The Quack Doctor

Anti-Stiff advert from The Chemist and Druggist, 7 June 1890

Anti-Stiff – a name contrary to the philosophy of today’s email spammers – appears to have been a boon to the athletes of the 1890s. It was a muscle rub intended to ward off aches and fatigue during a variety of sporting endeavours, and its promoter claimed that ‘some athletes are so fond of it that they rub it all over them.’

Unlike the messier liquid liniments that served a similar purpose, Anti-Stiff was a semi-solid substance packaged in a tin. U.S. publication the Western Druggist said that the product comprised petrolatum with some essential oils and colouring – so if you imagine a green, lavender-scented version of Vaseline, it was probably pretty much like that. Such a portable and convenient format made it particularly suitable for cyclists, who could carry it with them without the worry of dropping a glass bottle or spilling the product if they stopped to use it en route.

Adverts for Anti-Stiff regularly appeared in Cycling: An Illustrated Weekly, which began publication on 24 January 1891 and soon became a hit for its attractive layout, informative articles, humorous snippets and lively writing style. Right from the first issue, Anti-Stiff had a prominent advertising presence, asking readers:

Can you wonder that you lost that race?
Why, you did not use “Anti-Stiff!”

Testimonials abounded from the top cyclists of the day. C. A. Smith, who held the Brighton Coach Record (whereby cyclists would attempt to beat the times recorded by the old mail coaches between London and Brighton) said he was well rubbed down with Anti-Stiff before setting off on his ride. Cycling pioneer John Keen, who is mentioned in the ad above, also gave an endorsement, writing that he had used every other preparation known, but found none equal to Anti-Stiff.

John Keen, champion racer of penny-farthings in the 1870 and 80s, who went on to manufacture bicycles. Anti-Stiff advertisements refer to him as 'The Champion Bicyclist of the World.'

Although initially aimed at cyclists, Anti-Stiff was for anyone who hoped to exhibit sporting prowess, including footballers, boxers, runners and skaters. Although Victorian footballers did not enjoy the same lifestyle as their 21st-century counterparts, they were nevertheless invited to view Anti-Stiff as one of the finer things in life:

An article of this kind is a real luxury, and when once it is tried by a footballer, he will always keep a tin of Anti-Stiff handy, and carry it about with him as valued as his watch.

Notts County coach Harry Kirk reported that his players considered it ‘grand stuff’.

Detail of Anti-stiff ad, Cycling: An Illustrated Weekly 11 April 1891

Field athlete H. Griffin also recommended Anti-Stiff:

Personally, I can speak in very high terms of it. During 1890 I used it, notably for a stiffened shoulder through “putting the shot,” which it quickly put right “like a shot.”

I see what you did there, Mr Griffin.

The advert at the top is aimed at chemists. As you can see, the proprietor, Joseph Wilson, uses the incentive of free publicity for any chemist who stocks the product. He also appealed to those in the cycle sales and repair trade by offering to print their headed paper free of charge provided he could include a discreet advert. With marketing techniques so focused on what the customer could get out of the deal, it is no surprise that Anti-Stiff soon became well-known enough to get mentions in entertainment magazines such as Punch and Fun.

In May 1891, however, the latter publication didn’t give anyone much fun when it printed an Anti-Stiff joke so dire that it required a cringe-making Bruce Forsyth-style explanation of the punchline:

It should be sold in Turkey, for there there are millions of muscle men (Mussulmen.)

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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

Whether they promised to cover a bald head with a mop of curls, to rejuvenate greying locks or to produce manly whiskers on the smoothest of chins, hair-related products appear in numerous Victorian and Edwardian adverts. There was a huge choice of potions, lotions, devices and even pills for bringing back a youthful barnet – here are just a few from the end of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th.

Madame Fox’s Life for the Hair. From The Graphic, 4 March 1882

Foso Hair and Scalp Remedy. From the New York Tribune, 7 January 1906

Wyeth’s Sage and Sulphur Hair Restorer. From the Palestine Herald, Texas, 19 January 1910

Wilson’s Whiskerine. From Jackson’s Oxford Journal, 12 December 1891

Esauline. From the Penny Illustrated Paper, 20 July 1895

Hygienic Vacuum Cap. From Popular Mechanics, December 1909. For more details on this and other vacuum caps, see this previous post: You Needn’t Be Bald.

While I’m researching my posts, I find a lot of interesting ads that I put to one side to blog about one day.

But sometimes it turns out that I can’t discover much about them, or they’re so famous that there’s not a lot I can add to the info already available online, or they’re similar to something I’ve written about before. These ads just sit in my files and don’t see the light of day.

So I’ve decided to post a few of them over the next couple of weeks. If you’re the world expert on these products, have family anecdotes about them, or just feel like speculating on what they might have contained, do post a comment.

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Advertisements for Crossthwaite & Co’s Occult Lozenges began to appear in British newspapers in early 1837 and the product was available until at least the 1880s. This ad is from The Weekly Chronicle on 19 April 1840.

I had this post all specially planned for 21 May 2011 and now you tell me today has nothing to do with ruptures? Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.

Well, I might as well post it anyway – I get the feeling not many Quack Doctor readers will be going to heaven any time soon, so you’ll need something to peruse as you while away the Tribulation.

From The Penny Illustrated Paper, 16 July 1904

When the W. S. Rice Rupture Cure arrived on the market in the late Victorian period, traditional rupture trusses had been around for centuries, and were constantly being re-invented in the hope of improving them. Many severe-looking designs – like the American one pictured below – jostled for supremacy, so to stand out from the crowd, new products had to offer something different.

Truss by Levi Westinghouse, St Louis, Missouri, 1877. I assume this is supposed to be a woman, otherwise that's a damningly small leaf.

The Rice Method offered to cure, rather than simply support, ruptures. And if you had a hernia, I would imagine absolutely anything that might get rid of it would have been worth a go. Although the Rice method included an ‘appliance’ for temporary use, the lasting cure would be performed by a liniment called Developing Lymphol. Twice a day the patient had to remove the appliance, sprinkle some Lymphol onto the rupture and rub it in thoroughly. This must have been pretty empowering for people otherwise faced with the grim prospect of indefinite truss-wearing.

The Lymphol comprised essential oils of origanum, spearmint and peppermint, with tincture of capsicum and red dye, all padded out by rectified spirit. Its accompanying appliance was described by the BMJ in 1908 as ‘an elastic band to go round the body, fitted with an adjustable pad and an understrap.’

Rice was London-based but advertised the product widely in the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Representatives travelled around offering free trials where sufferers could have the method ‘demonstrated to you right on your own rupture.’

‘Are you tired of that binding, hampering, uncomfortable old truss?’ asked one of Rice’s 1920s advertisements before exhorting the reader to come along to a demo. ‘[The Rice Method] is modern, up-to-the-minute, abreast of the latest scientific developments. It is the one Rupture Method you are not asked to take on faith alone—’

San Jose News, 23 May 1928

I have no background to the following newspaper story – I don’t know who the tailor was or even whether he really existed. The newspaper’s purpose in printing the tale is clearly to amuse readers and allow them to congratulate themselves that they aren’t among the supposed gullible masses who would consult quacks. The implicit criticism is not just of the healer, but of his victim for enabling the fraud to continue.

The way this story is pitched also reveals the expected default position of many 19th-century newspaper readers – one of scepticism about miracle cures. I often get asked whether people are just as gullible today as they were in the past, but that question assumes people in the past were generally gullible, which I don’t believe was the case. There would have been plenty of people chuckling over the wacky product names and strange stories like this one from the Morning Post, 8 September 1824.

There is a tailor going about the country parts of England, his plan is to cure by incantation, prayer, &c. The fellow is eternally drunk, but never staggers, and is possessed of one of those phlegmatic brandy faces which only grows more solemn in its appearances as his intellects become fuddled. A woman applied to him lately to request him to come to see her sick husband; she found him in the back parlour of an inn, booted, spurred, and (although she could not perceive it) drunk. He was walking to and fro, with his hands behind his back, when the poor woman entered the apartment. “Please your Honour. I come to beg you to see my husband, who is lying very ill.” No answer, but still pacing up and down. “He is very ill, I assure your Worship. I hope you will come, Sir.”—Not a word! After a long silence— “I hope, Sir, you’ll be so kind as to come and see my poor husband; I will pay you any thing you demand.” Still not a word; but a few mutterings, and a turn up of the drunken eye-balls, and still pacing about. The woman approached the doctor, pulled him by the coat, and in the most strenuous terms renewed her entreaties, but still he continued walking up and down, and muttering some nonsense to himself. At last she pulled him violently by the coat, when he turned round, and, in a gruff tone, cried— “Hould your tongue d—m you!— I’m busy curing a man in America: I’ll be ready for you by and bye.” and then began pacing and muttering again. This pacified the poor woman, who waited patiently until the American was cured.

This advertisement for Eno’s Fruit Salt appeared in the special Royal Wedding Edition of the Penny Illustrated Paper on 8 July 1893. The edition commemorated the nuptials of Prince George, Duke of York and Princess May of Teck – the future King George V and Queen Mary. Click the image to enlarge.