time out of mind

I'd been working for two years on a book about the way that ordinary men and women in eighteenth-century Scotland understood what it meant to suffer from mental problems. I was sitting in a small booth with my laptop, poring over a large pile of documents concerning a case to have a marriage annulled on the grounds that the bridegroom was mentally disabled. It was late in the afternoon and my hands were black with the sort of fine dust which clings to ancient papers that have not been touched for decades, sometimes centuries. The case looked open and shut. A middle-aged landowner of seemingly low intelligence called Hugh Blair had entered into an arranged marriage with a surgeon's daughter. Set up for him by his widowed mother, Hugh's avaricious brother John wanted the union annulled in order to gain the whole family inheritance, an estate in Kirkcudbrightshire. Witness after witness told

a variation on the same depressing story to the civil court hearings held in Edinburgh in 1747. Hugh lacked the intellect to understand what marriage was. In short, he was ''an idiot and mere natural fool. The neighbourhood commonly looked upon him as such and usually called him the fool laird of Borgue''.

Jarring as these words are by modern standards of political correctness, it wasn't hard to see why the plain-speaking men and women of eighteenth-century Scotland had come to this harsh judgment. Hugh was, by any standards, an odd person. When asked if he was married to a named individual, he would always agree, even if that person was not his wife (she was called Nicholas - a girl's name in this period) and sometimes even if it was a man.

When in his family home, he used to eat on his own with a cat on his shoulder sharing his food; he was always washing his wig and watching the drips of water fall from it; he only copied social greetings, never initiating them; he carried rocks and pieces of wood from one place to another without apparent purpose; he was so socially innocent he would expose himself if asked to do so by anyone, even young lads; he used to sleep in a freezing garret in a bug-ridden bed surrounded by twigs and old feathers; he had an obsessive desire for sameness in his clothes and in his actions; he used to make unannounced visits to people's houses in the middle of the night; he attended as many funerals as possible, even when not invited. All this added up to someone reminiscent of Raymond Babbitt, the character played by Dustin Hoffman in the film Rain Man.

Fighting a losing battle, Hugh's lawyer tried to claim that his client suffered from problems with his hearing and speech, not his mental health. Witnesses had mentioned this and the judges must have noticed that Hugh's replies seemingly bore little relationship to the question and were given by one or two words, usually repeated. Rigorous and fair in its proceedings, the court gave Hugh the chance to answer questions in writing.

Attached to the main sheaf of documents by a handmade eighteenth-century pin is a small scrap of paper with two questions and Hugh's neat, hand-written answers.

In the process John Blair against Hugh Blair, 16 July 1747

Answer the following question

What brought you to Edinburgh?

Answer the followin question

What brougt you to edinbrugh

You are not to copy what is set before you but write an answer to this question, what was the reason of your coming to Edinburgh at this time?

You are not to copy what his set before you but write an answer to this question what

was the reason of your coming to edinbrugh at this time

The words he wrote are the only material trace of him which survives among tens of thousands of words of legal record. The ruins of the house where Hugh was born and lived for nearly 40 years survive, but he has no gravestone. Nearly everything we know about him was written by someone else in connection with his rights to property or his chance of happiness in the form of marriage.

This scrap of paper brought Hugh to life for me. What was written on it pointed to something extraordinary. However strong their opinion of his mental abilities, those who gave evidence in his case were puzzled by many aspects. So was I. Hugh was not simply an idiot, for the other men and women so described in my study had serious learning difficulties. They could not read or write, they did not understand the basics of religion, they often could not dress themselves, and they sometimes did not know the difference between east and west. Hugh was highly literate. He also had a phenomenal memory for religion, knowing page after page of the catechism by heart. Not only could he dress himself, but he sometimes helped others and had the skills to patch clothes. He knew the countryside of Kirkcudbrightshire like the back of his hand.

A good historian always looks closest at the pieces of a puzzle which do not fit, because they hold the key to understanding the very different mental world of the people of the past. But a good historian shouldn't dabble in disciplines in which he has no formal training. Still, I wanted to understand what kind of condition caused this sort of repetitive behaviour, so I started asking around the psychology department at St Andrews.

The name of Uta Frith of University College London came up, not only as a person professionally qualified to diagnose Hugh but as a world-renowned cognitive scientist who specialised in autism. She read the case notes over for me. Within a few days she replied: this was autism for sure, and two centuries before it was first diagnosed as a clinical category!

Over a period of months we talked about the case on and off. For all its puzzling content, it was straightforward for an experienced historian to deal with. Fortunately, the sorts of questions the law required to test a person's mental capacity in the past also resemble those asked by a psychologist of individuals they assess nowadays.

Uta and I were therefore both able to bring our different questions and methodologies to the enigmatic life of Hugh Blair. Uta set about diagnosing Hugh just as she would using case notes sent to her about a living person. She explained to me what autism is, how it was first written about by the American Leo Kanner in 1943 and by the Austrian Hans Asperger in 1944.

We explored what alternative explanations there could be for Hugh's unusual behaviour. I decoded the historical context, explaining, for example, why it mattered that men wore wigs in the eighteenth century; why funerals were more important than weddings or christenings for Scottish people in the eighteenth century; and how marriages were not really ''arranged'', but ''artfully contrived''.

We came to a single conclusion about the essence of the case and about the lessons it has for historical and contemporary studies of mental disability. Autism exists among all peoples, present and past, and it matters to all of us.

The result is a unique collaboration, Autism in History. It is a tale of villainy

and innocence, of determination and opportunism, of cruelty and kindness. Oliver Sacks MD, author of Awakenings and An Anthropologist on Mars, has reviewed the story of Hugh Blair thus: 'I found this book utterly absorbing and utterly convincing. The richness of historical detail - testimonies and actual interrogations - and its telling hold one like a novel.'

Yet this is not just a story about a fascinating individual and a society very different from our own. It is also an account of autism, a perplexing condition that provides startling insights into what it means to be human. Treating what we know about Hugh Blair as a clinical case study, Uta outlined controversial theories on autism

and provided an authoritative but highly readable account of what is known and

what still remains a mystery about this complex disorder.

Thus the book gives a rare insight into a long-lost mental world. By showing autism in so different a social context, it also allows the enduring or core features of this condition to be identified. As well as explaining what autism is, it demonstrates how people then and now have coped with the special problems it poses for the sufferer, his or her family, and the wider community.

Autism has certain characteristics. On their own, these signs may indicate another mental condition or none at all. Hugh demonstrated all of them. He insisted on sameness, indulging in repetitive behaviour around narrow preoccupations; he lacked social insight, including a failure to comprehend deception; he had distinctive speech and language peculiarities; he had islets of ability, including manual dexterity, excellent reading and writing skills, and a prodigious memory. Hugh Blair was towards the ''severe'' end of the spectrum of autism which ranges from mild social ineptitude to almost complete withdrawal and engagement in apparently pointless repetitive activity.

That was the conclusion we reached, but not until we had exhausted all the other possible interpretations, historical and clinical. Was the charge of idiocy simply trumped up by his brother for financial gain? That was unlikely because even those who gave evidence on his behalf had reluctantly to admit to his oddities and deficiencies. Uta wrestled with the problems of diagnosing someone who had been dead for nearly two and half centuries. However certain she was in her own mind, she knew she would have to persuade other psychologists that her interpretation was correct.

Neither his mother, wife, nor brother gave their side of Hugh's life. This is a serious silence in the records because family insights are usually vital from a clinical point of view. Autism shows itself early in life, but we know nothing of Hugh until he was a teenager. Like the fine scientist she is, Uta meticulously set out all the counter-indications of autism. She picked carefully through the many other conditions towards which Hugh's symptoms could point.

What clinched the diagnosis for Uta was the tell-tale combination of social naivety, repetitive behaviour and special interests. Autism is an enigma precisely because we find both grace and clumsiness, foolishness and flashes of intelligence.

Autism is a surprisingly common condition in the modern world. About one person in 200 suffers from it, though it is nearly four times more prevalent among boys than girls. Autism is also important because it tells us a great deal about the workings of the human mind.

The central defect in autism, the result of a faulty sequence in the genetic code, is a failure to relate to other people. Hugh was sociable, in the sense that he liked being around people, yet he was withdrawn in never initiating interactions with others. More, he did not comprehend what others thought or felt. He was easy to tease in company because he could not pretend and did not understand that others could dissimulate.

Understanding Hugh will help us to be aware of what it means for living sufferers to have autism. Hugh Blair's life provides lessons for the families of sufferers and for the wider community in which autistic people live. For one thing, it may have been easier for the community to accommodate people with mental problems in the past. Hugh received an extended education in an attempt to teach him some useful skill and to accustom him to social conventions.

He was by no means isolated from people. Because he was known in the area and his family was important, he was given considerable latitude to wander as he wished sometimes for days on end. However inappropriate his manual labours were for a laird, he moved piles of stones from one place to another (sometimes on cold, dark nights), he bound sheaves of corn at harvest, and he even slopped out - he was permitted to indulge his repetitive behaviour. What talents he had were allowed to flourish, even if they were tasks like feeding livestock and mending things around the house.

Autistic people rarely marry in modern societies and the relationships of those who do tend not to last. The strain placed on the non-autistic partner by someone who does not engage with them is too great.

In contrast, Hugh's relationship with his wife Nicholas endured, even if his marriage was annulled, and they had children. Part of the reason lies in different expectations of marriage. Pure emotional fulfilment was less significant to many eighteenth-century people than companionship and material support. Hugh's mother, Grizell, had herself married at the age of 16 to a cousin who was known to be a heavy drinker.

Autism is usually referred to as a devastating condition. Yet the story of Hugh Blair shows how others can adapt and live with a sufferer by choice rather than through necessity. His wife came from a good family and did not need to marry him. Hugh could have been cared for by someone else if his mother had chosen it. The family could have afforded to pay. Instead, it used its privileged position to ensure he had a relatively normal life within a restricted social sphere where he was well known.

Today there are many other options. If he was living now, Hugh would benefit from special education and caring facilities, from increased awareness of his condition among care professionals and the wider community, and from the formal and informal support networks which the parents of autistic children have created for themselves.

Hugh was not ''cured'' of autism. That is still impossible. Yet positive lessons can be learned from his experiences. He too learned to adapt. He handled change more easily as he grew older. New situations like moving home became less traumatic to him. Mercilessly teased and ridiculed by children and young adults when he was at school and after, he seems to have had an easier time as he grew older. He became calmer and less obsessive in his behaviour. Modern day examples suggest it may have been the expert and patient management by a mother and wife who cared for him that showed beneficial effects on his dress and personal cleanliness. Those around him found him easier to live with. Yet he was always a gentle, likeable, even attractive person. Hugh died in the early 1760s. He was probably like the ice-skater painted by Henry Raeburn a generation later: in all likelihood aloof, but serene

and graceful too.

Rab Houston and Uta Frith, Autism in history. The case of Hugh Blair of Borgue. Blackwell. ISBN 0-63-1220887 hb (#45), 0-63-1220895 pb (#13.99) Rab Houston, Madness and society in eighteenth-century Scotland. Clarendon Press.

ISBN 0-19-820787-5 (#55)

Rab Houston is Professor of Modern History at St Andrews University