association colleagues before the war. “­There is ­great need of common sense and common honesty among scientific and philanthropic men,” Dr. Charles Nichols had once observed on this subject in a private letter to Dr. Kirkbride.32 Always controversial, the use of restraints became a major topic of discussion in the 1860s, in part ­because of Elizabeth Packard. Packard was the ­woman from Illinois who had accused Dr. Andrew McFarland of conspiring with her minister husband to confine her for espousing religious views with which neither man agreed. Her published memoir contained allegations of shocking physical abuse that she had witnessed during her involuntary confinement, and she movingly compared the plight of patients to that of slaves. She subsequently mounted a successful legislative campaign in several states to limit the authority of superintendents to admit and detain patients, especially married white ­women.33

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In the midst of this debacle, AMSAII members offered their support to Dr. McFarland at their annual meetings. Collectively, they fretted that Packard’s agitation would undermine public confidence in asylum care and wreak havoc on their professional standing. Sensationalized accounts of improper detention and treatment had periodically cropped up over the years as the number of asylums proliferated, but Packard’s po­liti­cal agenda acquired greater force than previous critiques in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War. Packard’s success, which effectively drew upon the rhe­toric of the abolitionist movement, makes it all the more notable that the sudden detention of large numbers of freedmen and w ­ omen in Southern asylums a­ fter the war did not attract equivalent moral outrage. At the 1867 Association meeting, Superintendent Rodman of Kentucky joined the chorus of professional peers sympathizing with Dr. McFarland. He suggested that asylum administrators themselves ­were partly to blame for having given the public the false impression that mechanical restraints had been totally abandoned. Echoing the private sentiments that Dr. Nichols had once expressed, Dr. Rodman averred that a more honest account of management princi­ples might avert or diminish such scandals in the ­future. ­Were it not for the privilege of using restraints, Rodman stated that he would quit his position. He continued: “We have a large class of persons in Kentucky and throughout the ­whole of the South, who are far less amenable to ordinary methods of control than the ­people of the North . . . ​during our unhappy civil war they have simply become ‘a law unto themselves.’ ”34 He alleged that t­ hese unruly patients ­were unwilling to do any work “­unless dictated by their diseased fancy,” and ­were as dangerous in their excitement as “unchained tigers.” He was not willing to endanger the lives of ­others by refusing to use restraints for fear of public censure.35 Although Dr. Rodman did not explic­itly identify this class of patient as African American, his characterization of this newly admitted population as indolent and bestial strongly indicates that he was referring to freed ­people. This is the very same language that federal officials in ­Virginia sometimes used to describe freedmen and ­women. Moreover, in a related discussion about outpatient care in that same meeting, Dr. Rodman explic­itly mentioned the “sudden emancipation of more than two hundred thousand slaves” and the consequent strain on hospital resources.36 The description of purportedly insane African Americans as animal-­like and in need of physical restraint was echoed by other Southern doctors, and went unchallenged by their Northern colleagues. This opinion was, ­after all, only a more extreme iteration of previous assertions about proud Yankees unwilling to re­spect asylum authorities, necessitating the occasional use of restraint.



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The argument that insane African Americans ­were too wild to be receptive to moral means and therefore uniformly required mechanical restraint contradicted older ste­reo­types of tractable, childlike slaves. Whites across the po­liti­ cal spectrum had trafficked in this prior characterization, from abolitionist sympathizers who saw in slaves an admirable religious simplicity f­ ree of artifice to proslavery ideologues who believed that slaves, like the insane, required peculiar institutions to keep them from harm.37 With the end of slavery, however, the trope of childlike incapacity merged with a narrative of black ferocity. In 1864, for example, the American Journal of Insanity reprinted an article from the London Intellectual Observer in which the editor observed that the “vari­ous races of mankind” w ­ ere representatives of “par­tic­u­lar stages of development,” with Caucasians as the highest type. Consequently, white and “negro” c­ hildren could not be educated together b­ ecause the cognitive faculties of the latter had not reached the capacity of the former. According the article, the same in­equality obtained to “moral cognition.” Higher-­order thinking, including notions of justice, sin, and guilt, ­were said to be impossible for members of the “lower races” ­because complexity overwhelmed their “ner­vous apparatus of perceptive and intellectual consciousness.”38 In other words, they ­were incapable of behaving with decency and ­were prone to depraved criminality. If an inferior internal “apparatus” limited moral understanding, then it was logical that the restraint ordinarily provided by moral judgment would have to be replaced by an external, mechanical apparatus. The post-­emancipation language of racial difference built upon on similar rhe­toric from the 1840s and 1850s. At that time, Superintendents had speculated that “primitive” p­ eople ­were less likely to suffer from insanity b­ ecause they ­were ­free from the anx­ie­ ties of modern civilization. Some proslavery scientists had even argued that black p­ eople ­were ­either an entirely dif­fer­ent species or that their development was arrested at an earlier phase of ­human ontogeny. Perceptions of difference ­were magnified during and immediately ­after the Civil War. Confirmation bias led the Union Army to produce statistical charts that purported to show racial disparities in musculoskeletal systems and susceptibility to disease. Circular reasoning then allowed white physicians to conclude that many African Americans w ­ ere unable to h­ andle the responsibilities of freedom b­ ecause hundred of them ­were sent to asylums in the South for that alleged reason. Narratives of racial difference ­were further invigorated by the publication of Charles Darwin’s The Origin of Species in 1859, the response of members of the self-­described “American School of Evolution” to Darwin’s theory of natu­ ral se­lection, and the concept of degeneration promulgated by Darwin’s

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cousin, Sir Francis Galton, in 1869. The neo-­Lamarckian American School, spearheaded by Edward Drinker Cope, believed that heredity was affected by “habitual sensory stimulations” which, if controlled, could direct evolution ­towards Edenic perfection. 39 In contrast, Galton accepted the randomness of mutation but posited that industrial capitalism had reversed the natu­ral order of the world (i.e. survival of the fittest) by making it pos­si­ble for the poor to support themselves with wage ­labor and, in some cases, to join the ranks of the ­middle class or even the wealthy. Social mobility, in turn, promoted intermarriage, thereby enabling the crude “germ plasm” from the “unfit” to mix with better bloodlines, ultimately leading to degeneration of intelligence and morality. Both hypotheses contributed to the perception that close contact, especially sexual intercourse, must be controlled for the sake of civilization. Anxiety about evolutionary fitness contributed to the astonishing rise in the proportion of cases of insanity attributed to heredity from approximately 20 ­percent in the late 1840s to 90 ­percent by the turn of the c­ entury.40 Understanding of heredity in this period was imperfect, so Galton’s degeneration and Cope’s impressibility primarily offered American asylum superintendents a post hoc excuse to f­avor mechanical restraints over moral means. En­glish superintendents ­were equally familiar with ­these theories, ­after all, but the majority of them rejected mechanical restraints in princi­ple if not in practice. In 1875, Dr. John Bucknill, a British asylum superintendent who had experimented with the cottage system of care, visited ten asylums in the United States. The following year he published Notes on Asylums for the Insane in Amer­ i­ca, in which he accused American superintendents of violating standards of humane treatment by overrelying on mechanical restraints. Bucknill admired wealthier private asylums such as McLean outside Boston and Pennsylvania Hospital, but was astonished that even someone as learned as Thomas Kirkbride was not “a non-­restraint man.” 41 His profoundest disgust, however, was directed at the municipal asylums for the poor that he toured. Foremost among ­these was the insane hospital at Blockley in Philadelphia, a massive complex that contained a lunatic asylum, general hospital, and an alms­house. The asylum was designed for 500 inmates, but contained 1,130 when Bucknill saw it. He was stunned to see countless numbers of patients in straightjackets, and to learn that rooms intended for a single occupant instead held three p­ eople who w ­ ere put to bed in restraints to prevent them from hurting one another. He recoiled at the “pitiable spectacle” of listless inmates and described the hospital as a “wretched and disgraceful receptacle.” Similar conditions characterized public asylums for indigent men and w ­ omen in New York City. Dr. Bucknill was particularly shaken by the sight of w ­ omen in straightjackets and bolted



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chairs whose restraints had not prevented them from somehow acquiring “black eyes and bruised ­faces.” 42 Bucknill’s tour included a visit to St. Elizabeth’s in Washington, D.C. T ­ here he saw eight patients in straightjackets, “not one of whom appeared to be suffering from excitement.” He nevertheless respected Dr. Nichols, then serving as president of AMSAII. Nichols’s asylum bespoke “minute and skillful care” despite overcrowding, but Bucknill could not fathom how someone with as sterling a reputation as Nichols possessed could deviate so far “from what we [En­glishmen] consider right” with regard to restraints.43 Dr. Bucknill did not travel further South. He ­didn’t say why explic­itly, but he did share that his itinerary intentionally excluded places “where po­liti­cal corruption or stupidity renders it impossible to apply a complex system of treatment.” 44 The ­great stumbling block for American superintendents in all regions, however, was their “most unfortunate and unhappy re­sis­tance to the abolition of mechanical restraint.” Although this issue had been discussed at the 1874 Association meeting, where the unan­i­mous opinion of the attendees was that it was impractical to abolish restraints, Dr. Bucknill felt that the debate had been clouded by “prejudice and ignorance.” 45 He cited, in par­tic­u­lar, Dr. Rodman of Kentucky, who had definitively asserted that nonrestraint in ­England had failed. This was not true, Bucknill insisted, and he encouraged American superintendents to come to his country and see for themselves how effective nonrestraint could be. He hoped that one day American superintendents would look back upon their statements in defense of mechanical restraints “with the same wonderment with which they may now regard all that has been said in defense of domestic slavery, but with no wounding recollection of war and conflict.” 46 Although Bucknill rejected the idea that t­ here was “some wonderful peculiarity in the American character” that allegedly made U.S. patients unwilling to submit to the persuasive authority of a doctor, he did include one caveat in his admonishment to his American peers.47 “I should hesitate to declare that all races ­were equally fit for the non-­restraint system,” he wrote, “and perhaps a ­house full of maniacal Malays or Kaffirs would be troublesome to manage by moral and reasonable methods.” Kaffir was a colonial—­and derogatory—­ term used to designate black p­ eople of South Africa. Americans, however, w ­ ere fit for moral means ­because they ­were part of “the Anglo Saxon community” and should therefore not indulge in a practice that was “a blundering censure upon their culture and their virtues.” 48 Perhaps anticipating the counterargument that many American patients w ­ ere of African descent and therefore not good candidates for moral means, Bucknill included a digression on the topic of racial identity prompted by his visit to Washington, D.C. He observed that

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the “coloured” man in the United States was rarely “a negro”; he was, rather, “a man with negro blood in him.” Walking around the city, Bucknill had asked his host to point out to him any “full-­blooded negroes.” He saw a few individuals with dark complexions, but none who ­were wholly African. In fact, he encountered many individuals who could have passed for white in his eyes that ­were “ignorant of the marks of race” to which American eyes ­were apparently attuned. “To see the real negro,” he asserted, “one must go quite South, and even ­there he is by no means common.” 49 Bucknill wrote that the black patients at St. Elizabeth’s ­were more cheerfully boisterous than “the sedate Americans,” thus making ­these categories mutually exclusive, but he certainly saw African Americans as candidates for moral means and not as wild animals.50 If Bucknill thought that associating restraints with slavery and mentioning the prevalence of African Americans with Eu­ro­pean ancestry would convince—­or shame—­American superintendents to abandon mechanical restraints and claim instead the so-­called virtues of Anglo Saxon heritage, he woefully misread the po­liti­cal scene. Although ­there was wide discrepancy in the use of restraints in U.S. asylums, American superintendents preferred to minimize their differences in ­favor of professional solidarity, most especially ­after the Civil War. They also prized their autonomy from centralized oversight. Unlike the British system, in which asylums operated ­under the authority of the Lunacy Commission, American superintendents w ­ ere beholden only to state laws, which varied widely.51 Even when Southern politicians rewrote state constitutions a­ fter the war, AMSAII leadership made recommendations but refrained from insisting on uniform laws. Nevertheless, superintendents stung by Bucknill’s observations responded with their own publications.52

Central Lunatic Asylum, 1876–1877 At Central Lunatic Asylum, the new superintendent, Dr. Randolph Barksdale, felt compelled to address the controversy in his Report for 1876–1877 since the “question of restraints” had attracted “the attention of ­those most interested, and best informed, both abroad and in this country, and is being discussed warmly.”53 Barksdale held this position ­every year thereafter but for two ­until 1896, and J. G. Cabell was president of the board of directors. Like their pre­ de­ces­sors, both men had been surgeons for the Confederacy. Barksdale had studied medicine at the University of Pennsylvania ten years ­after John Minson Galt graduated. He then spent a year working in Philadelphia’s Blockley Alms­house, the institution that so outraged Bucknill, followed by a year and a half in Paris before returning to private practice in Richmond in 1856.54



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Superintendent Barksdale clarified that restraints at CLA ­were used when “absolutely necessary” and only when directed by an officer. ­These consisted of a leather muff with two iron staples holding a leather strap that was wrapped around a patient’s body and fastened in the back with a locked buckle. Patients wearing this device w ­ ere able to walk about the wards and yards, which Barksdale found preferable to the isolation of a solitary cell. In his view, manual restraint was too exhausting for both the patients and the three or four attendants physically involved in prolonged strug­gles with unruly inmates.55 This same Report also provided greater detail than prior reports about therapeutic interventions beyond restraint and farm ­labor. Despite the recommendation to find a permanent institution, Central Lunatic Asylum was still ­housed in temporary quarters. The average number of patients during the year had grown to 251, with sixty-­one admitted that year and twenty-­four discharged as cured.56 The number of attendants also increased, though CLA still did not adhere to standard practice with regard to sex-­segregated supervision. A new matron had been hired, but five male attendants ­were assigned to the ­women’s ward, amplifying the possibility for the sexual abuse of a vulnerable population.57 ­There ­were some minor improvements for patients such as a supply of “­simple games, picture-­books, and musical instruments.” T ­ here was also “a regular dance ­every Saturday after­noon in the female department.” The editors and proprietors of six newspapers now sent their publications gratuitously for “the few who can read and write.” One of the ­free papers was Christian Union, coedited by former abolitionists and Congregationalist ministers Henry Ward Beecher and Lyman Abbott, which espoused a liberal theology and promulgated the Social Gospel message. Most African American churchgoers w ­ ere affiliated with ­either the Methodist or Baptist denominations, but at least t­ here was now institutional recognition that patients had intellectual and cultural interests besides farming.58 This acknowl­edgment did not, however, change much with regard to diagnosis. Of the sixty-­one patients admitted in 1876–77, forty-­nine ­were diagnosed with some form of mania. Out of 634 patients treated since the institution opened (360 of whom ­were considered maniacs), the exciting cause for the majority of patients was unknown (305), followed by religious excitement (56), and then epilepsy (35). “Domestic trou­ble” was now the fourth leading cause, and congenital “­idiots and imbeciles” fell to fifth (23) along with uterine trou­ ble (23), not including seven ­women affected by pregnancy or childbirth and eight by “change of life.” Masturbation rendered nineteen men insane. Sixteen patients (thirteen men and three w ­ omen) ­were affected by a “blow on the head.” New categories include desertion or death of husband (11), love (eight

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­ omen and one man), and loss of property (five men and one w w ­ oman). The most common physical cause was old age (14) followed by vari­ous illnesses such as typhoid fever (7).59 For the first time, the Report also included a column on the occupations of patients, a longtime standard feature of other asylum reports. The jobs ­were overwhelmingly “unskilled” positions involving manual ­labor, but ­there ­were two preachers, one teacher, and a few craftsmen (cooper, shoemaker, carpenter, and plasterer). The overwhelming majority of ­house servants w ­ ere ­women (90 to 11); a majority of laborers ­were men (202 to 114). One notable difference in the patient population in the eleven years from the start of the asylum was the disappearance of “farm hands.” T ­ here ­were thirty-­one farmhands admitted “from the beginning,” but none in 1877–78. Nevertheless, farming remained at the heart of the asylum’s operation, financially and therapeutically. Forty-­ seven-­and-­one-­half acres ­were ­under cultivation in 1878, which yielded a profit of 1,819.66 dollars, plus supplied the institutional diet. The asylum also possessed forty-­two pigs that the farmer hoped to sell the following year. Men did all the farm l­ abor and the w ­ omen made all the clothing, “saving quite a sum for the asylum.” According to Superintendent Barksdale, the patients’ l­abor, plus “strict economy in expenditures of all kinds” kept the asylum functioning at half the cost of V ­ irginia’s jails. Acknowledging “the pres­ent financial trou­bles of the state,” he nevertheless implored the legislature to renew the lease of Bacon Tait’s land, purchase it outright, or relocate elsewhere.60 ­After Bacon Tait’s death, and a short time before the last lease he made would expire on January 1, 1880, “a controversy arose between the officers of the Asylum on the one hand, and the executor, devisees, and assignee of Bacon Tait, deceased, on the other” regarding the owner­ship of the asylum buildings and “the rent to be paid for the use of the land upon which the buildings ­were situated.” No agreement was reached between the disputants so the ­Virginia Legislature condemned the land on February 8, 1879. This was done “to ascertain and determine what compensation should be paid to the parties entitled for the use and occupation of the property by the Asylum for a term of five years, commencing on January 1, 1880.” 61 While the case made its way through the ­legal system, the asylum functioned as usual. In 1881, CLA hosted a visitor from Australia. Dr. G. A. Tucker visited over a hundred asylums in the United States and many dozens more in Eu­rope, collecting information that he l­ater published in book titled Lunacy in Many Lands. He reserved the highest praise for private, wealthy retreats like Dr. Kirkbride’s Pennsylvania Hospital. As an advocate for occupational and recreational activities who was also generally opposed to the use of restraints,



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Dr.  Tucker was quite critical of Central Lunatic Asylum. He described the fa­cil­i­ty as “simply a collection of old wooden buildings, or sheds enclosed by a fence.” ­These buildings w ­ ere clean, “but t­ here was a g­ reat scantiness of furniture.” In fact, many patients slept on straw pallets on the floor. The dining room could accommodate 150 patients at one time, but the ­tables w ­ ere “of the roughest kind.” ­There was one cook, assisted by the patients, serving 415 inmates then in residence. ­Water was supplied from a well and carried in buckets by the patients to the buildings. Consequently, ­water was “sparingly used,” and four patients bathed with the same tub ­water. The toilets ­were boxes. Individual stoves heated the rooms in the winter despite the high risk of fire due to the wooden construction, and the patients made their own clothes.62 Dr. Tucker observed six men and thirteen ­women ­under restraint, which consisted of fixed chairs and rings bolted onto the wall to which patients’ wrists ­were secured. Five men patrolled the female ward to help the thirteen ­women attendants with violent patients and to assist in domestic ­labor. Religious ser­ vice was not held b­ ecause it would “excite the patients and introduce bad results.” 63 The improvements and comforts that Superintendent Barksdale claimed to have introduced four years earlier, and also the leather muffs that did not restrict patient mobility, ­were nowhere in evidence. Central Lunatic Asylum had more in common with seventeenth-­century Bedlam than it did Pennsylvania Hospital. Apart from hard manual ­labor on the farm, ­there w ­ ere no activities or diversions. Wall shackles w ­ ere routinely used and no effort at moral means was observed. Clearly, the quality of life had declined for African American patients since their removal from Eastern Lunatic Asylum, just as the black politicians who had protested the creation of segregated facilities had feared it would. To be fair, Dr. Tucker was also very critical of the Williamsburg asylum, which he described as “old and dilapidated, and altogether uncomfortable and wretched,” but he at least found the newer buildings t­ here “passable.” Eastern Lunatic Asylum also had steam heat, piped ­water, an impressive kitchen, sitting rooms with pianos, a billiard t­ able, shaded verandas, pictures on the walls, religious ser­vices twice a week, and no one was chained to a wall or u­ nder any restraint at all at the time of his visit.64 Perhaps in response to this terrible publicity, Superintendent Barksdale and all of the board members and many of the staff ­were removed in the election of 1882. They w ­ ere replaced with a new board that included two black members. A black assistant physician, clerk, and storekeeper ­were also hired. This attempt to improve the asylum through fairer hiring did not last long. Barkdale and assistant physician Cabell ­were reinstalled a few months before the lawsuit about the property at Howard’s Grove was fi­nally heard in April 1885.65

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The judgment was that the buildings belonged to the state of ­Virginia. Tait’s two heirs appealed, and the ­Virginia Supreme Court reversed the lower court’s decision. Now it was determined that the asylum owed Tait’s heirs 2,555.69 dollars, with interest depending on when payment was made in full. ­Lawyers for the heirs also demanded that they be compensated their l­egal costs.66 Central Asylum’s board of directors countered that they could not possibly abide by this decision. The asylum did not have the money, nor did it have “power or authority to apply the funds of the State in payment of such a claim.” Moreover, as the dispute arose before the current board of directors was in place, members could not be held responsible as individuals. In language reminiscent of John M. Galt, who had also experienced the frustration of providing care to African Americans on a minuscule bud­get, the asylum board noted that their expenditures w ­ ere restricted and specifically earmarked by the state: “­these appropriations are made for definite and certain purposed—­for the reception and care of colored persons of unsound mind in the State of ­Virginia,” and, fi­nally, that “it has only been by careful management and close economy that we are enabled to provide for the reception and care of the colored insane of the State out of the appropriations which have been made from year to year.” 67 Despite the tone of restrained moral outrage, the rec­ord of the sheriff ’s sale that followed the Supreme Court’s decision makes it apparent that CLA had been primarily a plantation operation for sixteen years. The asylum possessed: “Five mules, two h­ orses, thirty head ­cattle, sixty hogs, one carriage, one buggy, two wagons, two carts, one mower, two dozen hoes, one one-­horse drag, one Acme harrow, four plows, store supplies estimated worth seven hundred dollars, [a] lot [of] new bedsteads and bedding estimated worth four hundred dollars, entire supply of old bedsteads and furniture estimated worth one thousand dollars.” 68 The asylum was devoid of valuable books, musical instruments, games, or other articles for the amusement and edification of its patients. It lacked all the finer ­things that ­were deemed critical to making an antebellum asylum a successful domestic enterprise. Of course, most of the African American patients at Eastern Lunatic Asylum had not been able to enjoy all of its amenities. Widespread illiteracy coupled with prohibitions against interracial socialization, especially among ­women, had kept black female patients at Eastern Asylum relegated to the kitchen and to segregated wards (except for when providing caregiving ser­vices to convalescing white patients). Yet Galt had at least allowed some African American patients to travel freely beyond the asylum grounds to find work in town that was not agricultural in nature. What­ever initial effort the Freedmen’s Bureau, or Super-



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intendent Barksdale, may have made to provide quality care for African American patients, the sheriff’s sale makes clear that for the two de­cades following emancipation, the Central Lunatic Asylum was just a separate and unequal institution where patients came to plow.

Restraint, Religion, and Racism Central Lunatic Asylum was the first fa­cil­i­ty exclusively for African Americans, but o­ thers states followed. A cursory review strongly suggests that t­ hese hospitals ­were all uniformly awful. Dr. J. D. Roberts of the Eastern North Carolina Insane Asylum, an all-­black fa­cil­it­ y known as Cherry Hospital, strongly believed that restraints w ­ ere necessary to control his patients. In his 1884 Report, Dr. Roberts wrote that he had tried to reduce the use of restraints, but the number of elopements increased dramatically. “Our patients have learned that the guards can be broken,” he wrote, “and several have escaped in that way.” ­Others took advantage of insecure win­dows, including one man who died in an attempt to escape via a win­dow on the third floor. Incredibly, Dr. Roberts reported that he did not know exactly how many patients tried to flee through the win­dows since the guards immediately recaptured most of the runaways.69 Presumably, anyone who unsuccessfully tried to escape was subsequently restrained. Roberts was also the author of Insanity in the Colored Race, in which he asserted that African Americans w ­ ere naturally excitable and lacked the capacity for self-­restraint. Roberts railed most especially against black religious beliefs and practices. He described his patients as “easily aroused,” “superstitious,” and “religious to an extent almost approaching fanat­ic­ ism.” Especially worrisome to him ­were protracted camp meetings where preachers agitated the crowd to such a degree that some listeners supposedly lost their minds.70 Opinions like this ­were widely disseminated in the de­cades ­after the Civil War and contributed to the damaging ste­reo­type of black irrationality and mania. In ­Dixie ­After the War: An Exposition of the Social Conditions Existing in the South, author Myrta Avary caustically opined, “with freedom the negro, en masse, relapsed promptly into the voodooism [sic] of Africa . . . . ​emotional extravaganzas . . . . ​­were indulged without restraint.”71 Avary’s derisive comments recall antebellum critic John Fanning Watson. As in previous generations, many white ­people expressed concern that black styles of worship ­were affecting whites. Another unsympathetic observer of life in late-­nineteenth-­century ­Virginia, Mary Allan-­Olney, shared her disgust that “both black and white ­women would not believe they had experienced conversion ‘­unless the pro­ cess had been ushered in by a good, strong, unmistakable fit of hysterics.’ ”72

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Similarly, ­Virginia cleric Solomon L. M. Cosner published an account of three years spent reforming the Methodist Episcopal Church in ­Virginia in which he encountered “dilapidated” churches “inhabited by hogs, sheep and other animals.” Congregants worshiped in primitive ways, with “extravagant devotions” and “spasmodic excesses” that produced “trances and cataleptic fits” and professions of visitations by “angels and demons.” He disapprovingly observed that this fanatical be­hav­ior, although associated most readily with freedmen and w ­ omen, characterized both races and was “encouraged by a class of zealots and divines of limited physical learning.”73 Racially segregated asylums offered a means to contain the spread of enthusiasm. The promotion of rational religion had always been a feature of asylum medicine, but this aspect of treatment acquired a pernicious sense of urgency once slave laws ­were no longer able to control black cultural institutions or prevent intimate fraternization between blacks and whites. In the 1840s and 1850s, experts believed that “primitive” culture offered protection from the anx­i­eties that produced m ­ ental illness. Enthusiastic faith could harm credulous minds, but most adherents ­were considered harmless to ­others. By the 1880s, however, prominent white observers suggested that African Americans had reverted to a frightening savagery that produced widespread immorality, criminality, and insanity. This licentious chaos, they argued, must be controlled. The material consequence of this propaganda was overcrowded asylums and prisons that eschewed moral influence in ­favor of mechanical restraint.

Conclusion Religion was not the only arena in which the allegedly passionate nature of African Americans was portrayed as a threat. Medical journals began to publish articles about dangerous black “perversion,” in which physicians openly referred to black ­people as animals in need of mechanical—­or even surgical—­ restraint. While serving as president of the American Medical Association, Dr. Hunter McGuire (former CLA board president) published an open letter to urologist Dr. Frank Lydston inquiring w ­ hether castration would c­ ounter an alleged increase in black perversion and rape. U ­ nder slavery, McGuire asserted, such depravity had never occurred. This was no longer true. “In the South,” he wrote, “the Negro is deteriorating morally and physically.”74 Although Dr. Lydston did not agree that African Americans ­were disproportionately inclined to sexual perversion, he did advocate castration of criminals. An extralegal hanging or burning did not deter further crime, he speculated, but surgical



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restraint might. The editor of the Texas Medical Journal concurred: “A negro buck at large amongst the ewes of his flock, minus the ele­ment of manhood” he wrote, “would be a standing terror to ­those of similar propensities.”75 Superintendent John M. Galt of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum had once received a bill for the castration of a patient who had run away and was captured near Lynchburg, ­Virginia. It was his first year in office, and the twenty-­ three-­year-­old doctor did not pay the bill.76 Although he did not rec­ord his thoughts on this unusually cruel procedure, his refusal to pay the bill, his writings, and his twenty-­year rec­ord strongly suggest that he did not approve of such extreme mea­sures. Asylum medicine in the mid-­nineteenth ­century emphasized moral means. Operations w ­ ere not proscribed; Amariah Brigham of Utica performed a few clitorectomies on w ­ omen he had diagnosed as hysterical. But the treatments that w ­ ere celebrated as humane and modern w ­ ere ­those that ­were designed to improve patient morale: light work, entertaining diversions, prescriptive routines, and social interactions marked by kindness and consideration. The tranquil rationality of the asylum rather than surgery would restore to health t­hose who had become ill from unhealthy habits and emotional turmoil. The tenets of moral treatment w ­ ere mostly aspirational. Superintendents had a hard time actually living up to the ideal. John M. Galt, for instance, spoke glowingly about total nonrestraint to his peers even though he sometimes resorted to straightjackets and the douche. In a similar manner, he publicly announced that ­there ­were no difficulties managing black and white patients and staff together in the same asylum, while privately contending with complaints and accusations of collusion. Yet the unique demographics of the Williamsburg asylum pushed him to innovate and propose ideas such as outpatient care that did not gain support ­until de­cades a­ fter his early death. An apologist for slavery who thought that black p­ eople ­were socially and intellectually inferior, Galt nevertheless saw black staff members and patients as ­human beings, not animals. Of course his recognition of black humanity did not alleviate the oppression of slavery. His asylum relied upon coerced ­labor and it medicalized racial and gender bias. The end of slavery did not ameliorate t­hese flaws and fissures. ­After the Civil War, the environmental explanations for insanity that had underpinned moral therapy crumbled ­under the weight of dehumanizing racial rhe­toric and therapeutic pessimism. New forms of institutional oppression ­were constructed, with all-­black carceral institutions like Central Lunatic Asylum functioning as the first cornerstone in this unsightly edifice.

Conclusion In 1845, Edgar Allan Poe published “The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether” in Graham’s Magazine. In this short story, an unnamed narrator on a tour of “the extreme southern provinces of France” decides to visit a much-­talked about private mad­house famous for the “soothing system” of treatment practiced by the superintendent, a Monsieur Maillard. A ­ fter riding through a “dank and gloomy” woods, the visitor arrives at the dilapidated and “fantastic chateau.” Aware that the “soothing system” permits patients to wander the grounds freely and in ordinary clothes, in addition to the eschewal of all punishments, the narrator is initially wary of the individuals he encounters. That is ­until, much to his astonishment and dismay, M. Maillard informs his guest that he renounced the “soothing system” several weeks prior in f­avor of a new treatment regime, which he offers to explain at dinner. Over the course of the meal, readers are treated to an absurdly comic feast in which it is increasingly apparent to all but the naïve narrator that the host and the twenty-­five or thirty dinner guests, who passionately discuss and demonstrate the strange be­hav­iors of patients, are the patients. They are not, as the narrator foolishly surmises, merely eccentric provincials with “antiquated notions.” Maillard, who once was legitimately the superintendent, is now a patient pretending to be superintendent, having been removed from his position ­after suffering a ner­vous breakdown some months earlier. The chaotic banquet ends when the administrators, who have been tarred, feathered, and imprisoned by their former boss and charges, manage to break ­free from their cells to repossess and restore the asylum to order.1 ­There is reason to believe that Poe’s fictional Maison de Santé might have been modeled on the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, at least partly. John M. Galt and Poe ­were distant cousins, and the story was published a­ fter Galt had been in office for three years. Galt followed Poe’s c­ areer, and perhaps Poe read Galt’s asylum annual reports. Poe did correspond with Pliny Earle when the latter was superintendent at Frankfort Asylum, and he exchanged several letters with Nathaniel Beverley Tucker, who was on the board of directors of the Williamsburg asylum. In one letter, Poe asked Tucker to enquire of Mr. Saunders, another asylum director, about a promised essay for his literary magazine. It is, therefore, probable that Poe was fully aware of Eastern Lunatic Asylum’s unique

Conclusion  195

features.2 In any case, the parallels and convergences between truth and fiction are instructive. The “soothing system” is obviously a satire of moral treatment. Superintendent Maillard also advocates “revulsive” therapy—­indulging patients’ delusions u­ ntil the absurdity of their thoughts becomes apparent—­ the very technique Galt used to expose patients’ religious misconceptions, and for which he was criticized. In the end, too, Poe’s story proved somewhat prophetic: Maillard conspires against his former colleagues, aligning instead with his charges to overturn the hierarchy of the institution. Galt did not think of himself as mentally ill, but he was aware that many Southerners subscribed to beliefs that outsiders considered irrationally superstitious. He also believed that the line between sane and insane was permeable. And, ultimately, he did rebel from the standard practices of his profession before committing suicide. To celebrate a vision of the insane living at large in the community as Galt did was, in the eyes of his peers, to call for the destruction of the institutional authority that superintendents had worked for de­cades to build. ­There is one impor­tant difference between Poe’s fictional Maison and the Eastern Lunatic Asylum. The racial homogeneity of the fictional setting in the south of France allowed Poe to portray the patients and caregivers as physically indistinguishable from one another but for their bizarre be­hav­ior, which is disingenuously attributed to regional peculiarities; the same cannot be said for Eastern Lunatic Asylum. Consequently, the final scene of the story in which the jailed attendants break f­ree to restore order provides comic relief, whereas a similar event at the Williamsburg asylum would have been frightfully reminiscent of a slave revolt. Scholar Benjamin Reiss suggests that with this story, Poe aimed to dismantle the “cult of Pinel” and critique the excesses of the French Revolution. The story mocks the conceit that bourgeois liberalism can contain the violent madness of revolution, and the main character shares the name of Stanislaus-­Marie Maillard, a French revolutionary famous for storming the Bastille.3 But Poe often used foreign settings to explore national subjects. In this instance, his description of the jailed attendants as brutish “big black baboons of the Cape of Good Hope” evokes his concerns about African slavery and the revolutionary potential of abolitionism in the United States.4 As his ­mental state was notoriously unstable, Poe’s anx­i­eties about slavery might also have been rooted in a practical fear of ending up at Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­under the care and authority of slaves. De­pen­dency on slave l­abor and the tension between the ideals of moral therapy and the vio­lence endemic to slavery did make Eastern Lunatic Asylum a complex, volatile experiment. To his Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane (AMSAII) colleagues, Galt

196 Conclusion

was, like M. Maillard, a backwards provincial who subscribed to “antiquated notions.” For Galt, however, slavery provided a useful example of how asylum patients might function in the world at large just as slaves hiring out did while remaining in bondage. He believed that ­family living and the cottage system of care ­were a logical extension of moral therapy; patients who internalized the discipline of the institution could be entrusted to interact peacefully with members of the broader community. He publicly extolled patient liberty, including the absence of mechanical restraints, as well as the practicality and virtue of racially inclusive institutions. Privately, Superintendent Galt wrestled with the contradiction of offering noncoercive moral care to patients who had been brutalized by slavery and domestic vio­lence in order to restore them to their degradation. Though the asylum offered temporary respite to some, it did so at the expense of articulating any position on the role of vio­lence in creating ­mental health prob­lems. In fact, individuals who spoke out too vociferously in ­favor of abolition or racial equality risked being identified as mentally unstable. Galt’s progressive vision was blinkered by a concomitant desire to police religious nonconformity and to enforce racially specific norms governing gender, but it was neither ­these desires nor the exploitation of slave ­labor to which his professional peers objected. For Poe, the combination of slavery and moral therapy evoked a frightening vision. He was mistaken, however, to imagine that it was slaves/asylum inmates who would ultimately inflict unusual cruelties upon their masters/ keepers. On the contrary, the care provided by enslaved attendants at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum was governed by a sense of spiritual equality and moral integrity rooted in Afro-­Christianity. Furthermore, it was slaves whose personal safety was most at risk during the Civil War. Enslaved attendants ­were captured in raids and made to nurse Confederate soldiers in Richmond. ­After the war, the harshest treatment was that experienced by black patients at the hands of white attendants. Forcibly removed from Eastern Lunatic Asylum, African Americans ­were sent to a segregated institution that abandoned even the pretense of moral care. Frequent mechanical restraint, arduous manual l­ abor, and substandard accommodation coupled with an etiology that looked to ge­ne­tics and sex organs as sources of ­mental disease became the hallmarks of state institutional care in the early twentieth ­century. Asylums that w ­ ere once conceived as temporary sanctuaries to cure insanity ­instead became punitive institutions for p­ eople designated as permanently defective. Central Lunatic Asylum was at the forefront of this pessimistic new direction in the field, made pos­si­ble by the dehumanization of black patients in the 1870s and 1880s.

Conclusion  197

The humanitarian ideals of the sanative asylum have an enduring appeal, especially when compared to the appalling conditions that characterized state institutions at the turn of the ­century. The prejudice and paternalism of super­ intendents, the overly rosy conviction that environment could cure m ­ ental illness, and the sheer cost of maintenance—­all of ­these ­factors reveal that antebellum efforts to help the impecunious mentally ill ­were imperfectly conceived and executed. But was the collapse of moral therapy inevitable? By the 1860s, it was clear that more patients ­were being admitted than discharged as cured. Over the next twenty years, asylum superintendents found themselves besieged by criticism from former patients who alleged abuse, neurologists who described asylum treatment as unscientific, and members of state charity boards who clamored for greater accessibility on behalf of the indigent.5 Asylum superintendents could have responded to ­these challenges by reimagining and expanding moral means to include outpatient care for chronic cases, with the asylum acting as a hub to which former patients might return when unable to function while living with private families or in autonomous homes. Instead, many clung to older visions of residential care while conditions on the wards deteriorated to “alms­house standards,” and watered-­down versions of the cottage plan w ­ ere implemented in ways that resembled penal farms rather than the curative enterprises that John M. Galt had so admired.6 Doubtlessly, the reluctance of asylum stalwarts to innovate and advocate was due to many ­factors, but foremost among the reasons for their inaction was racial apathy and antipathy. ­There ­were some doctors who favored flexibility and change. In 1877, one of Galt’s former critics, Pliny Earle, publicly decried the inflated cure rates that had ­shaped the AMSAII agenda for so many years. He proclaimed that the nature of care for the indigent insane had to be reevaluated.7 Eastern Lunatic Asylum’s Superintendent Harvey Black resurrected Galt’s f­ amily living idea that same year. He suggested placing chronic patients with friends, ­family, or willing strangers in exchange for a small fee to cover living expenses. The board of directors opted instead to construct new residential buildings, and Black was forced to resign.8 ­There w ­ ere no such proposals for patients at Central Lunatic Asylum. The only institution to experiment with outdoor living for African Americans was the penitentiary, which created exploitative chain gangs partly to keep black and white prisoners apart.9 In fact, the asylum and prison moved closer together as moral medicine gave way to moral hygiene. A 1908 report of a meeting of the National Prison Association written by Dr. Charles Carrington, surgeon at the ­Virginia Penitentiary in Richmond, exemplifies the increasingly eugenic outlook that fixated on African American

198 Conclusion

figure 5. ​Prisoner No. 1679. The prisoner pictured ­here was arrested for a malicious shooting of a ­woman in 1892. He was first admitted to Central Lunatic Asylum the following year. He then fatally shot another ­woman in 1896. He spent many years thereafter ­going back and forth between the prison and the asylum before being sterilized by ­Virginia State Penitentiary physician Dr. Charles Venable Carrington, in 1902. He was ultimately discharged eight years ­later, with no further rec­ord of his fate. Although clearly a violent and disturbed man, earlier asylum rec­ords show individuals with similar histories who ­were treated with more humanity. Prison rec­ords reveal that Dr. Carrington also performed experimental testectomies and vasectomies on other inmates whose only offenses w ­ ere masturbation and sodomy. He used dehumanizing language to justify ­these involuntary surgeries in all cases. ­Virginia Penitentiary Rec­ords, Library of ­Virginia.

men as perpetrators of sexual vio­lence. Carrington enthusiastically wrote about a sterilization operation that he had performed in 1902 on an inmate (see figure 5). Prisoner number 1679 was ultimately declared insane and sent to the renamed Central State Hospital. Carrington alleged that the man, who had been found guilty of murder, was “as strong as a bull, as cunning as a hyena, and more ferocious and quite as dangerous as a Bengal tiger.” In order to “tame” this “black beast rapist” the doctor performed a testectomy without l­ egal warrant. The operation, he informed his audience, was a success. The inmate was now a supposedly content resident of Central State: “a slick, fat, docile prisoner,

Conclusion  199

a trusty about the yard—­cured by sterilization.”10 This vile description recalls the animalistic language that Edgar Allan Poe used to describe attendants in his parody of asylum care, but in this instance it is Dr. Carrington who seems terrifying. In a period known for the spectacularly sadistic vio­lence of lynching, often prompted by false accusations of sexual crimes, Carrington’s casual cruelty is a reminder that most acts of heinous abuse occurred in less vis­i­ble spaces and ­were committed by men who enjoyed significant social prestige.11 Writing from North Africa in the early 1960s, psychiatrist Frantz Fanon described a dif­fer­ent nightmare scenario than the one Poe had envisioned. Born in Martinique and trained as a physician in France ­after having first served as a soldier fighting against the Nazis, Fanon’s awakening as a cultural critic stemmed from his disturbing experience as an asylum doctor in colonial Algeria during the War for In­de­pen­dence. Concerned about the ethical foundations of psychiatry and reflecting on the practice of the field in Amer­i­ca, he wrote: “Two centuries ago, a former Eu­ro­pean colony took it into its head to catch up with Eu­rope. It has been so successful that the United States has become a monster where the flaws, sickness, and inhumanity of Eu­rope have reached frightening proportions.”12

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Notes

Introduction 1. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 47. 2. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 27–28; Box IV, folder 0008, ESH. On April 5, 1862, the asylum flew the Confederate flag, but readied a yellow flag the following day. Galt deferred to the steward regarding permission to lodge soldiers. 3. Coffee mixed with wheat: Box IV, folder 0009, January 17, 1862, ESH; Slaves not permitted coffee: JMG, Feb. 8, 1841, Box VII, folder 0014, ESH. 4. Marks, The Peninsula Campaign in ­Virginia, 159. 5. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 229–35. 6. “In Memorium,” Richmond Medical Journal, May 18, 1862; Manzo, “Calming Minds and Instilling Character.” 7. On the intertwined repre­sen­ta­tion of insanity and race, see Gilman, Difference and ­Pathology; and Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 51–78. 8. Packard, Modern Persecution. See also Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 169–80. 9. Pennsylvania Hospital, founded in 1751 in Philadelphia, was the first public institution to admit ­mental patients, but it was a general hospital. The Williamsburg hospital is still in operation, though it has moved about five miles west from its original location. See also Galt ­Family Papers, Series II: Personal Papers, 1755–1904, Box 5, folder 47, item 14, A[nnie] Galt to W[illiam R.] Galt, Nov. 1841, SSC. See also Grob, ­Mental Institutions in Amer­i­ca, 83; and Otto, St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, 7–15. 10. “Disability and the African American Experience,” http:​/­​/­museumofdisability​.­org​ /­disability​-­and​-­the​-­african​-­american​-­experience​/­. For discussion on the origins and development of racial segregation with regard to health care, see Hunkele, “Segregation in United States Healthcare”; and Thomas, Deluxe Jim Crow. For general discussion: Packard, American Nightmare; Rabinowitz, “More than the Woodward Thesis”; and Woodward, The Strange C ­ areer of Jim Crow. 11. Works on modernity and the antebellum U.S. South include: Barnes, Schoen, and Towers, The Old South’s Modern Worlds; Baptist, The Half Has Never Been Told; O’Brien, Conjec­ tures of Order; Majewski, Modernizing a Slave Economy. 12. On asylums in Africa: Deacon, “Madness, Race and Moral Treatment”; Deacon, “Racism and Medical Science in South Africa’s Cape Colony”; Keller, Colonial Madness; and Sadowsky, Imperial Bedlam. See also Summers, “ ‘Suitable Care of the African When Afflicted with Insanity.’ ” On asylums in imperial Asia: Bhattacharyya, “Indian Insanes”; and Ernst, “The Eu­ro­pean Insane in British India.” 13. Kenny, “The Development of Medical Museums in the Antebellum South.” 14. Dain, Disordered Minds. On the tendency of scholars to discount Southern asylums, see McCandless, Moonlight, Magnolias, and Madness, 4.

202  Notes to Chapter One 15. Cartwright, “Report on the Diseases and Physical Peculiarities of the Negro Race.” See also Washington, Medical Apartheid, 35–38. 16. Box X, folder 0012, Nov. 27, 1852, ESH. 17. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 309. 18. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 7. On the influence of Tuke’s Retreat, see Digby, Madness, Morality and Medicine. On the influence of Pinel, see Foucault, Madness and Civilization; and Rothman, The Discovery of the Asylum. 19. Other books about moral therapy and asylums as cultural institutions include: Dwyer, Homes for the Mad; and Goodheart, Mad Yankees. 20. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 283–94. 21. I thank Claire Ellen Edington for inviting me to read her manuscript, Beyond the Asy­ lum: A Social History of Psychiatry in French Colonial Vietnam, 1880–1940, which is ­under contract with Cornell University Press. 22. Brown, “Dance of the Dialectic?” Brown extolls books by Braslow and Lunbeck for successfully blending empiricism with theory, though both scholars focus on the twentieth c­ entury. See Braslow, ­Mental Ills and Bodily Cures; and Lunbeck, The Psychiat­ ric Persuasion. 23. Ibid. 24. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 49. 25. Box VI, folder 0026 and 0045, ESH. 26. John P. Ballard to JMG re; Amy (Wickham) and her d­ aughter Nancy, Dec. 13, 1856, Box XIII, folder 0009, ESH. Amy was readmitted and died at the institution. It is not clear ­whether her ­daughter was admitted. See Box XI, folder 0030, ESH about Amy’s death in 1859 and Box IV, folder 0006, ESH and the 1852–1853 Register, ESH for information about her first admission in 1853. 27. J. A. Peary to JMG re; Peary’s d­ aughter, a patient, July 14, 1858, Box II, 0014; and Galt ­Family Papers II, Box VI, folder 62, P. J. Barziza to Caspar Altschu, June 9, 1859, SSC. I found one instance in which a ­woman was refused admission ­because of suspicions of abuse. (“It was rather from suspecting injury done to her, than from the idea that she was not at all insane.”) See Galt ­Family Papers I, Box 5, folder 58, June 26, 1844, SSC. 28. R. M. Candlish Jr. to JMG re: “old ­family servant” of John N. Wilcox, April 27, 1843; Simon S. Stubb (mayor of Norfolk) to JMG re: Mrs. Brunett’s “servant w ­ oman,” August 16, 1854; P.F. Browne to JMG, April 29, 1846, Box VI, folder 0060, ESH (“She is very indulgent to her servants & desires me to say that she wishes Isaac to have every­thing that w ­ ill be conducive to his comfort & recovery”); and Custis to Barziza re: “a negro boy,” April 14, 1846 in Box I. A., ESH. 29. African American workers ­were fired from Eastern Lunatic Asylum in the 1880s. The disproportionate burden on w ­ omen of color and the devaluation of caregiving are identified as features of modern care in Glenn, Forced to Care, 2.

Chapter One 1. Galt, “Asylums for Coloured Persons,” Box VI, folder 0010, ESH. 2. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 30. 3. Circular, 1842, Box V, folder 0050, ESH.



Notes to Chapter One  203

4. According to Grob, Worcester Hospital in Mas­sa­chu­setts and the South Carolina Lunatic Asylum also accepted black patients. Grob writes that t­ hese institutions, along with the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, provided separate quarters for blacks. This is not entirely accurate with regard to ELA, however, as I discuss in this chapter. See Grob, “Class, Ethnicity and Race in American M ­ ental Hospitals.” See also McCandless, Moonlight, Magnolias, and Madness. According to John Galt’s notes, South Carolina did not accept black patients ­until 1851. (See Box I, folder 0003, ESH). Western Lunatic Asylum in Staunton, ­Virginia, employed slaves, but not as attendants. For a brief period when it first opened, the Staunton asylum also accepted black patients. In 1856, the Board of Visitors of Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, D.C., a federal m ­ ental hospital, nevertheless boasted in its first annual report that theirs was “the first and only” institution to provide “special provision for the suitable care of the African when afflicted with insanity” in the form of a ward dedicated to black patients. See Summers, “ ‘Suitable Care of the African When Afflicted with Insanity,’ ”17. 5. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 9, 21, and 30. 6. Series II, Box 4, folder 38, item 14, JMG to Mrs. Mary D. Galt, Nov. 1839, SSC. 7. Ibid. 8. Series II, Box 4, folder 38, item 18, JMG to Elizabeth J. Galt, Nov. 1839, SSC. 9. Series II, Box 4, folder 42, item 8, JMG to Alexander D. Galt, July 1840, SSC. 10. Series II, Box 4, folder 42, item 6, JMG to Mrs. Mary D. Galt, July 1840, SSC. 11. Series II, Box 4, folder 38, item 23 & item 25, JMG to Elizabeth J. Galt, Nov. 1839, SSC. 12. Series II, Box 4, folder 39, item 6, JMG to Alexander D. Galt, Dec. 1839, SSC. 13. Series II, Box 5, folder 43, item 22, JMG to Elizabeth J, Galt, Nov. 1840, SSC. 14. Series II, Box 4, folder 42, item 13, JMG to Alexander D. Galt, Aug. 1840, SSC. 15. Series II, Box 5, folder 46, item 21, John Coke to JMG, April 1841, SSC. 16. Karp, This Vast Southern Empire, 32 and 70–71. See also Crapol, John Tyler, the Acciden­ tal President. 17. Series II, Box 4, folder 38, item 17, JMG to Alexander D. Galt, Nov. 1839, SSC. 18. JMG Notebook, Box IX, folder 0001, ESH. 19. Series II, Box 5, folder, item 9, JMG to Elizabeth J. Galt, Jan. 1841, SSC. 20. John M. Galt, “An Essay on Botany,” Box I, folder 0004, ESH. 21. Ibid. 22. Fett, Working Cures, 46. 23. Stowe, Doctoring the South, 2. 24. Savitt, Medicine and Slavery, 168. 25. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 41. 26. See Box IV, folders 0008 and 0015, ESH. Calomel is also known as mercurous chloride. It was prescribed as a purgative. Laudanum is a tincture of opium. 27. Box V, folder 0057, “Ideas on Insanity,” 2. 28. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 80. 29. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 39. 30. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 59–60. 31. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 42. 32. Ibid., 27. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid., 29.

204  Notes to Chapter One 35. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 10. 36. Therina Baird to JMG, n.d., Box XIV, folder 0031, ESH. See also a draft list of patients to invite to a party: Box VII, folder 0016, ESH. 37. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 42–43. 38. Series II, Box 6, folder 58, item 9, Elizabeth J. Galt to “my dear Aunt,” April 1843, SSC. 39. JMG to R. M. T. Hunter, Box IX, folder 049, n.d., ESH. See also JMG, Box XII, folder 0015, ESH. Draft letter regarding pre­sen­ta­tion of his publications to government officials of Brazil and Rus­sia. ­There is no date, but Galt’s medical publications (aside from his annual reports) ­were “The Farm of St. Anne” (1855) and “Hypochondriasis” (1855). He also self-­ published Essays on Asylums for Persons of Unsound Mind (1853). 40. Ibid. Galt was aware that t­ here was a newly opened asylum in Rio de Janeiro headed by “Dr Jubin, an eminent Physician.” See Box VIII, folder 0024, ESH. 41. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure; and Tuntiya, “The Forgotten History.” 42. Hurd, The Institutional Care of the Insane, 720. 43. Ibid. 44. Brigham, “Lunatic Asylums in the United States,” 154–59. 45. Series II, Box 7, folder 67, item 10, Dr. Awl to JMG, Jan. 1846, SSC. 46. Box VI, folder 0010, [Sept. 30, 1848. 29 pp., bound with string], 20. See also Box III, folder 0015, draft, ESH. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid. 49. Hurd, The Institutional Care of the Insane, 720. 50. Tomes, Art of Asylum Keeping, 87. 51. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 16. The quote is from Elizabeth Packard. 52. Box VI, folder 0001, ESH. 53. Box VI, folder 0010, ESH. See also Box III, folder 0015, draft, ESH. 54. Ibid. 55. Ibid. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid. 58. Ibid. 59. R. Gibbone to JMG, Nov. 9, 1855 re: “­free negro,” Box II. A, ESH. 60. Report of the Eastern Asylum, in the city of Williamsburg, ­Virginia, 1849. See reference to Report of the Director to the Legislature, 5–6. 61. Ibid. 62. Box IX, folder 0041, ESH. Draft of letter to Dr. Harris of Naval Hospital in Portsmouth, ­Virginia. Galt suggests that officers would be charged 4 dollars per week and seamen 3.50 dollars. Galt’s complaint about the appointee, Dr. Nichols: Box VII, folder 0010, item 3, ESH. 63. Otto, St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, 7–15. 64. JMG to Kirkbride, May 10, 1851, General Correspondence Box 135, ff 68, PHA. 65. JMG to Kirkbride, Sept. 5, 1853, General Correspondence Box 135, ff 68, PHA. 66. Tomes, Art of Asylum Keeping, 85. See also Earle, History, Description, and Statistics of the Bloomingdale, 97; and Brigham, Observations on the Influence of Religion. 67. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 15, Commonplace Book, September 13, 1848, SSC. 68. Karp, This Vast Southern Empire, 159.



Notes to Chapter One  205

69. Galt, Po­liti­cal Essays, ESH. 70. Ibid. 71. Walker, Letter of Mr. Walker of Mississippi, Relative to the Annexation of Texas. 72. Ibid. 73. Bradford, “­Free African American Population in the U.S.,” http:​/­​/­www​.­ncpedia​.­org​ /­sites​/­default​/­files​/­census​_­stats​_­1790–1860​.­pdf. 74. Summers, “Suitable Care,” 67. 75. Ibid., see fn. 18. See also Kenny, “The Development of Museums in the Antebellum American South”; Luse, “Slavery’s Champions Stood at Odds”; McGregor, From Midwives to Medicine, 12–14. 76. Karp, This Vast Southern Empire, 166. 77. Series II, Box 6, folder 58, item 38, Jas. M. Barnard to JMG, July 1843, SSC. 78. Stowe, Doctoring the South, 105. 79. Ibid, 117. 80. Sadowsky, “Psychiatry and Colonial Ideology in Nigeria,”105. See also Gilman, Differ­ ence and Pathology. 81. Ely, Israel on the Appomattox, 286; and Galt, “Senile Insanity—­Hypochondriasis.” 82. According to Sadowsky, this was the case for Nigerian psychiatrists. Sadowsky, “Psychiatry and Colonial Ideology in Nigeria.” 83. Stowe, Doctoring the South, 107. 84. Ibid. 85. Ibid. 86. On shared uniform: Jan & Feb 1842 requisitions from “Galt Journal Circa 1842,” ESH. 87. Parkes Holis to JMG, n.d., Box XI, folder 0001, ESH. 88. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 283. 89. JMG to Kirkbride, April 15, 1853, General Correspondence Box 135, ff 68, PHA. 90. JMG to “Gentlemen,” n.d., Box IX, folder 0028, ESH. 91. John Churchill to JMG, Jan. 18, 1853, Box IX, folder 0035, ESH. 92. Series II, Box 9, folder 99, item 5, Eliza A. Vest to Mrs. Mary Galt, May 1854, SSC. 93. Otto, St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, 8–10. Galt’s description of Nichols as “ultra”: Box VII, folder 0010, item 3, ESH. 94. Summers, “Suitable Care,” 66. 95. Otto, St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, 37. 96. Ibid., 27. Otto cites Message from the President of the United States to the Two Houses of Congress at the Commencement of the Second Session of the Thirty-­Third Congress, Part I, December 4, 1854, S. Ex. Doc. 1, 624. 97. Nichols to Kirkbride, Oct. 27, 1854, General Correspondence, Box 137, ff 76, PHA. 98. “Proceedings of the Association,” American Journal of Insanity 11–12 (1855): 43. 99. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 283–84. 100. Galt, “The Farm of St. Anne.” 101. van Walsum, “Nos Malades,” 222. 102. Ibid., 223. van Walsum cites Rostain and Skurnik, “A propos d’un village de fous: Le debat sur Gheel a la Societe Medico-­Psychologique vers 1860,” Annales Medico-­Psychologiques, 143 (1985): 196–205. 103. Galt, “The Farm of St. Anne.”

206  Notes to Chapter One 104. Ibid. 105. Sanborn, Memoirs of Pliny Earle, M.D., 165. Sanborn, a friend of Earle’s and an abolitionist, was one of the “Secret Six” who escaped arrest in Canada ­after funding John Brown’s 1859 raid. See also Goodheart, “ ‘The Glamour of Arabic Numbers,’ ” 179. 106. Ibid., 196–97. 107. Kyla Schuller, The Biopolitics of Feeling, 91. 108. Only four years earlier Galt had written a paragraph entitled, “Report on the Propriety of Treating the Insane and Persons Affected with Other Diseases in the Same Establishment” to be read at the Sixth Annual Meeting of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane, in which he commended the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane as “an honour to the United States” and a “model asylum” worthy of “the descendents [sic] of William Penn.” See Box I, folder 0005, ESH. 109. Kirkbride to Dorothea Dix, June 8, 1855, General Correspondence, Box 135, ff 6, PHA. 110. Nichols to Kirkbride, July 3, 1855, General Correspondence, Box 137, ff 76, PHA. 111. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 284. 112. H. A. Buttolph to Kirkbride, April 27, 1855, General Correspondence, Box 134, ff 8, PHA. 113. Box III, folder 0025, ESH. This quote is from a draft version of an annual report. The final version eliminated the problematic word “abolition.” It reads: “the entire disuse of restraint and seclusion being carried into effect at the Lincoln lunatic asylum . . . .” See Galt, Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855–7, 1857–9, 1859–61, 4. 114. Galt, Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855–7, 1857–9, 1859–61, 4. 115. Box III, folder 0025, ESH. The final version is more tempered. It reads: “I rejoice in the fact that I can cordially support ­these new ideas. I rejoice in the fact that, for a number of years, I have advocated the princi­ples ­here involved, as far as my poor abilities would allow—­alike in the Reports of the Eastern asylum, and in other writings. In some re­spects, also, they have been carried out in the management of this institution.” 116. Mr. Day g­ oing for pigs in Box IV, folder 0015, ESH; James Cossy delivering newspapers in Register of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 1852–1853, Sept. 1853, James Cossy, ESH; Juliana Jones living and working for ­family in Patient Notebook, 1842–43 and Patient Register, 1852–1853, Juliana Jones; Ann Shivers living with matron in Gibbs and Rowe, The Pub­ lic Hospital, 231 (original source is Minutes, 1843–1849, p. 12, SSC); and Sally Cary Williams working as nurse in Register of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 1852–1853, Sally Cary ­Williams entry, 46, ESH. 117. Galt, Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855–7, 1857–9, 1859–61, 7. 118. Ibid., 5; “nearly all the male patients . . . ​happiness and welfare ”: Galt, Report of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum in the City of Williamsburg, V ­ irginia, 1853–4 & 1854–5, 37–40. 119. Galt, Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855–7, 1857–9, 1859–61, 21. 120. Ibid., 14–15. 121. JMG, payments to slaves, Box II, folder 0011, n.d. See also chapter two. 122. Patient Notebook, 1842–43, Juliana Jones entry; and Patient Register, 1852–1853, ­Juliana Jones entry, ESH.



Notes to Chapter Two  207

123. Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855–7, 1857–9, 1859–61, 14–15. 124. Kirkbride to Dix, March 26, 1856, General Correspondence, Box 135, ff 7, PHA. 125. Galt II Scrapbook, part I. Ray to JMG, Aug. 25, 1858, page 5, SSC. 126. Series II, Box 10, item 6, Obituaries for Mrs. Mary Galt, January 1858, SSC. 127. Farr, “The Civil War Correspondence of Dr. Thomas S. Kirkbride,” 78. 128. Scull, MacKenzie, and Hervey, Masters of Bedlam, 70. 129. Galt, A Lecture on Idiocy, ESH; and JMG, “A Song of the South,” Box VII, folder 0006, ESH. 130. Bucknill, Notes on Asylums for the Insane in Amer­i­ca, 4.

Chapter Two 1. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box V, Folder 57, “Ideas on Insanity,” n.d., SSC. 2. JMG, Box VII, folder 0007, n.d., ESH. 3. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 15, folder 73. Commonplace Book. July 1853. SSC. 4. Kittay, Love’s ­Labor, 34–35. 5. Tronto, Moral Bound­aries, 21–22. 6. Abel, Hearts of Wisdom, 3. 7. Ibid., 59–60. 8. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 42. Zwelling writes: “In 1845 he [Galt] placed a convalescing patient in charge of a female ward, and nine years l­ ater he hired a former hospital inmate to work as an attendant.” See also Sally Cary William entries in Patient Notebook and Registries, ESH. 9. Schuller, The Biopolitics of Feeling, 18. For more on sentimentalism in the nineteenth ­century, see Barnes, States of Sympathy; Berlant, The Female Complaint; and Wexler, Tender Vio­lence. 10. Dick ordered whipped for having struck Mr. O’Doud: Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Oct. 9, 1849, SSC. The accusation against Patience: Box IV, Loose Leaves, December 1861, ESH. 11. Box IV, folder 0001, ESH; Box VI, folder 0046 and 0050; Box VIII, folder 0014, ESH; Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, SSC; List of servants, n.d. Box XI, folder 0003, ESH; and Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, SSC. 12. Ibid. See also Box VI, folder 0051 and 0056, ESH. 13. Box VI, folder 0018, “May 1852 Medicine,” ESH. Harriet’s kids are treated for illness; also Box IV, folder 0018 “May 1852” specifically says treated “Harriet’s child” and “Harriet’s baby.” See also Galt ­Family Papers II, Medical Papers, Box II, folder 19, pp.1–3, SSC. Lizzie, William and Daniel are the names of Harriet’s three c­ hildren who are mentioned, although ­there is another reference in 1854 (on p. 3) to medical treatment provided to “William, Harriet’s child & indeed all her ­children,” which may include more than the other two who are named. Betsy had three c­ hildren but only two d­ aughters, Emma and Eliza, are specifically mentioned by name. 14. Box VI, folder 0056, ESH; Box XI, folder 0053, ESH. 15. Osway and Tom: Box XI, folder 0003, ESH; Joanna: Box VI, folder 0056, ESH.

208  Notes to Chapter Two 16. “Old” Thom’s death: Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Oct. 9, 1849, SSC. Lavinia’s death: Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, May 23, 1852, SSC. Pleurisy refers to inflammation of the lining of the lungs. One cause of pleurisy is pulmonary embolus. In any case, the chest pains and shortness of breath that are typical of pleurisy might instead be indicative of congestive heart failure. 17. Box VIII, folder 0002, ESH. 18. The number of slaves employed in 1842 is an approximation. T ­ here ­were thirty-­three in 1858 and twenty-­four in 1846. In 1841 ­there ­were seventeen slaves working at the asylum, but two w ­ ere in the kitchen and one worked as a carpenter. See Box I, folder 0001, ESH. See also Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Diaries, Aug. 16, 1844, SSC. Mr. Daffin d­ idn’t have a chamber pot in his room, so broke down his door with a scrubbing brush left ­behind by “the carelessness of the servant,” who was also blamed for “not placing t­ here the requisite utensil.” This is the only direct reference that makes it clear that empting pots was a part of the general cleanup duty of enslaved staff. That slaves w ­ ere daily supposed to “clean out the apartments” is found in Box VIII, folder 0002, ESH. Regarding the number of patients treated in 1842–43, this information comes from the Annual Reports for ­those years. 19. Box VII, folder 0031, item 2, ESH. 20. See 1852–1853 Register, Mary Britton entry, Nov. 30, 1852, 49, ESH. 21. This is a compilation from two notebooks: Patient notebook, 1842–1843 and “Galt’s notebook circa 1842,” both at ESH. According to the Annual Report for 1842 and 1843, fifty-­ seven and eighty men, respectively, ­were treated at the asylum. ­Here I am counting only ­those who appear in the aforementioned notebooks. N.B. that t­ hese are incomplete accounts, but they nevertheless provide a sense of the nature and scope of the daily medical prob­lems faced and treatments provided at the asylum. 22. In an 1852–1853 notebook, eight men of sixty-­seven treated had diarrhea—­of t­ hose one also had bloody discharge and another had scurvy; and five ­were described as filthy (including “filthy in the extreme”). Three w ­ omen of thirty-­nine treated suffered with diarrhea as well. One man named Robert C. Jones died from dysentery. 23. Box XI, folder 0012, 1852 notebook, Nov. 21, ESH. 24. Box IV, folder 0015, “1842 April Females,” Mary Crippin, ESH. 25. Box IV, folder 0015, May 1843, ESH. 26. Box IV, folder 0017, “1845 Females May,” ESH. “Miss Lynch . . . ​[May]13 . . . . ​Pukes, Harriet tells me.” 27. Loose Leaves, July  23, 1857, Miss Bear, transcriptions, ESH. Re: Betsy Malone, see ­Patient Register, 1852–1853, ESH. 28. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane Bonney entry, ESH. See also Box IV, folder 0015, “April 1842 Females,” Mrs. Bonney, ESH. 29. See chapter four for more discussion on this topic. See in par­tic­ul­ ar the case of Dorothy Loer for the live birth. The stillbirths ­were to Mrs. Burness in 1858—­the fetus was estimated to be about 7 months—­and Mrs. Altshul in 1859; the fetus was estimated to be four months’ gestation. 30. Philip Barziza, Feb. 8, 1841, Box VIII, folder 0014, ESH. 31. List of servants, n.d. Box XI, folder 0003, ESH. Not dated, but must be between 1846 and 1852 ­because Lavinia is on the list too and she first arrived in 1847 and died in 1852. The number of patients comes from the annual reports, the number peaking in 1852–1853 at 247.



Notes to Chapter Two  209

32. Multiple sources, including Register 1852–1853. See, for example, John T. Williams; this example just notes, “broiled meat.” Elsewhere it specifies chicken; for example, Archibald Yarborough, 139. Cheese and sweet potatoes: see, for example, Mr. Mills, “Males April 1849,” Box IV, folder 0013, ESH. 33. Edward Ragland, 61. 34. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, John Minson Galt II, Box 5, folder 58, Jan. 1, 1847, SSC. 35. Phillip Barziza, Feb. 8, 1841, Box VIII, folder 0014, ESH. 36. List of servants, Box XI, folder 0003, ESH. 37. John M. P. Pool, Dec. 31, 1852, Register, 74, ESH: “appeared pleased at gathering persimmons and honey pods”; watermelon ordered for Wilcox in Loose Leaves, Aug. 13, 1856; Hiram En­glander refused to eat pears so blackberries w ­ ere given to him instead in Patient Register, 1852–1853. 38. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, June 29, 1853, SSC. “Five” might be “four”; the handwriting is messy. 39. Phillip Barziza, Feb. 8, 1841, Box VIII, folder 0014, ESH. 40. Erysipelas is inflammation of the skin due to streptococcus bacteria. It occurs when fecal ­matter penetrates the skin through minor cuts or abrasions. The patient registers mention that a few patients picked at their skin ­until it bled, including one who pulled out all her hair. See November 1856 Loose Leaves; Mrs. May u­ nder restraint “to prevent her picking her face to pieces,” for example. Note, too, that patients who suffered continuously with diarrhea ­were given only loose-­fitting gowns, their clothing was taken to preserve it from damage. 41. Galt ­Family Papers I, MsV120, Box 20; Case histories of asylum patients, 1844–45, July 10, SSC. 42. Galt, Report of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Asylum in the City of Wil­ liamsburg, 1846; Report of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Asylum in the City of Williamsburg, 1854; Report of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Asylum in the City of Williamsburg, 1853–4 & 1854–5, 1856, ESH. 43. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box VI, folder 62, March 20, 1843 letter to JMG from Barziza, SSC. The restricted patient was Mr. Gains. 44. Robert S. Jones to JMG, Box II. C., Feb. 15, 1860, ESH. 45. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, May 21, 1852, SSC. 46. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, November 13, 1853, SSC. 47. Ibid., December 11, 1853. 48. Box VI, folder 0011,“March 1850 males,” ESH. 49. 1852–1853 Register, p. 106, April 30, 1853, Wilson Lumpkin, ESH. 50. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Jan. 7, 1853, SSC. 51. See Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Peter Sinclair entry, ESH. 52. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, July 9, 1853, SSC. 53. Box IV, folder 0013, “Males April 1849,” ESH; Mr. Hickson and the coffee found in “Males May 1849.” 54. Box IV, folder 0013, “April 1849 Females,” ESH.

210  Notes to Chapter Two 55. Box IV, folder 0015, “1842 April Females,” ESH. 56. Ibid., April 14: “Still dislikes the presence of men.” 57. Hiram En­glander, for example. Mr. En­glander evidently did “waste away” despite the force-­feedings. 58. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane Bonney entry, ESH. 59. 1852–1853 Register, p. 166, John Myers, ESH. 60. Box IV, folder 0015, ESH. 61. April 1847 Males and April 1847 Females, Box IV, folder 0016, ESH. Similarly, in April 1842, in addition to Mrs. Bonney being showered and Miranda Bird being immersed in cold ­water while straitjacketed, Mrs. McMillen was showered, Mary Crippin was put in restraining mitts, and Mrs.  Manly given the warm bath. As for May  1842 for the men: Mr. Sandfort was showered and then bathed, Mr. Cotton had a bath, and Mr. Day was prescribed a cold bath. 62. Box IV, folder 0017, Miss Parsley, May 1845, ESH. 63. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Peter (Elliot) entry, ESH. 64. Box IV, folder 0015, verso of “Females May 1843,” ESH. 65. Box IV, folder 0017, “Females 1844,” ESH. 66. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, SSC. Transcription at ESH: Wallop strikes Robin Aug. 12, 1844; Mrs. Owen mashes Harriet’s fin­gers, Oct. 22, 1848; and Mr. Gaines stabs Jeff, March 3, 1850. 67. Corbin to Jas. Wirte, December 1853, ESH. For ­these transgressions, Corbin was locked in his room. Perhaps “abolition-­protectors” refers to board member Lemuel Bowden, who was a Southern Unionist. See chapter five for more about the Bowden f­ amily. 68. Patient Register, 1852–1853, Washington Corbin entry, p. 160, ESH. 69. Ibid. 70. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, January 1853, SSC. 71. Patient Register, 1852–1853, Robert K. Mann entry, ESH. 72. Holt to JMG, n.d., Box II. C., patient writings, ESH. Holt stabbed Mr. Barziza twice on April 17, 1848. See Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, SSC. 73. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Box 5, folder 47. Medical Diaries, Aug. 1, 1853. SSC. The patient’s last name was O’Doud. 74. December 1861, “Loose Leaves,” Box IV, ESH. 75. JMG, 1841, Box V, folder 0001, ESH. 76. Patient Register, 1852–1853, Elizabeth Pierce, 96, ESH. “Has complained lately of a­servant, perhaps oftener than was requisite.” 77. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, Folder 58, July 1, 1845, SSC. 78. 1846 draft of letter, Box IX, folder 0049, ESH. 79. C. Robinson to JMG, Jan. 8, 1857, Box VI, folder 0065, ESH. 80. Ibid. 81. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, Folder 58, Sept. 18, 1848, SSC. 82. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 59, John M. Galt to Miss Dix, Oct. 6, 1848, SSC. 83. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Sept. 25, 1848, SSC. 84. JMG, n.d., Box VIII, folder 0002, ESH.



Notes to Chapter Two  211

85. Ibid. 86. Otto, St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, 3; and Parry, “Dorothea Dix (1802–1887),” 624–25. 87. JMG, Feb. 1841, Box VI, folder 0014, ESH. 88. Ibid. 89. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, January 3, 1846, SSC. 90. Raising money through the gardening, poultry, and printing done by ­women: Galt ­Family Papers, Box 15, folder 73, Commonplace Book, Aug. 1853, SSC. Proposing cultivating with “trusty servants” like “Oliver & Osway,” and poultry with Harriet: Galt ­Family Papers, Box 15, folder 72, Commonplace Book, Oct. 1852, SSC. 91. Barziza, Box I, folder 0053, n.d., ESH. 92. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Medical Papers, Box II, folder 19, pp.1–3, SSC. 93. Box IV, folder 0017, “1845 Females April,” ESH. 94. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, June 29, 1853, SSC. “James, Jenny’s child, brought a letter, he said, from the post office.” Ibid., July 23, 1853 mentions Rose’s child. 95. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Medical Diary, Box II, folder 19, “Sickness of Tenants and Officers,” p. 1, SSC. For noise complaints, July 21, 1853, SSC: “Dr. Williamson blamed me for not reprimanding George Clowes and Frank Bunell, who ­were singing in the Chapel . . . . ​I justified myself as to not speaking with to the boys, first by saying ­there was more noise formerly in the Doric than now. Secondly, ­because justice was involved, & referred to Mrs G’s coloured ­children making a noise, & W.G’s 19 hounds formerly.” Unnamed girl injured by a patient: Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, April 25, 1852, SSC. 96. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Jan. 7, 1853. “As to Harriet, I stated that Mrs. Galt [matron] said she was very useful to her . . . . ​moreover I had understood from her that the ­children ­were no expence [sic] being fed from the scraps.” 97. Box IV, folder 0017, ESH. (April 1844) Eliza treated for dysentery & Reuben treated for unspecified illness; (May 1845) Cinderella treated for bilious attack, Nancy for soreness, and Patty for dysentery; (1847) Sarah treated for unspecified illness, and Harriet’s child for rawness of buttocks. See also Box IV, folder 0013, ESH (May 1848) Lavinia treated for enteritis, and then again for pleurisy; (April 1849) Patty treated for sore throat and bowel prob­ lems. See also Box VI, folder 0053, ESH: an ad stating that slaves’ medical care ­will be provided gratis. 98. Box VI, folder 0050, “Servants 1846 offered,” ESH. 99. F. Piggott to JMG, Box XIV, folder 0017, n.d. 100. Box VI, folder 0053, n.d. [Barziza’s writing], “To persons having servants to hire and by the year,” ESH. 101. JMG, Feb. 1841, Box VI, folder 0014, ESH. Most of the male slaves w ­ ere hired at ninety dollars, but two w ­ ere hired for one hundred. This document appears to be John M. Galt’s notes from an interview with longtime asylum steward Phillip J. Barziza about how the institution runs. 102. Box VI, folder 0053, n.d., ESH. 103. Lavinia is on both lists, therefore they both date to sometime between 1846 and 1852. See Box IV, folder 0018, ESH, and Box VIII, folder 0017, #3, ESH.

212  Notes to Chapter Two 104. Galt ­Family Papers II, Medical Diaries, November 1, 1853, SSC. The patient who attempted escape was Peter Sinclair. George was given fifty cents for picking up another ­escaped patient; see Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, June 30, 1847, SSC. 105. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, John Minson Galt II, Box 5, folder 58, Jan. 1850, SSC. 106. Box IV, folder 0009, January 17, 1862, ESH. 107. Ibid. 108. Box XI, folder 0003, ESH. 109. Box IV, folder 0002, verso, ESH. 110. Box IV, folder 0002, verso, ESH. I cross-­referenced the patients on the list with the asylum Register to date the list to circa 1852. See Patient Register 1852–1853, ESH. Information about Mr. Christian and Mr. Armistead comes from the patient notebook as well as ­family correspondence. References to better class of patients are numerous and ­were an e­ xplicit classification scheme advertised by the asylum. See, for instance, Circular, Box V, folder 0050, ESH. Also Register, 1852–1853, William A. Hodges, Oct. 31, 1852, ESH. 111. Another list of servants identifies Thom as working in the carpenter shop and attending to the gas (which was not installed ­until the late 1850s); that list mentions an unidentified ­woman as cook along with female assistant. See Box XI, folder 0003, ESH. Plus, Major worked as the asylum cook in 1841 along with Fanny. 112. 1858 is in Box IX, folder 0012, ESH and 1846 in Box IX, folder 0049, ESH. 113. Box VIII, folder 0017, No. 3, ESH. This list must date sometime from 1846 to 1852, ­because Lavinia is on it as a washer­woman and ward hand. 114. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844–45, SSC. 115. Box VI, folder 0056, March 16, 1854, ESH. 116. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, August 14, 1844, SSC. 117. Box IX, folder 0049, ESH. This ­woman did not live at the asylum. This is for 1846. It is not clear w ­ hether a w ­ oman was thus employed for any other years. 118. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 57, “Ideas on Insanity,” SSC. 119. Box IV, folder 0015, “May 1842 Health of Females,” ESH. 120. Galt ­Family Papers II, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 57, May 1852, SSC. “Servant tried to work in flower garden . . . .” 121. Galt, Report of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 1849, 5–6. 122. Box VII, folder 0032, Dec. 13, 1846, No. 4, ESH. 123. JMG, Feb. 8, 1841, Box VII, folder 0014, ESH. 124. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, June 7, 1852, SSC. “Board met & bought 15 barrels of fish—­declined giving back rations to servants.” 125. Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 57, Medical Papers, July 3, 1853, SSC. William, the scullion, was also implicated, but was not punished. This incident led to a complaint lodged by Dandridge’s master, as discussed ­later in this chapter. 126. Box XI, folder 0012, November 4, 1852, ESH. 127. Box IV, folder 0013, “Females May  1848,” ESH. Galt notes that Lavinia returned home to her Master’s in the country ­because of a bout with enteritis, returning “gladly” ­after a week’s stay. 128. Bay, White Image in the Black Mind, 108–9.



Notes to Chapter Two  213

129. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Jan. 1854, SSC. 130. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Sept. 22, 1853, SSC. “. . . . ​I never had anything to do with any w ­ oman hired by the Hospital.” 131. Flournoy, ed., Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers and Other Manuscripts from January 1, 1836 to April 15, 1869, 474–97; and accessed August 28, 2016: http:​/­​/­www​.­encyclopediavirginia​ .­org​/­Bowden​_­Henry​_­Moseley​_­1819–1871. 132. Box VII, folder 0010, No. 3, ESH. 133. Galt references John Connolly, resident physician at the Middlesex County Asylum in Hanwell, U.K. and coeditor of the British and Foreign Medical Review. Connolly was one of the champions of total nonrestraint in the U.K. 134. Galt ­Family Papers I, Box 15, folder 74, Commonplace Book, May 1854, SSC. Galt might also have applied for a professorship in moral philosophy at William and Mary circa 1848. ­There is a draft of a letter seeking to fill the vacancy left by George Frederick Holmes, who taught at William and Mary 1846–7 before leaving to become president of the University of Mississippi. It is not clear ­whether Galt actually sent the letter, and the tone is noncommittal as he asks to be considered if they ­can’t find a more “eminent” scholar. See Box VII, folder 0032, item 2, ESH; and Haulman and Hausman, “History of the Department,” http:​/­​/­www​.­wm​.­edu​/­as​/­economics​/­about​/­history/. 135. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box VI, folder 60, Dec. 1857, SSC. 136. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, July 5, 1852 and Jan. 29, 1853, SSC. 137. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Jan. 31, 1853. 138. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, June 18, 1854. 139. Dandridge whipped: Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, July 3, 1853, SSC. Mr. Marston complaining and asking that certain officers be prohibited from punishing slaves: Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, July 8, 1853, SSC. 140. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, July 6, 1853, SSC. 141. Box XI, folder 0012, Nov. 26, 1852, ESH; Galt ­Family Papers I, Box 15, folder 17, Commonplace Book, August 1853, SSC. 142. See “Special Report,” Jan. 10, 1856, Box IX, folder 0019, ESH. The imprecision is due to the fact that the shoemaker, Mr. Moore, is said to possess “two coloured w ­ omen . . . . ​one of them having no ­children,” which implies that the other ­woman did have at least one child and possibly more. 143. Wise’s visit: Box VIII, folder 0023, April 13, n.d. [1857], ESH. Galt’s response: Galt, Reports of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Years 1855– 57, 1857–9, 1859–61, 8. 144. “Special Report,” Jan. 10, 1856, Box IX, folder 0019, ESH. 145. Barziza to anonymous [ JMG], Feb. 8, 1841, Box VIII, folder 0014, ESH. 146. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Jan. 1850, SSC. “Directed that Ben should go to his wife’s in the week—­that Osway & Oliver should go one fortnight & Thom & John the next—­Jack, Oliver, Dandridge & John being alternates. In case of sickness no leave of absence to be given.” My assertion about the ­women comes from having never found any examples of them ­going home but for two occasions when the ­women ­were ill; and from the fact that the w ­ omen ­were employed “constantly” providing essential ser­vices to the asylum.

214  Notes to Chapter Two 147. Barziza to anonymous [ JMG], Box VIII, folder 0014, Feb, 8 1841, ESH. Dandridge stealing a h­ orse: Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, Folder 47, Medical Diaries, May 7, 1852, SSC. Dandridge beating his wife, Milly: Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, August 15, 1852, SSC. “Dandridge again beat Milly.” He may have seriously injured his wife, b­ ecause Galt was l­ater sent a note requesting that he tell Dandridge that Milly was ­dying, and that she wanted Dandridge to bring five yards of “bleach cotton” with him when he came home, presumably for a shroud. See J. M. Saunders to “Dear Sir” [ JMG], Box I. C., Sept. 9, 1856, ESH. 148. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, January 22, 1848, SSC. 149. 1847 contract for kitchen, Box VII, folder 0015, ESH. 150. 1852–1853 Register, George W. Matthew, ESH. 151. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, May 16, 1853, SSC. 152. Box V, folder 0004, ESH. 153. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, November 13, 1853, SSC. 154. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Aug. 6, 1847, SSC. 155. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, June 15, 1846, SSC. 156. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, folder 21, Loose Leaves, January 23, 1857, SSC. 157. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Dec. 10, 1845, SSC. 158. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, January 20, 1853, SSC. 159. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, June 30, 1847, SSC. 160. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, March 8, 1853, SSC. 161. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Feb, 1, 1843, SSC. 162. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 68, April 8, 1850, SSC. 163. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, May 11, 1853, SSC. “It was owing apparently to being placed in the wrong room, one servant directing another to place him in the first left hand apartment of the basement story of the west wing, which was enigmatical, the first room being ­either left or right as we go in or come out of the building.” 164. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, folder 21, Loose Leaves, April 28, 1857, SSC. 165. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, June 30, 1847, SSC. 166. Box VIII, folder 0002, ESH. 167. Box X, folder 0012, Nov. 27, 1852, ESH. This Henry is certainly not the same man owned by Steward P. Barziza, as any slave who was a flight risk would not have been awarded a ten dollar end-­of-­year bonus. Plus, that Henry was a skilled carpenter who made doors for the asylum so would not have mistakenly drilled through them. See chapter two, n. 166. 168. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box I, folder 20, “Servants Hired for 1852,” SSC. This list identifies ward attendant “Henry” owned by “The College.” One of the complaints about Dandridge was that he absconded on the night he was serving as watchman. See Medical Papers, Sept. 26, 1857, SSC. 169. Jack: Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Jan. 1853, SSC. Albert: Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, May 26, 1848, SSC. 170. For example, summer requisitions for 1842: “260 yds single stripe for female patients[,] 88 yds do for female servants” from “Galt journal circa 1842,” ESH. In this instance, slave men ­were given denim—­perhaps ­because of its durability with regard to the physical l­ abor expected of the men—­but male patients of all races w ­ ere provided with striped cotton. See also Box IX,



Notes to Chapter Three  215

folder 0049, ESH: “Another department is managed in the same way by the second assistant who is a tailor, and in his shop is made the clothing worn by the male patients & servants.” 171. Anonymous [Samuel Woodward], Box III, folder 0004, ESH. The author is superintendent for an asylum in the northeast that opened in 1833. Worcester Lunatic Asylum opened that year, with Woodward at the head. 172. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Aug. 14, 1847, SSC. 173. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 15, folder 73, Commonplace Book, Sept. 19, 1853, SSC. 174. Smith, Conjuring Culture.

Chapter Three 1. James Cossy [also Cossey and de Cocy], n.d., Box II. C., ESH. According to J. M. Galt’s patient register from 1843, James Cossy was admitted on June 27, 1822. The sermon was transcribed by another patient, Edward F. Peticolas. Peticolas identifies himself as Edward G. Petticolas, but both names appear to refer to the same man. 2. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, ESH. 3. Numbers and Numbers, The Disappointed, 96. The authors quote Superintendent Stribling of Western Lunatic Asylum: “In such cases the brain has frequently been acting morbidly for some time, without its being discovered, and at length when influenced by religious feeling, its manifestations upon this subject indicate ­mental disorder—­this the effect, is hastily seized upon and assigned as the cause.” Galt’s notes on aphasia include a quote from Milligen: “Religious delusions are no doubt the occasional cause of insanity; but t­ hese ideas are more generally an effect.” See Box IX, folder 0013, ESH. 4. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Eliza McGuire entry, ESH. “Always been moral & virtuous, and is a professor of religion” “Before justices an inclination to sing, & talk at random on vari­ous ­matters. Edwin C. Phillips says he thinks since derangement, exercised on the subject of baptism, frequently saying she wished to be baptised [sic]. Coming to the institution, the spray from the boat calmed her . . . . ​A Methodist.” Hydrotherapy was a popu­lar antebellum practice that existed in­de­pen­dently of asylum medicine, but it was a method that many asylum doctors incorporated into their regime, and its proponents likewise returned the f­ avor by publicly supporting asylum care over that provided by families at home. 5. Galt, “Senile Insanity—­Hypochondriasis.” 6. Poe, “The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether.” 7. Porter, Mind-­Forg’d Manacles, 19. 8. Goldberg, Sex, Religion, and the Making of Modern Madness, 47–48. 9. Foucault, Madness and Civilization. 10. Goldberg, Sex, Religion, and the Making of Modern Madness, 47–48. 11. Dain, Concepts of Insanity in the United States, 68. 12. Porter, Mind-­Forg’d Manacles, 73. Porter cites Digby, Madness, Morality and Medicine. 13. Dain, Concepts of Insanity in the United States, 24. According to Dain, half of the eight institutions founded before 1824 ­were consciously modeled ­after Tuke’s York Retreat, but “the majority of American medical men ­were ignorant of developments in the treatment of ­mental illness” ­until the 1850s. 14. Rothman, The Discovery of the Asylum, 119.

216  Notes to Chapter Three 15. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 45. 16. Stone, A Sketch of the Life of Elizabeth T. Stone, 1842, 27. See also Numbers and Numbers, The Disappointed. 17. Bingham, Observations on the Religious Delusions of Insane Persons, 120. 18. Ibid., 209–10. 19. Isaac Jackson Letterbooks, 1839–1843, APS. 20. On the distinction between perplexity and excitement: Box IV, folder 0026, ESH. On fanat­i­cism: Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 1, folder 16, 1842–1844, item 7, SSC. 21. Porter, Mind-­Forg’d Manacles, 72–73. 22. Ibid. 23. Taves, Fits, Trances & Visions, 85. 24. Ibid., 79–80. 25. Frey and Wood, Come Shouting to Zion, 154–56. 26. Alley, A History of Baptists in V ­ irginia, 212–13. Alley cites The Religious Herald, a Baptist paper, from September 1838. 27. Ibid. 28. Frey and Wood, Come Shouting to Zion, 163. 29. Taves, Fits, Trances & Visions, 77. 30. Henry, Shouting: Genuine and Spurious, 248. 31. Alley, A History of Baptists in ­Virginia, 200. 32. Snay, Gospel of Disunion, 28. 33. JMG to “My Dear Sir,” Box III, folder 0016, n.d., ESH. 34. Snay, Gospel of Disunion, 23. 35. Ely, Israel on the Appomattox, 47–49. Ely writes that John Randolph was “a man capable of paranoid flights of imagination,” and that St. George Randolph spent much of his adult life “­under intermittent treatment for m ­ ental illness.” 36. JMG, Box VII, folder 0018, n.d., ESH. 37. Ibid. 38. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box V, folder 57, “Ideas on insanity,” n.d., SSC. 39. Rothberg, “The Swedenborgian Search for African Purity,” 233–40. See n. 118, citing Swedenborg’s A Treatise Concerning the Last Judgment: “in greater enlightenment than o­ thers on this earth, since they are such that they think more interiorly, and so receive truths and acknowledge them.” 40. Rix, “William Blake and the Radical Swedenborgians.” Rix cites Plan for a ­Free Com­ munity and Nelson, Carl Bernhard Wadström. 41. Snay, Gospel of Disunion, 31–32. 42. Ibid., 38. 43. James Cossy, Box I, folder 0015, ESH. 44. Patient Register, 1852–1853, James Cossy entry, Sept. 30, ESH. 45. Ibid. 46. Cossy, Box II. C., patient writing folder, ESH. T ­ hese images are evocative b­ ecause the “Gates of Hell” could also be the gate to Africa (“Hell on Earth”), with Cossy appointing himself the keeper, perhaps to defend Africa from the illegal slave trade or perhaps to contain what­ever misery he may have witnessed as a seaman in African ports. 47. Ibid.



Notes to Chapter Three  217

48. Ibid. 49. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 15, Commonplace Book, February and March 1846, SSC. 50. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 15, Commonplace Book, August 3, 1846, SSC. 51. Box III, folder 0045, JMG to “Gentlemen,” ESH. “­There is not a more common symptom of epileptic insanity than an exaltation of the religious feelings.” 52. John M. Galt, Box VI, Folder 0003, ESH. 53. Richard G. entry, Patient notebook, 1842–43, ESH. 54. Galt, The Annual Report of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Asylum in the City of Williamsburg, ­Virginia, for 1843, 27–28. Galt writes that this sermon “was wholly composed and written, a year or two since, by a patient who had been deranged ten or twelve years before his admission into the asylum, which was in 1841, and he still continues to be an inmate.” 55. Ibid. 56. Manzo, “Calming Minds and Instilling Character,” 51–53; “Absurd, stupid, and evil in its consequences” from Galt ­Family Papers II, Personal Papers, Box 5, folder 42, item 18, letter to Mrs. Mary D. Galt from John M. Galt, Oct. 24, 1840, SSC. 57. Karp, This Vast Southern Empire, 76. 58. Galt ­Family Papers II, Personal Papers, Box 5, folder 40, item 25, letter to Elizabeth J. Galt from John M. Galt, Feb. 8, 1840, SSC. Galt observes that Mr. Wise is like Mr. Randolph in that both men exhibit “an order of mind . . . . ​peculiarly suited to . . . . ​being in the opposite party to an [admi]nistration.” 59. Karp, This Vast Southern Empire, 72. 60. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 45. The non-­Orthodox Quakers are referred to as Hicksite, so named ­because they w ­ ere followers of Elias Hicks. 61. Ibid., 48. 62. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Catherine Brabbs entry, ESH. 63. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Catherine Lockran entry, ESH. 64. Ibid. 65. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 41. The author writes: “Galt not only strug­gled to discover the root ­causes of insanity. He also tried to understand his patients’ experiences. Galt’s attempt to learn about insanity from the inside out was a step away from the severe eighteenth-­ century perspective and a step t­oward a more compassionate and empathetic viewpoint. On one occasion he wrote in a private journal, ‘I should ask ­every recovered patient the state of their feelings during their insanity.’ ” See also Galt ­Family Papers II, Medical Papers, Box III, folder 38, “Medical Ideas,” Apr. 1844, SSC. 66. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 1845, Catherine Lockran entry, May 1, 1844, SSC. 67. Galt, Po­liti­cal Essays. 68. JMG’s notes on Esquirol’s cases, Box III, folder 0005, ESH. 69. Manzo, “Calming Minds,” 41. 70. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 1845, Phoebe Epps entry, SSC. Phoebe spent another year in the asylum, her condition largely unchanged, ­until she was discharged in spite of residual “morbid excitement” in the form of boisterous cheer. 71. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 1845, Mary Britt entry, SSC.

218  Notes to Chapter Three 72. Ibid. 73. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 1845, Patsy Campbell entry, SSC. 74. Goldberg, Sex, Religion and the Making of Modern Madness, 51. 75. Henry, Shouting: Genuine and Spurious. 76. JMG, Box VII, folder 0018, N.D., ESH. 77. It is pos­si­ble that Galt was referring to fits of prejudice and passion about topics other than slavery, but many patients ­were excited about a variety of subjects so why single out ­these two men in the context of discussion about John Randolph’s attitudes ­toward slavery? 78. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5 Folder 57, Medical Ideas, May 1844, SSC. 79. J. E. Scott to anonymous, n.d., Box II. C., patient writing, ESH. 80. Harrold, The Abolitionists and the South, 87–88. 81. Ibid. Harrold cites the 1846 Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers of the Missionary Society of the Wesleyan Methodist Connection. 82. Lee, Autobiography of the Rev. Luther Lee, 295. Reverend Edward Smith of V ­ irginia was one such acquaintance upon whom Lee called to help him in public debates with ministers who ­were opposed to abolition; see 264–67. 83. Ibid., 297. Lee provides no details about his underground work nor does he discuss the consequences of his zeal other than to say that he suffered with a lot of colds. 84. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers Box I, folder 27, Nov. 12, 1860 letter from L. Lee, SSC. 85. Ibid. 86. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Box I, folder 26, letter to John M. Galt from J. H. Henard, Nov. 15, 1859, SSC. 87. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Edward Peticolas entry, ESH. On “white Indians,” see Scheckel, The Insistence of the Indian; and Lyndgaard, Captivity Lit­er­a­ture and the Environ­ ment. 88. Ibid. His only surviving child was identified as his son, A. E. Peticolas of the Medical Branch of Hampden Sidney College. 89. Ibid. 90. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 15, Commonplace Book, Sept. & Nov. 1847 entries, SSC. Specifically, Galt recorded Peticolas’s cynicism about politicians and his belief that teaching ­music to young ­women was too stimulating for young men. 91. Box IV, folder 0016, “Males 1847 April,” ESH. 92. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Edward F. Peticolas entry, ESH. 93. In April 1847 Peticolas cut off a piece of a hoe in order to bleed himself “upon the supposition that he required bloodletting,” but apparently the asylum staff did not see this gesture as suicidal so much as medically misguided. The Patient Register lists the date of Peticolas’s death as August 21. However, a letter from Barziza to Galt indicated that Peticolas was found dead in his room on November 21, 1847, having killed himself sometime on Saturday night or in the early hours of the morning on Sunday. See Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 6, folder 62, SSC. To further complicate this narrative, however, Peticolas wrote that he transcribed James Cossey’s sermon on Sunday, February 5, 1853. However, February 5 fell on a Saturday in 1853. The correct date of the sermon was prob­ably 1843.



Notes to Chapter Three  219

94. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 6, folder 62, P. J. Barziza to Dr. Galt, Monday, November 22, 1847. November 22, 1847 did fall on a Monday. Presumably, the August date of death in the Patient Register was a bureaucratic oversight. 95. Box IV, folder 0006, ESH. A. E. Peticolas, M.D., served as superintendent for a few months in 1868. Like his ­father, he also committed suicide, as reported in a colorful obituary from November 28, 1868, in the New York Times: “Dr. ARTRUR E. PETTICOLAS, Superintendent of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, at Williamsburg, committed suicide ­there this morning by leaping from a win­dow of the asylum, dashing his brains out on the sidewalk below. The deceased was a distinguished physician, and was formerly Professor in the Medical College ­here.” 96. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box V, folder 57, “Ideas on insanity,” n.d., SSC. 97. Raboteau, Canaan Land, 58. 98. Ibid, 59. 99. Raboteau, Slave Religion, 171. 100. Register 1852–1853, John T. Williams entry, ESH. 101. John M. Galt, Box VI, Folder 0047, ESH. 102. Ibid. See also Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844–1845, Phoebe Epps and Mary Britt entries, SSC. 103. Ibid. 104. Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Medical Diaries, July 9, 1853, SSC. 105. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Ann Burton entry, ESH. 106. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane Deacon entry, ESH. 107. John M. Galt, Box VI, Folder 0047, ESH. 108. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane (Duerson) entry, ESH. 109. 1852–1853 Register, Amanda Roby entry, Oct. 31, 1852, ESH. 110. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Nov. 1856, SSC. 111. Anderson, Conjure in African American Society, 83. 112. Narcissa Cox, Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 5, folder 58, Medical Diaries, July 9, 1853, SSC. Other examples of helminth infection: Loose Leaves, July 1857, ESH (“Miss Bear being reported as throwing up a worm yesterday”); and from the Patient Register, 1852–1853: Nancy Cubbage, Oct. 31 “passed worms”; and Betsy Malone, Dec. 17 “several more worms had been discharged upwards” before she died on Dec. 29. 113. McCandless, Moonlight, Magnolias and Madness, 376, n. 63. McCandless also notes that between 1877 and 1912, twenty-­four black patients plus one patient who could not be identified by race also claimed to be victims of conjure. 114. Fett, Working Cures, 39. Fett cites Smith, Conjuring Culture: “A contraction of the phrase ‘pharmacopeic cosmos,’ the term ‘pharmocosm’ emphasizes the healing and harming capacities of spiritual power.” 115. Ibid., 6. 116. Box VIII, folder 0003, ESH. 117. Ibid. 118. Box IV, folder 0010, ESH. 119. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, November 1, 1853, SSC. “Capt. Bucktrout hired Mr. Clowes to go on with his leading ser­vice over the dead. The servant George asked that they might sing a praise over the dead as an old fellow-­servant.” Harriet distracted about

220  Notes to Chapter Four Ned’s burial: Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Jan. 4, 1853, SSC. Congregation refused room: Box IV, folder 0010, Dec. 1861, ESH. 120. Frey and Wood, Come Shouting to Zion, xiv. ­W hether new restrictions ­were consistently enforced, however, is open to debate. 121. Raboteau, Slave Religion, 178. He cites Jackson, “Religious Development of the Negro in V ­ irginia,” 217–18. 122. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, Aug. 19, 1848, SSC. “Reginsbury complained of Cossy[‘s/I] told him I was always willing to hear complaints, nay desired it.” 123. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, Sept. 28, 1845, SSC. “The Chaplain should be expected to act as a teacher.” 124. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, Jan. 28, 1849, SSC. “Mr. Withers commenced preaching at the asylum.” “Jan. 21, 1850: “New room ready for Preacher. Dr/ Totten preached.” Aug. 22, 1847: “No preaching, Mr. Clarke being sick in James City.” Nov. 1, 1848: “Wrote to Mr. Denison requesting an answer as to the intention of the E. Church in furnishing a Minister; had an interview with him subsequently as also with Mr. Minnigerode. I [raised] the offer of the two gentlemen just named, to preach in the after­noon, & agreed to wait six weeks, for a minister to be supplied.” 125. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, May 28, 1843, SSC: “Preaching resumed ­after a discontinuance of 8 or 10 months.” 126. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, Jan. 21, 1850, SSC. 127. Box V, Loose Leaves, ESjH. 128. Box IC, folder 0011, ESH. 129. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Diaries, November 16, 1853, SSC. 130. The Annual Report of the Physician and Superintendent of the Eastern Asylum in the City of Williamsburg, ­Virginia, for 1843, 10–11. 131. Mrs. Christian to JMG, Oct. 16, 1845, Box I. C., folder 0017, ESH. 132. Nancy Wolfe to JMG, encl. to Mary Barrett, April 11, 1844, Box I. C., ESH.

Chapter Four 1. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane Bonney entry, ESH. 2. Sarah Mosby to John M. Galt, 1858, Box C.II, ESH. 3. Kleinman, Patients and Healers in the Context of Culture, 114–15. Kleinman considers only the diagnosis of posttraumatic stress disorder for victims of state-­sponsored vio­lence such as the Chinese Cultural Revolution or the Cambodian genocide. He does not apply this analy­sis to domestic vio­lence as I have h­ ere. 4. Briggs, “The Race of Hysteria,” 250. Briggs writes that hysteria was “never just a disease.” It was also “the way nineteenth-­century U.S. and Eu­ro­pean cultures made sense of ­women’s changing roles” as they increasingly sought higher education, paid employment, and a voice in the public sphere. 5. Galt ­Family Papers I, Box 15, Commonplace Book, Dec. 1846, SSC. For more on hysteria, see Showalter, The Female Malady, and Smith-­Rosenberg, Disorderly Conduct, 127–216. 6. Box I, folder 0004, An Essay on Botany, also Medical Fragments, 1841, ESH. 7. Schwartz, Birthing a Slave, 78.



Notes to Chapter Four  221

8. Box I, folder 0004, An Essay on Botany, also Medical Fragments, 1841, ESH. 9. Box IX, folder 0047, JMG to “Dear Sir,” n.d., ESH. 10. Box III, folder 0017, ESH. 11. “Acute hysteron-­manias,” Box III, folder 0011, ESH. 12. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Ann Shivers entry, ESH. 13. Briggs, “The Race of Hysteria,” 256. Briggs cites H. R. Storer, a nineteenth-­century physician who successfully led the movement to criminalize abortion in this era. 14. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Lucy Fankersby entry, ESH. 15. Box IX, folder 0032, ESH. 16. Box I, folder 0004, An Essay on Botany, also Medical Fragments, 1841, ESH. 17. Box IX, folder 0025, p. 16, ESH. 18. Foucault, Abnormal, 252–53. 19. McGregor, From Midwives to Medicine, 145. 20. Ibid., 141. See also Owens, Medical Bondage, 33. Owens writes that Sims operated without anesthesia b­ ecause doctors ­were afraid that unconscious patients would die and they valued speed more than eradication of pain, not b­ ecause he was especially cruel. 21. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, ESH. 22. Smith-­Rosenberg and Rosenberg, “The Female Animal,” 336. 23. Schwartz, Birthing a Slave, 167; Owens, Medical Bondage, 10 and 46. Owens mentions Dr. John Archer, who published an article (“Facts Illustrating a Disease”) in 1810 in which he asserted that the clitorises of l­ ittle black girls ­were larger than t­ hose of white girls b­ ecause they sat unattended in fields for many hours. 24. Box V, folder 0004, ESH; See also Box III, folder 0015, ESH. 25. Schwartz, Birthing a Slave, 17–25. 26. Lunbeck, The Psychiatric Persuasion, 185. 27. Ibid., 204. 28. Goldberg, Sex, Religion, and the Making of Modern Madness, 85. 29. Ibid., 90. 30. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, ESH. One ­woman, not included in ­these lists, was refused admission on the grounds that she was a deaf idiot rather than insane. The discharged patients are three white ­women: Eliza McGuire, Mary Bilby, and Catherine Sale. 31. Ibid. 32. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Fanny Jett entry, ESH. A separate letter from July 1841 seeking admission for “Mrs. Jutt,” approximately 35 years old and with six young c­ hildren married to “Peter Jutt,” a man “upwards of 70 years old” prob­ably refers to the same ­woman although her name and the particulars of her domestic arrangements are not accurate. This letter can be found in Galt F ­ amily Papers II, John M. Galt II, Box VII, folder 73, SSC. 33. Ibid. 34. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Elizabeth Hockman entry, ESH. 35. Richardson to JMG, Dec. 2, 1844, Box I. C., folder 0006, ESH. 36. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Mary Bilby entry, ESH. 37. Ibid., Lucy Beasley entry, ESH. 38. Ibid., Nancy Greenlee entry, ESH. 39. Ibid., Mary Richardson entry, ESH. 40. Ibid., Celia Lane entry, ESH.

222  Notes to Chapter Four 41. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Sally Cary Williams entry, ESH. For more on the concept of “soundness” and slave health, see Fett, Working Cures. 42. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 45, SSC; and Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Lydia entry, ESH. 43. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, Box 20, Case histories of asylum patients, 1844– 45, July 10, 1844, SSC. 44. Ibid. 45. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Mary Britton entry, ESH. 46. Ibid., Nancy Zinn entry, ESH. 47. Ibid., Juliana Jones entry, ESH. 48. Ibid., Mary Ann Webb entry, ESH. 49. Ibid., Mary Barrett entry, ESH. See also three letters from Nancy Wolfe to JMG, July 20, 1843; April 11, 1844; and Feb. 6, 1845, all Box I. C., folders 0003, 0004, and 0010, ESH. 50. Nancy Wolfe to JMG, April 11, 1844, Box I. C, folder 0004, ESH. 51. 1842–1843 Patient Register, Mary Barrett entry, ESH. 52. Ibid. 53. Loose Leaves, May 1844, Box IV, folder 0017, ESH. 54. Nancy Wolfe to JMG, February 6, 1845, Box I. C., 0010, ESH. See also letter from Mrs. Wolfe to JMG, Nov. 15, 1843, Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Box VII, folder 81, SSC. In the 1843 letter Mrs. Wolfe writes that if Mary’s husband “had been possessed of fealings [sic] less cruel and unkind than a turk[sic] she never would have been whare[sic] she is.” 55. Loose Leaves, May 1844, Box IV, folder 0017, ESH. 56. Galt ­Family Papers I, Manuscripts, case histories of asylum patients, 1844–1845, SSC. Mary died on June 17, 1845. 57. Patient Register, 1852–1853, Louisiana Woddy entry, ESH. 58. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Pasty Campbell entry, ESH. 59. R. A. Jenkins to “J.M. Gault”[sic], Nov. 29, 1855, Box I. A., folder 0013, ESH. Robert Alexander Jenkins owned Jenkins Tobacco Factory. Powell, “Dictionary of North Carolina Biography,” http:​/­​/­www​.­ncpedia​.­org​/­biography​/­harris​-­caroline . 60. Fett, Working Cures, 39. 61. Lincoln and Mamiya, Down by the Riverside, 33. 62. Ibid. 63. McGregor, Midwives to Medicine, 38–39. 64. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Patsy Campbell entry, ESH. 65. Marland, Infanticide, 173. 66. Meyer and Oberman, ­Mothers Who Kill Their C ­ hildren, 11. The authors argue that American courts are much less “sanguine” than ­those in ­Great Britain about treating infanticide as a medical condition rather than a crime b­ ecause ­there is no consensus on the issue in the United States. I suspect that t­ here are regional patterns to court decisions and that race has been an impor­tant ­factor. Broadly speaking, t­ here is consensus within the medical community about postpartum psychosis. Experts agree on the symptoms and the rarity of their occurrence. According to Meyer and Oberman, the impact of this consensus on the majority of infanticide cases is “minimal” as this disorder affects very few ­women. The authors also note that British law regarding infanticide has been replicated in twenty-­two countries.



Notes to Chapter Four  223

67. McGregor, From Midwives to Medicine, 38. 68. Burwell B. Wilkes to JMG, May 25, 1849, Box I. A., folder 0008, ESH. 69. Ibid. 70. Patient Register, 1852–1853, Lucy Wilkes entry, ESH. 71. Burwell B. Wilkes to JMG, Jan. 30, 1858, Box I. C., folder 0068, ESH. Lucy remained in the asylum through the Civil War. See chapter five. 72. Rabin, Infanticide: Historical Perspectives on Child Murder and Concealment, 76. Rabin also points out that a married (white) w ­ oman was more likely to be acquitted if her character was considered “good.” See also Schwartz, Birthing a Slave, 207–14. 73. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Jane Bonney entry, ESH. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid. 76. W. Hix to JMG, March 19, 1862, Box II. A., folder 0046, ESH. 77. Shaw, Mothering: Ideology, Experience, and Agency, 247–48. 78. Weaver, “ ‘She Crushed the Child’s Fragile Skull,” 93–109. Weaver writes that the image of a barbarous and depraved slave ­mother created a new disease category, “mal de machoire.” 79. Shwarz, Twice Condemned, 252–54 and 291. 80. W. W. Forbes to JMG, March 18, 1859, Box II. A., folder 0028, ESH. 81. Johnson, “Smothered Slave Infants: W ­ ere M ­ others at Fault?” 493–520; and Savitt, “Smothering and Overlaying of ­Virginia Slave ­Children,” 400–5. On neonatal tetany among slaves: Bush, More than Chattel, 207. 82. Shaw, Mothering: Ideology, Experience, and Agency, 248–49; and Bush, More than Chat­ tel, 207. Bush points out that in West Africa “a newborn infant is not regarded as part of this world ­until eight or nine days have passed, during which period it may be ritually neglected.” She speculates that this belief might have traversed the Atlantic. In V ­ irginia during the revivals of the 1830s, large numbers of African Americans w ­ ere converted to Chris­tian­ity, which has strong taboos against infanticide. Nevertheless, syncretic religious practices might have played a role in infanticide. 83. Green, “Infanticide and Infant Abandonment in the New South,” 187. See also Green, This Business of Relief. 84. For discussion of “vaginismus” and the nexus of race and gynecol­ogy, see McGregor, From Midwives to Medicine, 1–7. See also Owens, Medical Bondage. 85. Meyer and Oberman, ­Mothers Who Kill Their ­Children, 15. 86. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 169. 87. Digital Highlights, “Elizabeth Packard Ware, Asylum Activist,” http:​/­​/­www​ .­medicalheritage​.­org​/­2014​/­06​/­digital​-­highlights​-­elizabeth​-­packard​-­ware​-­asylum​-­activist​/­; and Packard, Modern Persecution. 88. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 175. 89. Ibid., 180. 90. Gordon, Heroes of Their Own Lives, 255. 91. Keith, “9 March 1996, review of McCurry, Masters of Small Worlds,” http:​/­​/­www​.­h​-­net​ .­org​/­reviews​/­showrev​.­php​?­id​=­284; and Genovese, Roll, Jordan Roll. 92. As Gordon points out in a footnote (Heroes, 364, n. 16): “The nineteen most often cited pre­ce­dents from 1823 to 1876 defy a generalization that ­there was a steady motion

224  Notes to Chapter Four t­ owards w ­ omen’s rights to physical protection from their husbands . . . . ​The uneven development was partly b­ ecause ­there is such variation among the states, and partly b­ ecause the relevant decisions w ­ ere responding also to custody contests.” 93. Finkelstein, “A Crucible of Contradictions,” 10–13. 94. For example, Dr. Galt wrote to a husband about his wife: “With regard to seeing her, I would observe that we never prevent them [friend and relatives] from ­doing so—­but in cases which we consider curable, we almost always advise their friends not to visit them, b­ ecause it is the experience of all asylums for the insane that such visits are very apt to make the ­patient worse.” This was, indeed, a common precept for all asylums in this era. See JMG to Mr. Harris, May 28, 1849, Box II, ESH. 95. Dwyer, Homes for the Mad, 80. 96. Patient Notebook, 1842–1843, Catherine Tucker entry, ESH. 97. Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 6, folder 62, P. J. Barziza to Caspar Altschu, June 9, 1859, SSC. 98. “Females April 1844,” Box IV, folder 0017, ESH. 99. Mrs. Altschu restrained for masturbation: Box IV, May 1847, ESH. Other references to Mrs. Altschu include J. A. Aughinbaugh on behalf of her d­ aughters to JMG, July 24, 1855, Box II, folder 0015, ESH. 100. “Females May 1844,” Box IV, folder 0017, ESH. 101. Hebard to JMG, Dec. 30, 1858, Box II. C., folder 0033, ESH. 102. Sarah Mosby to JMG, August 1858, Box II. C., folder 0010, ESH. See also Sarah Mosby to JMG, August 14, 1858, Box II. C., folder 0013, ESH. 103. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Diaries, June 26, 1844, SSC. See also Stowe, Doctoring the South. 104. In May 1847, just a month prior to her delivery, Dorothy Loer had been examined. The doctor noted that she had a “tumid & hard abdomen for more than a fortnight,” but apparently thought nothing of it. See Loose Leaves, May 1847, Box IV, folder 0016, ESH. 105. JMG to “Gentlemen Directors,” June 1846, Box VIII, folder 0001, ESH. 106. Ibid. 107. J. A. Peary to JMG, July 14, 1858, Box II, folder 0014, ESH. 108. Galt ­Family Papers II, Box 2, folder 22, Administrative Diary, Loose Leaves, February 20, 1858, SSC. 109. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, May 23, 1853, SSC. 110. Ibid. 111. Ibid. 112. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Sept. 22, 1853, SSC. 113. Galt ­Family Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 8, folder 47, Medical Diaries, Jan. 1853, SSC. 114. Commonplace book transcriptions, Oct. 5, 1847, ESH. 115. 1852–1853 Register, Mary E. West­moreland, April 1853, p. 142, ESH. See also Galt ­Family Papers, Medical Papers, Box 5, Folder 47, April 1853, SSC. 116. Alexander “Texas” Clowes enlisted in Com­pany C 32nd ­Virginia Infantry in 1862. He went absent without leave in August 1864, was ­later taken prisoner, and then returned to Williamsburg ­after taking an oath of allegiance. Sometime around 1906 he was fired from



Notes to Chapter Five  225

his job as an asylum attendant for physically assaulting the superintendent. He showed up drunk on the grounds afterwards hoping for revenge, but was thwarted. See “House Document No. 3,” Journal of the House of Delegates of the State of V ­ irginia for the Session of 1908, 21. 117. JMG, n.d., Box IV, folder 0007, ESH. 118. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 57, Sept. 5, 1853, SSC. Galt wrote to Drs. Bell, Kirkbride, and Benedict. See also JMG to Kirkbride, Sept. 5, 1853, General Correspondence Box 135, f. 68, PHA. 119. JMG to “Dear Sir,” Dec. 24, 1853, Transcriptions, ESH. 120. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers, Box 5, folder 47, December 24, 1853, SSC. 121. Stribling to JMG, Jan. 17, 1853, Box I. C., ESH. 122. Edward Stainback to JMG, Jan. 3, 1846, Box II, folder 0006, ESH. 123. Ibid. 124. Gordon, Heroes of Their Own Lives, 289. The conclusion of the book begins: “Most of this book is sad. Most of the individual stories had bad endings. ­Family vio­lence has not been stopped.” 125. Thos. C. Byassie to JMG, March 4, 1854, transcriptions, ESH. 126. Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Box 9, folder 99, item 16, June 3, 1854, SSC. 127. Patient Register, 1840s–1860s, Sally Cary Williams entry, ESH. She died November 22, 1865. 128. Patient Register, 1868–1883, Lydia Newman entry, ESH.

Chapter Five 1. Annual Reports of the Officers, Boards, and Institutions of the Commonwealth of V ­ irginia 1904, 108. 2. John P. Gray, letter to the editor, New York Times, October 31, 1863. Gray mistakenly reports that Thompson was from Illinois. See also Gray, American Journal of Insanity, January 1864, 350–52. 3. Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 376–379 and 492–94. 4. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 253. Dr.  Watson graduated from Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia in 1842. See Hays, American Journal of the Medical Sciences, 534. 5. Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 493. 6. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 267; and Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 476. 7. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 262. 8. Ibid., 273. 9. Ibid., 275–76. 10. Ibid., 64 and 267. 11. Ibid., 277. 12. Ibid., 280–281; and Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 236–37. 13. November 27, 1862, correspondence between General Wise and General Keyes, Rich­ mond Times Dispatch, December 15, 1862, http:​/­​/­www​.­perseus​.­tufts​.­edu​/­hopper​/­text​?­doc​ =­Perseus%3Atext%3A2006​.­05​.­0649%3Aarticle%3D7. 14. Ibid. 15. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 282.

226  Notes to Chapter Five 16. Ibid., 291. 17. Ibid., 292. 18. Ibid., 294. 19. Ibid., 295. 20. Richmond Times Dispatch, April 16, 1863, http:​/­​/­www​.­perseus​.­tufts​.­edu​/­hopper​/­text​ ?­doc​=P ­ erseus%3Atext%3A2006​.­05​.­0724%3Aarticle%3D3. 21. Ibid. See also Army and Navy Official Gazette, July 7, 1863, 15, in which Dr. Charles Nichols reports: “all of the civil employees, except a part of the colored servants who fill the places of t­ hose who w ­ ere carried off during Wise’s late raid into Williamsburg, have long been connected to the asylum.” 22. Green, Chimborazo: The Confederacy’s Largest Hospital, 5. 23. Ibid., 47. Green cites McGaw to Moore, May  17, 1862, Chimborazo Rec­ords, vol. 707: 101. 24. Ibid., 49. 25. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 299. 26. Ibid., 302. 27. Ibid. 28. “Medical Department,” Army and Navy Official Gazette, July 7, 1863, 15. See also Amer­ ican Journal of Insanity, “Summary—­Eastern Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia,” October 1863, 244. 29. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 305. 30. “Medical Department,” Army and Navy Official Gazette, July 7, 1863, 15. 31. Ibid. 32. “Annual Meeting of the Association,” American Journal of Insanity, July 1862, 23–25 and 77. 33. Report of the Proceedings of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Insti­ tutions for the Insane at Their Twenty-­Second Annual Meeting, 93. 34. Ibid., 93–94. 35. John P. Gray, letter to the editor, New York Times, October 31, 1863. See also American Journal of Insanity, January 1864, 350–52. 36. Ibid. 37. Tomes, “­Great Restraint Controversy,” The Anatomy of Madness. 38. Dr. J. Parigot, “The Gheel Question,” 332. 39. Dr. J. Parigot, “General ­Mental Therapeutics,” 400. 40. Parigot, “The Gheel Question,” 332–35. 41. Grob, ­Mental Institutions in Amer­i­ca, 326. 42. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 123. 43. Ibid., 147. 44. Ibid., 146. 45. Dubbs, Defend This Old Town, 362–63. 46. Ibid. 47. Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 495–96. 48. Transactions of the 35th Annual Session of the Medical Society of ­Virginia, 322–23. 49. Annual Reports of Officers, Boards, and Institutions of the Commonwealth of ­Virginia, ­December 1865, 9. 50. Ibid. 51. Ibid.



Notes to Chapter Five  227

52. Ibid., 10–13. Regarding Lem: Box IV, folder 0008, April 19, 1862, ESH. 53. Flournoy, Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers XI, 483. 54. Annual Reports of Officers, Boards, and Institutions of the Commonwealth of V ­ irginia, 7–9. 55. Haviland, A ­Woman’s Life-­Work, 407. 56. Annual Reports of Officers, Boards, and Institutions of the Commonwealth of ­Virginia, 9. 57. Haviland, A ­Woman’s Life-­Work, 411–12. 58. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 9. 59. “Eastern Lunatic Asylum,” Staunton Spectator, Vol. 45, No. 46, July 21, 1868; http:​/­​/​ ­­virginiachronicle​.­com​/­cgi​-­bin​/­virginia​?­a​=­d&d​=­SS18680721​.­1​.­2. 60. Ibid. 61. Staunton Spectator, August 4, 1868, reprinted in Richmond Whig, http:​/­​/­www​.­news​ papers​.­com​/­newspage​/­72188200​/­. 62. American Journal of Insanity, January 1867, 496. 63. “Proceedings of the Association,” American Journal of Insanity, April 1866, 177. 64. Transactions of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the 21st Annual Sessions in Philadelphia, May 1867, 60–61. 65. Ibid., 55. 66. Ibid., 58 67. Ibid., 90–91. 68. Ibid. 69. Ibid., 92. 70. Transactions of the Association, 1867, 120. 71. Ibid., 114. 72. Ibid., 57–59 and 117–19. 73. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 152. 74. Ibid., 151. 75. Ibid., 138. 76. Williamsburg, V ­ irginia Field Office, Letters Sent by Superintendent of Negro Affairs, April–­November 1867. 77. Ibid. 78. Williamsburg, ­Virginia Field Office, Proceedings of Freedmen’s Court, March–­ May 1866. 79. Ibid. 80. Williamsburg, ­Virginia Field Office, Letters Sent by Superintendent of Negro Affairs, April–­November 1867. 81. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 142. 82. Gaillard, “Editorials,” Richmond and Louisville Medical Journal, Feb. 1869, 236. The editor wrote about Dr. Peticolas’s inherited talent for painting and stated that the deep regret of his friends was “shared by all who are familiar with his life.” 83. Dr. Cloptom stayed at the asylum as an assistant physician ­until he retired in 1890. See Practice, Vol. 3 (Richmond, ­Virginia, Dec. 20, 1889), 268. 84. Report of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Year Ending September 30, 1873, 13–18. 85. Ibid., 19–32. 86. Summers, “ ‘Suitable Care of the African,’ ” 75. 87. Report of the Eastern Lunatic Asylum for the Year Ending September 30, 1873, 32.

228  Notes to Chapter Six 88. Ibid., 32–33. 89. Ibid., 18. 90. Dailey, Before Jim Crow. 91. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 6.

Chapter Six 1. Reed, “­Mental Death,” 1. 2. On Howard’s Grove as a Confederate hospital, see Green, Chimborazo, 17. On the protest of African American members of the Assembly, see Brooks, “The Politics of Race and ­Mental Illness in the Post-­Emancipation U.S. South,” 75. 3. 1868–1883 Register, Lydia Newman entry, ESH. It is also pos­si­ble that the registrar assigned her a last name. The Register reads: “Transferred to Howard’s Grove Hospital, Dec. 30, 1869 in accordance with Genl. ­Orders No. 136 dated Dec. 17, 1869.” 4. Ibid., Julia Jones entry, ESH. 5. Ibid., Harriet Tuck entry, ESH. 6. Acts Passed at the General Assembly of the Commonwealth of V ­ irginia, Dec. 1, 1840 to March 22, 1841, 390. 7. Patient Register, 1868–1883, Caleb Burton entry, ESH. 8. The most common diagnosis for both African American men and w ­ omen was some form of mania. Ten w ­ omen and twelve men at Eastern Lunatic Asylum w ­ ere said to suffer from mania. None ­were diagnosed with melancholia, which supports historian Martin Summers’s contention that African Americans at St. Elizabeth’s ­were disproportionately diagnosed with diseases thought to be more passionate or violent than the depressive diseases of whites. See Summers, “ ‘Suitable Care of the African When Afflicted with Insanity,’ ” 84. Regarding gendered patterns, the 1872 Report for Central Lunatic Asylum recorded eleven men and nine ­women diagnosed with “idiocy” from January 1869 to November 1872. See Report of the Board of Directors and Medical Superintendent of the Central Lunatic Asylum for the Colored Insane, V ­ irginia, for the Year 1872, 20. 9. Drewry, “History of the Central State Hospital, ­Virginia,” 108. 10. Ibid.,107. 11. Report of the Board of Directors and Medical Superintendent of the Central Lunatic Asy­ lum for the Colored Insane for the Year 1872, 6–7. See also Reports of the Board of Directors and of the Medical Superintendent of the V ­ irginia Central Lunatic Asylum for Colored Insane for the Fiscal Year 1876–77. 12. “Official List of the Colored Persons from the City of Richmond who e­ ither have died in the Central Lunatic Asylum at Petersburg, or are Lunatics and now confined therein, October, 1892,” Small Special Collections Library, UVA. 13. Report of the Board of Directors and Medical Superintendent of the Central Lunatic Asy­ lum for the Colored Insane for the Year 1872, 5–7; and Brooks, “The Politics of Race and M ­ ental Illness in the Post-­Emancipation U.S. South,” 74. 14. Report of the Board of Directors and Medical Superintendent of the Central Lunatic Asy­ lum for the Colored Insane for the Year 1872, 5–6. Two patients eloped and twenty more w ­ ere “on probation.”



Notes to Chapter Six  229

15. Ibid., 5 and 13. The Report reproduced a tabular statement from seventeen asylums, most of them public and all of them in the North. Not including the outlier (3,000 dollars per person at Hudson River in Poughkeepsie), the reported range was 1,666 dollars to 809 dollars annually per patient. 16. Ibid., 11–12. 17. Ibid. Of 311 total patients, 46 hailed from Richmond and 29 from Petersburg. 18. Ibid., 7. 19. Ibid., 8. 20. Ibid., 9. 21. Dr. J. Parigot, “The Gheel Question,” 353. 22. Ibid. 23. Ibid., 349–52. 24. Jackson, “Separate and Unequal,” 12. I thank Ms. Jackson for allowing me to cite her work. 25. Ibid. 26. Report of 1872, 7. 27. Ibid., 31. 28. Ibid., 19. One was discharged as “improved.” 29. Brooks, “The Politics of Race and M ­ ental Illness in the Post-­Emancipation U.S. South,” 83–84. Brooks assigned pseudonyms to the patients, hence the quotation marks. 30. Ibid., 54. 31. Reed, “­Mental Death,” 1. 32. Nichols to Kirkbride, October 27, 1854, General Correspondence, Box 137 f.76, PHA. 33. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 173. 34. Transactions of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the 21st Annual Sessions in Philadelphia, May 1867, 18. 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid., 61. 37. Downs, Sick from Freedom, 40–41. 38. American Journal of Insanity, October 1864, 292. 39. Schuller, The Biopolitics of Feeling, 229. 40. Hale, Freud and the Americans, 76. 41. Bucknill, Notes on Asylums for the Insane in Amer­ic­ a, 4. 42. Ibid., 52. 43. Ibid., 34–35. 44. Ibid., 62–63. 45. Ibid., 70. 46. Ibid., 88. 47. Ibid., 82. 48. Ibid., 85–86. 49. Ibid., 35. 50. Ibid. 51. Tomes, The Anatomy of Madness. 52. Grissom, Mechanical Protection for the Violent Insane (North Carolina), 1877. About Grissom: Powel, “Dictionary of North Carolina Biographies,” http:​/­​/­ncpedia​.­org​

230  Notes to Conclusion /­biography​/­grissom​-­eugene​. See also Cooke, “Speech of Hon. Chas. M. Cooke, Delivered at the Dr. Grissom Trial, For the Defense, Thursday, July 18, 1889.” 53. Reports of the Board of Directors and of the Medical Superintendent of the ­Virginia Cen­ tral Lunatic Asylum for Colored Insane for the Fiscal Year 1876–77, 7. 54. Drewry, “History of the Central State Hospital, ­Virginia,” 109; and Tyler, “Randolph Barksdale,” Encyclopedia of ­Virginia Biography, Vol. III, 171 55. Reports of the Board of Directors and of the Medical Superintendent of the ­Virginia Cen­ tral Lunatic Asylum for Colored Insane for the Fiscal Year 1876–77, 7. 56. Ibid., 4. 57. Ibid., 32. 58. Reports of the Board of Directors and of the Medical Superintendent of the V ­ irginia Central Lunatic Asylum for Colored Insane for the Fiscal Year 1876–77, 8. 59. Ibid., 26. 60. Ibid., 21. 61. “Special Report of the Board of Directors of the Central Lunatic Asylum to the General Assembly,” 1889, Small Special Collections, UVA. 62. Tucker, Lunacy in Many Lands, 564–65. 63. Ibid. 64. Ibid., 569. 65. “Special Report of the Board of Directors of the Central Lunatic Asylum to the General Assembly,” 1889. Small Special Collections, UVA. 66. Ibid. 67. Ibid. 68. Ibid. 69. Superintendent’s Report of the Eastern N. C. Insane Asylum, 13. 70. Roberts, Insanity in the Colored Race, 7. 71. Avary, ­Dixie ­after the War, 203–5. 72. Harvey, Redeeming the South, 77. Harvey cites Mary Allan-­Olney, The New Virginians, 196. 73. Ibid. Harvey quotes Conser, ­Virginia ­After the War, 39–40. 74. Hamilton, Journal of the American Medical Association, 303. 75. Daniel and Hudson, Texas Medical Journal, 264. 76. “The History of Eastern State,” http:​/­​/­www​.­esh​.­dbhds​.­virginia​.­gov​/­History​.­html​.­ The patient bill was dated September 4, 1843 and is located in Box XI, folder 0015, ESH.

Conclusion 1. Poe, “The System of Doctor Tarr and Prof. Fether.” 2. Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, “The Letters of Edgar Allan Poe,” https:​/­​/­www​ .­eapoe​.­org​/­WORKS​/­letters​/­index​.­htm#G. A list of directors of Eastern State Hospital can be found in Hurd, The Institutional Care of the Insane in the U.S. and Canada, 715. 3. Reiss, Theaters of Madness, 145 and 158. 4. Kennedy, “ ‘A Mania for Composition’: Poe’s Annus Mirabilis and the Vio­lence of Nation-­Building,” 15. 5. Tomes, The Art of Asylum Keeping, 290–94.



Notes to Conclusion  231

6. Ibid., 309. 7. Ibid., 292–93. For a new look at Earle’s criticism, see Goodheart, “ ‘ The Glamour of Arabic Numbers,’ ” 173–96. 8. Zwelling, Quest for a Cure, 55. 9. Rabinowitz, “From Exclusion to Segregation: Southern Race Relations, 1865–1890,” 339. 10. Dorr, Segregation’s Science, 115–16. 11. Wood, Lynching and Spectacle, 2. 12. Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth, 236–37.

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Bibliography

Unpublished Sources American Philosophical Society Isaac Jackson Letterbooks, 1839–1843 College of William and Mary, Swem Special Collections Galt F ­ amily Papers I, Medical Papers Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Medical Papers Galt F ­ amily Papers II, Personal Papers Eastern State Hospital, patient library Annual Reports Boxes I through XII Box I. A. (Admissions) Box I. C. (Correspondence) Patient Notebook, 1842–1843 Patient Registers Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, digital archive Correspondence at https:​/­​/­www​.­eapoe​.­org​/­WORKS​/­letters​/­index​.­htm#G. Accessed March 20, 2018. Edington, Claire Ellen Edington. Beyond the Asylum: A Social History of Psychiatry in French Colonial Vietnam, 1880–1940. Manuscript ­under contract with Cornell University Press. Pennsylvania Hospital Archive General Correspondence University of V ­ irginia, Small Special Collections Official List of the Colored Persons from the City of Richmond who ­either have died in the Central Lunatic Asylum at Petersburg, or are Lunatics and now confined therein, October, 1892. [Richmond? 1892?]. Call no. F235 .N4 R53 1892, no. 3. Williamsburg, ­Virginia, Field Office, Letters Sent by Superintendent of Negro Affairs, April–November 1867, M1913, Roll 180. Williamsburg, ­Virginia, Field Office, Proceedings of Freedmen’s Court, March–­ May 1866, M1913, Roll 180. Williamsburg, ­Virginia, Field Office, Letters Sent by Superintendent of Negro Affairs, April–­November 1867, M1913, Roll 180.

Published Primary Sources Acts Passed at the General Assembly of the Commonwealth of ­Virginia, Dec. 1, 1840 to March 22, 1841. Richmond: Samuel Shepherd, printer, 1841.

234 Bibliography Allan-­Olney, Mary. The New Virginians, vol. 2. Edinburgh: 1880. “Annual Meeting of the Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane.” American Journal of Insanity 19 ( July 1862): 22–86. Avary, Myrta L. ­Dixie ­after the War: An Exposition of the Social Conditions Existing in the South. During the Twelve Years Succeeding the Fall of Richmond (1906; reprint, New York, 1969). Bingham, Nathaniel. Observations on the Religious Delusions of Insane Persons. London: J. Hatchard and Son, 1841. “Biographical.” American Journal of Insanity, 22 (April 1866): 514–68. “Biography of Randolph Barksdale.” Encyclopedia of ­Virginia Biographies, Vol. III. New York: Lyon Gardiner Tyler, LL.D., 1915. Accessed July 14, 2014. http://www​ .onlinebiographies.info/va/barksdale-r.htm. Boelt, Fred. “Confederate Gravesites (Alexander “Texas” Clowes).” James City County Picket Lines, February 2014, 4. Accessed September 1, 2016. http:​/­​/­www​ .­jamescitycavalry​.­org​/­sitebuildercontent​/­sitebuilderfiles​/­newsletterfeb14​.­pdf. Bradford, Erin. “­Free African American Population in the U.S.: 1790–1860.” 2008. Accessed June 4, 2017. http:​/­​/​­www​.­ncpedia​.­org​/­sites​/­default​/­files​/­census​_­stats​_­1790–1860​.­pdf. Brigham, Amariah, ed. “Lunatic Asylums in the United States.” American Journal of Insanity 2 (October 1845): 154–59. —­—­—. Observations on the Influence of Religion upon the Health and Physical Welfare of Mankind. Boston: Marsh, Capen, & Lyon, 1835. Bucknill, John Charles. Notes on Asylums for the Insane in Amer­ic­ a. London: J. & A. Churchill, 1876. Accessed September 1, 2016. https:​/­​/­archive​.­org​/­details​ /­notesonasylumsfo00buckrich. Cartwright, S. “Report on the Diseases and Physical Peculiarities of the Negro Race.” DeBow’s Review Southern and Western States 7 (1851): 692–96 Conser, Solomon L. M. ­Virginia ­After the War: An Account of Three Years’ Experience in Reor­ga­niz­ing the Methodist Episcopal Church in ­Virginia at the Close of the Civil War. Indianapolis: Baker & Randolph, Lith. & Eng., Co.1891. Cooke, Charles Mather. “Speech of Hon. Chas. M. Cooke, Delivered at the Dr. Grissom Trial, For the Defense, Thursday, July 18, 1889.” Raleigh, N.C.: Edwards & Broughton, 1889. Accessed March 20, 2018. https:​/­​/­archive​.­org​/­details​/­speechofhonchasm00cook. Correspondence between General Wise and General Keyes from November 27, 1862. Richmond Times Daily Dispatch, December 15, 1862. Accessed September 1, 2016. http:​/­​/­www​.­perseus​.­tufts​.­edu​/­hopper​/­text​?­doc​=P ­ erseus%3Atext%3A2006​.­05​ .­0649%3Aarticle%3D7. Daniel, F. E., M.D. and S. E. Hudson, M.D., eds. Texas Medical Journal 9 (1894): 264. Drewry, William Frances, M.D. “History of the Central State Hospital, ­Virginia.” In Annual Reports of Officers, Boards, and Institutions of the Commonwealth of ­Virginia. Richmond: J. H. O’Bannon, 1904. Earle, Pliny. History, Description, and Statistics of the Bloomingdale Asylum for the Insane. New York: Egberts, Hovey, & King, 1848. “Eastern Lunatic Asylum.” Staunton Spectator, July 21, 1868, 2. Accessed September 1, 2016. http:​/­​/­virginiachronicle​.­com​/­cgi​-­bin​/­virginia​?­a​=­d&d​=­SS18680721​.­1​.­2. Flournoy, Henry W., ed.. Calendar of ­Virginia State Papers and Other Manuscripts from January 1, 1836 to April 15, 1869, Vol. XI. Richmond: James E. Goode, 1893.

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Index

Abbott, Lyman, 199 abolitionism: association with Afro-­ Christianity, 15; asylum advocates and, 31, 44, 48, 67, 187; connected to feminism, 134; described as fanat­i­cism, 36–37, 47, 90–91; at the Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 32, 64, 84, 87, 100–102, 138, 196; Galt’s youthful attention to, 21, 39, 94, 96; opposition to slave trade distinguished from, 14, 89; religious rift over, 82; in rhe­toric, 182–83, 195; Underground Railroad and, 15, 101, 161, 218n83. See also restraints: abolition of Adams, John Quincy, 108 Africa, 5, 27, 41, 90–93, 96, 109, 191, 201n12, 216n39, 216n46; Liberia, 37; North Africa (Algeria), 199; Sierra Leone, 91; South Africa, 185–86, 195; West Africa, 223n82 African Baptist Church, 88, 109 African Institution, 91 Afro-­Christianity, 52, 88, 179, 191–92, 196 Agassiz, Louis, 38, 44 Albert (­either A. Diggs or A. Marston, enslaved attendant), 79, 140 Allan-­Olney, Mary, 191, 230n72 Allemand, Dr. [Pierre Léger Prosper?], 115 alms­house: asylums compared to, 157, 197; mentally ill in, 5, 29, 37, 22, 29, 120, 162–66 Altschu, Caspar, 136, 142 Altschu, Mrs. (patient), 63, 136, 208n29, 224n99; Caspar (husband), 142 American Colonization Society, 89 American Journal of Insanity, 28, 39, 42–43, 83, 99, 153, 155, 164–65, 178, 183 American Medical Association, 192 American Psychiatric Association, 27 anatomy, 5, 163; comparative, 38, 44, 117

Armistead, Col. [Robert Henry] (board member), 110 Armistead, Mr. (patient), 71, 212n110 army, U.S.: Army of the James, 158; Army of the Potomac, 1; in control of Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 145–49, 153–55; 5th PennsylvaniaCavalry, 147, 153; medical statistics compiled by, 183; 139th New York Volunteers, 153; Peninsula Campaign, 1 Association of Medical Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane (AMSAII), 3, 7, 25–27, 34–35, 51, 115, 169, 179, 195; committee on asylums for African Americans, 28–29; debates over asylum design before the Civil War, 41–42, 44–45, 48–49; debates over asylum design during and ­after the Civil War, 155, 158, 164, 166–67, 181–82, 185 asylums: compared to families, 24, 40, 43; compared to slave system, 3–4, 48; criticism of, 133, 181–82, 197; design and governance of, 10, 34, 42–45, 154, 157, 164–66; objectification of patients by, 7, 15, 83, 117, 135; public versus private, 3–4, 9, 20, 26, 157, 164–66, 184, 188; racial segregation of, 1–6 passim, 28–30, 41–42, 164, 173, 201n10; tours of, 9. See also moral therapy asylum superintendents: autonomy of, 186; as cultural authorities, 9, 26, 35, 170, 202n19; ideological conformity of, 1, 29, 51, 82–86, 94, 111, 196 Atkins, Charles, 117 Avary, Myrta: ­Dixie ­After the War: An Exposition of the Social Conditions Existing in the South, 191 Awl, William M. (Ohio Lunatic Asylum), 29

246 Index Baptist Goshen Association, 91 Baptists, 82, 88–89, 91, 109, 118, 187, 216n26 Barksdale, Randolph, 186–89, 191 Barrett, Mary (patient), 111, 124–25, 143, 222n54, 222n56 Barziza, Philip J.: and enslaved attendants, 68–69, 141, 211n101, 214n167; hides patient suicide, 104–5, 218n93, 219n94; and hiring, 67, 100, 211n100; and patients, 136, 202nn27–28; stabbed by patient, 210n72; tours Northern asylums, 26 baths, therapeutic, 24, 63, 83, 108, 110, 160; hydrotherapy, 215n4 Bear, Miss (patient), 58, 219n112 Beasley, Lucy (patient), 119 Beecher, Henry Ward, 187 Bell, Luther (McLean Asylum, Mas­sa­chu­ setts), 115, 154–55 Betsy (enslaved attendant), 207n13 Betty (enslaved attendant), 65 Bicêtre (France), 9 Bilby, Mary (patient), 119, 221n30 Billy (enslaved cook), 76, 78 Bingham, Nathaniel, 86, 87 Bird, Miranda (patient), 63, 72, 210n61 birth. See childbirth Black, Harvey, 197 bleeding. See medicine, heroic Blockley Alms­house (Pennsylvania), 22, 159, 184, 186 Bloomingdale Asylum (New York), 44, 204n66 Boileau, Nicolas:Contre Les Femmes [a.k.a. Satire X], 48 Bonney, Jane (patient), 58, 62–63, 112, 129–30, 210n61 Boston Lunatic Asylum, 164–66 botany, 23–24, 38, 47. See also Galt, John Minson II: Essay on Botany Bowden, Henry (board member and son of Lemuel J.), 73, 146–47, 159, 161 Bowden, Lemuel G. (board President and son of Lemuel J.), 146, 159 Bowden, Lemuel J., (­Virginia senator) 159, 161, 210n67

Bowden, Mrs. (matron and wife of Henry), 56 Brabbs, Catherine (patient), 97 Brazil, 14, 27, 75, 96, 157, 204n39 Brigham, Amariah (Utica State Hospital, New York), 28–30, 99, 115, 155, 193 Britt, Mary C. (patient), 99, 106 Britton, Mary (patient), 122 Brower, D. R., 169, 174 Brown, David Paul, 21 Brown, Isaac Baker, 115 Brown, John, 15, 101–2, 206n105 Brown, Mrs. (patient), 136 Brunswick Methodist cir­cuit, 88 Bucknill, John Charles, 50, 165, 184–86 Burness, Dr., 139, 208n29 Burness, Mrs. (patient), 139, 208n29 Bush, Barbara, 132, 223n82 Buttolph, Horace A. (New Jersey Lunatic Asylum), 45 Byassie, Thomas C., 143 Cabell, J. G. (board president, Central Lunatic Asylum), 186, 189 Cabell, Robert (assistant physician, Central Lunatic Asylum), 179 calomel, 24, 203n26 Campbell, David, 147 Campbell, Patsy (patient), 100, 125–26 Campbell, Thomas C., 175 camp meetings, 9, 84, 89, 99–100, 125, 191 captivity narratives, 103, 133, 218n87 care: conceptions of, 52–55; pejorative association with coercion, 14, 55, 193; relational empathy of enslaved attendants versus paternalistic sympathy of moral therapy, 62, 67–68, 72, 79, 125, 149, 177, 207n9 Carrington, Charles, 197–99 Car­ter, Robert “Councillor,” III, 90–91 Cartwright, Samuel, 6–7, 202n15 castration, 192–93 Catholicism, 43, 84, 95, 97–98, 157 Central Lunatic Asylum (­Virginia), 18, 171–73, 193, 196–98; buildings and

Index  247 facilities of, 188–90; criticism of, 179; diagnoses of patients at, 174–75, 180–81, 187; farm l­ abor as treatment at, 177–78, 181, 190–91; patients escape from, 228n14; rapid expansion of, 176–77; use of restraints at, 10, 187, 189 Cherry Hospital. See Eastern North Carolina Insane Asylum childbirth: at asylum, 58, 138–39, 208n29; precipitating admission to asylum, 62, 114, 120–24, 127–30, 142, 160, 187; race and, 117, 120–24, 127–30, 132, 160 ­children: of enslaved attendants, 54, 56, 75–76, 207n13, 211n92, 211n94, 211n96, 213n142; social status and, 113, 116–17, 122, 126–29; viewed as hindrance to asylum work, 67–69; vio­lence against, 131–34, 142; of ­women patients, 99, 107, 118–20, 123–25, 143 Chipley, Dr. [William Stout] (Eastern Kentucky Insane Asylum), 154 chorea, 99, 175 Christian, Mr. (patient), 71, 212n110 Christie, Mr. (patient), 78 Cinderella (enslaved attendant), 56, 75–76, 211n97 Civil War: ­Battle of Antietam, 148; ­Battle of Williamsburg, 2, 148; as cause for admission to asylum, 144, 161; damage to asylum, 16, 159–60; seizure of enslaved attendants, 16, 151 Clarke, Mr., 122, 220n124 Clarkson, Thomas, 91 Clayton, Richard (patient), 175 clitoris, 115, 221n23 Clopton, John, 169 Clowes, Peter, 74, 79, 105, 109, 141, 219n119; George (son), 211n95 Clowes, Texas, 141, 168, 224n116 Cole, Hannah (patient), 174–75 College of William and Mary, 2, 11, 16–17, 79, 150, 152, 214n168 colonies for the mentally ill, 164, 167, 178 concealment. See infanticide

Confederate army: Medical Department of, 10, 151–52, 173; raids by, 147–48, 156; refusal to supply asylum, 150–51; supplied by John M. Galt, 1; surgeons, 175–76 conjuration, 23, 53, 80, 107–8. See also voodoo Conrad, Daniel Burr (Central Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 176–77 Constitution, U.S.: ­Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments to, 145, 163 Cook, Mrs. (patient), 63 Cope, Edward Drinker, 184 Corbin, Washington (patient), 64, 210n67 Corinna (enslaved attendant), 71, 140 Cosner, Solomon L. M., 192 Cossy, James (patient), 82, 92–95, 103–5, 109, 215n1, 216n46, 220n122 cottage system, 46, 49–50, 157, 184, 196 Cox, Mrs. [Narcissa?] (patient), 61 Cox, Narcissa (patient), 106–7 Crippin, Mary (patient), 72, 210n61 Cuba, 29 Cubbage, Mr. (patient), 78 Cubbage, Nancy (patient), 219n112 Cumming, Dr., 43, 45 Dain, Norman: Concepts of Insanity in the United States, 215n13; Disordered Minds: The First ­Century of Eastern State Hospital in Williamsburg, ­Virginia, 1766–1866, 6 Darwin, Charles: Origin of Species, 183 Davis, J. Barnard: Crania Britannica, 38 “Davis, Martin” (patient pseud.), 180 Dazille, Jean Barthélemy, 131 deafness, 135, 221n30 DeBow’s Review, 7 degeneration, 184–85 dehumanization of African Americans, 73, 182, 186, 192–93, 199. See also asylums: objectification of patients by delusions: associated with religion, 7, 28, 83–86, 195; case studies of patients and, 92–94, 99, 106, 118–19, 122, 125, 181;

248 Index delusions (cont.) viewed as effect not cause of insanity, 84–85, 111, 215n3 dementia, 91, 118, 121, 123–24, 174–75 Dennison, Mr., 110 diarrhea, 57–58, 208n22, 209n40 Dick (enslaved attendant), 64, 78, 207n10 digestion, 57, 61 Diggs, Albert (enslaved attendant), 55, 74 disease, general conceptions of, 8, 24–25, 112 Diskler, Mr. (patient), 64 dissection, 5 Dix, Dorothea: asylum advocacy, 4, 34, 178; correspondence with superintendents, 41, 44, 48–49, 66; views about enslaved attendants, 14, 66, 68–69, 154; views about gender, 67; visit to Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 66, 153–56 Dix, John A., 152–53 douche, controversial use of, 63, 83, 136, 154, 170, 181, 193 Douglas, William (officer), 148–49 Douglass, W. (patient), 175 Dover Association, 88 Dover Baptist Church, 89 drapetomania, 6 DuBois, Antoine, 115 (Duerson), Jane (patient), 107 Dutch Reformed Church, 95 Dymphna, Saint, 42 dysentery, 57, 144, 179, 208n22, 211n97. See also diarrhea dysesthesia, 6 Earle, Pliny (Bloomingdale Asylum, New York, and Northampton State Hospital for the Insane, Mas­sa­chu­setts), 35, 96, 108–9, 194, 197, 206n105, 231n7; on Gheel, 43–45 Eastern Lunatic Asylum —­admission to, 12–13 —­asylum attendants (enslaved): ability to provide moral care questioned, 14, 51, 66–69, 154; accused of mistreating patients, 64–65; authority of, 14, 47, 55,

61–64, 67, 73; conception of moral care, 52–55, 80–81; direct payment to, 52, 70–71; duties of, 57–63, 71, 208n18, 208n21–22; living conditions of, 52, 72, 75–77, 213n146; complaints about, 64–66, 78–79; praise for, 66, 68, 155–56; religious identity of, 80–81, 88, 108–9; re­sis­tance shown to superior officers, 61, 79; uncertain status during Civil War, 145, 147–49, 151; vio­lence against, 64, 74, 140, 210n66; wages earned (paid to masters), 68–70, 211n101 —­asylum patients: escape from asylum by, 5, 55, 70, 64, 78–79, 101, 140; ­labor performed by, 25–26, 32, 42–43, 46; differences in treatment based on race and social class, 7, 9, 71–72, 121, 125, 138; liberties offered to, 5, 43, 46, 66, 73, 170; re­sis­tance shown to asylum authorities, 40, 61–62, 64, 79, 98, 130; restrained, 40, 52, 63; vio­lence amongst; 65, 136 —­board of directors, 5, 11, 169, 194, 197; bylaws passed by, 54, 69; commitment hearings before, 12, 100, 107, 118–20, 124, 129; challenged by John M. Galt, 46, 59, 67, 72–75; governance during and just ­after the Civil War, 159, 161–63; po­liti­cal coup in the 1850s, 73–74, 146; response to births at asylum, 139–41; response to religious ser­vices at asylum, 108–10 —­buildings and facilities of, 19, 21, 33, 60, 75–77, 121, 153, 156, 159–60, 163 —­food: enslaved c­ hildren fed from scraps, 69; force-­feeding of patients, 61–62; rations for enslaved attendants, 72; shortages of, 59, 70, 159; theft of, 55, 73–74; typical meal for patients, 58–59 —­reputation of, 58, 136, 140, 153, 160 Eastern North Carolina Insane Asylum (a.k.a. Cherry Hospital), 191 Ebenezer Church (Gloucester, V ­ irginia), 88 Eberbach Asylum (Germany), 117 eclecticism, 24 edema, 57, 63 Elam Baptist Church, 109

Index  249 electric shocks, 25 Eliza (­daughter of enslaved attendant Betsy), 207n13 Ellen (enslaved attendant), 70 (Elliot), Peter (patient), 64 emancipation: as alleged cause of insanity, 164, 180, 182; “married ­women’s,” 133; of slaves, 86, 89, 145, 148, 172, 174, 183, 191 enthusiasm. See fanat­i­cism, religious epilepsy, 94, 99, 180, 187 Episcopalian, 89, 96, 109 Epps, Phebe (patient), 99, 106, 217n70 erysipelas, 60, 209n40 Esquirol, Jean Etienne Dominique, 98–99, 127, 217n68 eugenics, 197 fanat­i­cism, religious: Afro-­Christianity characterized as 191–92; compared to intemperance, 87; connected to sexual passion, 7, 15, 114–15, 120, 125, 144; as defined by John M. Galt, 36, 92, 94, 99; as understood by superintendents generally, 4, 35, 86, 216n20. See also ner­vous system Fankersby, Lucy (patient), 115 Fanny (enslaved cook), 58, 68, 72, 75–76 Fanon, Frantz, 199, 231n12 Ferguson, Mrs. (patient), 58 fire, 72 First African Baptist Church, 88 Fischer, Dr. [Edward C.] (Insane Asylum of North Carolina), 165–66 Florida, 12 Fort Magruder, 150 Fort Monroe, 1, 155 Foucault, Michel, 85, 202n18 Fox, George, 85. See also Quakerism Frankfort Asylum (a.k.a. Friends Hospital, Pennsylvania), 44, 194 ­Free Air and F ­ amily Life System, 157, 178 Freedmen’s Bureau: Certification of Insanity, 167; inadequate funding for, 172; Medical Division of, 145, 162, 166, 174, 176–77; role in segregating asylums

in ­Virginia, 16–18, 179, 190; in V ­ irginia, 158, 161, 168 Fugitive Slave Law, 36 funeral ser­vice, 101, 109–10, 219n119 G., Richard (patient), 94 Gains, Mr. (patient), 209n43 Galt, Alexander Dickie (­father of John M. Galt and asylum physician), 20–23, 25, 32, 46 Galt, Elizabeth (­sister of John M. Galt), 41, 217n58 Galt, James and Mary, (­great u­ ncle and aunt to John Minson Galt II), 20 Galt, John Minson I, (grand­father to John Minson Galt II), 20 Galt, John Williamson (cousin of John M. Galt and assistant physician), 146–47, 211n95 Galt, Mary (­mother of John M. Galt), 21, 48 Galt, Sally (­sister to John M. Galt), 21, 48 Galt, John Minson, II: administration at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 12–13, 19–20; admiration for non-­restraint, 3, 14, 27, 74, 206n113; alleged expertise on insanity amongst African Americans, 27–34; attitude ­toward enslaved staff, 52, 62–73 passim, 78–81 passim; complaints about board of directors, 59, 74; Essay on Botany, 23, 113; Essays on Asylums, 41; “Farm of St. Anne,” 42–43; “Hypochondriasis,” 39; interest in electoral politics, 21–22; medical education, 21–23; medical practices, 24–25; modernizes Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 26; opiate use, 2, 49; Po­liti­cal Essays, 35–38; praise for Gheel in Annual Report, 1855–57, 45–48; proposes outpatient care, 40, 42–48 passim; proposes single-­sex institutions, 141–42; regionalism and modernity, 35–36; relations with AMSAII colleagues, 10, 27, 34–35, 41–45 passim, 48–49; suicide, 1–3, 16, 49; views about slavery, 21, 89; views on religion, 90, 94–100, 105–10; views on ­women’s bodies, 23, 113–15, 139–40

250 Index Galton, Sir Francis, 184 Gandy, Henry, 91 Gardane, Joseph Jacques de, 131 Garner, Margaret, 127, 132 Garrett, Robert M., 161 Garrison, William Lloyd, 91 Gary (patient), 60 Geertz, Clifford, 11 gender: normative discourse about black ­women, 7–8, 117, 122, 144, 175, 167, 228n8; normative discourse about white ­women, 113, 117, 122, 175; single-­sex institutions, 35, 141. See also insanity: sexual organs as alleged cause of General Order No., 136, 173 Genovese, Eugene, 134 George (enslaved attendant), 59, 70, 109, 212n104, 219n119 Gheel. See State Colony for the Insane at Gheel (Belgium) Gilman, Sander, 39, 201n7 Glossolalia, 99 Goldberg, Ann, 117 Gordon, Linda, 134; Heroes of Their Own Lives, 143, 223n92, 225n124 Government Hospital for the Insane. See St. Elizabeth’s Hospital Grant, Ulysses S., 158 Gray, John P. (Utica Asylum, New York), 155–56, 164, 166, 225n2, 226n35 ­Great Britain: abolitionist movement in, 36, 91; asylum medicine in, 9, 45, 49–50, 165, 186; Galt correspondence with booksellers in, 27, 41; laws regarding infanticide in, 127, 132, 222n66; Metho­ dism in, 87; patient from, 107 Greenlee, Nancy (patient), 119 Gualtney, Mr. (patient), 63 Gundry, Dr. [Richard] (Southern Ohio Lunatic Asylum), 165 gynecol­ogy, 115, 117, 127, 223n84 Hampden Sidney College, 103, 218n88 Harper’s Ferry, 102 Harper’s Weekly, 2

Harriet (enslaved attendant), 56, 58, 64, 68–70, 75–76, 109, 207n13, 208n26, 211n92, 211nn96–97 “Harris, Mabel” (patient pseud.), 181 Harrison, William Henry, 21–22 Haviland, Laura S., 161–62 Haywood, Mr. (patient), 78 Hebard, Edward, 136–37 Heinroth, J. C. A. (Germany), 85 helminths, 57–58, 61, 107, 219n112 Henley, Leonard (Eastern Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 159–61 Henry (enslaved carpenter), 59, 65, 69, 71, 76 Henry (patient?), 79 herbalism, 23, 62 heredity. See insanity: attributed to heredity Hickson, Mr. (patient), 61 hiring out: of patients as inspired by slaves, 5, 46–48, 177, 196; of slaves to the asylum, 56, 64, 68–69, 73–74 Hockman, Elizabeth (patient) and husband, 118–19 Holt, Mr. (patient), 64, 210n72 hookworm. See helminths Howard’s Grove Hospital: as a Confederate hospital, 228n2; property dispute over, 189; transfer of African American patients to, 173–75. See also Central Lunatic Asylum (­Virginia) Hughlett, Dr. (patient), 61 humoral medicine, 24 Hunter, Isaac H. (board of directors, Central Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 175 hypersexuality. See nymphomania hypochondriasis, 39, 107, 204n39 hysteria, 113–15, 220n4, 221n13 Idiot Law, 135 illness, infectious, 59, 76, 188, 207n13, 211n97, 213n146. See also specific illnesses imbecility, 174–75, 180, 187 impressibility, 184 incontinence, 14, 57, 60

Index  251 infanticide, 127, 129, 131–32, 222n66, 223n72, 223n82 insane asylums. See asylums insanity: attributed to heredity, 8, 104, 120, 180, 184; attributed to religious perplexity, 87; freedom as alleged cause of, 144, 175, 183, 191; sexual organs as alleged cause of, 15, 112–13, 117, 123, 131, 138, 143–44, 196. See also u­ nder names of specific forms Jack (enslaved attendant), 59, 79, 213n146 Jackson, Samuel (patient), 175–76 James, Charles (patient), 175 Jarvis, Dr. [Edward] (Mas­sa­chu­setts), 30 Jarvis, Mr. (patient), 78 Jefferson (enslaved attendant), 104 Jenny (enslaved attendant), 68, 70, 211n94 Jett, Fanny (patient), 118, 160, 221n32 Jett, Peter (husband), 118, 221n32 Joanna (enslaved attendant), 56, 71 Joan of Arc, 105–6 John (enslaved attendant), 59–60, 78 Johnson, Michael P., 132 Johnston, Wilson (patient), 61 Joiner, Mr., 110 Jones, Dandridge (enslaved attendant), 55, 73–74, 76, 78–79, 212n125, 214n147, 214n168 Jones, Juliana (patient), 123, 174 Jordan, Harriet (patient), 174 Judy (enslaved attendant), 65, 70–71, 75 Kemble, Fanny, 21 Kennedy, Mr. (patient), 63 Kentucky, 3, 154, 164, 165, 182, 185 Keyes, Erasmus, 149, 152 Keziah (enslaved attendant), 75–76 Kirkbride, Thomas Storey (Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane): correspondence about John M. Galt, 41, 44–45, 48–49, 181; correspondence with John M. Galt, 35, 41, 225n118; influence of, 10, 22, 34, 44, 96, 115, 154, 157, 164, 188; opposition to racially mixed asylums, 42, 166 Kleinman, Arthur, 112, 220n3

Lane, Celia (patient), 70, 120 laudanum. See opiates Lavinia (enslaved attendant), 55, 57, 69, 77, 208n31, 211n97, 212n103 Lawson, Mr., 118–19 Leak, Reverend, 109 Lee, L. (patient). See Lee, Luther Lee, Luther, 101–3, 218n82 Lem (patient), 161 Letcher, John, 146, 148 Leticia (“Tishy”) (enslaved attendant), 55, 76 Lincoln, Abraham, 145–46, 148–50, 155 Lincoln Asylum (­England), 45, 49, 206n113 Lindsay, Mr. (asylum officer), 64 Lockran, Catherine (patient), 97–98 Loer, Dorothy (patient), 138–40, 208n29, 224n104 London Intellectual Observer, 183 Louisa (enslaved attendant), 68, 74, 79–81 Lumpkin, Wilson (patient), 61 lunacy. See insanity Lunacy Commission (­England), 186 Lunacy in Many Lands, 188 Lunbeck, Elizabeth, 117, 202n22 Lydia (patient), 121–22, 144, 161, 174, 228n3 Lydston, Frank, 192 Lynch, Miss (patient), 58, 208n26 Lynch, Mr. (patient), 78 lynching, 199 Maillard, Stanislaus-­Marie, 195 Major (enslaved cook), 58, 76, 212n111 malaria, 2 Malone, Betsy (patient), 58, 219n112 mania, 9, 87, 100; associated with African Americans, 6, 170, 175, 185, 187, 191, 228n8; associated with female sexual organs, 114–18, 142–43; case studies of 92, 121 Mann, Robert K. (patient), 64 marasmus, 179 Marce, Louis-­Victor (France), 127 Maria (enslaved attendant), 58 Marston, Albert and Eliza (enslaved attendants) 55–56. See also first names only

252 Index Martin, William, 139, 152 Massie, William, 131–32 masturbation, 114, 116, 187, 198, 224n99 matron, 20, 46, 66, 68, 73–74, 109, 155, 206n116, 211n96; at Central Lunatic Asylum, 179, 187; duties of, 71–72, 114, 138 Matthew, George W. (patient), 77 McClellan, George B., 146, 148 McFarland, Andrew, (Illinois State Hospital) 181–82 McGuire, Eliza (patient), 83, 215n4, 221n30 McGuire, Hunter (Central Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 145, 175, 177, 192 McLean Hospital (Mas­sa­chu­setts), 86, 184 McMillen, Mrs. [McMullen?] (patient) 210n61 McMullen, Mrs. [McMillen?] (patient), 61 ­Meade, William, 89 mechanical restraints. See restraints medi­cation, 23–24; given to Confederate soldiers, 1, 152; refusal of, 62; side effects of, 57 medicine, heroic, 24, 42, 115, 130, 203n26, 218n93 melancholia, 61, 100, 104, 169, 228n8 menstruation, 58, 98, 113–15, 123; amenorrhea, 58, 114–15, 130, 132 ­mental illness. See insanity Methodism, 82, 87, 88–89, 91, 99, 101, 124, 187, 192, 215n4 Mexican American War, 98 midwifery, 126–27 Miller, Gordon (patient), 78 Miller, Mr. [Gordon?], 63 Millerism, 36, 86, 99, 115; and William Miller, 85 Milner, Miss (patient), 61 Minerva (enslaved attendant), 76 Minnigerode, Mr., 110, 220n124 miscarriage, 136, 142 modernity: and the experience of ­mental illness, 84, 94; and innovation at Eastern Lunatic Asylum, 6, 20, 25, 28, 49,193; and

slave socie­ties, 5, 35–36, 38, 40, 47, 154, 169, 183, 201n11 monogeny. See anatomy: comparative Moore, Somersett (shoemaker and ward officer), 74, 78, 147, 213n142 moral insanity, 85, 118, 180 moral therapy: abandonment of, 8, 17–18, 173, 176–78, 181–86, 189, 191–93, 196–97; origins of, 9, 19–20, 51, 202n18; tenets of 15, 20, 25–26, 32, 49, 59, 81–85, 130, 202n19; in tension with slavery, 40, 67, 112, 195 morphine. See opiates Morris, Mr., 110 Morton, Samuel, 38 Mosby, Joseph and Sarah (patient and wife), 112, 136–38 motherhood: anxiety about, 127–28, 130–32; and enslaved ­women at the asylum, 56, 107, 132; racial discourse and, 117, 122, 124–25, 129. See also infanticide Mourning (enslaved attendant), 56, 58, 60, 76, 79, 122 mutilation. See self-­injury Myers, John (patient), 62 Nancy (enslaved attendant), 56, 70–71, 76, 211n97 National Prison Association, 197 Nazis, 199 Ned (enslaved attendant), 56 neonatal tetany, 132, 223n81 ner­vous system, 24–25, 35, 99, 108, 114, 116, 183, 194 New Jersey Lunatic Asylum, 45 Newman, Lydia. See Lydia (patient) Nichols, Charles H. (St. Elizabeth’s, Washington, D.C.), 34, 96, 204n62, 205n93; correspondence about John M. Galt, 45, 48–49, 181–82; opposition to racially mixed asylums, 41–42, 164–66; use of restraints, 185; visit to Eastern Lunatic Asylum ­after the Civil War, 169–70; visit to Eastern Lunatic Asylum during the Civil War, 153–56, 160

Index  253 non-­restraint. See restraints: abolition of Nordenskjöld, August, 91 North Carolina, 12, 34, 165, 191 Nott, Josiah, 38 nudity, 63, 120, 130 nymphomania, 115, 117 O’Brien, ­Father, 67 Ohio Lunatic Asylum, 29, 165–66 opiates, 3; laudanum, 1, 24, 49, 61–62, 97, 136, 203n26; morphine, 61 Ord, Edward, 158 Osway (enslaved attendant), 56, 70–71, 211n90, 213n146 Packard, Elizabeth, 133–34, 181–82, 201n8, 201n10, 204n51 parasites. See helminths Parigot, Dr. J., 157, 178–79 Parsley, Rebecca (patient), 63 paternalism, 9, 14, 136, 197 Patience (enslaved attendant), 55, 64–65 Patty (enslaved attendant), 58 Peary, Mr. (­father of patient), 109 Pennsylvania, 21, 38, 103, 122 Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane, 10, 22, 34, 45, 115, 166, 184, 188–89, 201n9, 206n108 Peticolas, A. E. (son of patient and Superintendent ­after Civil War), 103–5, 163–64, 168–69, 219n95, 227n82 Peticolas, Edward (patient), 103–6, 215n1, 218n87, 218n90, 218n93 Peyton, Eliza (enslaved attendant, wife of Jim), 56, 61, 70–71, 74–76 Peyton, Jim (enslaved attendant), 56, 76 Peyton, [ Jim?] (enslaved attendant), 78, 140 phrenology, 25 Pierce, Miss Elizabeth (patient), 65, 210n76 Pierpont, Francis, 146, 159, 161 Pinel, Philippe, 9, 25, 28, 84, 98, 157, 195, 202n18 Plan for a ­Free Community upon the Coast of Africa ­under the Protection of ­Great

Britain; but Intirely In­de­pen­dent of All Eu­ro­pean Laws and Governments, 91 Pleck, Elizabeth, 134 pleurisy, 57, 208n16, 211n97 Poe, Edgar Allan: and John M. Galt, 83; and Pliny Earle, 194; “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether,” 194–96, 199 poisoning, fear of, 61, 107 polygeny. See anatomy: comparative poor­house. See alms­house Porter, Roy, 84, 87, 215n12 poverty, as precipitating cause for admission to asylum, 123, 129, 131–32, 138, 172 Powell, Mr. (patient), 64, 140 pregnancy: case studies of erratic be­hav­ior following, 121–32, 143, 174; concern about admitting pregnant ­women to asylum, 58, 134–36; of enslaved attendant, 68; false conception, 114; of patients, 138–39, 208n29; triggering abuse or abandonment, 123; viewed as incapacitating, 113–14, 116, 187, 222n66 Presbyterian, 89, 91, 95, 97 prison: asylums compared to, 10, 26, 42–43, 102, 192, 194, 197–98; during the Civil War, 150, 155, 158, 224n116; mentally ill in, 157; reform of, 67; slavery compared to, 101 pro-­slavery rhe­toric, 6–7, 38, 134, 172, 183 Protestantism, 15, 86, 94, 11. See also Afro-­Christianity psychiatry: early, 1, 4, 49; French, 84; professionalization and, 127, 175; race and, 5, 6, 11, 117 puerperal fever, 107, 127, 142–43 purging. See medicine, heroic Quakerism, 9, 34, 44, 95–97, 217n60 Raboteau, Albert, 106, 220n121 Ragland, Edward (patient), 61 Randolph ­family (­Virginia), 89–90, 100–101, 216n35, 217n58, 218n77 rape. See vio­lence: sexual

254 Index refugees, 16, 158 Reiss, Benjamin, 195, 201nn7–8 The Religious Herald, 89, 216n26 re­sis­tance, religious, 80, 87, 95–112, 126–27 restraints: abolition of, 3, 14, 27, 65, 156, 20, 25, 74, 206n113; used extensively in asylums for African Americans, 181–92; viewed as occasionally necessary by most American superintendents, 9, 42, 170, 173 revulsive therapy, 25, 28, 99, 195 Reynolds, Mr. (patient), 78 Richardson, Mary (patient), 120 Richeson, Mr. (patient), 61 Richmond and Louisville Medical Journal, 168, 227n82 Richmond Enquirer, 91 Richmond Times Dispatch (a.k.a Richmond Dispatch and Richmond Times Daily Dispatch), 149, 151, 169 Richmond Whig, 91, 163 Roane, Mr. (patient), 63 Roberts, J. D. (Eastern North Carolina Insane Asylum), 191 Robin (enslaved attendant), 59, 64, 210n66 Robinson, Mr. (slaveholder and prospective client), 66 Roby, Amanda (patient), 107 Rodman, Dr. [ James] (Western State Hospital, Kentucky), 164–65, 182, 185 Rose (enslaved attendant), 68, 211n94 Rosenberg, Charles and Carol Smith, 116 Rudd, Mr. (patient), 100–101, 103–4 Rus­sia, 14, 27, 204n39 Salpêtrière (France), 9, 98 Sam (enslaved attendant), 59 Sarah (enslaved attendant?), 211n97 Sarah (patient), 63 Saunders, Mr. (board member, Eastern Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 194 Savitt, Todd L., 132 Schofield, John M., 163 Scott, J. E. (patient), 101 Searhigh, Henry (patient), 60

secularization, 7, 15, 81–86, 93, 108, 111 self-­injury, 60, 112, 118, 130, 136, 209n40. See also suicide Separate Baptists, 88 Sharpe, Granville, 91 Shaw, Stephanie, 132 Shivers, Ann (patient), 64, 114, 206n116 shouting, 87, 89, 100, 102, 120, 220n120. See also enthusiasm shower bath. See douche sickness. See illness Sims, Marion, 116–17, 221n20 Sinclair, Peter (patient), 212n104 ­Sisters of Charity, 66–67 ­Sisters of the Augustinian order, 42 slavery: immorality of, 5, 35, 93; as meta­phor, 40, 134 “Smith, Gregory” (patient pseud.), 180 Smith, Theophus, 80 Society of Friends. See Quakerism solitary confinement, 52, 61, 187 South Carolina, 3, 32, 44, 108, 203n4 South Carolina State Hospital, 191 Southern Ohio Lunatic Asylum, 165–66 Stainback, Edward, 142–43 Stainback, Eliza Ann (patient), 142–43 Stanton, Edwin, 158 starvation: due to Civil War, 70, 152, 158; due to poverty, 131; self-­imposed, 130 State Colony for the Insane at Gheel (Belgium), 42–48, 205n102; Dr. Parigot and, 157, 170, 178–79 Staunton Spectator, 163 St. Clair, ­Virginia (patient), 131 St. Elizabeth’s Hospital (a.k.a. Government Hospital for the Insane, Washington, D.C.), 41, 164, 169–70, 185–86, 201n9, 203n4, 205n93, 228n8 sterilization, 198–99. See also castration stomach pump, 62, 130 Stone, Elisabeth T., 86, 216n16 Storkman, Mrs. (patient), 136 Stowe, Steven, 40, 224n103 straightjacket, 45, 63, 98, 181, 184–85, 193, 210n61

Index  255 Stribling, Francis (Western Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 27–30, 33–34, 72, 142, 155, 163–64, 169–71, 177 St. Vitus’ Dance. See chorea sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS), 132 suicide, 3, 104–5, 118, 131, 163, 219n95; of John M. Galt, 16, 146, 155, 195 superstition, beliefs derided as, 27, 39, 106–8, 111, 170, 191, 195 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 90 Swedenborgianism, 90–91, 93, 216n39 Sweeney, Talbot, 147–49, 152–53 Sydenham chorea. See chorea syphilis, 136, 175 Tait, Bacon, 174, 178, 188, 190 Tennessee, 164 tetanus, 57 Texas, annexation of, 36–37; infantry, 169 Texas Medical Journal, 193 Thom [“Mason’s Thom” or “Old Thom”] (enslaved attendant), 56 Thomas, Isham (patient), 173, 181 Thompson, W. Clinton, 146, 225n2 Thompsonianism, 23–24 Thornton, Mr. (patient), 60 Tipping, Mr., 97–98 Tobius, Bishop, 90 Tom [Peyton?] (enslaved attendant), 56, 58, 71 Tomes, Nancy, 10, 96, 217n60 Totten, Mr., 110 Transcendentalism, 36 trauma. See vio­lence tricked. See conjuration Tucker, Catherine (rejected patient), 135 Tucker, G. A. (Australia), 188–89 Tucker, Mr. (patient), 78 Tucker, Nathaniel Beverley (Board member), 194 Tucker, St. George, 90 Tuke, Samuel (York Retreat, E ­ ngland), 9, 26, 45, 202n18, 215n13 Turner, Mr. (patient), 100–101, 103 Turner, Nat, 105–6, 126

Tyler, Elizabeth [“Lizzie”] (­daughter of U. S. President), 22 Tyler, James (board member, Central Lunatic Asylum, ­Virginia), 175 Tyler, John, 21–22, 27, 96 Tyler, William (patient), 176 Underground Railroad. See abolitionism uniforms, 40, 43, 79, 214n170 United States census, 1840, 28–30, 37, 155; 1850, 127 Universalist Church, 95 University of Pennsylvania, 21, 44, 95, 159, 186 uterus, 113–15, 128, 142 Utica Asylum (New York), 28, 99, 115, 155–56, 193 Utica crib, 156 vaginismus, 132, 223n84 vasectomy. See sterilization vio­lence: child abuse, 123, 131–32, 135, 142–43; in marriage, 119, 122–24, 130, 134, 202n27, 214n147; sexual, 8, 116–17, 134, 139–41, 152, 187, 192, 198–99; of slaveholders, 6, 12, 40, 126. See also whipping ­Virginia General Assembly, 31–33, 73, 141, 163, 174 ­Virginia House of Delegates, 25 ­Virginia Penitentiary, 197 ­Virginia Supreme Court, 190 voodoo, 106, 191. See also conjuration Wadström, C. B., 91 Wager, Peter, 147–52, 155, 159 Walker, Dr. [C. A.], (Boston Lunatic Asylum), 165–66 Walker, Gilbert, 169, 171–72 Walker, Robert J., 36–37 Waller, Mr. (board member), 100 Wallop, Mr., (patient) 64, 210n66 Warren, Mrs. (patient), 63 Washington, Barbara [a.k.a. Barbery] (patient), 174 Watkins, Mr. (patient), 78

256 Index Watson, Gillet F., 146–47, 225n4 Watson, James L., 153 Watson, John Fanning: Methodist Error; or, Friendly Christian advice to ­those Methodists who indulge in extravagant emotions and bodily exercises, 88–89, 191 Webb, Mary Ann (patient), 123 Wesley, John, 87. See also Methodism Wesleyan and Congregational Church, 101 Western Lunatic Asylum (­Virginia): exclusion of African Americans from, 28, 33–34, 177, 203n4; patients work at, 72; proposal for single sex institutions, 141; reputation of, 164, 173; views of superintendent, 155, 169, 215n3 Whig Party, 21–22, 74 whipping: of enslaved attendants, 52, 64, 74, 207n10, 213n139; of jailor’s f­ amily by patient, 123; of prospective patients, 126, 130; regarded unfavorably, 7, 40, 101, 170 White, Miss. Arey (patient), 63 Whitworth, Mrs. (patient), 61–63 Wickham, Billy (enslaved cook), 76 Wilkes, Burwell, 128–29, 160, 223n71

Wilkes, Lucy (patient), 128–29, 160, 223n71 William (“son of servant Sally”), 144 William Henry (enslaved scullion), 58, 74 Williams, John T. (patient), 106 Williams, Sally Cary (patient who became an attendant), 120–22, 125, 144, 160, 206n116, 207n8, 222n41, 225n127 Wilmer, Reverend, 169 Wise, Henry A., 27, 75, 96, 149–52, 217n58, 226n21 Withers, Mr., 110, 220n124 Woodward, Samuel, 29, 109, 155, 215n171 Woody, Louisiana (patient), 125 Worcester State Hospital (Mas­sa­chu­setts), 26, 29, 109, 203n4, 215n171 worms. See helminths Yarborough, Archibald (patient), 61, 209n32 Yarrington, Mrs. (patient), 61 yellow fever, 2 York Retreat (­England), 9, 26, 45, 85, 215n13 Zinn, Nancy (patient), 122–23 zoology, 47