The Quack Doctor

From The Graphic, 15 Feb 1890

There’s often something a bit fishy about patent remedies, but this one appeared before the advent of canned tuna and, for the average non-sea-going punter, the name did not have the piscatorial associations it has now. A company called Fels and Davis began promoting it in 1879, but by the following year Davis had quietly disappeared from the adverts and the business became Fels and Co.

The remedy was promoted as ‘a strictly vegetable compound’, and its trademark suggests that the vegetable in question was a prickly pear species, which produces edible fruit known as tuna. Given that The Strand is not renowned for its supply of cacti, the product wasn’t necessarily made from real tuna fruit, but it’s odd that the advertising doesn’t go all out to create an exotic background story. Instead, the unique selling point was the free dose offered to anyone who called in person at Savoy House.

From The Graphic, 11 Jan 1890

The experiences of one such caller are set out in a testimonial on an 1879 pamphlet, which is a good example of a proprietor portraying an apparently sceptical customer whose eyes are opened to the wonders of the remedy. The customer, a neuralgia sufferer called J Flynn, starts off thinking of Tuna as ‘only another remedy cracked up by quacks’, and goes to Savoy House purely out of curiosity when he happens to be in the area. After receiving his free dose, he is not convinced, so the Tuna representative gives him another, and still nothing happens. Unable to hang about any longer, J Flynn goes on his way, when the inevitable occurs:

But mark! Before I had gone less than a mile the pain entirely left me, and I have not had the slightest symptoms since, and this was after three weeks’ incessant pain, from which I could barely sleep or eat food.

Flynn goes from writing off Tuna as just another quack potion to viewing it as ‘a godsend to mankind,’ and concludes by thanking Fels and Davis for being ‘extremely kind in curing me and not charging me one halfpenny’. The technique of showing the conversion of sceptic to believer is a common one in patent medicine advertising - here, it’s elegantly combined with a reminder to the reader that there’s absolutely nothing to lose from a visit to Savoy House.

Source: The Sporting Times, 28 January 1899.

Although this product isn’t solely medical, its advertising did claim that it could prevent chills, colds, rheumatism and lumbago, and alleviate toothache, neuralgia and sciatica.

Whether or not it could effectively combat these ailments is doubtful, but it nevertheless sounds like a useful gadget for the depths of winter.

The 12th Earl of Dundonald patented the Instra warmer in 1896, and soon developed a whole range of products under the motto ‘Warmth is Life’. The standard version was the pocket warmer, a slim contraption available in embossed German silver at 12s 6d or without the decoration for 7s 6d. Plebs need not miss out as there was a tin alternative at a bargain 3s 6d.

The Instra came with refills that you had to light with a match and place into the outer casing. They had to be put in non-burning end first, which sounds tricky. I don’t know what the fuel was, but the makers claimed it was lightweight and slow-burning. A single cartridge weighed only one seventh of an ounce and would give out heat for three to four hours. Surrounding the cartridge were layers of gauze padding to stop sparks getting through. The device could then be used in various ways:

To be warm, put in side pocket; to be warmer, hook up just behind and below the hip bone underneath the coat; if very chill, hook up on one or other side of the back bone between the shoulders; for railway travelling, get the anklet strap; to air a damp bed quickly, put a chair in the bed and the Instra inside.

The pocket warmer was only one part of the range – there was also an Instra Chest Stove to wear strapped to one’s bosom. Supposedly contoured to the shape of the chest, in pictures it looks decidedly uncomfortable, and not very accommodating for ladies of Rubenesque stature.

For cyclists, however, the Instra range was a boon. The pocket warmers could be strapped to the ankles on chilly days, and Instra Bicycle Handles were the ideal way of keeping the rider’s hands warm. For equestrians there was the Instra Horse Stove, a large rectangular warmer costing over a pound. It’s not clear whether this was for the horse’s or the rider’s benefit, but it looks like it could be worn on the rider’s back and would certainly prevent slouching.

Happy customers testified to the Instra’s usefulness. Mrs Stone from the Isle of Wight said:

Thanks for the Instra warmer, which I place in my muff and thus save my fingers from being half frozen.

while The Rev E.R. Burroughs commented on the product’s versatility:

I am much pleased with the pocket ‘Instra.’ Another use to which it can be put is that of drying clothes in a drawer, and airing them if they are likely to be damp.

All in all, an admirable product that would of great service in 21st-century winters. The health and safety concerns of carrying lit fuel in one’s clothing are put to rest by the advertising pamphlet:

To show their safety, INSTRAs have been habitually carried in the same pocket mixed up with gunpowder cartridges.

Lord Dundonald (right) also invented the Constra bicycle saddle, a design that departed from the solid bone-shaking norm and consisted of leather straps stretched over a frame. This met with a mixed reception – Cycling magazine was dismissive, while The Nursing Record and Hospital World approved, saying that:

There is no tendency to jerk off, as with some saddles, and there is no injurious vibration when riding over rough roads.

They did admit they hadn’t actually tried it though.

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Source: Black & White, 19 March 1904

Chief among the ills to which flesh is heir in the springtime is the provoking habit of our ‘crowning glory’ to come off in handfuls, leaving us with the parlous prospect of a denuded poll.

So says a 1904 advertorial recommending Capsuloids as a hair restorer. I’m not sure to what extent people really moult in the springtime, but if did you found yourself shedding, Capsuloids were there to help.

The product started life as a general tonic. Launched in 1897 under the name ‘Dr Campbell’s Red Blood Forming Capsuloids,’ it had a wide remit:

…kill disease germs, cure chronic ailments and diseases, restore colour, health and strength, cure all irregularities, and generally build up the heart and nervous system.

Only after the turn of the 20th century did the company rebrand the product as a cure for baldness and grey hair.

Capsuloids were teardrop-shaped gelatine capsules containing a mixture of haemoglobin, olive oil, oleic acid, balsam of Peru and purified storax. The Capsuloids Company formulated the contents themselves then sent them to a manufacturing chemist, Duncan Flockhart & Co., who made the gelatine capsules and filled them with the mixture. This business relationship went through a rocky patch in 1912, when a batch of the capsules went mouldy and the Capsuloid Company tried to claim £8000 damages from the chemists. After a 19-day hearing, the courts ruled that Duncan Flockhart & Co were not at fault.

Unlike most hair restorers and dyes, Capsuloids were to be taken orally. Adverts used an illustration of a hair follicle (the one above is quite simple but there were much more detailed versions too) and pointed out that any preparations rubbed onto the scalp could not possibly reach that far into the skin. Instead, the remedy would work through the bloodstream, killing off germs surrounding the hair follicle and allowing it to get the nourishment it needed. Earlier advertising stated:

This natural iron has been extracted from the blood of carefully selected healthy bullocks, redissolved and enclosed in a gelatine covering.

Perhaps, however, this was distasteful to some, for later pamphlets emphasised that the capsules didn’t contain any actual blood or germs, just haemoglobin. In response to criticism made ‘through ignorance or self-interest’, the pamphlets also reassured women that Capsuloids would not give them facial hair:

It would require miraculous powers to make the small fine hairs on a lady’s face grow to a greater length or size than that intended by Nature. A miracle is an act which is directly contrary to Nature.

Capsuloids adverts usually incorporated a testimonial along with a picture of a satisfied customer. There are a few examples below but there were loads – a run of ads in one newspaper would use a different portrait every time. These were drawn from photographs – I’ve seen some of the originals and they are good likenesses.

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Imitators tried to promote similar products with less catchy names such as ‘Capsulated Haemoglobin Ovals for the Hair’ and ‘Soluble Capsules of Haemoglobin’ but the Capsuloid Company gave them short shrift:

BY TAKING CAPSULOIDS you will wear luxuriant, natural HAIR.
BY TAKING IMITATIONS you will wear A WIG.

On 19 January 1838, the steamer Killarney set sail from Cork, bound for Bristol. On board were 37 people and 600 pigs, and ahead of them was the most violent storm in more than half a century. The steamer was forced to turn back, and anchored at Cove for a few hours, until the Captain made the ill-fated decision to continue. By the following evening, 21 survivors were clinging to a rock, fast losing hope of rescue.

One of these survivors was Baron Spolasco (above), a flamboyant character who had been fraudulently practising as a physician and surgeon in different parts of Ireland. Though he looks rather exotic, he was probably born in the north of England in about 1800, and his real name appears in different sources as John Williams, John Smith, or the slightly more impressive John William Adolphus Frederick Augustus Smith.

Spolasco did not specialise in particular ailments – he cured everything instantly. You can click to enlarge this handbill and see the extent of his claims. I am very grateful to Lucy Martin for the handbill and portrait photographs, which she took at the University of Cork Art Gallery.

One part of the handbill says:

Any individual who has lost his, or her nose, can be supplied with a REAL one, Grecian, Roman or Aquiline, perfect and natural as by nature

This was done by the Talicotian operation, an ancient and ingenious way of reconstructing a missing nose by bringing down a flap of skin from the patient’s forehead.

On that fateful Friday in January 1838, Spolasco was off to Bristol to meet the agent of a ‘high personage’ about a complicated surgical case (or perhaps the people in Cork were starting to get wise to him). All his belongings were loaded onto the Killarney but he, his eight-year-old son Robert and their two Newfoundland dogs were five minutes late. They had almost resolved to wait for the next week’s boat, when some locals offered to row them out to the steamer.

During the course of that night and the next morning, the storm and the terrified pigs put the steamer in peril and it perished in Renny Bay. The poor Newfoundlands rapidly joined the choir invisible, but the Baron and Robert were among the 21 people who reached a rock 200 yards from shore. Though so close to land, there were no rescue attempts until the Sunday, by which time little Robert was among those who succumbed to the waves. In his Narrative of the Wreck of the Steamer Killarney, Spolasco later described his feelings about the death of his son:

I pause one moment to offer up my most fervent supplications to my God, to spare such of you my kind readers, as are fathers, and mothers; to spare you ever, from having to go through, to witness, to feel, to suffer, even a thousandth part of what I did for my dear, my sweet, my beautiful boy. Alas ! he is now no more, he is as still as the grave ! yes he is quiet—he moves not—he breathes not—he no longer enchants me as he was wont to do, morning, noon and night, with his sweet prattling, his but too sensible conversation ! HE IS DEAD ! ! !

The Narrative is a gripping read and, while melodramatic (in a good way) and self-aggrandising, the Baron’s story concurs in most details with other reports of the wreck.

The image below is from the Narrative, and though there’s no doubt a bit of artistic licence, it does emphasise just how near and yet so far the stranded people were from the land. They could see the locals making off with the dead pigs washed up on the beach, but they could do nothing to get themselves there alive.

We had not the good fortune to reach the top of the rock; we only got to between one and two yards of it and that part faced the sea. We had to hold on all night by our fingers and toes – something like being suspended by our hands and toes from the sill of a window in one of the upper stories of a house, and at every moment the tremendous and fearful billows lashing at our backs terribly, we were not able to rest ourselves even for a moment.

Eventually they were spotted by some ‘respectable’ people who sent for a set of rescue apparatus, but this relied on getting a rope out to the rock, and attempts proved futile. The rescuers tried attaching ropes to ducks and setting them off across the waves, but only one duck made it, and the survivors couldn’t catch it. Next they tried using a howitzer to fire balls with ropes attached, but to no avail.

Then the chief coastguard’s brother, Edward Hull, had the idea of carrying a long rope round the bay so that it would stretch from one promontory to the other, with a second rope hanging down over the rock. The first attempt was late on Sunday afternoon and as darkness fell the rescuers almost left off, but in desperation two people grabbed the rope and shouted to be hauled in. According to the Baron:

…[the rescuers] immediately did so, upon which we heard a splash but could see nothing, it being at this time dark.

After this melancholy occurrence, the remaining survivors were abandoned to a second night without food, water or shelter. The next day, using the long rope and a basket, those on land were finally able to get the staples of life – wine, whiskey and bread – onto the rock. The Baron writes:

I cannot find words sufficiently strong to express how grateful the wine was to my parched lips. Each having partaken of this seasonable relief, we all huzza’d, and waved our hats and caps, in token of gratitude for what we had just had, and in the hope of being speedily relieved.

The equipment had a cot designed to transport human beings, and by this method the 14 survivors were removed, one by one. First was the only woman, Mary Leary, but Baron Spolasco managed to be second in line and was taken to a nearby house. One of the others subsequently died of exhaustion.

Only a month later he wrote his Narrative, and used it as a way of increasing his fame and spreading the word about his medical practice. He went through with his plan of going to Bristol and started up with the same wild claims about miraculous cures. But his adventures had only just begun.

In the next post, the intrepid Baron gets arrested for manslaughter, charged with forgery, and falls under the satirical eye of Walt Whitman in 1850s New York.

WHITEHEAD’S
ESSENCE OF MUSTARD.
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CHILBLAINS are prevented from breaking, and their tormenting itching instantly removed, by WHITEHEAD’s ESSENCE of MUSTARD, universally esteemed for its extraordinary efficacy in Rheumatisms, Palsies, Gouty Affections, and Complaints of the Stomach; but where this certain remedy has been unknown or neglected, and the Chilblains have actually suppurated, or broke, Whitehead’s Family Cerate will ease the pain, and very speedily heal them. They are prepared and sold by R. JOHNSTON, Apothecary, 15, Greek-street, Soho, London: the Essence and Pills at 2s. 9d. each;—the Cerate, at 1s. 1½d. They are also sold by the Printer of this Paper, at the HULL PACKET OFFICE, in Scale Lane, Hull, and by every medicine vender in the United Kingdom. The genuine has a black ink stamp, with the name of R. Johnston inserted on it.
The severest Sprains and Bruises are cured by a few applications of the Fluid Essence.

Source: The Hull Packet, 15 April 1806

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I tend to avoid blogging about the most widely advertised remedies because chances are they’ve already been researched by someone else, and there’s no point in a non-academic, sleep-deprived novelist trying to add anything to the sum of knowledge. So I’ve been skimming over the Whitehead’s Essence ads for ages. They crop up so often in early 19th-century newspapers that I became inured to them – probably much like early 19th-century newspaper readers. I now discover that the product inspired a satire too funny to ignore.

Whitehead’s Essence was patented in 1798, but had been been around for a few years by then. As I’ve mentioned before, one of the conditions of obtaining a patent was that the inventor had to file a specification detailing how to make the product. No one, however, would necessarily test out the recipe, so it was possible to get away with vague or nonsensical instructions. The author of the 1805 publication Essays on Quackery encountered this when he planned to use patents to find out the composition of various remedies. An acquaintance advised him not to bother:  ‘Your recipes on specifications in the patent office will assuredly err, for, although I believe each is given in with the solemnity of an oath, it is doubtful whether any one be true.’

Robert Johnston, owner of the Essence of Mustard, submitted a long and complicated process that would be impossible to replicate without losing the will to live. The Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal called it ‘a motley group of ingredients,’ and The Medical Observer asked ‘Does not the grant of a patent for such a most absurd and ridiculous recipe, casts (sic) an indelible disgrace on our country?’ Rather than granting Johnston a patent, they said, the government should have ‘granted a warrant for taking him into custody, and inflicted on him some condign punishment.’

The real recipe was much simpler – oil of turpentine with spirit of rosemary and camphor, plus a small quantity of flour of mustard. Turpentine had long been used as a remedy for chilblains, so there wasn’t much new about this product, but it was famous enough to be known in the US within a few years of being established. And that’s where an amusing parody appeared in March 1798.

The article in Philadelphia’s Weekly Magazine is purportedly a letter from a farrier who has just discovered a wonderful remedy – Blackhead’s Essence of Pitchfork. The writer first condemns the medical profession for charging a fortune for ‘words and wind’:

Apply to a physician—what does he do for you? He feels your pulse; tells you, what you knew before, that you are sick ; takes the fee ; and then packs you off to the apothecary. How long will people be gulled by these men!

He then goes on to introduce the Essence of Pitchfork:

It has been universally acknowledged, that pitchforks are very useful and essential, but rather irritating and inconvenient when taken in their natural state.

The Essence would cure everything, including wooden legs and drowning, and was available in two forms, ‘viz. Sharp, powerful steel points, for internal use, and hickory staff for external’  - a reference to Whitehead’s being available as both a topical preparation and as pills. The article concludes with these testimonials, mocking the whole breed of advertisers who used exaggerated stories to try and sell their remedies:

I DO hereby solemnly declare and affirm, that, as I was walking up Arch-street in January last, I slipped, and tumbled to pieces: By a judicious and timely application of Blackhead’s Essence of Pitchfork, the parts were gathered together, without the loss of a single member.
Jedediah Scarramouch
March 14, 1798

HAVING died some time ago, to the great grief of my dear wife, she applied Blackhead’s Essence of Pitchfork, in staff, to my poor corse. Symptoms of returning life soon appeared, and in a few weeks I was all alive.
Count Obadiah.
March, 1798.

I DO hereby certify, that I used to be as thin and poor as a snake, and was subject to being drowned. I purchased some of Blackhead’s Essence of Pitchfork, and, in due season, grew as fat as a pig, and have never been drowned since.
Joban Nincum.
March, 1798.

Source: The Morning Chronicle, 27 August 1803

THE PURE DROPS of LIFE; or, Vegetable Extract, prepared only by T. M. Lucas, V.D.M. Road, near Bath. Sold, by special appointment, at Messrs. H. and W. Humphries, No. 87, Fleet-street; No. 2, Haymarket; Mr. G. Long, No. 13, Great Newport street, Long Acre; Mr. Tabart, 157, New Bond -street; Mr. Palley, Newington Causeway; Mr. Leathwait, Royal Exchange; and by the principal Venders of genuine Medicines in the United Kingdoms; in Bottles at 2s. 9d. 6s. 11s. and 22s. each.—N.B. There is a saving of 1s. on the 11s. and 5s. on the 22s. Bottles
REV. CHARLES GREENLY, TO MR. LUCAS.
James’s-street, Bath, May 4th 1800
Sir—For several months I have been much afflicted with a very great hoarseness; I tried several things for relief, but to no purpose; at last I was prevailed upon to take your Pure Drops of Life; I soon found relief, and I bless God, after taking a few bottles, my hoarseness was entirely removed. I believe your drops to be a very precious cordial. I have recommended them to several, and shall continue to recommend them, and am your affectionate                                                                                                                       CHARLES GREENLY.

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Hoarseness was just one complaint that would supposedly surrender to the Pure Drops of Life. Mr Lucas also advertised them as being efficacious against colds, coughs, liver complaints, cholera morbus (this term could apply to a variety of gastrointestinal afflictions), palpitations, nervous affections, incubus (nightmares), and ‘indispositions of females’. He recommended them to singers and public speakers, saying ‘this Discovery is the greatest ever known, for clearing the voice, strengthening the lungs, and animating the whole frame.’

The ingredients included ‘a great variety of Flowers, Fruits, Seeds, &c.,’ so an endorsement from über-botanist Sir Joseph Banks was just the thing to give the Drops credibility. In a promotional pamphlet, Lucas claimed that he had visited Sir Joseph, who had taken a glass of the remedy and pronounced it an excellent carminative (anti-fart medicine). From this, Lucas concluded that:

If the pure drops of life are approved by the first botanist in the world, what family would be without them?

The key word is, of course, ‘if’. In 1807, a new anti-quackery publication called The Medical Observer wrote to Sir Joseph (after some prompting from a reader) for his version of events. He replied:

I am much too well convinced of the unavoidable necessity of regular medical advice, in the administration of every medicine whatever, to have on any occasion allowed my name to be used as a recommendation of any nostrums or quack medicines.

He had never seen Mr Lucas’s advertisements and the use of his name was unauthorised. The wording doesn’t rule out the possibility that Mr Lucas did encounter Sir Joseph at some point, with the two parties perhaps interpreting the meeting differently, but  Sir Joseph’s view was:

I certainly consider it a crime against the public, to recommend to them, by false pretences, or by deceit of any kind, medicines or any other matters or things.

The Medical Observer also drew attention to the letters V.D.M. after Lucas’s name – a suffix that might have appeared to the unwary to be a medical qualification, but meant Verbi Dei Minister – Minister of the Divine Word. This was a fairly flexible designation that people could adopt to show their dedication to preaching the Gospel, without necessarily having a theology degree or being ordained in the Church of England. It was useful for nonconformist preachers who had a strong commitment to God but nothing much ‘official’ to back it up (er… a bit like how I claim to be a historian just because I research history a lot, I suppose!)

Some of Lucas’s ads refer the reader to an article in the Evangelical Magazine that supported his claims. In fact, this was just another advert that he wrote himself. I don’t know whether Lucas was a genuine preacher but I suspect he was, and probably didn’t see any contradiction between his calling and his rather dubious methods of promoting his invention.

The Medical Observer mentions the wider problem of quacks using fake or irrelevant qualifications to impress the punters. It tells of one such character who, as well as claiming to be an M.D., put E.D.   A.T.W.   D.A.  after his name. Although I wouldn’t put it past the editors to have embellished this story, it’s worth repeating what the letters stood for:
E.D. – Electrical Doctor
A.T.W. – Author of a Treatise on Worms
D.A. – Donor of Advice

There – I think everyone on the planet qualifies as a D.A. Congratulations!

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Source: The Graphic, Sat 25 October 1884

The format of this one makes it a bit tricky to type out, but if you click on the advert, you should then be able to zoom in and read it. The Ammoniaphone was an instrument designed to help singers and public speakers improve the quality of their voice. It also claimed to cure consumption and other lung problems.

It consisted of a slender metal tube 25 inches in length, with decorated handles and a push-button valve on each end. As well as the picture below left, you can see a photo courtesy of the Science Museum, here. The instructions for use were as follows:

Unscrew the centre cap or nozzle two turns. Take hold of the Ammoniaphone, press the end valves, bend forward, place the lips tightly over the centre cap, and inhale very slowly but deeply.

Within the tube was a wick-like material soaked with hydrogen peroxide, ammonia and peppermint oil. The ingredients don’t sound very appealing, but the inventor, Dr R. Carter Moffat, described the vapour much more romantically as ‘Italianised Air.’

Italy was a destination for consumptives seeking a warm climate, but not only that – it also produced excellent tenors. While visiting the country, Carter Moffat (who was an eminent Scottish chemist, certainly no amateur enthusiast) had analysed the air and found the presence of free ammonia and peroxide of hydrogen – a combination he believed was unique to Italy and therefore likely to be responsible for the inhabitants’ operatic ability.

Shortly after its introduction, the rights to the Ammoniaphone were bought for £2000 in shares by the Medical Battery Company, run by Cornelius Bennett Harness. Dr Carter Moffat stayed closely involved, giving promotional lectures about his invention. The product was well-received by the press.

Not everyone, however, was convinced. In the Ladies’ Column of the Bristol Mercury (written ‘by one of themselves’), the correspondent described a musical evening where the Ammoniaphone was the object of much interest:

Several guests present took long whiffs from the ammoniaphone, but I discovered no obvious change in their tone or compass of voice. I suppose the experiment has to be frequently tried to produce any effect. I remarked that if the inhalation of free ammonia and peroxide of hydrogen is so good for the voice, it seemed scarcely necessary to enclose these ingredients in an expensive flute-like case to test their powers, and the fact of doing so and calling the vapour they give off “artificial Italian air” savours to me of quackery.

The manufacturers would have agreed that results only came from regular use. The instruction manual advised taking two inhalations a day and then doing vocal exercises – the voice would be ‘permanently improved in every way after one year’s use of the Ammoniaphone.’

The company’s promotional activities included commissioning an Ammoniaphone song – very apt, considering the target market. It told of the plight of a young man who wanted to propose to his sweetheart but lost his voice.

Ah! well for him and for the fair,
He’d heard that pure Italian air
Might be inhal’d, imparting tone,
Through Moffat’s famed “Ammoniaphone”

In the early 1890s a pocket version of the inhaler was introduced, but this was short-lived. The Medical Battery Company, whose main products were electro-magnetic belts, went bust in 1893 after getting into trouble with the courts for fraudulent claims. That, however, is a story for another post.

For part 1 about Swaim’s Panacea, click here.

Woodcut commissioned by Swaim, showing Hercules battling the Hydra.

Within a few years of establishing his products, William Swaim was enjoying the benefits of endorsements from some of Philadelphia’s most eminent physicians, including Nathaniel Chapman, William Gibson, William Pott Dewees, Thomas Parke and James Mease – and he didn’t even have to make them up.

For the past ten years or so, sarsaparilla had been attracting renewed medical attention in the US as a blood purifier, so it was probably with this in mind that the doctors were well-disposed towards Swaim’s medicine. Swaim combined the sarsaparilla syrup with oil of wintergreen, giving it a pleasant taste that made it a hit with patients too. Gibson’s endorsement gives a further clue to its popularity:

I have always found it extremely efficacious, especially in secondary syphilis and mercurial disease. I have no hesitation in pronouncing it a medicine of inestimable value.

The symptoms of secondary syphilis, of course, disappear of their own accord before the disease goes into a latent phase – no wonder the Panacea and so many other treatments of the time claimed success.

In 1827 the New York Medical Society appointed a Committee on Quack Remedies, and the Philadelphia Medical Society soon did likewise. While the New York Committee acknowledged the possible benefits of the Panacea and other sarsaparilla-based syrups, the Philadelphia one was tougher, gathering numerous cases of people who had taken the medicine. The outcomes of these cases varied from no effect at all, to ‘a most violent and alarming bowel complaint’, to death. Analysis showed that the remedy contained corrosive sublimate (mercuric chloride).

Later, the New York Committee released its own analysis, done at the time of the investigation but not published, which showed that they too knew all along that it was mercury - so there, Philadelphia. A new analysis in 1831 also showed the presence of arsenic, but the ingredients varied from batch to batch and it was the luck of the draw whether you got the poisons.

By this time the doctors’ enthusiasm had waned. Chapman wrote:

Nathaniel Chapman, pictured 1846

Early in the history of that article, I was induced to employ it, as well from professional as common report in favour of its efficacy, and was well pleased at the result in several cases. But! more extensive experience with it soon convinced me that I had overrated its value, and for a long period I have entirely ceased to prescribe it.

Gibson admitted that: In several cases that came under my notice, ptyalism has followed the use of it. (Excessive salivation, a symptom of mercury poisoning.) Their testimonials, however, were now out of their control and there was nothing they could do to stop Swaim continuing to use their names.

In 1836, long after the US physicians had backtracked on their endorsement of the nostrum, British journal The Medical-Chirurgical Review condemned them in true Tunbridge Wells style:

We were utterly astonished to find an impudent PANACEA bolstered up with the names and certificates of some of the first authorities, in the medical profession, of the United States!…

We are mortified and grieved, beyond measure, to find professional propriety (to give it no other name) at so low an ebb among our brethren in America! This admonition from Europe will surely rouse the faculty of the United States to some sense of the duty they owe to their brethren throughout the world.

The early success of Swaim’s Panacea inspired imitators to cash in with their own versions, and they were completely blatant about it. ‘Swayne’s Panacea’ hoped to dupe punters who weren’t paying attention, and ‘Shinn’s Panacea’ was sold with the statement: The subscriber having discovered the composition of Swaim’s celebrated Panacea, has now a supply on hand for sale.

One of the heavyweight rivals was Parker’s Renovating Vegetable Panacea, the ads of which contained fighting talk:

In justice to myself, I have been induced to reply to a false and unjustifiable attack made upon me and others by Swaim, the vender of a certain Panacea in this city.

I have been acquainted with the ORIGINAL RECIPE FROM WHICH SWAIM MANUFACTURES HIS MEDICINE FOR UPWARD OF TEN YEARS. IT WAS OBTAINED FROM MY FATHER-IN-LAW, WHO NOW RESIDES IN THE STATE OF NEW YORK, WHO HAS USED IT FOR THIRTY YEARS , AND PERFORMED INNUMERABLE EXTRAORDINARY CURES WITH IT.

Parker used his own version of the Hydra image, which, in a nice dig at Swaim’s battling Hercules, shows the mythical beast already defeated:

Swaim’s reply tried to turn the copy-cat ads to his advantage:

This medicine had been used for seven years before an attempt was made to imitate it; but the great demand for it, and its wonderful success, have induced a great number of persons to imitate it in various ways—upwards of fifty different mixtures have been got up in imitation of it, which is a convincing proof of it being a medicine of great value.

Although the initial fame of the medicine declined, it continued to be made throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries, latterly with a different formula involving  alcohol and a huge amount of sugar.

1894 ad from the Galveston Daily News

WINE
FOR
WOMEN!

Woman’s modesty and ignorance of danger often cause her to endure pains and suffer torture rather than consult a physician about important subjects.
Pains in the head, neck, back, hips, limbs and lower bowels at monthly intervals, indicate alarming derangements.

McELREE’S
WINE OF CARDUI

is a harmless Bitter Wine without intoxicating qualities. Taken at the proper time it relieves pain, corrects derangements, quiets nervousness and cures Whites, Falling of the Womb and Suppressed or too Frequent Menses. Price $1.
For sale by medicine dealers.

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Source: The Emmet County Republican, (Estherville, Iowa) 1 April 1897

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As the ad says, this had no intoxicating qualities. Honest, guv, none whatsoever. The 19% alcohol just happened to be there to stop the proper ingredients going off.

These other ingredients were Black Haw, Blessed Thistle (then classified Carduus benedictus, hence the product name) and Golden Seal. The remedy was popular in the southern US and was advertised not only in the newspapers but by means of almanacks, calendars, a pamphlet called Home Treatment for Women, and even The 20th Century Song Book, which featured popular tunes alongside glowing testimonials from women whose ‘female weaknesses’ had been cured.

Next to the music for ‘Rock me to Sleep, Mother,’ for example, was a message from Mrs C M Ladd, who wrote:

I take pleasure in telling you and afflicted women that I owe my life, my health and my happiness to Wine of Cardui. After my marriage my health broke down and after having tried several physicians and several kinds of medicines, I was given up to die.

I had heard of Wine of Cardui and decided to try it. I began to receive benefit at once, and now I am well and strong and our home has two fine little boys to make it bright and happy.

The testimonials are generally not coy about discussing symptoms. These are from Home Treatment for Women, a 64-page booklet that gave brief descriptions of common female ailments, but devoted most of the space to recommending Cardui (the ‘Wine of’ bit was dropped at some point).

“I could hardly walk from one room to the other without my womb coming down,” writes Mrs Grace Brown, of Taskee Station, Mo. “I took Cardui, and was well from it, and have never had falling of the womb since, even after childbirth.”

Mrs J W Thomas wrote:

About six years ago, as I was cooking a meal, a pain struck me in the back. One pain after another followed, and I had to be carried to the bed. I must have fainted. The doctor pronounced it falling of the womb, and he replaced it half a dozen times with instruments. I flooded dreadfully for about eight weeks. The doctor’s medicine did me no good, and he advised me to take Cardui.

And from Mrs C C Redmon:

I got very weak and I looked almost like a skeleton. I suffered extreme agony in back, stomach and head, and had burning and itching whites so bad I could hardly stand.

In 1916, The Chattanooga Medicine Company, which made the Wine of Cardui, brought a successful libel suit against the American Medical Association for its claims that the business was ‘built on deceit’ and that the product was ‘a vicious fraud.’  During an adjournment of the court in April 1916, company owner John A Patten was seized with acute intestinal pain – he was rushed to hospital and operated on, but died.

At this unexpected incident, a personal suit brought by Patten lapsed, but he and his brother had also brought a partnership suit for $100,000, and once the funeral was over, this continued. The verdict, after the jury had been out a week, was in favour of the Chattanooga Medicine Company – it was awarded damages of one cent.  Both sides could claim a victory of sorts. As the California State Journal of Medicine pointed out in Aug 1916, ‘it is permissible to suggest that the American Medical Association will hardly find its prestige diminished among good citizens by its opposition to the sale of proprietary medicines containing a marked percentage of alcohol.’

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This is perhaps the most bizarrely named product yet featured on this site. It is not surprising that it should be obscure to the modern observer, but in fact it made no sense to the denizens of the early 19th century either.

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……………HEALTH
……….A MOST IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

……….The Modena Fossil

……….A SPEEDY AND EFFECTUAL CURE
For the Hooping-Cough, Palsy, Rheumatism, Asthmatic
…..Fits,   Scrophulous   Swellings,  and   Diseases  of the
…..Glands  ;   White   Swellings of   the   Joints  ;   Pains
…..and  Diseases of   the  Breasts  of  Women  ;  Spasms,
…..Cramps,   Pains and  Weakness of  the  Head,   Sto-
…..mach,   or   any   other  part  of  the Body  ;  Sprains,
…..Bruises, and Chilblains, &c.

……….BY OUTWARD APPLICATION ONLY.

…Price  2s.  9d.—5s.  5d.—and  11s.  6d.  the  bottle
…………………..(Duty included)
…………….To Mr. OXLEY, Surgeon, Hull.
……………………………………..Howden, August 4th, 1800

…..DEAR SIR
I   Did   not   expect   writing   you   again  so  soon,
by  any means;  but  calling  at  Bromfleet yesterday
I found Mr. JOHN KITCHING,  of  that  place,  per-
fectly  recovered  from  a  very  severe  attack  of  the
RHEUMATISM; by using your MODENA FOSSIL,
which I recommended to  him.  For  several  days  the
pain was so violent in his Back, Hip,  and  Knee,  that
he could not rest day nor night, and could but just  get
over the room, leaning upon a  staff  with  both  hands.
MRS. KITCHING is at times  much  afflicted  with  a
Pain in her Head, but  has  it  always  removed by the
application of  the  MODENA  FOSSIL.  When  you
advertise you are at liberty to  mention  these  as  your
witnesses, if you choose.  I  shall,  at  all  opportunities,
recommend the MODENA FOSSIL, which I  believe
will be of general benefit to mankind.
……………………………..I remain Sir, yours, &c.
……………………….JOHN WILTSHAW.
The Modena Fossil is  prepared  and  sold  Wholesale
……..and Retail by the Inventor and Proprietor,

……………..EDWARD OXLEY,

Member of the Royal College of Surgeons of London;
…And   Surgeon   to   the  Poor  and  Strangers’  Friend
…Society,  in  Hull,  at  his  House,   No. 17, Bowl-alley
…Lane, Hull.
…Sold   also   by   Mr.  Pidding  (late  Surgeon  in  the
army)   No.   76,   (opposite   the  Pantheon)  Oxford-
street;   and   Retail   by   Mr.  Tutt,   Royal  Exchange,
Mr.  Ward,   No.  324,  Holborn,  Mr.  Swinney,  No.
21, Pall Mall,  Mr.  Walsh,  Chemist,   No.  6,  Catha-
rine   street,   Strand,   London;    Savage,    Howden;
Christopher and Jennet, Stockton;  Turner  and  Ains-
worth, Scarboro’; Stephenson, Bridlington-Quay; and
all respectable Venders of Medicines in the Kingdom.
…………A saving of FIVE SHILLINGS by purchasing
the LARGE Bottle at 11s. 6d. which contains equal to
SIX of the SMALL, at 2s. 9d.

Source: The Hull Packet, Tues 26 August 1800

The basis of the product was oil of amber, and as The Medical Observer (1806) explained ( or rather, in its usual outraged fashion, exclaimed!!!):

Amber is now supposed to be a fossil, and having probably been obtained near Modena in Italy, our advertiser thought that the title of Modena Fossil was not altogether inapplicable to his nostrum, and from its novelty very likely to attract the attention both of the medical profession and the ignorant!!!

The Medical Observer also made a point that is still pertinent today:

If the Modena Fossil be capable of curing cancer, he need not incur the expense or disgrace of advertising it. A person that can cure that disease, would not only amass a considerable fortune by his practice, but would also receive a very handsome remuneration from parliament.