Hidden in the Hospital: Understanding demographics and health outcomes of Seaview Mental Asylum’s admissions, 1900-1915
Susie Klaver
Most have heard the horror stories of psychology’s frightful history. From barbaric lobotomies to Freud’s unorthodox theories and the various ghastly experiments on animals and humans alike, the subject is wrought with controversy and heartache.
What is often forgotten in the public memory of psychology’s history are the stories of people in our hidden hospitals. People who, for one reason or another, never made it into the national newspaper or had books written about them. You will not unravel tales of prison guards gone rouge or mad scientists here. Rather, within these pages is something much more human – loss, desperation, grief, love, and joy all hidden away where history almost forgot.
The Lunatic Asylum’s Ominous Origin
Historically, caring for England’s ill, invalid, and elderly was a responsibility assumed by the community.1 By the 19th century, as the industrial revolution transformed the cityscape and brought widespread social change, England’s age of the asylum was just beginning.2 By 1900, there were approximately 100,000 in asylums in England and Wales.3
Asylums were not alone in providing care for England’s disabled and destitute.4 Equally widespread as it was notorious, the workhouse provided care, housing, and food to those unable to work.5 This mission, as good intentioned as it was, was short-lived. In 1834, the Poor Law Amendment Act introduced stricter and harsher treatment of individuals in workhouses to deter anyone who wasn’t truly desperate from seeing state assistance.6 Workhouses, by the mid-19th century, became an institution which primarily housed the elderly, the sick, lunatics, or those with disabilities. 7
Britain’s Colonial Exports
Across the sea, the strong hand of the British Empire had reached Aotearoa’s shores, and with it came demands of social reform in England’s image. As more migrants embarked on a new life in colonial New Zealand, the need for social institutions was becoming more apparent each day.8 In the new colony, the mentally ill were first placed in hospitals, jails, and immigration barracks, returned to their homelands, or transported to Australia.9 It was clear that these were band aid solutions to a quickly worsening problem.
From 1846 to 1876, all six of New Zealand’s regional asylums were built, drawing directly from the English model, with one noticeable exception: the workhouse.10 Without the workhouse, New Zealand’s asylums of the late 19th to early 20th century performed a social role unique to those in England. In short, asylums assumed the role of the retirement home, hospital, workhouse, and mental health facility in one, and became the only option provided to many families for external care.11
Welcome to Seaview Mental Asylum
Hokitika: Home of gorgeous greenery, delicious whitebait, and the now closed Seaview Mental Asylum, the site of our exploration. Built in 1872 on 150 acres of land, Seaview first opened its doors amidst growing fears of immorality and insanity in the small mining town.12
Jumping forward three decades, 1900 stood on the precipice of a world turned upside down. In the next fifteen years there will be the death of a queen, the coronation of a new era, an assassination of a duke, and will conclude with the world at war, and Kiwi’s on Gallipoli’s shores. New Zealand, like much of the world, underwent radical change in the first fifteen years of the 20th century. It can be argued that what we view as modern psychology started to take on a recognisable shape in New Zealand asylums during this period. The below visualisation represents 96 (approximately 20% of) patients admitted to Seaview between 1900 and 1915. Our task, as we look back, is to consider who found themselves at Seaview and question whether the world outside influences life within this hidden hospital.
It is essential to remember that while we explore demographics and trends through faceless numbers, each data point represents an individual. This is explored through each datapoint being represented by their own icon and serves as a reminder than each is a person with their own histories, families, and complexities. It is encouraged to engage with the trends of this historical data and explore some of the names and situations behind them. You can access further details by hovering over an individual’s icon.*
Important note: This research includes discussion of potentially distressing content, including murder, self-harm, and suicide.
What is often forgotten in the public memory of psychology’s history are the stories of people in our hidden hospitals. People who, for one reason or another, never made it into the national newspaper or had books written about them. You will not unravel tales of prison guards gone rouge or mad scientists here. Rather, within these pages is something much more human – loss, desperation, grief, love, and joy all hidden away where history almost forgot.
The Lunatic Asylum’s Ominous Origin
Historically, caring for England’s ill, invalid, and elderly was a responsibility assumed by the community.1 By the 19th century, as the industrial revolution transformed the cityscape and brought widespread social change, England’s age of the asylum was just beginning.2 By 1900, there were approximately 100,000 in asylums in England and Wales.3
Asylums were not alone in providing care for England’s disabled and destitute.4 Equally widespread as it was notorious, the workhouse provided care, housing, and food to those unable to work.5 This mission, as good intentioned as it was, was short-lived. In 1834, the Poor Law Amendment Act introduced stricter and harsher treatment of individuals in workhouses to deter anyone who wasn’t truly desperate from seeing state assistance.6 Workhouses, by the mid-19th century, became an institution which primarily housed the elderly, the sick, lunatics, or those with disabilities. 7
Britain’s Colonial Exports
Across the sea, the strong hand of the British Empire had reached Aotearoa’s shores, and with it came demands of social reform in England’s image. As more migrants embarked on a new life in colonial New Zealand, the need for social institutions was becoming more apparent each day.8 In the new colony, the mentally ill were first placed in hospitals, jails, and immigration barracks, returned to their homelands, or transported to Australia.9 It was clear that these were band aid solutions to a quickly worsening problem.
From 1846 to 1876, all six of New Zealand’s regional asylums were built, drawing directly from the English model, with one noticeable exception: the workhouse.10 Without the workhouse, New Zealand’s asylums of the late 19th to early 20th century performed a social role unique to those in England. In short, asylums assumed the role of the retirement home, hospital, workhouse, and mental health facility in one, and became the only option provided to many families for external care.11
Welcome to Seaview Mental Asylum
Hokitika: Home of gorgeous greenery, delicious whitebait, and the now closed Seaview Mental Asylum, the site of our exploration. Built in 1872 on 150 acres of land, Seaview first opened its doors amidst growing fears of immorality and insanity in the small mining town.12
Jumping forward three decades, 1900 stood on the precipice of a world turned upside down. In the next fifteen years there will be the death of a queen, the coronation of a new era, an assassination of a duke, and will conclude with the world at war, and Kiwi’s on Gallipoli’s shores. New Zealand, like much of the world, underwent radical change in the first fifteen years of the 20th century. It can be argued that what we view as modern psychology started to take on a recognisable shape in New Zealand asylums during this period. The below visualisation represents 96 (approximately 20% of) patients admitted to Seaview between 1900 and 1915. Our task, as we look back, is to consider who found themselves at Seaview and question whether the world outside influences life within this hidden hospital.
It is essential to remember that while we explore demographics and trends through faceless numbers, each data point represents an individual. This is explored through each datapoint being represented by their own icon and serves as a reminder than each is a person with their own histories, families, and complexities. It is encouraged to engage with the trends of this historical data and explore some of the names and situations behind them. You can access further details by hovering over an individual’s icon.*
Important note: This research includes discussion of potentially distressing content, including murder, self-harm, and suicide.
*In light of this topic’s sensitive nature, it was a difficult decision whether to include the patients’ full names and other identifying details. It is not lost on me that these records represent a snapshot into what was for many the hardest and worst days of their lives. This is in addition to the prevalent social taboos surrounding mental illness. Respecting this, it was decided to include their details for the following reasons:
1. There are very few records of life at Seaview remaining. Warwick Brunton explains this is in part due to a media blackout and ‘a prohibition on the discussion of institutional matters’ in reaction ‘to public fears’.13 More than this, those who died at Seaview were buried in unmarked graves, and their stories almost lost. Through using their name when discussing their story, we have the opportunity to reconnect the history with the individual behind it and preserve a piece of who they were which has otherwise been washed away by time.
2. Connected to this, in McCarthy, Colebourne, O’Connor, and Knewstubb’s article on ‘Lives in the Asylum Record, 1864 to 1910’, they comment on how ‘statistics…tend to dehumanise people’.14 Connecting the data to a name seeks to reconnect the humanity to those in our dataset.
3. Simply, having both first and last names makes further research beyond the supplied source easier. People are encouraged to explore and verify the records provided.
4. These records are publicly available, and Archives NZ has deemed it okay to be freely accessible. As they are a reputable government heritage group, following their lead in respect to this issue was deemed to be the best path forward.
1. There are very few records of life at Seaview remaining. Warwick Brunton explains this is in part due to a media blackout and ‘a prohibition on the discussion of institutional matters’ in reaction ‘to public fears’.13 More than this, those who died at Seaview were buried in unmarked graves, and their stories almost lost. Through using their name when discussing their story, we have the opportunity to reconnect the history with the individual behind it and preserve a piece of who they were which has otherwise been washed away by time.
2. Connected to this, in McCarthy, Colebourne, O’Connor, and Knewstubb’s article on ‘Lives in the Asylum Record, 1864 to 1910’, they comment on how ‘statistics…tend to dehumanise people’.14 Connecting the data to a name seeks to reconnect the humanity to those in our dataset.
3. Simply, having both first and last names makes further research beyond the supplied source easier. People are encouraged to explore and verify the records provided.
4. These records are publicly available, and Archives NZ has deemed it okay to be freely accessible. As they are a reputable government heritage group, following their lead in respect to this issue was deemed to be the best path forward.
Analysis
In this section, we will explore the trends demonstrated in the above in some more depth. Specifically, can we observe how the social role of asylums impacts the demographics of Seaview’s patients and their health outcomes?
Do you notice any demographic trends?
One of the clearest is that the majority of patients are above middle age. In fact, 30% of patients were above 60 years of age, and 48% of these patients died at Seaview. This, it is argued, suggests that Seaview was performing as an aged-care facility in lieu of other institutions.
Does relationship status and gender influence patient health outcomes?
In this section, we will explore the trends demonstrated in the above in some more depth. Specifically, can we observe how the social role of asylums impacts the demographics of Seaview’s patients and their health outcomes?
Do you notice any demographic trends?
One of the clearest is that the majority of patients are above middle age. In fact, 30% of patients were above 60 years of age, and 48% of these patients died at Seaview. This, it is argued, suggests that Seaview was performing as an aged-care facility in lieu of other institutions.
Does relationship status and gender influence patient health outcomes?
Fig. 1: Exploring the impact of relationship status on health outcomes: Men
Fig. 2: Exploring the impact of relationship status on health outcomes: Women
Here we can see how marital status corresponds with health outcomes. Let’s dig a bit deeper and try to explain the following questions:
To begin, in our dataset 66.7% of patients were male, and 33.3% were female. This may have a simple answer - there were just more men than women, particularly elderly men. In the 1901 census, the Westland district’s population was 55.8% men.15 Further, there were 1,503 men over the age of 60 (18.5% of the male population) compared to 461 women (only 7% of the total female population).16 Historian Margaret Tennant suggests that this is a nationwide trend as ‘males predominated among the over sixty-fives (roughly a ratio of sixty males to forty females in the 1890s and 1900s).17
Is this the whole story? As with most things, it is likely more complicated than this alone. It was more culturally permissible for men to be unmarried and transient than was afforded to women.18 It is argued that this meant many men lacked the “social safety net” of community or family-based care. Contrastingly, Tennant suggests that ‘elderly women were more likely to be able to maintain an acceptable domestic situation outside the institutions or to find board with a family and assist with household chores and childcare’.19
We can see this represented in our dataset. The average age of women admitted to Seaview was 45.5, compared to men’s 52.3 years. Further, of the 29 patients above the age of 60, only four were women. The remaining 86% were men. It is also of note that of these four women, three were widowed and died at Seaview. The other woman was married, and it is unknown whether she was discharged.
Why does this matter?
Historian David Wright notes that ‘the nuclear family persisted as the primary locus of care for idiots throughout the nineteenth century’ as mothers and elder daughters assumed the majority of the responsibility of care for the elderly and disabled.20 Additionally, research conducted by Nancy Tomes comments how families only resorted to the asylum ‘having exhausted all alternative forms of treatment’.21 With the knowledge that communal and familial ties formed the first locus of care, we can conclude that women and married men appeared in our sample at a far lower rate than single men because they had strong family ties, and thus their admission only occurred when this “social safety net” was no longer sufficient. 69% of men admitted to Seaview were single, and those who were married were four times more likely to be discharged in under three months (and typically into the care of a family member).
Is rate of discharge impacted by social factors?
To recap, we know why men were admitted at a higher rate, but that doesn’t inform us on how social factors influenced the rate of discharge. Our sample revealed that 40% of men were discharged and the remaining 60% either died at Seaview or were ‘unknown’, meaning they likely ended up on long-term care. This is a high number, but pales in comparison to the rate for women. Only 22% of women were discharged. It is important to note here that this is a relatively small sample, but this trend is something of note. It can be argued that women were only admitted to Seaview when they could not be cared for within the community. It is important to remember that almost half of these women were married, and many had children, so their admission would have been very destabilising to the family structure, and it was likely to be the final option. In this way, the same social forces which kept women out of the asylum, kept women there once admitted.
The exploration of Seaview’s case files illuminates both the lives of former patients and how the outside world inevitably has its influence on social institutions. For many, asylums feel like an antique from a distant and forgotten past, but this source makes life at one of New Zealand’s hidden hospitals feel closer than ever before.
- Why are there significantly more men than women in our sample
- In what way does marital status impact health outcomes?
To begin, in our dataset 66.7% of patients were male, and 33.3% were female. This may have a simple answer - there were just more men than women, particularly elderly men. In the 1901 census, the Westland district’s population was 55.8% men.15 Further, there were 1,503 men over the age of 60 (18.5% of the male population) compared to 461 women (only 7% of the total female population).16 Historian Margaret Tennant suggests that this is a nationwide trend as ‘males predominated among the over sixty-fives (roughly a ratio of sixty males to forty females in the 1890s and 1900s).17
Is this the whole story? As with most things, it is likely more complicated than this alone. It was more culturally permissible for men to be unmarried and transient than was afforded to women.18 It is argued that this meant many men lacked the “social safety net” of community or family-based care. Contrastingly, Tennant suggests that ‘elderly women were more likely to be able to maintain an acceptable domestic situation outside the institutions or to find board with a family and assist with household chores and childcare’.19
We can see this represented in our dataset. The average age of women admitted to Seaview was 45.5, compared to men’s 52.3 years. Further, of the 29 patients above the age of 60, only four were women. The remaining 86% were men. It is also of note that of these four women, three were widowed and died at Seaview. The other woman was married, and it is unknown whether she was discharged.
Why does this matter?
Historian David Wright notes that ‘the nuclear family persisted as the primary locus of care for idiots throughout the nineteenth century’ as mothers and elder daughters assumed the majority of the responsibility of care for the elderly and disabled.20 Additionally, research conducted by Nancy Tomes comments how families only resorted to the asylum ‘having exhausted all alternative forms of treatment’.21 With the knowledge that communal and familial ties formed the first locus of care, we can conclude that women and married men appeared in our sample at a far lower rate than single men because they had strong family ties, and thus their admission only occurred when this “social safety net” was no longer sufficient. 69% of men admitted to Seaview were single, and those who were married were four times more likely to be discharged in under three months (and typically into the care of a family member).
Is rate of discharge impacted by social factors?
To recap, we know why men were admitted at a higher rate, but that doesn’t inform us on how social factors influenced the rate of discharge. Our sample revealed that 40% of men were discharged and the remaining 60% either died at Seaview or were ‘unknown’, meaning they likely ended up on long-term care. This is a high number, but pales in comparison to the rate for women. Only 22% of women were discharged. It is important to note here that this is a relatively small sample, but this trend is something of note. It can be argued that women were only admitted to Seaview when they could not be cared for within the community. It is important to remember that almost half of these women were married, and many had children, so their admission would have been very destabilising to the family structure, and it was likely to be the final option. In this way, the same social forces which kept women out of the asylum, kept women there once admitted.
The exploration of Seaview’s case files illuminates both the lives of former patients and how the outside world inevitably has its influence on social institutions. For many, asylums feel like an antique from a distant and forgotten past, but this source makes life at one of New Zealand’s hidden hospitals feel closer than ever before.
Footnotes
1. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, The History of Disabled People: Historic England; https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/disability-history/1832-1914/the-growth-of-the-asylum/; accessed 11 February 2022; Warwick Brunton, Sitivation 125 (Invercargill: Seaview Hospital 125th Jubileee Committee, 1997), p.9.
2. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, accessed 11 February 2022.
3. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, accessed 11 February 2022.
4. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse: 'Asylums in everything but…'’, The History of Disabled People: Historic England; https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/disability-history/1832-1914/the-changing-face-of-the-workhouse/; accessed 11 February 2022.
5. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022.
6. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022.
7. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022; Bruton, Sitivation 125, p.9.
8. Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.11.
9. Angela McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence: Lunatic Asylums in NZ and the Homelands before 1910”, Health and History, vol.14, no.1, p.19.
10. McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence”, p.20.; Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.11.
11. McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence”, p.24.
12. The Cyclopedia of New Zealand [Nelson, Marlborough and Westland Provincial Districts] (New Zealand: The Cyclopedia Company Limited, 1906) p.498; Brunton, Sitviation 125, pp.21-22.
13. Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.24.
14. Angela McCarthy, Catherine Coleborne, Maree O’Connor, and Elspeth Knewstubb, “Lives in the Asylum Record, 1864 to 1910: Utilising Large Data Collection for Histories of Psychiatry and Mental Health”, Medical History, vol.61, no.3, 2017, p.362.
15. ‘Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand’, Statistics New Zealand Digitised Collection; https://www3.stats.govt.nz/historic_publications/1901-census/1901-results-census/1901-results-census.html.
16. ‘Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand’.
17. Margaret Tennant, “Elderly Indigents and Old Men’s Homes 1880-1920”, NZ Journal of History, vol.17, no.1, 1883, p.10.
18. Catherine Coleborne, “White men and weak masculinity: men in the public asylums in Victoria, Australia, and New Zealand, 1860s-1900s”, History of Psychiatry, vol25, no.4, 2014, p.473.
19. Tennant, “Elderly Indigents and Old Men’s Homes”, p.11.
20. David Wright, ‘Familial Care of ‘Idiot’ Children in Victorian England’, in Horden, Peregrine., and Smith, Richard (ed.), The Locus of Care: Families, Communities, Institutions, and the Provision of Welfare Since Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1998), p.178.
21. Nancy Tomes, A Generous Confidence: Thomas Story Kirkbride and the Art of Asylum Keeping, 1840-1883 (Cambridge, 1985) pp.103-108 in The Locus of Care, p.177.
1. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, The History of Disabled People: Historic England; https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/disability-history/1832-1914/the-growth-of-the-asylum/; accessed 11 February 2022; Warwick Brunton, Sitivation 125 (Invercargill: Seaview Hospital 125th Jubileee Committee, 1997), p.9.
2. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, accessed 11 February 2022.
3. ‘The Growth of the Asylum - a Parallel World’, accessed 11 February 2022.
4. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse: 'Asylums in everything but…'’, The History of Disabled People: Historic England; https://historicengland.org.uk/research/inclusive-heritage/disability-history/1832-1914/the-changing-face-of-the-workhouse/; accessed 11 February 2022.
5. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022.
6. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022.
7. ‘The Changing Face of the Workhouse’, accessed 11 February 2022; Bruton, Sitivation 125, p.9.
8. Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.11.
9. Angela McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence: Lunatic Asylums in NZ and the Homelands before 1910”, Health and History, vol.14, no.1, p.19.
10. McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence”, p.20.; Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.11.
11. McCarthy, “Connections and Divergence”, p.24.
12. The Cyclopedia of New Zealand [Nelson, Marlborough and Westland Provincial Districts] (New Zealand: The Cyclopedia Company Limited, 1906) p.498; Brunton, Sitviation 125, pp.21-22.
13. Brunton, Sitivation 125, p.24.
14. Angela McCarthy, Catherine Coleborne, Maree O’Connor, and Elspeth Knewstubb, “Lives in the Asylum Record, 1864 to 1910: Utilising Large Data Collection for Histories of Psychiatry and Mental Health”, Medical History, vol.61, no.3, 2017, p.362.
15. ‘Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand’, Statistics New Zealand Digitised Collection; https://www3.stats.govt.nz/historic_publications/1901-census/1901-results-census/1901-results-census.html.
16. ‘Results of a Census of the Colony of New Zealand’.
17. Margaret Tennant, “Elderly Indigents and Old Men’s Homes 1880-1920”, NZ Journal of History, vol.17, no.1, 1883, p.10.
18. Catherine Coleborne, “White men and weak masculinity: men in the public asylums in Victoria, Australia, and New Zealand, 1860s-1900s”, History of Psychiatry, vol25, no.4, 2014, p.473.
19. Tennant, “Elderly Indigents and Old Men’s Homes”, p.11.
20. David Wright, ‘Familial Care of ‘Idiot’ Children in Victorian England’, in Horden, Peregrine., and Smith, Richard (ed.), The Locus of Care: Families, Communities, Institutions, and the Provision of Welfare Since Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1998), p.178.
21. Nancy Tomes, A Generous Confidence: Thomas Story Kirkbride and the Art of Asylum Keeping, 1840-1883 (Cambridge, 1985) pp.103-108 in The Locus of Care, p.177.