Title page of Ann Brookhouse's narrative.
Tabloid-style stories have been popular for far longer than what we think of as tabloid journalism. A Narrative of the Seizure & Confinement of Ann Brookhouse from the end of the eighteenth century is just such a piece. Purporting to be the true life narrative of a young female victim of abduction “as related by herself” and “written by a friend.” Continue reading
First page of Chapter 8 of "An essay..."
Almost everyone has nightmares. A lucky few, perhaps, have very rare or mild bad dreams; others may have them in such vivid form as to invade the waking world and become a serious problem rather than an occasional disturbance. Still, having one serious nightmare is enough to make you want to avoid having another!
John Bond, the author of An essay on the Incubus, or Night-mare, suffered from nightmares so extensively according to his own statement that he began to study the phenomenon and put together his researches in this book, publishing it in England in 1753. Bond traces the history of the nightmare back to pre-Grecian times, beginning with an examination of the word itself and the progress of a nightmare: Continue reading
Title page from Mrs. Flynt's manual.
In 1882, styles of clothing for women were restrictive to say the least: tight bodices and long sweeping skirts restricted breathing, made it hard to move freely, and, in some cases where lacing was taken to the extreme, might even crack ribs or damage internal organs. Whether or not all women adhered to the dominant style all the time is, of course, impossible to say; probably most women made adjustments as necessary for individual figures, injuries, or the daily work they had to complete. Serious dress reform for women was some years off, though, and many people thought that strict lacing and tight corsets were necessary for women’s health, particularly to brace up weak backs or prevent hysterics, to say nothing of the fact of keeping in line with the fashion which called for tiny waists. Continue reading
Frontispiece from An Arctic Voyage, showing the Devil's Thumb taken from an original sketch by Robert Goodsir.
Robert Goodsir did not, however, technically go in search of Franklin himself but, rather, in search of his own brother who had embarked with Franklin on his ill-fated 1845 voyage from England to discover the Northwest Passage. Sir John Franklin was a noted — and notoriously unlucky — Arctic explorer whose last voyage ended in complete disaster: his two ships were missing for over ten years and even when the deaths of Franklin and his crew were confirmed, the true circumstances of the horrific end to the mission were elided from the public version. British officers were not meant to turn cannibal, no matter how desperate the straits.
Before the loss of both ships was confirmed, though, multiple missions were launched in search of Franklin and his ships, the Erebus and the Terror. The Royal Navy was responsible for several of them and Lady Jane Franklin, Sir John’s second wife, was responsible for others. While Goodsir mentions Lady Jane, it is unclear from his narrative if she gave financial support to this mission as she did to several others. Goodsir’s ship was captained by William Penny, who went out twice as a ship’s captain in the search for Franklin in the Advice, the ship Goodsir sailed on in 1849, and the Lady Franklin in 1850. When Goodsir shipped out in the late 1840s, Franklin’s fate was not yet confirmed and many still held out hope that he had found the Northwest Passage and was simply engaged in a long northern circumnavigation of Canada and would still turn up in Alaska, Hawaii, or California.
Goodsir, in his account titled An Arctic Voyage to Baffin’s Bay and Lancaster Sound, discusses the weather, the Arctic wildlife, meetings with the Inuit, and life on board ship. The Advice touched land at Greenland and Goodsir makes a very full description of the locals, including Danish settlers and missionaries as well as the Inuit tribespeople living near the coast. Goodsir is also clear, as the ship begins to work its way farther north, about the dangers into which they are sailing, not the least of which is the Arctic ice. The ship was in momentary danger of being crushed between floes as they formed or being caught in a crush and frozen in for the winter, a process the vessel might or might not survive. Goodsir seems to have served his ship as medical officer, making mention of tending wounded sailors or being requested by passing whaling ships for sick or hurt men.
Goodsir’s narrative is a fascinating account of a voyage into the Arctic at a time when relatively little of the area was known; the coastline was not fully mapped and the water was not well understood by all sailors, let alone all captains.
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
Inscription by Dr. Elliott C. Cutler to President Emeritus Eliot on flyleaf of journal.
In spring 1915, a deputation of surgeons and nurses from the Harvard Medical School travelled to Paris to join the service at the American Ambulance Hospital, giving medical aid to injured soldiers from battles taking place across Europe. The unit had been invited by Dr. Joseph Blake, one of the surgeons already working in Paris.
One of the surgeons who came from Harvard was Dr. Elliott Carr Cutler. In 1916, he put together a journal of the expedition, publishing it as A Journal of the Harvard Medical School Unit to The American Ambulance Hospital in Paris. The unit totalled 17, including surgeons, medical staff, and four nurses to work at the Hospital at Neuilly.
The Journal starts with the departure of the unit from Boston in March 1915 and concludes with an epilogue written in Canada in July of the same year, after the unit had taken over the hospital service for the intervening three months.
Cutler describes the trip, the difficulties the unit had even in getting into France through Spain (customs officers insisted on opening some boxes of chocolates that had been given as gifts and the Harvard unit only retained them with difficulty), and the final arrival and work at the Hospital. The unit took over all aspects of the Hospital work, including devising a filing system to record and store patient information. Some of the doctors took opportunity of their time in France to make tours, some to historical sites, including Versailles, but often visiting other hospitals and medical services, some very close to the front, or the front itself, under appropriate supervision from armed services.
The day-to-day medical services given to wounded soldiers receive attention, too. Cutler is dispassionate in recording what cases are brought in and what can be done for them, even saying once when discussing some discharged soldiers who were returning for further work on old wounds, “It was a considerable blow to our hopes for more cranial work, though to be sure they were wounded in the head.” (32) Despite this early breeziness, as time goes by Cutler is clearly affected by what he is seeing. As the major “season” for battles over the spring and summer advances as the weather improves, Cutler notes that the wounds become worse and the number of patients higher. Long days in the surgery are mentioned and Cutler sometimes waxes philosophical about what the overall “point” of the war might be, when the major outcome seems to be shattered bodies.
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
In 1705, Thomas Greenhill, surgeon, published Nekpokedeia: or, the Art of Embalming in London. Greenhill’s subtitle is even more informative: Wherein is Shown the Right [sic] of Burial, and Funeral Ceremonies, Especially That of Preserving Bodies After the Egyptian Method. And it goes on from there — there are a full 44 pages of front matter, including a poem, dedication to Greenhill’s patron, the Earl of Pembroke, and a list of subscribers and contributors to the volume, before Greenhill starts his discussion.
Fold-out frontispiece from Nekpokedeia.
Greenhill’s discussion of funerary customs and rites wanders in a fascinating manner from Biblical history to ancient Greece, Rome, and Egypt, through modern times. He brings up issues that are probably of less concern to our present-day morticians and funeral home directors including the need to double or even triple-check that the body is dead before funeral rites are started.
In his opening chapters, Greenhill emphasizes that there are many reasons for burial or embalming: chief among them being respect for the corpse and the need to protect others from contamination due to the processes of putrefaction. Respect for the corpse, for Greenhill, does not necessitate the Western under-ground burial: he allows that traditions in other parts of the world, such as mummification or disposal through fire, have their roots in the community and may be acceptable methods of corpse disposal in their place.
His interest in “putrid air” marks Greenhill very much as a man of his time when it was thought that disease and ill-health could be spread through exposure to “bad air” which could be anything from the night air in the open country to the atmosphere around an open cesspit. It was not until the late 19th century that the idea of the infectious nature of “bad air” was conclusively challenged and, even then, the concept hung on well into the 20th century. The difficulty of making clear the difference between infectious matter being spread in the air and the air itself being somehow to blame for the infection was probably key in this confusion.
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
Engraving of Richard Mead, 1754. Boston Medical Library in the Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine.
The Center for the History of Medicine staff members report that as they review and examine the rare books in the Center’s holdings for inclusion in the Medical Heritage Library digitization project, surprising things continue to come to light:
Our copy of the 1708 second edition of A mechanical account of poisons in several essays, Richard Mead’s tract on vipers, tarantulas, and mad dogs, will soon be appearing in the MHL, but in looking through one of the copies of the fourth edition of 1745 we found the volume to be a presentation copy from its author. The endpaper bears an inscription from William Shrimpton in 1748, stating “My Uncle Mead desir’d me to present this book to the College Library in New England,” with the addendum, “Forwarded by yr. humble serv’t, John Hunt, by desire of my uncle, Mr. William Shrimpton of London.” Richard Mead (1673-1754) was physician to King George II of England, and the volume was probably commended to the care of Boston merchant, John Hunt (1715-1763), a graduate of Harvard College in 1734, whose mother was a Shrimpton.
Of possibly even greater interest, though, is the inscription on the volume’s Harvard bookplate, stating “This book belonged to the Library before the fire of Jan. 24, 1764.” On that night, during a storm of snow and high wind, Harvard Hall, containing the College’s books and scientific apparatus, caught fire. Over 5,000 volumes were destroyed, with only 404 surviving, the books being either on loan or recent donations not yet unpacked. Many of those new acquisitions, which helped to rebuild the library, were gifts of Thomas Hollis (1720-1774), who also endowed Harvard’s oldest book acquisition fund. His name and generosity are perpetuated through Harvard’s library catalog, HOLLIS (which also is an acronym for the Harvard OnLine Library Information System.)
To see an early edition of Richard Mead’s text along with other titles digitized for the Medical Heritage Library, see http://www.archive.org/details/medicalheritagelibrary.
Title page of Phrenology Applied to Painting and Sculpture
Phrenology was a popular scientific subfield during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; phrenology promised to reveal the inner secrets of the character and the mind through recognition of the particular shape of an individual’s skull. Specific portions of the brain, often referred to as “organs,” were believed to connect to certain tendencies in character — acquisitiveness, jealousy, hysteria, sexual desire, and so forth — and to bring a particular shape and proportion to the skull itself.
In 1855, George Combe published his Phrenology Applied to Painting and Sculpture, a work based on letters he had originally written to the Phrenological Journal. Phrenology was not a widely respected field and Combe sought to protect something he saw as an important window into the human character. He wrote several other books on the subject and gained a reputation as a noted defender of phrenology and champion of its originators, Franz Joseph Gall and Johann Spurzheim. Combe himself was one of the first to bring phrenology into the United Kingdom. Himself a Scotsman, he helped to popularize and bring attention to phrenology, acting as one of the cofounders of the Edinburgh Phrenological Society in 1820.
Phrenology Applied discusses the fine arts with particular reference to the “cerebral organs” thought to be responsible not only for the creation of the artwork in particular but for the appreciation of it in a viewer. For example, in his first chapter, Combe discusses color theory at length, developing his argument that the viewer need have certain well developed portions of the brain in order to appreciate the coloring of a work of art appropriately.
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
The Center for the History of Medicine has digitized nearly 400 works on the subjects of surgery and the treatment of wounds and injuries as part of our ongoing contributions to the Medical Heritage Library. Two titles of note, both from the Boston Medical Library collection, recently passed through the scanning lab: Addinell Hewson’s 1872 work, Earth as a topical application in surgery, and Thomas Gale’s Certaine workes of chirurgerie (1563).
The arm of a patient 15 days after Hewson amputated his hand.
Hewson, a once noted Philadelphia surgeon, describes in detail his practice of using powdered clay both to pack infected wounds and as a topical, post-surgical application. The idea that introducing “earth” to open wounds might have presented any medical benefit was at odds with what were at the time new and increasingly widely accepted ideas about antiseptics. Interestingly, the successes in accelerating the healing process that he describes in the book have been attributed by at least one modern researcher to the probable presence of naturally-occurring antibacterial agents in the clay that would have been unknown to Hewson at the time, and which preceded breakthroughs in modern antibiotics by nearly 75 years.
Another noteworthy feature of Earth as a topical application is that it contains a striking series of woodburytypes depicting the post-operative state of four patients who Hewson treated. Viewable on pages 45, 51, 112, and 164, these portraits render his patients in an unusually stark and artistic light.
The second title of note, Gale’s Certaine workes of chirurgerie, is the first printed book on
The wound man illustration from Gale's work on surgery.
surgery known to have been both written and published in English, a fact that sets it apart from the many English translations of foreign-language surgical texts from that era. It is a strange and whimsical work, composed in the form of a free-flowing conversation in which Gale discusses various maladies and their most suitable treatments with John Yates and John Feilde. In the course of the dialogues, Gale expounds upon various types of fractures (classifying them at times by their resemblances to the stalks of certain plants and vegetables), provides detailed instructions on the preparation of medicinal salves and unguents, and gives historical perspectives on then-current medical treatments.
A surgeon in the army of Henry VIII, Gale had first-hand knowledge of the traumatic injuries associated with 16th century warfare. Pictured at right, the title page of Certaine workes contains a commonly used thematic illustration that is generally referred to as “wound man.” Serving as a grim reminder of the perils that once faced soldiers of the late medieval and early modern eras, wound man was used in many early medical texts to depict the array of battlefield injuries common at that time. This version of wound man suffers simultaneous arrow-piercings, bones smashed by clubs, truncheons, hammers, and cannon balls; flesh rended by sword slashes and spear wounds, as well as various other grievous and unpleasant injuries.
Related topics:
surgery – wounds and injuries – asepsis and antisepsis in surgery – gunshot wounds
plastic surgery – facial reconstruction – dissection – anatomy – military surgery
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
(Cross-posted from the Center for the History of Medicine blog.)
G. Mackenzie Bacon, M.D., acted as Medical Superintendent of the County Asylum in Cambridgeshire, England. In 1870, he wrote a short treatise called On the Writing of the Insane. Bacon wrote a short introduction to his volume, but even with that, it isn’t entirely clear who he felt he was writing for. Nor is it entirely clear what point Bacon intends to make. He presents many documents that have come to his attention in his duties as Superintendent of the County Asylum, and feels very free to criticize the writers, but proposes no particular therapeutic approach or considerations other than institutionalization.
Letter from a patient. Reproduced in On the Writing of the Insane.
The book is made up of a single lengthy essay by Bacon, illustrated with examples of, literally, the writing of the insane. By “writing,” Bacon means both penmanship and composition, making something of a portmanteau word out of the single term. Bacon critiques both aspects of writing, but focuses more on the content of the letters and memoranda composed by his patients.
While Bacon does not use names or what we would now consider to be private patient information, he comments on the productions he cites in what seems like an unusual professional manner.
In one case, he quotes at length a letter he received from the relative of a patient and goes on to say,
This woman, married, and able to attend to her family…though from her letter it might be supposed she was incapable of any exertion. Now, such a state of mind is more nearly allied to insanity than anything else, and some light is found on its nature by the fact of her brother being insane. (8-9)
The productions Bacon cites are fascinating to examine and the tangled stories some of his patients have managed to achieve to explain their situations and problems are compelling to read. The patient whose letter is reproduced in the image above, for example, was producing writing of baffling complexity, full of images and phrases — to say nothing of the modern art style in which he wrote them! — which were presumably significant in some way to him, but which Bacon considers to be the productions of a deeply deranged mind.
It is interesting to note, too, in his afterword, that Bacon apparently considers poor spelling to be a sign of incipient insanity, quoting in full three letters from the relatives of patients, and describing them as being from “…what is called the sane portion of the public.” (23)
As always, for more from the Medical Heritage Library, please visit our full collection!
