When doctors write about the history of medicine, there’s a danger that the result will be ‘look at me! I’ve just discovered the story of James Graham’s Celestial Bed and shall now proceed to show how clever I am by relating some well-known details about it in an urbane and witty fashion!’

Fortunately, Richard Moore (a retired GP who also has a history PhD) is not of this ilk, and presents a well-researched and engaging account of health provision in Shropshire in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Starting with an overview of what life was like for the county’s population at the beginning of the period, he goes on to trace the development of the medical profession and the voluntary hospital system as well as the sometimes surprising variety of other healthcare options.

In spite of the obvious focus on Moore’s home county, it would be a shame if the title confined the book to the local history section of Shrewsbury Waterstones. Not that there is anything wrong with local history, but the book is relevant to the development of health services across the country and I hope it won’t be neglected by researchers investigating other counties. I was struck by the similarity between the early years of Shrewsbury Infirmary and those of Chester, which I have studied in the past. I knew Chester’s governors had visited Shrewsbury for advice so it was fascinating to discover the close parallels between the organisations – right down to the problems of non-paying subscribers and unreliable porters.

Moore writes concisely and covers a lot in the 224 pages (trade paperback size), with workhouses, asylums, spa towns and friendly societies all taking their place as part of the health environment. The information is well-organised, however, so it never feels as though the author is trying to cram in too much. Bearing in mind that the book results from Moore’s PhD thesis, the style is also pleasantly free of academic show-offiness.  The sections on the rise of  ‘general practitioners’ (individuals qualified as both surgeon and apothecary but without a medical degree) were particularly useful for me as this important role in provincial healthcare tends to be glossed over in London-centric medical histories. For similar reasons I enjoyed reading about the cottage hospitals of the second half of the 19^th century.

The ‘quacks’ aspect of the book is not as prominent as the title suggests, though one can’t blame the publisher for including it as a sales point (and incidentally, Amberley have done a great job with the design and production). Many of the patent remedies mentioned are the ‘usual suspects’, such as Morison’s Pills and Solomon’s Balm of Gilead, which were advertised in newspapers all over the country. Moore, however, has also uncovered some interesting local Shropshire medicines – including Smith’s Ploughman’s Drops, which he suspects were an early commercial example of the use of digitalis.

The book’s focus refreshingly turns away from famous medical heroes and great discoveries, and puts the spotlight on ordinary practitioners and their patients, who got through life with inventiveness, fortitude and often humour. In a brief concluding chapter, Moore also makes some cogent points about modern health provision and our right – or otherwise – to free care under the pressurised NHS.

If you’re interested in the history of medicine and keen to look beyond the metropolis, Shropshire Doctors & Quacks is an engrossing and enjoyable read. .

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Shropshire Doctors & Quacks was published by Amberley in October 2011. ISBN: 9781445604312

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FATHER CHRISTMAS AND THE DOCTORS

Old Christmas comes but once a year,
Of that there is no question;
But when he comes we all feel queer,
Hurrah for indigestion!

Dyspepsia follows in his train,
The Stomach-ache attends him;
And every sort of inward pain
A gay enjoyment lends him.

As honest country-people say,
In all their sickly hobbles,
We’re “wrong inside”—alas, the day!
“We’ve got the colly-wobbles.”

Though we are poor, roast goose is rich;
So, gladly let us greet it:
Plum pudding is a dainty which
Upsets us; so we’ll eat it.

A Christian people prove they’re such
Not by their lives amended;
But just by eating twice as much
As Nature had intended.

Avaunt ye doctors, silly elves!
In vain your righteous passion,
We mean to over-eat ourselves
In good old English fashion.

Black draught and pills of awful blue,
By-and-bye from you we’ll borrow,
To-day we’ll be to Christmas true,
You’d better call tomorrow.

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Thank you for reading The Quack Doctor over the past year!

Image: Angier’s Emulsion advertisement, 1907, courtesy of Wellcome Images.
Poem: Judy, or the London Serio-Comic Journal, 23 December 1885

As a target of drug manufacturers, impotence has stood the test of time.

In the late 19th century, mail order remedies and relatively anonymous purchases from a chemist were ways of avoiding the embarrassment of visiting a doctor – and judging by the amount of spam devoted to the subject today, there is still a lucrative market.

Traditionally reputed as an aphrodisiac, damiana (the shrub Turnera diffusa) attracted the attention of the medical profession and commercial vendors in the US in the 1870s, but it was not always promoted as a cure for sexual problems. Fleckenstein and Meyer of Portland, Oregon, advertised it as a remedy for kidney and bladder disease, while Michel Levy & Co of Los Angeles promised in 1884 that ‘you will never have a sour stomach if you drink Damiana Bitters.’

New York druggist F. B. Crouch, however, was more explicit about the herb’s potential to restore vitality and youthful vigour to those suffering ‘nervous debility’. His brand capitalised on the perceived virility of Mormons, inviting the customer to wonder if this product was the secret to keeping up with all those wives.

The British advertisement above appeared in The Chemist and Druggist (16 Nov 1889), so it’s not aimed at the end user but at pharmacists who might stock the wafers. Discretion, however, was required.

In 1893, John James Blissett Hay of Wellington Street, Covent Garden, was summoned to Bow Street Police Court for exhibiting indecent advertising cards promoting damiana wafers in his shop window. The full product name is not mentioned, but the Mormon Elder brand trademark showed a naked woman – perhaps it was she who offended the sensibilities of a passing policeman. Because Hay took the advertisements down as soon as he was asked to, his fine was ‘only’ 20s.

The picture below was also used on advertising materials, making it clear that the wafers would increase your chances of some action. Bookseller Rick Grunder has a great colour version of this image from a pamphlet so rare that he sold it for $1,750.

Detail from Mormon Elder's Damiana Wafers trade circular, courtesy of the NLM Images from the History of Medicine collection

A trade circular of 1888 described the product’s effect as follows:

Actually creates new Nervous Fluid and Brain Matter by supplying the Blood with VEGETABLE PHOSPHATES, its Electric Life Element, the very core and center of the Brain itself—Restoring the fullest and most Vigorous conditions of Robust Health of Body and Mind, so that all the Duties of Life may be pursued with Confidence and Pleasure, and whilst pleasant to the taste never fails to Purify and Enrich the Blood, and thoroughly invigorate the Brain, Nerves, and Muscles. Its energising effects are shown from the first day of its administration by a remarkable Increase of Nerve and Intellectual Power, with a Feeling of Courage, Strength and Comfort, to which the Patient has long been unaccustomed.

I don’t know the composition of the Mormon Elder’s Damiana Wafers, but other damiana products were not always what they seemed. In 1910, Henry Kaufman of New York was fined $100 for misbranding his Damiana Gin. The product contained strychine and brucine, but the extent of the misbranding was worse than that. Not only was the quantity of damiana negligible, but the product also had the unforgivable quality of not actually being gin.

I just rediscovered this book, which I’ve owned for years but had forgotten about. It’s a marketing publication produced by Elliman and Sons, who manufactured the hugely popular Elliman’s Embrocation (for people) and Royal Embrocation (for animals) at Slough from 1847 onwards. The human version of the liniment is still available over the counter.

The book, which has the cover title Horses, Dogs, Birds, Cattle. Accidents and Ailments. First Aid, is also known as The Uses of Elliman’s Embrocation for Horses, Dogs, Birds and Cattle, and this is the fifth edition, published in 1906. Rather than posing as a general veterinary work and sneaking in adverts for the products, the book is openly about Elliman’s Embrocation and it’s no surprise that the product is recommended as a treatment for most things. There is, however, plenty of useful information about horse anatomy, advice on identifying common conditions and practical tips about caring for sick animals, making the book handy to have around the early 20^th century stable and therefore frequently reminding the owner about the Elliman’s brand.

It is beautifully illustrated and at some point I will upload some of the horse pictures, but in this post I’d like to share an excerpt that addresses a perennial problem – how to give medicine to dogs. (No mention is made of cats – presumably, prior to the internet, their uses were limited.)

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The majority of persons who keep dogs seldom or never give a dose of medicine to them, and it is often difficult to do so.

When medicine can be conveyed in food or drink, it is, of course, the easiest plan of administering it.

The dog should not see the prepared food, neither should the first morsel contain it. The suspicious pet should taste the appetising morsel and find that it is all right, and take the medicament in a subsequent one. Dogs soon learn to count, and the programme should be varied each time.

Giving fluid medicines is the most difficult; and, having decided on the drug to be given, the pharmaceutical chemist should be consulted as to its most concentrated form. The tabloid has taken the place of the nauseous tincture, infusion and decoction in human practice, and the amateur does well to avail himself of these aids.

If a liquid is the only agent in which the medicament can be conveyed, the dog should be held up and his cheek pursed out to make a funnel for the fluid to run into. The teeth should not be forced open. The nose may be slightly pinched, but it is only a question of firmness and a little time before the dog swallows it.

Powders are the most convenient form in which to administer medicines. Place the left hand over the patient’s face, press the finger and thumb on the lips, and squeeze them against the teeth. The dog opens his mouth when he feels this gentle pressure. The powder should be placed upon the back of the tongue.

Pills are difficult only to the timid person who does not push his finger far enough up the animal’s mouth, so as to get the bolus beyond recall. There is no danger of being bitten, if the upper lips are held over the edges of the top teeth.

Giving a clyster or enema. If the patient is not alarmed by rough and clumsy hands, he will submit to this operation readily.

The tail should be firmly grasped with the left hand, the instrument (previously oiled) introduced slowly, not forcing the sphincter muscles, but tiring them until they yield. The india-rubber ball syringe (Higginson’s) is the best for the purpose, as it leaves one hand free.

A rheumatic dog before and after treatment with Elliman's Embrocation

Doctors’ handwriting has long had a poor reputation, and I was amused to find this specimen, sent in to The Chemist and Druggist by an appalled pharmacist in June 1874.

The Chemist and Druggist 15 June 1874

A couple of months later, the magazine reported that the Scientific American had reproduced the prescription, commenting that it:

might indicate the vagaries of Planchette [i.e. spirit writing] or the tracks of a spider whose legs had been dipped in ink.

The annoyance to the dispenser was bad enough, but the Scientific American also pointed out the potential danger to the patient of an incorrectly compounded medicine, and urged druggists to make a point of returning illegible prescriptions to their perpetrator.

However, Alexander Cleghorn, a chemist from Cupar in Fife, had already tried this to no avail. He had to admit defeat in deciphering the following, but promised the patient he would write to the doctor for clarification.

Prescription sent in by Alexander Cleghorn, The Chemist and Druggist 15 August 1874

One can only imagine the force of the facepalm when he was ‘favoured with an elucidation of which the following is a facsimile’:

The prescriber clarifies what he meant. The Chemist and Druggist 15 August 1874

The following speech appeared in a comic 18th-century booklet called The Harangues or Speeches of Several Famous Mountebanks in Town or Country, which makes fun of high-profile medical salesmen by attributing to them wild claims about their remedies. Later editions (under the title The Harangues, or Speeches, of Several Celebrated Quack Doctors in Town and Country) included extra content such as Dr Rock’s speech, some satirical recipes for common ailments, and quack-related songs.

Henry Morley’s Memoirs of Bartholomew Fair (1859) refers to this ‘little undated book‘ as having appeared in around 1690. The earliest edition on ECCO is stated to be 1725, though the digitised title page has the date 1746 handwritten on it. Whatever the original date, it was popular enough to be reprinted several times during the first half of the 18^th century, and for components of it to be published separately as broadsides.

The speech could have some basis in fact – it is always possible someone took notes when Mr Jones was speaking at York – but it’s unlikely they would have been able to get it verbatim in the midst of an entertained audience, and even less likely that it wouldn’t get embellished for the purposes of humour. In January 1859, however, The Lancet took it literally, quoting a large proportion of the speech (as printed in Morley’s book) to show the similarities between the mountebanks of old and the spiritualists and homeopaths of their own day.

In contrast to the ‘quasi-scientific jargon‘ of modern quackery, ‘It gives a mental refreshment to turn to the laughable orations of the more honest mountebanks of bygone days.‘ Unfortunately, The Lancet missed out on a laugh – Morley had left out the bit about ‘bum-peeping.’

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The Harangue, or Quack Speech of T. JONES, at York.

 

Gentlemen and Ladies,

YOU that have a Mind to preserve your own and your Families Health, may here, at the Expence of a Two-penny Piece, furnish yourselves with a Packet, which contains several Things of great Use, and wonderful Operation in human Bodies against all Distempers whatsoever.

Gentlemen, Because I present myself among you, I would not have you to think, I am any Upstart Glister-pipe Bum-peeping Apothecary; no, Gentlemen, I am no such person: I am a regular Physician, and have travelled most Kingdoms in the World, purely to do my Country good. I am not a Person, that takes Delight, as a great many do, to fill your Ears with hard Words, in telling you the Nature of Turpet Mineral,Mercurii Dulcis, Balsamum Capiviet, Astringents, Laxations, Harboundations, Circulations, Vibrations, Salivations, Excoriations, Scaldations, or Urinations. These Quacks may fitly be called Solimites, because they prescribe only one Sort of Physick for all Distempers, that is, a Vomit.

If a Man has bruized his Elbow, Take a Vomit, says the Doctor. If he has any Corns; Take a Vomit. If he has torn his Coat; Take a Vomit. For the Jaundice, Fevers, Flax, Gripes, Gout, Stone, Pox, nay, even the Distempers, that only my Friend, the famous Dr. Tuff, whom you all know, as the Hocognicles, Marthambles, the Moon-Paul, and the Strong-Fives, A Vomit tantum. Gentlemen, these Impostors value killing a Man, no more than I value drawing an old Stump of a Tooth, which has long troubled any of you; so that, I say, they are a Pack of Tag-Rag, Asifœtida, Glister-Pipe Doctors. Now, Gentlemen, having given you a short Account of this spurious Race, I shall present you with my Cordial Pills, being the Tincture of the Sun, having Dominion from the same Light, giving Relief and Comfort to all Mankind: They cause all Complexions to laugh or smile, in the very taking them; they presently cure all Dizziness, Swimming, Dulness in the Head, and Scurvy.

In the next Place, I recommend to you my incomparable Balsam, which heals all Sores, Cuts, Ulcers, new and old. ‘Tis good for Burns, Scalds, Swellings, Bruizes, Strains, Aches, Weakness in the Joints and Limbs, &c. it cures the King’s-Evil, sore Breasts, and scald Heads; and it is taken inwardly for a Cough, Consumption, short Breath, Weakness of the Back, or any inward Hurt.

The next unparalell’d Medicine contain’d in this my Packet, is an admirable Electuary, celebrated throughout all England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed. It cures all curable Diseases, by very easy and gentle purging; it causes an Appetite, helps all Distempers in the Eyes, Face, swell’d Lips; and opens the Stoppage of the Liver and Spleen, &c.

The next I present you with, is my Specifick, which certainly cures all Agues in a Minute.

The next is my red Plaister, which radically cures the most inveterate Rheumatism and Gout in a few Days Time.

The last, and most useful Medicine prepared throughout the whole World, is this, my Pulvis Catharticus: Its Virtues are such, it will, equally with the Unicorn’s Horn, expel the rankest Poison; ’tis a perfect, safe, and speedy Cure, for all Venereal Maladies, of what Degree soever, and fortifies the Heart against all Fainting.

I do assure you, Country Folk, these Medicines are as good as any Physician can make, or Patient take; their Virtues are too well known, to say any more; so I shall leave you to experience them. And so I wish you Health and Happiness.

You may come to my Lodgings, at the Barber’s Pole and Stone Gate, at Home, from Seven to Eleven.

For a child diagnosed with a medical condition, life can suddenly become confusing and scary. Adults might not be equipped to answer their questions, or might even feel that it’s best to hide the truth. Meanwhile, Google turns up horrific prognoses or theories that the condition is part of some government/alien-lizard conspiracy to poison the world.

Dynamic new publisher Medikidz aims to tackle this lack of accurate, accessible medical information through a range of graphic novels for 10-14 year olds. They asked me if I would like to review one, so that’s why this post is different from The Quack Doctor‘s usual historical fare.

Medikidz’ sales support the Medikidz Foundation, a charity that distributes the books and other medical info free of charge in developing countries, where diseases such as malaria, tuberculosis and HIV are prevalent. In the long term, the Foundation aims to set up clinics to improve disadvantaged children’s access to medical care.

Given that children in the 21st century are still living in poverty and contracting TB, it feels a little Liz Jones-ish to whine that when I was a kid, I was the wheezy figure of fun trailing behind everyone else on the sports field, frequently ending up in hospital with only the drone of a nebuliser for entertainment – but that’s why I chose to review What’s Up with Max?: Medikidz Explain Asthma.

Like all Medikidz publications, the book features a gang of superheroes from Mediland, a planet in the form of a giant human body. After a water fight leaves Max gasping for breath, he is transported to this unusual place, where heroes Pump, Skinderella, Chi, Axon and Gastro give him a tour of the lungs. They are each experts on different aspects of the body, and are all very different characters, so children have a good chance of finding someone to identify with.

I was pleased to see the central character portrayed as an average kid with a personality rather than the chubby, friendless saddo sometimes associated with asthma. Actually, come to think of it… maybe it’s just me who was a chubby, friendless saddo.

The comic represents the immune system as an army overreacting to any tiny threat. When some smoke appears, the army calls in emergency troops, and the influx of soldiers inflames the lungs. During Max’s time in Mediland, he learns about peak flow tests, preventer and reliever medicines, and receives lots of reassurance that his condition can be controlled.

Such information has a lot of potential to be tedious, worthy, patronising or all three, but the authors (Medikidz CEO Dr Kim Chilman-Blair and former Marvel graphic novelist John Taddeo) have done a great job of avoiding these pitfalls by keeping the pace moving and by injecting plenty of humour.

As a sick kid hyper-aware of anything remotely condescending, I would have been dismissive of the whole idea of a book like this, but although the vibrant, action-packed illustrations are pitched well at the intended age group, it’s the comedy that would have won me round. Most of the humour comes from the food-loving Gastro, whose fart jokes and bogey-munching escapades bring the book to about my level, but there are plenty of subtler chuckles too.

I’m also impressed by the Medikidz website, which offers an index of medical conditions, treatments and procedures, all with accessible explanations that don’t talk down to children. The site features games, multimedia resources and a fledgling social network, where members will be able to join forums, start blogs and find others who share their experiences.

If you’re a health professional working with children, a parent wondering how to answer questions, or a young person seeking trustworthy information, it’s worth taking a look at Medikidz. These books help take the mystery and fear out of illness, with a few laughs along the way.

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What’s Up With Max? Medikidz Explain Asthma, is available from Medikidz’ website at £6.99

TO SHORT PERSONS.——Anyone (Male or Female) wishing to increase in Height and Symmetry of Figure, by means of a remarkable physiological discovery, may send a stamped directed envelope to Captain F. STAFFORD (U.S.). 1, Church-terrace, Kentish Town, London, N.W.

The Penny Illustrated Post, 15 October 1870

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Some advertisements might make wild claims, but as The Pall Mall Gazette pointed out in 1870, this one technically doesn’t offer anything at all. Short persons may send an S.A.E. if they wish – but there’s no promise that they will receive something in return.

Suspecting that Captain Stafford might be furnishing himself with a lifetime’s supply of penny reds, the P.M.G. investigated further and discovered that this was not the case. Applicants would receive a circular that hinted at a mysterious method of increasing their height. The Captain had made the discovery during his time in active service among the giant races of Patagonia, and had boosted his own stature from 5′ 8” to 6′ 1”. No wonder he wanted to share this wonderful secret with the short people of the world (all they had to do was send him another 5s. 8d.) The Gazette suggested that he would be better off continuing to use the method on himself:

Progressing at the same rate, he would soon be able to earn an honest living as a giant, instead of touting for postage stamps.

The adverts also attracted ridicule from the comic periodicals. Punch clarified that the ‘U.S.’ after the Captain’s name stood for United States, not ‘Under Size’ (and he must be from Long Island, of course). Fun magazine joined the cynicism by predicting that short people sending off their stamp would find themselves shorter – by a penny.

The Spectator, meanwhile, wondered whether the treatment would have the same effect on people of all sizes:

If he is able to gratify the wish of short persons to be of middle height, he must be able to gratify the wish of persons of middle height to be tall, and of tall persons to be relatively taller,—after effecting which we fear that short persons (who appear to be the particular objects of the compassion of Captain Stafford (U. S.) will be very much where they were before.

In 1874 a ‘respectably-dressed‘ young woman attended Marylebone Police Court to complain that she had sent 11 shillings to Captain Stafford for treatment. She received some pills and a pamphlet of advice, but her height had disappointingly remained at 4′ 1”. The magistrate agreed that it sounded like a swindle and granted her a summons, but she didn’t proceed – probably because of the costs involved. The quirkiness of her story, however, attracted the attention of the newspapers and Captain Stafford himself got wind of it. He appeared with his lawyer at the Police Court a few days later, keen make it known that his adverts did not actually promise to make short people tall.

His pamphlet contained some general, sensible tips for healthy living – keeping clean, abstaining from spirits and tobacco, avoiding heavy lifting, having a rest after a hearty meal, and:

In walking, the body should be held erect, the chest thrown forward, and the shoulders kept well back.

There was nothing wrong with advising people to improve their posture, but 11s. was a lot to fork out for such a pearl of wisdom.

Wishing to clear his name, Stafford even offered to pay for his own summons, but as the young woman was long gone, the non-existent case fizzled out. The Captain’s adverts stopped appearing in the newspapers and presumably he moved on to greater heights. 

From The Oakland Tribune 22 February 1925

If you think a chlorine bomb sounds more like something from the battlefield than the medicine cabinet, then you’d be right about the origins of this 1920s remedy. The product, and a brief trend among physicians for treating colds with chlorine, arose from experiments made by the US Chemical Warfare Service after the First World War.

Thomas Faith, in his article ‘“As Is Proper in Republican Form of Government”: Selling Chemical Warfare to Americans in the 1920s’ (Federal History, 2010) places these experiments in the context of a public relations campaign to improve the CWS’s unsurprisingly poor image. The Service needed to contribute positively to life in peacetime, and what better way to appeal to the public than to announce a cure for the common cold?

While the influenza pandemic was claiming millions of lives, doctors at Edgewood Arsenal, Maryland, noticed that flu was less common among workers in the chlorine gas manufacturing plant than elsewhere. Intrigued by this anecdotal evidence, Lieutenant Colonel Edward B Vedder and Captain Harold P. Sawyer of the Army Medical Corps spent a year experimenting with chlorine gas on patients with ordinary colds. Reporting their findings in March 1925, Vedder revealed that of 440 cases, 261 were ‘cured’ and 149 were ‘improved’ by the treatment. Such an improvement might have been vague and unquantifiable, but the researchers also sent out questionnaires to physicians using the treatment. They got an overall favourable response, and took that as proof that it worked.

Finding a cold cure might be impressive enough, but Vedder and Sawyer had gone a step further and claimed to cure the cold of the President of the United States. In May 1924, Calvin Coolidge spent 45 minutes in a sealed chamber, breathing in a low concentration of chlorine gas. By the next day, his cold had become so bad that he had to cancel his official engagements, but after two more treatments he was well again. A cold getting better after three days? Who would have thought it?

In 1925 the University of Minnesota demonstrated via a controlled experiment that patients with colds recovered in the same amount of time with or without chlorine, but by then the idea had entered the commercial world and sufferers were being exhorted to ‘Bomb the first sneeze’ with Kilacold.

Kilacold Chlorine Bomb. Photo via Worthpoint.com

The Kilacold chlorine bomb was a teardrop-shaped glass ampoule containing 0.35g of chlorine gas. The patient had to break the end off to allow the gas to permeate the air of a closed room and, according to the advertising, their cold would disappear within an hour. The treatment was also promoted for flu, whooping cough, croup, bronchitis and for diphtheria carriers, but was not recommended for people with asthma. The bombs cost 29c each at Walgreens in 1925.

A few years later, 11 cartons of the bombs were seized at Portland, Oregon, and condemned as misbranded because the packaging stated that the contents were ‘Absolutely harmless’ and ‘positively not poisonous in any way to the human system.’

Although a 1927 Kilacold advert spoke of chlorine as an agent of death and destruction in war, it continued by using a rather tasteless statement to assure punters that the medical form was different.

‘Chlorine bombs are safe and sane,’ the advertising asserted. ‘Thousands of doctors declare the late war worthwhile because it gave the world the chlorine treatment.’

Why would you visit The Quack Doctor to read about the famous Beecham’s Pills, when five seconds of Googling will give you more information than you could possibly read in a lifetime?

Well, obviously you wouldn’t, so that’s why I’ve never blogged about them. I just wanted to do a quick post, however, to show this advertisement from 1909, which is a fine example of a witty response to criticism, and far better PR than threatening to sue anyone who’s a bit of a meany.

 The Penny Illustrated Paper 11 December 1909

On 2 January 1909, the British Medical Journal published an analysis of Beecham’s Pills as part of its exposé of proprietary remedies. The verdict wasn’t that harsh compared with the damning reports on other medicines, but it revealed that the pills comprised just aloes (an ingredient of most bog-standard laxatives), ginger and soap. The formula had not been top secret before this, but when the Journal’s reports were published as Secret Remedies: What they Cost and What They Contain (1909), it was brought to wider public attention.

This advert forms part of Beecham’s public response, taking ownership of the term ‘secret remedy’ and presenting it as something honourable; a shared secret between the company and the loyal customers who knew best about their own health. The last paragraph of the following advertisement also appeals to people’s trust in their own judgement, and engenders suspicion of the critics’ motives.

It is perfectly reliable although it is “a Secret Remedy,” it has been tried by the Public for upwards of sixty years, and in spite of all opposition, and in the face of calumny prompted by jealousy caused by success, the voice of the people is practically unanimous in favour of Beecham’s Pills.

Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, 12 December 1909

Beecham’s Pills were pitched as a ‘Remedy for the People’, not for the establishment. Whatever some high-falutin BMA analyst might say, the advertising cleverly flattered potential punters that they – who knew what it was like to be ill – were the real experts.

P.S. I’m on Google+ now – feel free to add me.