The Commercial Dandy

Dr. Samuel Phillips Eady, a quack specialist in sexual health, certainly seems to get on well with his glamorous patients! "The Commercial Dandy and his sleeping partners", by George Cruikshank, 1821.Via the Lewis Walpole Library Digital Collection.

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Miss Prattle and the Doctor

“This old thing? I just threw this on.” Miss Prattle Consulting Doctor Double Fee about her Pantheon Head Dress,  1772, via the Met.

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‘Bringing down the Flowers’: Abortion in Eighteenth-Century Britain

It's my pleasure to welcome the marvellous Kate Lister to the salon with an investigation into abortion in 18th century England.

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‘Bringing down the Flowers’: Abortion in Eighteenth-Century Britain

Kate Lister

‘But, th’aged Neurse calling her to her bower                                                                                      

had gathered Rew and Savine and the flower                                                                                             

of Camphora, and Callamint, and Dill’.

William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine (1769) was a hugely popular work; it sold over 80,000 copies, was translated into several European languages and was republished to receptive audiences until the nineteenth century. In it, Buchan endeavours to ‘assist the well-meant endeavours in reliving distress; to eradicate dangerous and hurtful prejudices; to guard the credulous and ignorance against frauds and the impositions and quacks and imposters’. In his chapters on pregnancy, Buchan outlines the causes and dangers of abortion. In the eighteenth century ‘abortion’ was used interchangeably with ‘miscarriage’, and did not necessarily mean the deliberate termination of a pregnancy. However, in a footnote to his opening paragraph on miscarriage, Buchan makes a short, pointed acknowledgement that some women did seek a termination to their pregnancy. 

Every mother who procures an abortion does it at the hazard of her life; yet there are not a few who run this risk merely to prevent the trouble of bearing and bringing up children. It is surely a most unnatural crime, and cannot, even in the most abandoned, be viewed without horror; but in the decent matron, it is still more unpardonable. Those wretches who daily advertise their assistance to women, in this business, deserve in any opinion, the most severe of all human punishments.

Abortion was not made illegal in Britain until 1803, when the passing of the Lord Ellenborough's Act made abortion after ‘the quickening’ (first movement of the of the foetus) punishable by death or transportation. Abortion before the quickening was not regarding as a criminal act as most theologians and physicians agreed this was when ensoulment of the child occurred. Until this occurred, the woman was not regarded as carrying child. But abortion post-quickening was regarded as deeply immoral. John Astruc called ‘miserable women’ seeking an abortion an ‘utter shame to human nature and religion’; Martin Madan called the women who died through botched abortions ‘doubly guilty of suicide and child murder, and a spouse procuring pills to induce an abortion is cited as suitable grounds for divorce in a number of eighteenth-century divorce trials.

By the eighteen hundreds, rudimentary contraceptives were available, ranging from folklore and quackery to methods that would have offered limited protection. The withdrawal method is a time honoured (if completely unreliable) option. Animal-gut condoms, that were rinsed out and reused, had been available from the sixteenth century. In his memoirs Casanova records using a linen condom and a lemon slice as a cervical cap. Post-coital vaginal douching has been used as a method to wash away semen in the hopes of preventing pregnancy since the middle ages. Owing to widespread disease, malnutrition and poor health, fertility rates would have been reduced, but unwanted pregnancies were still widespread. When a girl found herself with a ‘bellyful’, pressures of shame, circumstance, poverty and myriad other reasons could lead her to seek a termination.

It may not have been illegal, but abortion (post quickening) was certainly considered a deeply shameful act; consequently, the practice is shrouded in obscurity. Owing to the paucity of primary evidence, researching the history of abortion is notoriously difficult; the bulk of evidence left comes to us in court records when a woman has died from a botched abortion, and passing references in medical texts that acknowledge and swiftly condemn the practice. There are no texts that categorically state how to perform an abortion, or what herbs and tonics should be taken to induce one. However, euphemistic language is employed in herbal texts to allude to a plant’s abortive properties. A text may list plants that will induce miscarriage, but embed them within a warning of ‘not to be taken by pregnant women’. In much the same way as modern day ‘legal highs’ would advertise themselves as ‘research chemicals’ and ‘not for human consumption’ to get around the law. Advertisements for ‘women’s monthly pills’ and ‘cures’ for ‘menstrual blockage’ can be read as coded contraceptives and abortifacients. In English Sexualities (1990) Tim Hitchcock argued that 

Throughout the early-modern period recipes for medicines to ‘bring down the flowers’, or to regulate menstruation, were a common component of any herbal or recipe book, and could certainly be obtained from the local apothecary.

Women seeking to ‘bring down the flowers’ would naturally progress from the least to the most dangerous methods of abortion. Certain known herbs were ingested; the most commonly known being savin, pennyroyal, rue and ergot. Savin, a species of juniper used to flavour gin (‘mother’s ruin’), is referenced in numerous court records regarding abortion once the practice was made illegal in 1803. In 1829, for example, Martha Barrett was accused of taking a ‘quantity of savin for the purpose of causing abortion’. In 1834, William Childs were charged with illegal abortion, having given Mary Jane Woolf ‘a large quantity of a certain drug, call savin…with intent thereby to cause and procure her miscarriage’. In 1855, William Longman was charged with ‘feloniously administering to Elizabeth Eldred Astins, 10 grains of a noxious thing called savin, with intent to pro cure miscarriage’. The list goes on. Abortifacient such as savin and pennyroyal are indeed toxic, and consumed at a high enough quantity could induce miscarriage; at too high a dose, they could, and did, kill the mother as well. 

If these methods proved ineffective (as would usually be the case), the mother was left with increasingly desperate and dangerous methods of abortion. Sitting in scalding hot baths, drinking vast quantities of gin, falling down stairs or being forcefully struck in the stomach have all been recorded as efforts to induce an abortion; but, if all these failed, surgical intervention could be sought. Accounts of surgical abortion are extraordinarily rare in the eighteenth century. One of the only detailed accounts of eighteenth-century surgical abortion is the record of the trial of Eleanor Beare of Derby in 1732. Eleanor was indicted on three accounts; one account of encouraging a man to murder his wife and two accounts of ‘destroying the foetus in the womb’, by ‘putting an iron instrument’ into the body; one of these women was ‘unknown to the jury’ and the other was Grace Belfort. Grace Belfort worked briefly for Eleanor, during which time she was raped by a visitor to the house. Grace confessed to Eleanor that she feared she was with child and for 30 shillings (paid by the rapist) Eleanor say she could ‘clear’ her of the child. The account given of what happened next is so rare, it is worth sharing in full; 

Evidence: Some company gave me Cyder and Brandy, my Mistress and I were both full of liquor, and when the company was gone, we could scarse get upstairs, but we did get up; then I laid me on the bed, and my mistress brought a kind of instrument, I took it to be like an iron skewer, and she put it up into my body a great way, and hurt me.

Court: What followed upon that?

Evidence: Some blood came from me.

Court: Did you miscarry after that?

Evidence: The next day… I had a miscarriage. 

Court: What did the prisoner do after this?

Evidence: She told me the job was done.

In 1760, poet Thomas Brown wrote ‘Satire Upon a Quack’, where he attacks an abortionist who ‘murdered’ his friend’s child. The poem is a bitter and sustained attack upon the ‘graveyard pimp’ who ‘unborn infants murder’d in the womb’. Brown curses the abortionist to hear ‘the screams of infants’ and their dying mothers for all eternity; to be the ‘jest of midwives’ and ‘strumpets without noses, and to be stalked by ‘the most solemn horrors of the night’. Brown makes reference to the abortionist’s tools throughout the poem; he does not mention an ‘iron skewer’ but he does allude to ‘baleful potions’, ‘stabbing verse’, ‘pointed darts’ and a ‘murdering quill’. Any thin, sharpened tool, even the sharpened point of a quill pen, would serve as a suitable ‘instrument’ to pierce the cervix and ‘bring down the flowers’. Of course, this procedure could be self-induced, or well-meaning friends or family members could attempt to penetrate the womb. How many women suffered irreparable damage, mutilation, infection and death as a result of this practice is not known; but many were willing to risk the dangers. If this method failed, or if the poor girl simply could not afford the abortionist fee; there were three options left; keep and raise the child, abandon the child, or murder the child and hide the body. 

In Francis Grose’s Lexicon Balatronicum: a Dictionary of Buckish Slang, University Wit, and Pickpocket Eloquence (1785), there is a truly disturbing entry; ‘To stifle a squeaker: to murder a bastard, or throw it into the necessary house (privy)’. This phrase also appears over hundred years earlier in A New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the Canting Crew (1698), and appears in various collections of slang through the nineteenth century. That infanticide had its own slang suggests that the practice was alarmingly common; that the slang is specifically referring to the disposal of illegitimate infants by burying them in the outhouse is the only remaining legacy of countless infants who shared this sad fate. Christian Russel, of the Parish of St. Pauls Covent Garden, was found guilty of murdering her illegitimate child in 1702 by ‘throwing the same into a House of Office’. In 1703, Mary Tudor was put on trial for her murdering her ‘female bastard child, on the 18th of January last, by throwing the same into a House of Office, whereby it was choked and strangled’. In 1708, Ann Gardner was found guilty of murdering her ‘female bastard…by throwing of it into a House of office, where 'twas suffocated with Filth’. Anne Wheeler was indicted for suffocating her ‘male bastard’ by ‘suffocating it in a house of easement’ in 1711. Elizabeth Arthur ‘drowned’ her ‘male bastard’ in a ‘house of office’ in 1717. Elizabeth Harrard was found guilty of drowning her ‘male bastard’ in 1739, and was one of four women to be hanged for murdering their illegitimate children that year. The list goes on and on. In the court records for the Old Bailey alone, between 1700 and 1800, there are no less than 134 trials for infanticide; the overwhelming majority of which are the killings of illegitimate children. We must remember that this is only one court, in one area and these trials are the ones that were caught. The actual figures of illegitimate infanticide will never be known, but most of the desperate women on trial were poor, unwed, unsupported and alone; they were desperate. 

Not all this trials resulted in a guilty verdict, and the mother’s life depended on being able to ‘prove’ that the child was stillborn. In 1624, parliament passed an act that made it a capital offense for unmarried mothers to conceal the death of an illegitimate child; the presumption being that if the child died, the mother had killed it. In order to prove that the birth was not concealed, the mother has to produce at least one witness statement that the baby was stillborn. The prosecution would also have to prove that the birth was deliberately concealed. Ann Gardner, mentioned above, was proven to have murdered her baby as she had made no provisions for the baby, and told no one she was pregnant.

The Prisoner could say little in her Defence, it did not appear that she made any Provision for the Birth of the Child, nor was she heard to cry out, or us’d any endeavour to discover it, as the Statute of King James I [the 1624 Act] in such Cases requires. The Fact being clear, upon the whole the Jury found her Guilty of the Indictment.

This was enough to condemn Ann to death; she was executed on 15^th Jan 1708.

When the London Foundling Hospital opened in 1739 by the philanthropist Thomas Coram, his primary aim was to give shelter to the children of the ‘unhappy female, who fell victim to the seductions and false promises of the designing man’, and had been left to ‘irretrievable disgrace’. When it first opened, the hospital expected to receive 20 infants, but was overwhelmed with demand. Eventually, the hospital had to limit admissions to infants under two months, and admittance was done through a ballot system. So that mothers could reclaim their child from the hospital, mothers were initially encouraged to leave a token with their baby, so they could be recognised later. The thousands of ribbons, thimbles, broken coins, lockets, buttons, pieces of paper and shells left with abandoned children are still housed at the Foundling Hospital today. 

Photo: The Foundling Museum

Of the 16,282 babies brought to the hospital between 1741 and 1760, only 152 were reclaimed. 

Today, most of us are privileged enough that we will never face a situation woman like Ann Gardner found themselves in over 300 years ago; destitute, ill, alone, stigmatised and pregnant with no maternity rights, medical care, security or means to raise a child. Although we have advanced far in 300 years, in terms of social security, medical care and attitudes to sex in general, the debate surrounding abortion are still rooted in religious moralising that seeks to demonise and punish the women who seek them and doctors who perform them. But, as the history of contraceptives shows, abortion will always be sought, risks will always be taken and no amount of criminalisation, not even the death penalty itself, will change that. In 1967, when the UK abortion act was passed, midwife Jennifer Worth was asked to comment on the morality of abortions; after 14 years of witnessing the reality of illegal abortion, she replied she ‘did not regard it as a moral issue, but as a medical issue. A minority of women will always want an abortion. Therefore, it must be done properly’.

Bibliography 

Buchan, William, Domestic Medicine (London: [n.pub.], 1769)

Casanova, Giacomo, The memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt: Complete ([n.p.]: Simon and Schuster, 2013)

Cruickshank, Dan, The secret history of Georgian London: How the wages of sin shaped the capital (London: Windmill Books, 2010)

Harris, Karen, The medieval vagina: A historical and hysterical look at all things vaginal during the middle ages (London: Snark, 2014)

Museum, Foundling, Foundling museum (Foundling Museum, 2016), <http://foundlingmuseum.org.uk/about/the-museum/> [accessed 2 September 2016]

Online, Old Bailey Proceedings, Browse - central criminal court (2003), <https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t18290409-83&div=t18290409-83&terms=Savin#highlight> [accessed 30 August 2016]

---, Browse - central criminal court (2003), <https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t18340515-47&div=t18340515-47&terms=savine#highlight> [accessed 30 August 2016]

Riddle, John M., Eve’s herbs: A history of contraception and abortion in the west (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999)

The Tryal of Eleanore Beare of Derby, Gentleman’s Magazine 1732, pp. 933–934

Trials for Adultery; Or, the History of Divorces, III vols, Trials for Adultery (London: [n.pub.], 1779)

Worth, Jennifer, 'A deadly trade', The Guardian, 6 January 2005

About the Author

Dr Kate Lister, post doctoral research associate at Leeds Trinity University. Kate curates the Twitter feed @WhoresofYore and researches the history of sexuality. 

http://leedstrinity.academia.edu/KateLister

Written content of this post copyright © Kate Lister, 2016.

German Sausages and Flying Ambulances

I'm excited to welcome Sarah Mallory to the salon today to discuss German Sausages and Flying Ambulances – medical matters during the Napoleonic Wars!

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German Sausages and Flying Ambulances – medical matters during the Napoleonic Wars

When I first saw the term "flying ambulance" I thought it was something that had originated in Africa, or in the Australian outback, a vehicle for flying doctors. In fact it goes back much further than that. To the Napoleonic Wars, as I discovered only recently.

I was researching the Battle of Waterloo for my book, A Lady for Lord Randall, and it was impossible not to think about the casualties. More than 40,000 soldiers died on the battlefield and given the state of medical knowledge at that time, it is debateable which was worse, to be killed outright or seriously wounded. Dr Howard Martin has written two wonderfully detailed books on the subject (Wellington's Doctors and Napoleon's Doctors) if you want to find out a lot more fascinating details. One thing that became clear to me is that in the treatment and care of injured soldiers during the Napoleonic Wars the French had the advantage. Bonaparte was very forward-thinking when it came to the health of his army. He preferred prevention to medical treatment, he advocated good food, good hygiene, fresh air and high morale. He also supported the use of quinine and vaccination. And it was one of Bonaparte's surgeons-in-chief who invented and developed the flying ambulance.

Weapons of war changed very little during the 18^th century. The effectiveness of the lead musket balls varied widely depending on range. They could kill a man, or they might inflict superficial bullet wounds that caused little immediate pain. There are reports of soldiers digging out the balls themselves. Howard tells of a French volunteer in 1792 who was shot in the hip. He dug out the ball and re-used it, shouting "look, this is how republicans fight!"

Soldiers facing cannon had greater worries. A soldier in the path of round shot was usually killed outright, or had major injuries that often required amputation because bones and tissues were so badly damaged.

So, maybe you think you would prefer to face a sword? Straight swords were used for thrusting and caused deep internal injuries, usually to the chest and abdomen, whereas a curved sabre was used for slashing at the head and arms. The heavy cavalries wielded a broad sword that was capable of breaking bones and severing limbs.

Then there was the risk of being crushed by falling masonry, if you were sheltering in a building or behind a wall, or being trampled by horses, or burned by exploding shells or the fires that often broke out.

And if you survived all the above, then there was still the risk of disease.

Normal practice in the 18^th century was to leave the wounded on the battlefield until the end of the battle, then send out litter-bearers to carry anyone still alive to field hospitals situated a mile or so from the site, where the doctors would remain safely away from the fighting. Many of the litter-bearers preferred to become looters and never brought their injured comrades off the field. Or, conversely, a wounded man might suddenly find that a dozen or more of his comrades would rally round to remove him and themselves from the fighting. This latter option did not find favour with the officers.

Dominique Jean Larrey

However the French Revolution had brought the welfare of the rank and file to prominence. By 1793 the French Revolutionary Authorities were ordering army doctors to remain with their men in battle or risk a charge of desertion. Many medical men were happy to comply, and two of the most prominent of these dedicated doctors were Pierre-Francois Percy and Dominique Jean Larrey. They were both surgeons-in-chief to Napoleon, and with the support of many of their colleagues they pioneered the idea of taking medical help to the wounded men during the battle, and then removing the most seriously injured from the field as quickly as possible.

By 1772 the French were already using heavy medical wagons drawn by as many as 50 horses. These were large "ambulance hospitals" with hundreds of medical personnel to cater for up to 2,000 injured soldiers. In 1793 the National Convention even set up a competition to design a carriage for transporting the sick and wounded. None of the designs were practical, but it demonstrates that the provision of medical help was a concern. However, the doctors themselves were making progress.

In 1792 Percy was the surgeon in charge of the Army of the Rhine and he formed a number of old soldiers and disabled men into a corps of stretcher bearers. The men worked in pairs to remove the wounded from the field and take them to the nearest mobile hospital. Then, when all the wounded had been collected, the corps assisted the surgeons in the hospitals. Percy also designed an elongated vehicle with four wheels that was filled with surgical instruments, dressings, elastic sticking plasters etc. The top was rounded, covered in leather and provided saddle-like seating for up to ten surgeons and their assistants to sit astride. They were known as "wursts", the German for sausage, which is what they resembled. Wursts had supplies enough to deal with upwards of a 1,000 casualties. However, the lack of logistical support and a shortage of horses and supplies greatly hampered these vehicles.

A wurst

These wursts were praised by officers but were never in widespread use on the battlefield. Larrey could see their limitations and he designed a much smaller, lighter vehicle that was able to travel quickly over the ground. It could bring medical aid to men during the fighting and could carry away two patients lying down. He envisaged not just a vehicle, but a whole medical organisation dedicated to treating the wounded and removing them from the battle field as quickly as possible. 

These "flying ambulances" were a full complement of 340 men and over 30 wagons split into three divisions with surgeons, assistants, orderlies etc. each with their own role to play. Great attention was given to the medical equipment carried and the uniforms. Larrey was supported by the medical men of the day and in 1797 he received official approval for his idea. He had the opportunity try out his ambulance system in Egypt in 1798 – and when there was a shortage of draught animals he used camels to transport the wounded.

British doctors could only look on in envy at this advanced system of medical care. Today it seems a very logical idea, but it was 60 years after Waterloo that the British set up their trained ambulance corps.

Larrey not only had excellent organisational skills, he was also a brilliant and compassionate surgeon. The Duke of Wellington is said to have commended his valor and compassion in treating the wounded at Waterloo. However, he was captured by the Prussians after Waterloo and sentenced to death. A German physician who had been Larrey's pupil at one time, recognised the surgeon and pleaded with Marshall Blȕcher to spare him. Fortunately, Blȕcher's son had been wounded in a skirmish with the French and his life had been saved by Larrey, so he was sent back to France with a Prussian escort. 

Larrey died in 1842, aged 76, having become a legend in his own lifetime. One of his aims was that hospitals should be inviolable during times of war. This was a novel concept and one that was much later taken up by the Red Cross and the Geneva Convention.

Research is always fascinating, but very little of it makes its way into my books – I did include a surgeon in A Lady for Lord Randall, but it was only a minor character and I was so taken with Larrey's story that I have since used him as the model for my hero of another book which I have just completed – Return of the Runaway, which will be published in 2016.

Sarah Mallory

Award-winning author of nearly forty historical romantic adventures for Harlequin.  She also writes as Melinda Hammond, and you can find out more at her website, www.melindahammond.com.

Written content of this post copyright © Sarah Mallory, 2015.

The Great Plague of Marseille in 1720

It's my pleasure to welcome the wonderful Geri Walton to the salon today. A fellow member of the Pen and Swords Books family, Geri is passionate about the long 18th century and is here to share a grim tale of plague...

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On May 5, 1720, a trade ship, named the Grand Saint Antoine and skippered by a Captain Jean-Baptiste Chataud, sailed into Marseille having just arrived from an area in the eastern Mediterranean known as Levant. When it docked, the Grand Saint Antoine had a black cloud hanging over it. Its previous attempt to dock at Livorno had been refused because of plague-like symptoms and because of the death of a Turkish passenger who had been thrown overboard. When the ship finally docked at Marseille, several crew members were ill, including the ship's surgeon. So, a perfunctory quarantine was instituted by port authorities and the ship placed in the lazaret (a section designated for quarantine). But the quarantine did not hold because some crew members bribed their way off and gained their liberty.

Marseille (sometimes spelled Marseilles by the English) was situated at the end of a gulf containing one of the largest and best harbors in the Mediterranean. At the time it had a monopoly on French trade, partly due to its commerce with the Lavant area. Marseille was attempting to expand its monopoly into the Middle East and with emerging markets in the New World, so the idea of the plague made some in Marseille nervous that fear would hamper trade expansion. Further, as physicians disagreed amongst themselves as to whether or not the plague was present on the ship and because the ship carried vitally needed silk and cotton for a great fair planned in July at Beaucaire, influential Marseille merchants pressured port authorities to lift the quarantine.

The decision to lift the quarantine, compounded by the presence of infected crew members already loose in the city, proved disastrous and resulted in the last large epidemic of Yersinia pestis, which is the bacterium responsible for pneumonic, septicemic, and bubonic plagues. Within a couple of days, infirmaries and hospitals were overrun with plague victims. As the "undoubted marks of bubos [appeared]," the public began to panic. Symptoms were publicized and claims were made that the "distemper begins with a violent Head-ache, afterwards the Patients are seiz'd with a Fit of Trembling and die in 6 Hours Time." Even with the knowledge of what could be expected, no one could escape the city because troops surrounded it. Later, hoping to halt the plague, Marseille city officials built a mur de la Peste (a plague wall). But no matter what actions city officials took, the death toll continued to climb and the deep-ditch mass graves to hold the dead could not be dug fast enough.

As the plague raged on, deaths became constant, and, reportedly, nearly 1,000 people died in a single day. This meant care by Marseille physicians was more than impractical, it was impossible. Some victims became so delirious from the disease, they wandered the streets, before falling down exhausted. Then, "unable to lift themselves from the ground, they expired on the spot, remaining fixed in strange and distorted attitude in which their agonies had left them." To prevent such a horrible death, some people who showed signs of the plague became intent on killing themselves, and, in order to avoid suffering, they jumped out of windows or drowned themselves in the sea.

Several other things happened as victims of the plague began to increase. Homes, churches, and warehouses began to be filled with the dead. Corpses were placed everywhere, in attics, basements, and storerooms, and it was there they decayed and rotted until someone could remove them. As physicians could do little to help sufferers and the living were often petrified of catching the disease, the unafflicted began to carry their afflicted relatives outdoors to die. They usually placed them under shady trees to expire and that is where the person's corpse remained until it was removed. But soon there were not enough graves to bury the dead, and alternative measure had to be taken.

With houses, businesses, and churches filled with dead bodies and with no indoor areas left to put corpses, Marseille residents began putting their dead relatives outside on sidewalks or streets. This resulted in hundreds of corpse piles and thousands of rotting and pestilence-ridden corpses scattered throughout the city. Worse still were groups of prowling dogs that began to mutilate the corpses. To control this unpleasant menace and because it was thought dogs could "imbibe the contagion [and transmit it to humans]...a pitiless warfare was commenced against them." This resulted in thousands of dead dogs being thrown into the port and fishermen being ordered to drag them out to the open sea because of the stench.

To get rid of the corpses, Marseille authorities tried several things. They hired country people "at high wages" to remove the corpses, but many of these corpse removers became ill themselves and perished. A detachment of hardened convicts was then hired and promised their freedom if they removed the corpses. These criminals willingly applied themselves, but they also plundered families and were so unfeeling and so insolent in their duties, Marseille residents complained loudly to authorities. Next, soldiers were drafted and forced to haul away putrefied bodies, often by hoisting them over their shoulders.

It was a horrible situation and many people were petrified to go outdoors. The stench from rotting corpses and dead dogs was carried on the wind and for adventurers daring enough to brave the outdoors, or for country visitors curious about what was happening in the city, not only did they have to smell the flesh of the rotting dead but they also had to traverse over dead bodies and past piles of rotting corpses. At the height of the plague, some of these outdoor adventurers, known as batons de St. Roch, were so fearful of being touched they used batons (poles) eight to ten feet long to maintain a safe distance from everyone, including any dogs lucky enough to have survived.

For a time nothing stopped the plague: no amount of city intervention—walls, troops, or burials—nor regal or priestly intervention slowed it, and it terrified Europe. As the Marseille plague raged on, it touched everyone living in Marseille and beyond. One eighteenth century newspaper reported in October 1720 (the height of the plague) that "Marseilles is entirely ruin'd, above 80000 Persons have died there, and abundance die daily still, so mortal and so stubborn a Plague was never seen." However, the newspaper appears to have exaggerated the death toll. Although the plague devastated the city, today's estimates are that about 50,000 Marseille inhabitants died, which was more than 50% of it 90,000 inhabitants. Moreover, another 50,000 people died as the plague moved northward through France.

When at last Marseille was declared free of contagion (which took about two years), one person wrote, "We owe our deliverance, the cessation of this terrible scourge, to the mercy of the Lord, who was pleased to relent in his anger at the prayers of our bishop...to the zeal of the magistrates and citizens who assisted his efforts...and, above all, to the liberality of the illustrious prince who governs us...Happy will it be the remembrance of our past misfortunes serve us as a warning for the future, and inspire us with wisdom to use all human means to guard against the renewal of a catastrophe so deplorable...and to entertain a just fear of exciting once more the anger of the Lord against us, and drawing down on our heads a judgment yet more dreadful."

References:

Bertrand, Jean-Baptiste, An Historical Account of the Plague at Marseilles, 1805

Devaux, Christian A., Small Oversights that Led to the Great Plague of Marseille (1720–1723), on Science Direct

From Miller's Letter, September 6, in Stamford Mercury, 8 Sept 1720

Ireland, John, The Plague of Marseilles in the Year 1720, 1834

Kiple, Kenneth F., ed., Plague, Pox & Pestilence, 1997

Paris, October 26, in Stamford Mercury, 27 Oct 1720

The Encyclopaedia Britannica, Vol. 19, 1890

About the Author

Geri Walton has long been fascinated by history and the people that create it. Their stories and the reasons why they did what they did encouraged her to receive a degree in History and to create a blog focusing on her favorite time period, the 1700 and 1800s. Her first book, scheduled for publication in 2016,  focuses on Princess de Lamballe, friend and confidante to Marie Antoinette.

https://twitter.com/18thCand19thC

http://18thcand19thc.blogspot.co.uk/

 Written content of this post copyright © Geri Walton, 2015.

A Sick Syphon

It is my pleasure to take tea once more today with Dr Dillingham of Edinburgh and hear his medical tales. I must admit that, when I first encountered the item that has caught my eye today, I was rather misled by its name; happily though, the sick syphon is not quite the gruesome instrument I took it to be!

Upon my initial reading of the name of this rather fine implement, I found myself wondering how on earth it worked. How could such a thing be used to syphon vomit form a patient? My mind fairly boggled at the many, varied and ever more unpleasant methods by which it might be employed and yet, as the good doctor quickly assured me, it has nothing to do with vomit.

In fact, the sick syphon is rather more like a very elaborate, very well turned out straw. Its shape allowed it to be placed in a vessel such as a bowl or mug and even the weakest patient could then carefully suck up whatever (mostly liquid) foodstuff was on offer.

This particular syphon is dated 1790 and was made by silversmiths Edward Robinson and Thomas Phipps. In its fine case it makes for a most unusual medical curiosity; if only it could talk!

A Tale of Conjoined Twins

Helen and Judith (Szőny, Hungary, 19th October 1701 – Presburg, Hungary, 8th February 1723)

My tale today is another of medicine, brought to my door by Doctor Dillingham, who has recently returned from a sojourn to the continent. It is, however, also a story of family and of lives that ended before their time. When I first encountered a mention of the twins known simply as Helen and Judith, the story struck me as one that I wanted to share and off I went to find out more. I am pleased to present the tale here on the anniversary of their birth.

On the face of it, there should have been little of note to remark on in the birth of Helen and Judith, twin girls born in Szőny, Hungary. Although their surname is lost to history, they became knows simply as the Hungarian Sisters, and that nickname lasts to this day. There was indeed something most remarkable  about the sisters though, as far from being just another set of twins, they were conjoined twins. 

Medical science was baffled by the birth and swiftly decided that their circumstances should be blamed on their mother's overactive and somewhat excitable imagination during the pregnancy. This is quite a diagnosis, of course, but there the matter rested without further debate.

Helen was the first child to be born and within three hours Judith also emerged, joined to her sister at the coccyx. Just as she had been born first, so too was Helen reportedly the physically stronger of the two, as well as the more attractive and intelligent. Luckily the sisters were able to adapt to their very particular circumstances and soon their unusual condition became their livelihood.

From infancy into childhood, Helen and Judith were exhibited to excited crowds across Europe where they submitted to medical tests, enjoyed an education and enjoyed the society of artists, poets and others who found them utterly fascinating. However, this life was not to last and Judith suffered a debilitating stroke at the age of six that left her partially paralysed for the rest of her days. 

For three more years the girls continued to tour Europe until, at the age of nine, Judith's physical state could no longer endure such rigours. The girls were taken into the Convent of St. Ursula in Presburg, Hungary and here they remained, focusing on their faith.

The unusual story of the Hungarian Sisters was to end in 1723 when first Judith and then Helen fell ill with a fever. Throughout their entire lives, despite being conjoined, the girls did not share a sensation; they would experience neither feast nor hunger at the same time and lived as separate lives as they could yet, when their final moments came, they were almost simultaneous. Judith died early on 8th February and was followed within moments by her sister. The girls were laid to rest in the churchyard of the convent, the unusual lives of the Hungarian Sisters finally at an end.

For the Patient Who Has Everything...

Last week we learnt a little of silver nipple shields, a topic that certainly caught the imagination of visitors to the salon. Today is another silver-themed snippet from the Georgian apothecary, though I cannot promise nipples on this occasion!

In the long 18th century, fashionable sorts were always looking for a way to set themselves ahead of the pack and in and era when money and affluence were celebrated, even a period of sickness could be used by the canny patient to further cement their social standing. The rather finely turned little curio pictured is a boxwood pill silverer, a useful weapon in the arsenal of any society apothecary who administered to the monied classes.

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Pills were made by hand in the Georgian era and were not the most attractive of items but this fascinating silverer could change all that. Once complete, the handmade tablets were coated in mucilage, a sticky gum, and placed inside the silverer, along with a silver or gold leaf lining, depending on the intended finish. After sealing the silverer, the apothecary would them gently shake it and the pills within would eventually be covered in sparkling silver or gold, making them fit for the finest of sickrooms.

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Although this made the tablets very glitzy, it had the unfortunate side effect of reducing the effectiveness of the medicine as it made absorption much more difficult and in some cases, rendered it useless - not exactly a small price to pay for pretty pills!

A Must Have for Nursing Mothers

I am very pleased to welcome Doctor Dillingham back to the salon today, fresh from a jaunt home to Edinburgh. Always a most reserved man, he nevertheless knows a thing or two about a thing or two and has shared a glimpse at an intriguing treasure  from Georgian medical history with me today.

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The rather perfectly formed item pictured above is not, as a salon visitor wrongly guessed, a tea strainer. It is, in fact, a silver nipple shield. This would have been used to ensure the comfort of a nursing woman during months or years of breastfeeding, preventing any unpleasant chafing or soreness and hopefully ensuring that this particular element of motherhood went as smoothly as could be!

This is a beautiful example of a rather wonderful piece of domestic history and one can only imagine that it would have been used in a very fine household. No doubt the lady to whom it belonged was grateful for the respite her silver nipple shield brought, let alone the rather fine craftsmanship that went into creating it!

A Gruesome Tale of Self-Surgery

Major General Claude Martin (Lyon, France, 5th January 1735 – Lucknow, India, 13th September 1800)

General Claude Martin by Renaldi, 1794

For those of us who adore telling historical tales, the medicine of ages past is always a fertile ground for material. Regular visitors to the salon will have heard me tell of the estimable Doctor Dillingham before, known to the Hanoverian court and the denizens Versailles alike for his surgical skills,  and once again he has shard with me a story from Georgian medicine. I will warn at this point that it is possibly not suitable for the faint of heart!

Major General Claude Martin, who died on this day in 1800, was a man who knew no obstacles, only challenges. From humble origins he rose to the highest ranks of the British East India Company's Bengal Army, leaving behind a rich philanthropic legacy. Adventurer, educationalist, scientist and architect, this remarkable man lived a colourful and exciting life and when ill health threatened to slow him down, he was not about to surrender.

Martin suffered from bladder stones that blocked his urinary tract and, whilst trekking in the tropics in 1782, the pain grew so unbearable that he decided to take drastic action. Martin performed a self-lithotripsy, using a thin, sharpened metal file break the stones up. Half a dozen times a day for a number of months he inserted the device into his urethra and filed away at the stone until it was small enough to pass out of his body. When the treatment proved successful, he sent a report on the procedure to London for the attention of the Company of Surgeons.

Martin lived on for many years following this stomach-churning treatment and died a rich and celebrated man, larger than life to the very end.

Patrick Cotter O'Brien, The Irish Giant

Patrick Cotter O'Brien (Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland, 19th January 1760 – Epping Forest, London, England, 8th September 1806) 

We Gilflurts have never been a tall family and so ducking to get through doors, sleeping with our toes over the edge of the mattress and being able to dust the crown moulding are all a mystery to us, but not to our guest today. Born in County Cork in 1760, Patrick Cotter (he added O'Brien to his stage name later), grew to a massive eight feet or more in height and became known to his adoring audience as the Irish Giant and the Bristol Giant.

Cotter did not fare well physically as a result of his immense height and was said to have a most singular and disproportionate appearance. When he moved his bones could be heard creaking and grinding yet he had an eye on the big money that might be made from his remarkable size and knew that his body was his greatest asset.

Inspired to take the stage name O'Brien by another giant who he met early in his career, Cotter exhibited himself across the United Kingdom to paying audiences who came to marvel at the giant before them. At the start of his career, he often despaired at the situation in which he had been placed. However, eventually he was able to settle these anxieties and was known as a true gentleman, profession, polite and modest too.

Cotter's health was never robust and in time his legs became so swollen and malformed that even walking was difficult. To this end, he travelled in a specially adapted carriage and soon became a well-loved figure throughout the country. Sadly, his health failed so quickly that by the age of 45, Cotter was retired and the following year, he died.

The Irish Giant was placed in a coffin of more than nine feet and a team of fourteen men were employed to see it safe into his grave on Trenchard Street in Bristol. Here an enormous crowd gathered to pay their last respects to Patrick Cotter. Afraid that his remains would be taken by physicians, he had asked that he be buried in twelve feet of rock and this last wish was granted though he would not remain undisturbed forever and, in 1972, was exhumed for research purposes.

Cotter left £2000 to his mother in his will and his immense arm is still preserved at the Medical Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons in London, a sad fate for a gentleman such as he.

A Tube for Leeches

Regular readers of my medical posts will know that I am occasionally visited here in the salon by a certain fictional gentleman of my acquaintance by the name of Doctor James Dillingham. 

A most dependable Edinburgh sort, Doctor Dillingham can always be relied on for a little nugget of something from the history of medicine and today it is a tool of the medical trade that has caught my eye. I have always had a fancy for blue glass and this was just unusual enough to appeal, so I thought I would set down a little something on the subject of leech tubes.

A leech tube
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The rather snazzy object depicted here is a Dutch leech tube fashioned from turquoise glass. With leeches a standard bit of kit in the physician's arsenal, a tube of this type could be used to transport the leech safely on visits to patients. There are two openings in the tube, one wide and one narrow, and a cork in the larger open end kept the leech safely held in place, whilst the narrow aperture at the other end allowed the creature to breath.

Upon reaching the patient, the cork would be removed and the wide opening pressed to the skin so that the leech might attach to the skin and go about its medical business. Although leeches are less common in medicine now than once they were, they are still employed in some cases but sadly these wonderful devices have passed out of everyday use.