Fruits and Farinacea: or, the asylum kitchen

A table of the fruit and vegetables used at the Royal Edinburgh Asylum in the year 1866.

The links between digestion, or disrupted digestion, and mental disease were considered extremely strong by asylum practitioners of the nineteenth-century. A researcher working with asylum records will inevitably be faced by extensive dietary tables, long discussions of force-feeding, and detailed accounts of patient bowel movements. As such, the asylum kitchen was one of the most important parts of the institution. Staff, and often female patients, worked to provide the patients and attendants with food largely sourced from within the asylum grounds itself as institutions because increasingly self-sufficient. Patients’ work was positioned as beneficial for their convalescence, but also played a significant role in reducing the running costs of institutions.

Patient diet was seen as an important part of care, and it was recognised by doctors that malnutrition and poverty played a significant role in diminishing mental health. D. C. Campbell, Superintendent at the Essex Asylum, even encouraged the formation of funds for discharged patients of County Asylums, in order to support healthier living and better opportunity on their release from the asylum; ‘scanty diet’ being one of the challenges in maintaining recovery.¹

“A large proportion of the recent cases arrived in a state of ill health, or so much exhausted and reduced in condition that any mode of treatment directed specially to their mental improvement would have been nugatory, until the strength was recruited by a generous diet, and health re-established by remedial or hygienic measures.”

— Henry Oxley Stephens, Medical Superintendent, Bristol Asylum, 1862

Food was, then, an essential element of treatment. Thomas Clouston became well known for his ‘Gospel of Fatness’, an extraordinary-sounding food-based approach to treatment which saw patients fed enormous quantities of food in order to increase their weight. Allan Beveridge has revealed how this approach was even the focus of some patients’ letters, complaining of being unable to keep up with the eating required of them.² Rich diets were also used at later so-called imbecile asylums, such as at Caterham - Stef Estoe notes the feeding of custard to patients in the late nineteenth century.³

Nineteenth-century discussions of diet, and its ethics, were linked to religion, philanthropy, and arguments about health and social reform - of which asylums, and moral treatment, were a result. It’s therefore interesting that in the asylum, a place so concerned with moral and physical health, wider debates about consumption and morality seem to have had little impact on medical directive. Meat-eating was facing newly organised criticism in Britain in the nineteenth century. A growing faction of vegans and vegetarians linked the consumption of meat to the consumption of alcohol in what Gregory James has called ‘ultra-temperance.’⁴ Eating animal products was a gateway to poor moral health, and thus eventually poor physical health.

‘Grand Show of Prize Vegetarians’, John Leech, Punch, 1852 (via the John Leech Archive)

As today, nineteenth-century vegans and vegetarians met with harsh criticism. Some was relatively mild, such as a piece by Punch cartoonist John Leech, who satirised the vegetarian movement in 1852. Others, however, drew on degenerationist concerns that a change in the Victorian diet might disadvantage the ‘race’ as a whole. The Illustrated London News declared that to “preserve the integrity and enterprise of the Anglo-Saxon race, the first medical authorities declare that a full meat diet must be used.” ⁵

However, the press also allowed proponents of the movement to spread their message: for example, The Vegetarian Messenger was produced by the Vegetarian Society from 1849. Others publications also promoted abstinence from meat and animal products. Martha Brotherton’s Vegetable Cookery was the first vegetarian cookbook, produced in 1812. ⁶ Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley was famously vegetarian, writing in defence of his ‘natural diet’ in 1813 . ⁷ Vegetarian writing especially proliferated in the late nineteenth-century, with further cookbooks, tracts and books endorsing the practice. And it seems that some vegetarian publications even found their way into the asylums: the Royal Edinburgh Asylum’s library contained John Smith’s Fruits and Farinacea: The Proper Food of Man, published in 1845. This text was an influential one in the world of vegetarianism. It isn’t clear exactly how this book ended up on the shelves of the library, but given that so many texts were received as gifts it seems possible it may have come from a donor. Perhaps the donor, as a supporter of the ‘humane’ treatment of the mentally ill, also considered animals worthy of kinder treatment? Or perhaps they thought that asylum patients – with lunacy so often linked to intemperance – could benefit from encouragement to live according to principles of ‘ultra-temperance’?

An illustration (possibly by R. T. Trall), from the 1854 New York edition of Fruits and Farinacea published by Fowler and Wells (held by Cornell University, digitised by HathiTrust).

Whatever their reasons for donating the book, Fruits and Farinacea made little impact on the Royal Edinburgh’s dietary. Whilst the temperance movement might have had an influence, vegetarianism never seems to have been considered as a path to convalescence. According to the dietary tables and reports by the Commissioners, patients did get their fair share of vegetables, often grown within the asylum grounds. But animal products were common fare - meat and its quality was a regular topic of discussion by both patients and staff. The Committee of the Isle of Ely and Borough of Cambridge Asylum investigated patient diets across several asylums in 1862; one of the results being a comparison of the amount of meat provided. At the Essex asylum, male patients received 42 ounces of uncooked meat per week; Wiltshire gave around half that, at 19.5 ounces; Nottingham provided their patients three vegetarian dinners per week. George W. Lawrence attributes the Cambridge Asylum’s high percentage of recoveries “chiefly to diet,” and goes to far as to include a table comparing ten asylums’ recovery rates with their spending on provisions.⁸

Other animal products, such as milk and eggs, were also important. Clouston’s ‘Gospel of Fatness’ would have been impossible to implement without them. The pauper diet in Inverness was a cause for concern for staff at the asylum, who worried about the low nutritive value of food due to over-reliance on potato, and fretted about the milk supply. “Nothing is more necessary for the proper treatment of the inmates of this asylum than a full supply of milk,” wrote Scottish Lunacy Commissioner John Sibbald. “It is not going too far to say that a deficient supply will, in many cases, prevent the recovery of the patients […]”⁹

Digestive system: twelve figures, including teeth, intestines and colon. Line engraving by Kirkwood & Son, 1813. (Wellcome Collection)

In the medical sphere, texts like Smith’s Fruits and Farinacea had received a largely negative response – few were convinced by Smith’s claims that meat was "prejudicial to man’s health and well-being.”¹⁰ Whilst the book was commented on by medical journals such as The Medico-Chirurgical Review, it seems to have made little impact on the world of the asylum doctor. In the asylum, the patient diet should be nourishing, wholesome, and sufficient to maintain weight and challenge the impact of malnutrition. Little explanation is made as to why meat or fish are chosen; the question of why John Sibbald was quite so enamoured with milk, is not clearly answered in any of his reports. It may have been the fact that vegetable matter, harder to digest, was seen by some as requiring “greater power of the gastric organs,” which those suffering from lunacy were often deemed not to have.¹¹

“It is undoubtedly true that food prepared in the form of Soup or Stew is not generally relished by the labouring classes in this country. [The Stew] contains an abundance of meat, yet [the Commissioners] correctly remarked that some patients refused it wholly or in part. Probably this may be dependent to some extent on an idea that refused articles of food are again employed in the preparation of Soup.”

— Henry Oxley Stephens, Medical Superintendent, Bristol Asylum, 1867

On the whole, discussions of patient nutrition focused how much patients should be given, rather than what exactly they should eat; and Commissioners’ complaints about asylum dietaries revolved around whether patients liked the food enough to eat it. Ultimately, much of the patients’ experience with food was decided by practicality rather than morality: what could be produced in-house, what would be cheap, and what wouldn’t be wasted.

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Sources:

(1) D. C. Campbell, Report of the Medical Superintendent, Annual Report of the Essex Asylum for the year 1856, p. 15.

(2) Allan Beveridge, ‘Life in the Asylum: patients’ letters from Morningside, 1873-1908’, History of Psychiatry, ix (1998), p. 440.

(3) Stef Estoe, Idiocy, Imbecility and Insanity in Victorian Society: Caterham Asylum, 1867-1911 (Palgrave, 2020), p. 81.

(4) James Gregory, Of Victorians and Vegetarians: The Vegetarian Movement in Nineteenth-century Britain (Tauris Academic Studies, 2008), p. 5.

(5) llustrated London News, 15 June 1851, p. 560.

(6) Martha Brotherton, Vegetable Cookery (E Wilson, 1833), first published in periodical form in 1812.

(7) Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Vindication of the Natural Diet (1813)

(8) George W. Lawrence, Report of the Committee, Annual Report of the Cambridge & Ely Asylum, 1862, p. 9.

(9) Thomas Aitken, Report of the Medical Superintendent, pp. 14-15; John Sibbald, Report of the Commissioners, p. 4; Annual Report of the Inverness District Asylum for the year 1889.

(10) John Smith, Fruits and Farinacea: The Proper Food of Man (Fowler & Wells, 1854), p. vii.

(11) Jonathan Pereira, A Treatise on Food (Longman, Brown, Green and Longmans, 1843), p. 525.

Other useful material:

Onno Oerlemans, ‘Shelley's Ideal Body: Vegetarianism and Nature,’ Studies in Romanticism 34.4 (1995) 531-52.

Madeline Bourque Kearin, ‘Dirty Bread, Forced Feeding, and Tea Parties: the Uses and Abuses of Food in Nineteenth-Century Insane Asylums’, Journal of Medical Humanities (2020) (open access)

Sarah Chaney, “Fat and Well”: Force-Feeding and Emotion in the Nineteenth-Century Asylum, The History of Emotions Blog, 2012

Glenside Museum, ‘Good roast beef with potatoes, cabbage and gravy’: Asylum food 1861-1900

Beggars, thieves, and escape artists

When it came to providing suitable reading for their patients, the Scottish Royal asylums took a relatively traditional approach. Fiction made up the biggest proportion of the libraries at the Crichton Royal Asylum, the Royal Edinburgh Asylum and the Murray Royal Asylum. Religious texts formed a smaller proportion (around half that of fiction at the Royal Edinburgh and the Murray Royal), flanked with scientific texts, works on travel and geography, and history. Biographies formed a signficant part of the libraries too - about 7% on average. These texts offered patients many ‘respectable’ individuals upon whom they might model their own lives. Featured were reverends, writers, and royals: from Bunyan to John Knox to Charles II. Many of these were classics, likely bought second hand or donated from the bookshelves of benefactors of the asylums. However, sitting amongst the more serious texts of the catalogue are a few racier additions to the patients’ reading material. These characters were certainly not examples for patients to follow, so how did they come to be in the library?

Bampfylde Moore Carew, by John Faber Jr after Richard Phelps. Mezzotint, 1750 (NPG D1226, (© National Portrait Gallery, London)

The Murray Royal Institution - The Life and Adventures of Mr. Bampfylde Moore Carew, commonly called the King of the Beggars (1782)

This book, first published in 1745, recounts the life of Bampfylde Moore Carew, an English ‘rogue’. Whilst hailing from a wealthy family, Carew made a name for himself as the ‘King of the Beggars’, spinning tales of (mostly) harmless pranks, tricks, and petty crimes. Beginning with his time at boarding school, where he apparently mastered Latin and Greek alongside making considerable athletic achievements in hunting, the narrative follows a wild life. Joining a band of vagabonds, a trip to Newfoundland, marriage, being crowned ‘King of the Gypsies’, transportation to Virginia, friendship with a group of Native Americans, various escapades across the United States, simulating smallpox to avoid Navy service, and time spent with the ‘Young Pretender’, Bonnie Prince Charlie - all feature in Carew’s narrative. The book was probably not written by Carew himself, and most of the experiences recounted were likely fictional; the researchers at All Things Georgian tracked down some evidence of the ‘real’ Carew which calls into question the authenticity of his claims (aside from the fact of them being hugely outlandish to begin with!) Nevertheless, Life and Adventures was an entertaining read for the eighteenth and nineteenth-century audience and Carew became a notable cultural figure, featuring in print well into the 1800s. It could have been deemed a little fast-paced for the readers of the Murray Royal Asylum - perhaps it was one of the editions which had Carew reflect on his ‘idle’ and unproductive life, in a manner rather incongruous with the rest of the tale, giving it a more ‘moral’ tone.

The Caledonian Mercury reported on Semple Lisle’s defrauding of two women in June 1807.

Crichton Royal Institution - The life of Major J. G. Semple Lisle: containing a faithful narrative of his alternative vicissitudes of splendor and misfortune (1799)

Another interesting autobiography contained in a patient library was held at Crichton, which offered its patients James George Semple Lisle’s own account of his life, written and published during a stay at Tothill Fields prison in Middlesex. The book might have had a familiar tone for asylum patients, as ‘wrongful confinement’ narratives became more numerous during the nineteenth century. It is interesting that Semple Lisle was permitted this luxury whilst in prison. Perhaps surprisingly, Semple describes Mr Fenwick, the prison Governor, as “formed by nature for softening the rigours of captivity.” Semple’s account of his life features his early life, marriage, adventures, affairs, and friendships with European Royals during travels on the continent. However, his fortunes turn. Following an arrest for ‘obtaining goods by false pretenses’ he was sentenced to transportation for the first time, though managed to avoid it. He continued his criminal behaviour, and was sentenced again. His entry in the 1885-1900 volume of the Dictionary of National Biography notes that Semple Lisle went so far as to stab himself and starve himself in attempts to avoid his second transportation. During the journey, a mutiny occurred, and Semple recounts his escape and subsequent travels. This wasn’t his last brush with the law, though - even after another return to England and the prison stay in which he produced his autobiography, he appears in newspaper reports throughout the early 1800s, using confidence tricks to steal money and jewellery from unsuspecting victims across Britain. His Life claimed that “perhaps there exists not another individual who has been so much the play-thing of Fortune as himself,” decrying the “despicable scriblers, who […] have dared to publish their anonymous libels” about him.

‘Magraret Catchpole Stealing the Horse’, from the 1846 edition.

The Murray Royal Institution - The History and Extraordinary Adventures of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl, Richard Cobbold (1845)

A biography rather than an autobiography, The History of Margaret Catchpole was a biographical novel written by Richard Cobbold, featuring transported convict Margaret Catchpole. Cobbold did however have a connection to Catchpole: she was employed by his family in Ipswich, and it was her theft of their horse which led to her being held in Ipswich Gaol, sentenced initially to death and then to transportation. Cobbold paints a picture of a strong, sensible young girl whose fortunes turned. Out of love for an unfortunate sailor-turned-smuggler-turned-navyman, she was persuaded to steal a horse, and was arrested. Her escape from Gaol - impressive considering it required scaling a nearly seven metre tall wall - earned her a second death sentence, and a second commutation, and she was sent to Australia. Here, she flourished, becoming a respectable member of society, eventually working as a midwife and owning a farm. Here, though, is where Cobbold’s story ventures from biography into fiction. Perhaps unable to imagine his heroine unmarried post-redemption, he has her marry the virtuous man whose affections she previously spurned in England; they have a son; and she dies aged 68 with her son by her side in 1841. Cobbold’s maths isn’t quite right on several points, and evidence suggests that she actually died unmarried, in 1819. Cobbold declared that her story was instructive of the “necessity of early and religious instruction,” and that without these, even the cleverest would not be able to “resist the temptations of passion” which might lead to “great crimes as well as great virtues.” Cobbold’s tale was a cautionary one, far more so than Carew or Semple’s works - and this is probably why it ended up on the shelves of the asylum library at the Murray Royal.

'Bookcase credibility' in the asylum

During the pandemic many of us have been given a rare insight into the homes of our friends and colleagues via the magic of video calling. We might be surprised by an unexpectedly bold paint choice, pretend not to see the drying washing shoved not-quite-off-camera, wonder just how many of us have the same IKEA wall unit. The choices we make - or the choices we’re unable to make - in our home decor have taken on new significance. One aspect of presentation has come under particular scrutiny during the pandemic: book organisation.

“The book backdrop is both a handy representation of symbolic knowledge, a marker of cultural cachet and a source of analysis for those seeking to understand the particular individual who occupies the foreground.”

— David Beer, 'The Case of Bookcases'

Salman Rushdie gives us a long, sombre bookcase thundering past like a great goods train filled with credibility. His dome is bathed in the glow of understanding. A lamp pops brilliantly in the distance. Salman's lesson is that thought illuminates fact. Without it, all is murky. pic.twitter.com/AAMxQJaP0y

— Bookcase Credibility (@BCredibility) July 17, 2020

Long before Coronavirus necessitated these digital meetings, there was a clear sense that books meant something, as David Beer neatly summarises. It’s the reason why job sites suggested that having your books on display during a video interview might not be a good choice, or why we often see ‘experts’ of various kinds interviewed in front of a backdrop of shelves (real or not). In 2017 the Senate Press Gallery had a false bookshelf created by gluing book spines to a dark background, used as a backdrop by Senators during TV interviews; Dominic Raab was ridiculed across the internet following his somewhat conspicious windowsill display during a BBC interview in 2019. Since lockdown began, there has been a wider discussion of the meaning of the bookshelves lurking in the back of our meetings, from serious debate about the contents of Michael Gove’s, to the more lighthearted ‘Bookcase Credibility’ Twitter account. The New York Times dubbed the ‘credibility bookshelf’ ‘quarantine’s hottest accessory’, and Curbed shared images of bookcases ‘carefully selected to look sufficiently realistic’ for use as Zoom call backgrounds. Book historians have been glued to the discussion - and so in November we have a whole conference dedicated to the topic, run by the Open University.

All of this discussion about the conscious presentation of books got me thinking about my own research. What was the nineteenth-century approach to ‘bookcase credibility’? Though books were becoming more accessible to the everyday person, they certainly weren’t as ubiquitous as they are in homes today. Take a working-class home like that of Pearl of Days author Barbara Farquhar, for example, where reading material was collected with a ‘take what you can get’ approach due to financial and geographical restraints. How would Farquhar’s family be judged by their bookshelves? Moving the discussion into the lunatic asylum complicates matters further.

An interior corridor at Craig House, Royal Edinburgh Asylum, c. 1897

Earlier in the nineteenth century, the asylum was conceived of by many as a domestic space - a household headed up by the Superintendent, and the patients requiring discipline and guidance like children might. Asylum interiors began to reflect these notions of domesticity, and the setup of the interior space was believed to assist in producing ideal patient behaviour. Despite changing approaches to asylum treatment as the century wore on, by the early twentieth century many asylums still retained some of their domestic character.¹

Henry Oxley Stephens, Superintendent of the Bristol Lunatic Asylum, admitted in 1863 that some might doubt the impact of the trappings of Victorian domesticity on the insane, ‘especially of the humbler classes’, who wouldn’t necessarily have access to ‘pictures, vases, flowers, singing birds, &c.’ in their own homes.² However, the Commissioners in Lunacy provided an answer in their own report, which Stephens quotes: these objects ‘serve to engage their attention, occupy their thoughts, and exercise them in habits of care and self-control.’ This is much the same rationale used by some asylum staff to justify encouraging patients to read, teaching them literacy from scratch, and giving them access to quality books.

“The Commissioners in Lunacy, on their recent visit, mentioned that “in the Acute wards there was rather a scanty supply of books, &c.,” and suggested that the issuing of a number of volumes in good condition, instead of “old and well-worn ones,” would have a good moral effect, and that the destruction of books (which had caused the scanty supply) would cease.”

— James Fountaine, Chaplain, Bristol Asylum, 1897

Images of asylum interiors provide some amazing insight into choices made for the patients’ environment. Spaces, particularly those for middle and upper class patients, were often highly decorated and filled with the ‘objects of interest’ as advocated by the Commissioners. These images present a clean, tidy, domestic institution, punctuated appropriately with potted plants, framed pictures, and ornaments, and in classic late Victorian fashion, often a number of chairs verging on hazardous. In many ways, the interiors are like those which might be found outside the asylum. For instance, take the drawing room of Terregles House near Dumfries, photographed by John Rutherford of Jardington in 1889. Rutherford also took many photographs of the Crichton Royal Institution.

Mrs Maxwell’s room at Terregles House, 1889

Images of asylums were almost always produced at the behest of the institution itself, published in annual reports, or even reproduced as postcards. Their agenda was presumably to present the asylums in a positive light, and to challenge presumptions of dark and cheerless interiors filled with gloomy patients and inattentive staff. They present the ‘ideal’ asylum. In the same way that some of us might curate our backdrops on Microsoft Teams to convey to others our legitimacy, intelligence, or values (or to avoid them being obvious), these images aimed to cement specific ideas of the asylum in a viewer’s mind.

As books formed part of this domestic environment - and since staff were often so keen to emphasise their provision - one might expect to see reading material among the mix. Yet in late-nineteenth century images of the Royal Edinburgh Asylum, even in spaces for wealthy patients, they are conspicuously absent. By this point the asylum must have had a considerable library, growing from a catalogue of over 1500 volumes at the start of the 1860s; yet the room marked as the ‘Library’ of the South Craig Villa does not have a single book visible (see the third image in the slideshow below). The lack of books in these photographs raises two questions: where are the books, and why were they apparently excluded from the recreational spaces photographed?

Rutherford’s images of the Crichton Royal Institution’s main spaces paint a similar picture to those produced of the Royal Edinburgh’s: the dormitory, corridors, dining room, and recreation hall are bare of books. However, images of more intimate spaces, such as the women’s sitting rooms, provide the first visual proof of the existence of reading material within the asylum walls. Two photographs of the same sitting room from Rutherford’s collection give a better understanding of the process of creating these images. The obvious change is the unknown woman in the second shot, but other differences are visible. The placing of framed photographs is altered slightly; an ornament on the sideboard is turned to face the opposite direction; an armchair and cushion are removed; the book is exchanged for another. Clearly, small details matter.

Two views of a lady’s sitting room, Crichton Royal Institution

“[...] it is proposed to supply the wards with a small glazed book-case, fitting with a simple lock, and to provide each patient who desires it, and is able to take charge of it, with a key, thus enabling one to take a book out for perusal when wanted, and to put it back again when done with.”

— W. G. Davies, Chaplain, Joint Counties Asylum Abergavenny, 1864

These images reveal the staging decisions made by the photographer (or perhaps an assisting member of asylum staff) in representing this space. Staging was likely applied to many, if not most, images created of asylum spaces in the period. It is a crucial reminder that these representations likely do not show the rooms as they would truly have looked whilst in use by patients, and it also perhaps explains why books are not seen in so many images. Though it is often mentioned in reports that books and periodicals are placed throughout the asylum for patients to look at, they were likely tidied away for the purposes of a staged image where each object was consciously chosen for display. In addition, whilst each asylum had a slightly different approach to storage and distribution, the bulk of patients’ reading material seems to have been kept elsewhere, in rooms not photographed - such as an old Attendant’s room at Bristol in 1890. Instead, it became common for small bookcases (often under lock and key) to be situated in the wards, forming a ‘circulating library’ of sorts. These are often visible in images from other asylums: the small lockable bookcase above a female attendant at the Lancaster County Asylum, filled with small volumes; the ornamented bookcase at The Retreat’s house in Scarborough; or the built-in case featured in a room likely belonging to the Montrose Lunatic Asylum.*

Unfortunately, even with enhancement, the images aren’t detailed enough to ascertain which books were chosen for display in bookcases in these images; a level of analysis like that faced by Michael Gove isn’t possible. Instead, the books included in these images, especially on the rare occasions they are positioned outside of a case, take on a symbolic and cultural meaning more like that described by David Beer. They reflect less on the asylum’s inhabitants (for they usually had little input in reading choice) and more on the values of those who were in command of the institution - or at least the values they sought to project.

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Sources:

¹ Jane Hamlett, At Home in the Institution: Material Life in Asylums, Lodging Houses and Schools in Victorian and Edwardian England, pp. 19-28.

² Henry Oxley Stephens, Medical Superintendent’s Report, Report of the Committee of Visitors for the Lunatic Asylum for the City and Council of Bristol, for the year 1863, pp. 9-10 (digitised by the Wellcome Library).

³ James Fountaine, Chaplain’s Report, Report of the Committee of Visitors for the Lunatic Asylum for the City and Council of Bristol, for the year 1897, pp. 16-17 (held by the Glenside Hospital Museum, Bristol).

⁴ W. G. Davies, Chaplain’s Report, Twelfth Annual report of the Joint Lunatic Asylum at Abergavenny, for the year 1864, p. 20 (digitised by the Wellcome Library).

Images:

1. An interior corridor at Craig House, Royal Edinburgh Asylum, c. 1897 (Eighty-fifth annual report of the Royal Edinburgh Asylum for the insane: for the year 1897, digitised by the Wellcome Library)

2. Mrs Maxwell’s room at Terregles House, photographed in 1889 by John Rutherford of Jardington (Dumfries and Galloway Archives and Local Studies DGH1/8/1/2, digitised by the Wellcome Library)

3. Carousel 1: all at the Royal Edinburgh Asylum, c. 1897 (Eighty-fifth annual report of the Royal Edinburgh Asylum for the insane: for the year 1897, digitised by the Wellcome Library)

   1. The Drawing Room, Craig House

   2. The Great Hall, Craig House

   3. The Library in South Craig Villa

4. Two views of a lady’s sitting room at the Crichton Royal Institution, photographed by John Rutherford of Jardington, c. 1890s (Dumfries and Galloway Archives and Local Studies, DGH1/8/1/4, digitised by the Wellcome Library)

5. Carousel 2: various

   1. An unknown room at the Lancaster County Asylum, late Victorian or Edwardian (print bought from a private collection)

   2. The Smoke Room at Throxenby Hall, Scarborough, used by patients at The Retreat, Yorkshire (Borthwick Institute for Archives, the University of York, RET/1/8/9/1, digitised by the Wellcome Library)

   3. Unknown room, likely at the Montrose Lunatic Asylum. *This photograph was found among others, some identified as representing Montrose Lunatic Asylum; it is presumed to belong to this set but is not explicitly indicated as such. (University of Dundee Archive Services, THB 23/19/5/20, photographed at the archive)