The whole question of the moral aspect of psychotherapy is, it seems to me, a vast and intricate one, and one which has as yet been given little serious and thoroughgoing consideration. This is due in part to the fact that contemporary psychotherapeutic theory and practice is in so variegated, amorphous and contradictory a state that few generalisations about it are possible, let alone any critical examination of it as a whole in the light of any body of ethical principles. It is possible, indeed, to take the written works of a given writer on psychological theory and methods and to subject them to ethical scrutiny, and a certain amount of work of varying merit has been done in this direction; work which is itself, perhaps, by no means impervious to serious criticism. But even such work as this, within its own inevitable limitations, is not always very practically helpful. The theoretical expositions of psychologists and the accounts which they give of their methods are not infrequently both better and worse than their actual practice; and in any case do not afford very adequate material for judgment and discussion on the part of those who themselves lack either active or passive psychotherapeutic experience.

But the practical urgency of the problem is too acute to allow us to wait indefinitely for some decisive and all-inclusive ethico-psychotherapeutical synthesis. The problem is brought home to most of us in its most challenging and concrete form when the question arises of committing ourselves or others to psychological treatment. Do we not, in doing so, risk the undermining of our moral principles, perhaps of our religion and our faith? Rumours have reached us, perhaps, of alleged psychotherapists who, after long and costly weeks of treatment, prescribe some such homely old palliatives as a dose of fornication, divorce, cutting loose from hearth and home, or some other form of uncleanness, injustice or impiety.

The inner history of a social experiment, if told by a chief actor in it, is nearly always interesting to the reader, as well as being valuable to those working in the same field. And the whole subject of delinquency among children and adolescents has become an urgent one for many who, in this time of war, are looking ahead to the generation which will inherit our land afterwards.

An accounts has been published of a venture made in treating “in a free environment on sympathetic and individual lines” boys and young men who had, in various ways and degrees, shown themselves “misfits”, or as anti-social. Not all were law-breakers, and only exceptionally had a member of Hawkspur Camp been in prison; but many were rapidly qualifying for Borstal sentences, and all provided material for Mr. Will’s intensive study, and the working out of his purpose when he accepted the post of Camp Chief.

He was backed by a little group of Quakers who were concerned with the problem of training maladjusted youth, and his staff was formed of a few men prepared, like himself, to tackle it by wholly unconventional methods. They started in May, 1936, with a very inadequate capital, of which £500 was spent in buying a site, and a group of tents until they could put up rough buildings, as bunk-houses, dayroom, etc., by their own labour. The first member to present himself had read about the new “Q Camps” in a paper and, thinking it was the sort of place he needed, had written to ask for admission. He was a typical waif, having been deserted by his parents in babyhood; and, at the age of twenty-three, he had never known security or understanding in his life.

“When I first took up rescue work,’’ wrote Canon J. Bennett, Administrator of the Liverpool Catholic Children’s Protection Society, “the late Mgr. Hudson drew up for my guidance ‘Ten Commandments of Rescue Work’. The last was, ‘If a child fails, examine your own conscience’.”

The same Mgr. Hudson also wrote, “The test of good rescue work is aftercare.” It was his view that the best method of aftercare, for boys at any rate, was to be found in a well-conducted Working Boys’ Home. It may be that he was right. I cannot say, for it so turned out in my experience that Working Boys’ Hostels, as they were called, were practically a failure. “A Working Boys’ Home is a most difficult and a most expensive organisation to run. The Superintendent in charge must be a man of deep spiritual instincts, a man of practical faith, a man of refinement and education, a man of business mind who can win the confidence of employers, a man whose very presence is a joy to the boys, one who inspires them with his justice and Catholic character. Given such a man, I can unhesitatingly say that the great majority of the boys will become steady workmen and practical Catholics.” That, also by Mgr. Hudson, is certainly a very good description of the right man for the job.

There have been of recent years some half-dozen different attempts in London to run Working Boys’ Hostels under such management, and all ended in failure. I believe there were as many attempts in the past which ended in much the same way. A few years ago, a house was taken in Steele’s Road, Hampstead, N.W. One couple after another went in, and after a few weeks, or months, threw up the job, or were practically thrown out.