The Quack Doctor

If you’re in Brighton on 16 May 2012, come along to the Red Roaster Coffee House on St James Street for an evening of unusual tales from eight writers – including The Quack Doctor! Grit Lit runs twice a year and is a great event with a friendly and vibrant atmosphere. It’s a showcase for gritty and unromantic short stories, poetry and a smattering of non-fiction. But that doesn’t mean relentless doom and gloom – there’s always plenty of dark humour.

I last read at Grit Lit in 2010, with a gruesome excerpt from my novel, Kill-Grief. Thanks to all the amazing writers who took part, the event won the Latest 7 Award for Best Literature Event of the festival, seeing off runner-up Martin Amis.

This time I’ll be reading a piece based on The Quack Doctor, and it will include some truly desperate remedies…

Grit Lit events tend to sell out so book in advance to make sure you get a seat.

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I’m pleased to welcome guest blogger Leslie Katz, who has investigated whether Charles Dickens was approached to promote the famous Holloway’s Pills in one of his novels.

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For many years during the nineteenth century, the self-styled “Professor”, Thomas Holloway (1800-1883) (shown below), was the most widely known household name in Britain. He was the manufacturer of Holloway’s Pills and Ointment, quack medicines that he advertised relentlessly and sold in great quantities, those sales contributing to his becoming a very wealthy man. (He also made a great deal of money by skilful investments.) As to his fame, it was said of him that millions who had never heard of Napoleon had, because of his advertising, heard of Holloway.

When he died, Holloway left an estate of about £600K and a considerable amount of land, but his estate was reduced by the fact that, in the years before his death, he’d also spent about £1M for charitable purposes (perhaps in penance for having sold so much quack medicine?).

His death was followed by the publication of a number of anecdotes about him.

One anecdote, involving Charles Dickens as well as Holloway, was published in The World by Dickens’s friend, Edmund Yates (shown below). Yates owned and edited The World, which was a weekly “society paper”.

The anecdote was as follows:

He was a shrewd amusing man, this … “Professor,” and was very daring. He once enclosed a cheque for a thousand pounds in a letter to Charles Dickens, which he placed at Dickens’s disposal, on condition that one line of complimentary reference to Holloway’s cures should appear in the book which Dickens was then publishing in monthly numbers. The bearer waited for an answer. “What did you do?” I asked Dickens. “Do!” he cried; “I put the cheque back into the letter and sent it down to the messenger, saying that was all the answer I had to send!”

To use modern terminology, Yates was alleging that Holloway had proposed a product placement in one of Dickens’s books, but that Dickens had angrily rejected the proposal.

Was Yates telling the truth when he published that anecdote?

Certainly, his track record doesn’t inspire confidence in his desire to tell the truth to the best of his ability.

For instance, at about the time he was publishing that anecdote, he was being prosecuted for defamatory libel for another story that he’d published in The World. At his trial, he pleaded guilty, but sought to persuade the court that he deserved a light sentence. His argument wasn’t based on a claim that the story that he’d published, an allegation of marital infidelity by someone recognisable by readers as the Earl of Lonsdale, had been true or on a claim that he’d done his best to establish its truth before publishing it. Instead, it was based on a claim that he hadn’t known to whom the allegation applied and that he hadn’t taken any steps to find out to whom it could be thought to apply. Naturally, a claim like that got a scathing response, the court saying that it made his position worse, rather than better, and he was sentenced to four months’ imprisonment, of which he served seven weeks before being released due to illness. (He didn’t have to fear a loss of income while in prison, incidentally, since he’d married into the fabulously wealthy Wilkinson family, makers of swords and, later, razor blades.)

Much of Yates’s professional career consisted of incidents like the one I’ve just described, leading one modern-day commentator to sum him up as follows; “He was a shady customer, with his tricks and schemes and smoking-room confidences; ultimately the thought of him rather turns one’s stomach.”

I believe that Yates wasn’t telling the truth when he published his Holloway-Dickens anecdote. I don’t rely particularly in reaching that conclusion on Yates’s general character, but rather on an examination both of: other writings by him mentioning either Holloway or Dickens; and writings by Dickens mentioning Holloway.

Space doesn’t permit me even to summarise that examination here, but I’ve set out my position in my paper, “Dickens and Product Placement: Did He Refuse an Offer from ‘Professor’ Holloway?” I invite you to download that paper from here and to read it.

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Leslie Katz is a retired judge who developed an interest in the intersection between the literature and the consumer products of the nineteenth century. This has led him to write about such authors as Byron, Dickens and Conan Doyle and about such products as Rowland’s Macassar Oil, Warren’s Blacking, Holloway’s Pills and Ointment and the ready-made clothing of Hyam & Co Limited. All his papers are available to download from the Social Science Research Network. 

‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ quoted the preface to the 1886 book Lays of the Colleges, being a Collection of Songs and Verses by members of the Æsculapian, Medico-Chirurgical, and Other Professional Clubs in Edinburgh. The book collected together humorous song lyrics sung in these medical clubs as part of ‘the relaxation and emancipation for a few hours, at stated periods, of their members from the strain and care and anxiety of professional life.’

Among the most prolific writers was John Smith MD, LLD, FRCS and FRS Edin., who contributed 25 songs to the book. My favourite of his titles is ‘There’s Nae Germs Aboot The Hoose,’ but to remain on the topic of this blog, I here present his song on quackery, which names several famous patent medicines of the late Victorian period. Should anyone wish to have a go at singing it, the tune is ‘Jim the Carter Lad.’

QUACK, QUACK, QUACKERY

THIS song refers to Quackery; a thing that’s not so bad,
Since nowhere else so many perfect cures are to be had,
Each one from every malady will make you quite secure,
And should it fail, another’s quite prepared to work the cure.
For nervousness, or listlessness, or bloodlessness, combined
With any other somethingness, a remedy you’ll find.
Which cures your gout, removes your corns, your whiskers helps to grow
Sets up your liver, oils your joints, and makes your juices flow.
Quack! quack! keep it up, there’s no disease so bad,
But fifty perfect cures for it can any day be had.

For such as have hysteria and flatulently belch,
What pill is there that can compare with those of Widow Welch;
Or should your skins be pimply or your stomachs be at fault.
There’s Mr Eno tells you that the remedy’s Fruit Salt.
If suffering from headaches or from pains about your spine.
Against such dispensations now you need not long repine,
Sensations of such nasty kind will never more be felt
If you will only wear a proper sized Magnetic Belt.
Quack! quack! keep it up, &c.

From warts, vertigo, sneezing, hiccup, trembling of the nerves,
A Pulvermacher chain, you’ll find, effectually preserves;
While if into your head you feel your blood inclined to roam.
It’s checked at once by using an Electric Small-tooth Comb.
Suppose that from your cranium the hairs begin to drop,
Or that your locks get snowy in a way you’d like to stop.
Macassar Oil, or Mrs Allan, famous o’er the world,
Will clothe your scalp with auburn crops, got up and nicely curled.
Quack! quack! keep it up, &c.

Specific balsams for bronchitis or a common cold
Are found in Powell’s Aniseed and Horehound, we are told ;
While, should your dental apparatus be on the decline,
No end of grinders you may save by using Floriline.
Should corpulence your figure jeopardise, no matter what
Your size may be, a remedy you’ll find in Anti-fat ;
While there’s old Jacob Townsend, ready from your blood to prove
That his Sarsaparilla every poison will remove.
Quack! quack! keep it up, &c.

Perhaps you are afflicted with dyspepsia or bile,
Then what you need is plainly Norton’s Pills of Camomile ;
While, if you wish to take a ride to Khiva, you will find
A box of Cockle’s keep you clear in body and in mind.
And lastly, should tuberculosis of you get a hold.
You know that by the highest testimonials we are told
How any one, at any time, its ravages may foil.
While in the liver of the cod we find De Jongh’s Brown Oil.
Quack! quack! keep it up, &c.

You’ve Holloway with pills and ointment, Lamplough with saline ;
You’ve Winslow’s Soothing Syrup, and all kinds of chlorodyne;
You’ve antiseptic soap; in fact, there’s not the slightest doubt
The way to live’s to swallow every new cure that comes out.
The doctors think for sep’rate ills a sep’rate cure’s required,
But they’d soon change their mind were they by quackery inspired ;
For here, though cures be many, yet the system that’s disclosed
Is, each one singly cures all ills however much opposed.
Quack! quack! keep it up, &c.

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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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

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

Atlas Obscura, the online compendium of the world’s wonders, curiosities, and esoterica, is hosting its second annual International Obscura Day on April 9, 2011, in partnership with Hendrick’s Gin. Last year’s Obscura Day saw 4000 attendees at events in 80 cities, in 20 countries all over the world.

Obscura Day is an ‘day of expeditions, back-room tours, and hidden treasures in your own home town,’ designed to makes explorers out of everyone, and to inspire the kind of curiosity and wonder usually reserved for exotic travels and far flung locations. Events will happen all over the world, hosted by obscure collections, unusual museums, eclectic hidden wonders, and curious-minded individuals. At many events, Hendrick’s Gin will be providing suitably unusual complimentary cocktails.

Those of us in the UK could take a candlelit tour of the mysterious Margate Shell Grotto, an exquisitely decorated series of underground passages discovered in 1835, or go behind the scenes at the Royal Observatory Greenwich, with tours led by Dr Rebekah Higgitt, Curator of the History of Science, and Rory McEvoy, Curator of Horology.

Photo credit: puuikibeach on Flickr

I’m rather keen to visit The Adventurists at the Royal Geographical Society Map Room for their Annual Film Festival. It promises to be an afternoon of quirky and gripping adventure films – but not the kind of slick documentaries that make it to your TV screen.

‘Adventure films are boring,’ say The Adventurists. ‘Triumph through adversity is yesterday’s news. We’re after failure through stupidity.’

The self-filmed adventures range from 3 minutes to 20 minutes long and there is still time to submit your own for a chance to win the grand prize of £500.

The day also features adventuresome speakers, including National Geographic Adventurer of the Year, Ed Stafford, who recently became the first chap to walk the length of the Amazon River from source to sea.

Tickets are £15 for the whole afternoon – to book, visit The Adventurists’ website, and to find out more about other Obscura Day events across the world see Atlas Obscura.