The Chirurgeon's Apprentice

It’s true what ‘they’ say: you can’t take it with you when you die. In 1793, the surgeon and anatomist, John Hunter, left behind some 13,000 specimens when he shuffled off this mortal coil. Many of these were not human, but animal.

In fact, Hunter cultivated quite a reputation as an eccentric collector of the exotic. He kept many rare beasts at his rural estate in Earls Court—including a lion, a jackal, a dingo, and two leopards. He was often spotted riding a cart around London driven by three Asian buffalo. Hunter experimented on many of his ‘pets’—both dead and alive—and even implanted a cockerel’s testicle into a hen’s belly!

The talented Adrian Teal—himself a connoisseur of the strange and bizarre—immortalised the anatomist in his book, Gin Lane Gazette. And now you have a chance to own this original cartoon signed by the artist himself!

Those who donate $75 or above to MEDICINE’S DARK SECRETS in the next 48 hours will automatically be entered in a chance to win! Click here to enter!

The winner will be announced on Monday, March 18^th!

*Note: Those who have already donated $75 or above to the campaign will also be entered into the contest. GOOD LUCK!

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The other night, my friend’s mother lost her battle against cancer. He is a funeral director and owner of Elemental Cremation & Burial in Seattle, and has dedicated his career to helping families during some of the darkest moments of their lives. He challenges the status quo in the American funeral industry, and looks for innovative and dynamic ways to memorialize the dead. 

This post is for Jeff Jorgenson, in memory of his mother, Judy Burnett.

For those who donate to MEDICINE’S DARK SECRETS in the next 48 hours, I will give 10% of the proceeds to the AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY.

Grief.

It’s something that affects us all. And yet, we are so unprepared when it comes knocking on our own door.

I have often said that as a historian of medicine, I am comforted in the knowledge that we are united with the past in our struggle against disease and suffering. The same can be said of our capacity to grieve, to mourn and to remember those whom we’ve loved and lost.

There are countless examples around the world of places where the dead are immortalised in strange and unique ways. One of my favourites is the Beinhaus [Bone House] in Hallstatt, Austria.

The Beinhaus came into existence in the 12^th century due to the lack of space in the small village’s cemetery. Graves were reopened after 10-15 years and the skeletal remains were moved to a charnel house to make room for the burial of the newly deceased.

Beginning in 1720, villagers began bleaching the disinterred skulls of their predecessors by placing the heads outside in the sun for weeks at a time. In addition to the names of the departed, townspeople would paint elaborate floral patterns on the skulls in the way that one might decorate a grave with flowers today.

Beside the cross in the center of the Beinhaus is a skull with a gold tooth. It belongs to a woman who died in 1983. Her last request was for her body to be disinterred and her skull to be placed in the charnel house. She was the last to enter the ossuary in 1995.

For me, the Beinhaus symbolises our desire as human beings to remember those who passed before us—to hold on, in some way, to the lives that were lived—for those who were buried in Hallstatt, Austria, did not remain so forever.

Far from being creepy, I believe it is a place of beauty; a place of peace; a place of reflection.

And in a world where grieving is often marginalized, minimalized, even medicalized, it is no small wonder that so many people  visit the Beinhaus each year and feel in awe of the way this tiny village has encapsulated so perfectly the phrase: ‘dead but not forgotten.’

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It’s 5 pm and I am sitting at the back of a pub in Soho awaiting the arrival of Adrian Teal, national cartoonist and writer. I’m sipping a G&T in honour of his latest creation, Gin Lane Gazette—which cleverly brings the 18^th-century to life through the medium of a fictitious illustrated newspaper.

Mr Teal arrives promptly despite the long commute into London. He’s dressed like a Georgian gentleman who’s been forced, begrudgingly, to modernise his wardrobe. He wears a waistcoat with shiny, gold buttons and a shirt that balloons slightly at the sleeves. His thick, black-rimmed glasses give him a creative authority that regular specs could never achieve.

He looks every bit the artist, much to my delight.

Mr Teal has a carefree air about him, though you know as a cartoonist he is secretly studying every inch of your face. He admits that he ‘catalogues’ features to use later for his illustrations. I wonder if I’ll inadvertently end up as a hysterical midwife in one of his 18^th-century cartoons, with unruly hair and chipmunk cheeks that my grandmother swears I’ll be grateful to have in old age.

At that thought, I swallow a big swig of gin.

Eventually, we settle back and begin chatting about his book, and where he finds inspiration for his work. We discuss the importance of imagination when talking about history; and how creating a visual past is just as essential as constructing a textual one.

Here’s what the ingenious Mr Teal had to tell me.

C.A. Gin Lane Gazette is such a unique concept. Where did you get the inspiration for it?

A.T. I’d been writing and illustrating Georgian-themed pieces for the QI Annuals, which got me thinking about doing my own illustrated book project. The problem was bringing together all those wonderful but disparate 18^th-century stories in one volume in a coherent and intelligent way. Then I read an excellent biography of the Regency journalist William Cobbett by Richard Ingrams, and it suddenly struck me that a newspaper format would be ideal. I could unite gossip, scandal, celebrity, obituaries, advertisements, and sports reports, which could all stand alone, but which would also be connected to each other in some shape or form, whether in narrative or thematic terms.

C.A. Are all the stories you write about in the book historically accurate?

A.T. Yes. I was clear from the beginning that I wanted everything to be accurate, and I was meticulous in my research. Mind you, the 1700s are so wonderfully bawdy and bizarre that you don’t really need to make stuff up. The only fictional element is my newspaper’s editor, Mr. Nathaniel Crowquill, who prefaces each section of his compendium of Gazette stories with his own thoughts, worries, and misadventures, but real historical characters and places are mentioned here too, so I hope it feels authentic. I felt I needed him, to give the book some structure.

C.A. You write about several incidents relating to medical history in Gin Lane Gazette. Which story is your favourite?

A.T. I like the story of Mary Tofts, who fooled a series of royal doctors and the general public into thinking that she’d given birth to seventeen rabbits. Hers was perhaps the most infamous con of the century. I’m also quite keen on the sad demise of Edward Gibbon, author of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, who died with testicles so swollen that they were said to compare in size to a small child.

C.A. As a historian, I am constantly trying to reconstruct the past through words. You are able to do this through drawings. How important do you think imagination is when talking about history?

A.T. From my perspective, it’s essential. I like to think and imagine my way into history. I don’t really see how else one can do it. Aside from artefacts and locations, history really only exists as words and pictures on paper or vellum; what the historian Greg Dening calls ‘the texted past’. My approach is perhaps undisciplined, and would probably horrify academics, but by immersing myself in the visual and textual world of the 1700s, and then presenting my impressions of the period in the way I have, I hope I’ve captured a tiny bit of the essence of how life was lived in that gloriously exuberant and eccentric century. And I hope I’ve shared my enthusiasm for it successfully too.

C.A. Do you ever draw yourself into your caricatures? What about friends or family?

A.T. I’ve drawn myself very rarely, although I was asked to caricature myself as a Georgian rake for the Gin Lane Gazette’s campaign video, which you can see on the Unbound website. I find it tricky to caricature my family, because I know their faces too well, and caricature is largely about first impressions. The things that stand out about a person when you first meet them are the things you caricature.  I have caricatured many friends as Georgians for the book, though. There’s quite a lot of my female friends’ bare flesh on show, with their gracious permission, you understand, and sometimes at their insistence!

C.A. What was your biggest challenge when creating Gin Lane Gazette?

A.T. I suppose it was getting the look and feel exactly right. I spent weeks agonising over fonts with my designer, Lisa Hunter, and we were clear we wanted to use the archaic long ‘s’, which presented us with more than a few logistical headaches. In terms of the writing, I’m trying to walk a fine line between the euphuistic language of the 18^th century, and keeping the stories rattling along nicely. It took a while to get into my stride.

C.A. I imagine your readers blush quite often while reading some of the bawdy stories in Gin Lane Gazette. What makes you blush?

A.T. Me? Blush? The very idea. In truth, when you’ve been up to your eyeballs in Georgian muck and fun for four years, not a lot embarrasses you. I find it quite tricky to take praise for my work, though. I’m just doing what I love, so when other people like it it’s almost a shock!

C.A. And lastly, if you could travel back into the past, which period would you visit? Who would you meet? What would you do?

A.T. Well, you won’t be surprised to hear I’d pick the 1700s. I’m a bit obsessed with 18^th-century maritime exploration, particularly people like Cook and Bligh, and I’m fascinated by the mutiny on the Bounty. I think I’d have to sign on to the Bounty’s books, and spend some time with Fletcher Christian, whose face I reconstructed in the mid-1990s. He’d have a few yarns to share, I’m sure. Plus, Tahitian ladies in the 1700s were a lot of fun, by all accounts.

Perhaps so, but I reckon they weren’t nearly as fun as a night out in a pub with Mr Teal. Before I left, he surprised me with my own modern Danse Macabre (see below)!

If you want to be shocked, titillated and amused by the Georgians (and I highly recommend you do), you can buy your own copy of Gin Lane Gazette here!

You can also meet the Georgian Gentleman for yourself on April 9th at Danson House and on April 15th at Benjamin Franklin’s House.

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I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve been featured in The Huffington Post!

Click HERE to read more!

Posted in Casebooks

Photo by Tony’TK’Smith

I am excited to announce the launch of the crowd-sourcing campaign for ‘Medicine’s Dark Secrets’ on IndieGoGo!

We are offering some brilliant gifts to those who donate to the project, including an opportunity to have tea and syphilis cupcakes with me at St Bart’s Pathology Museum in London.

Those who donate in the FIRST 7 DAYS will also be entered in a chance to win a 19^th-century medical trade card from my personal collection! The winner will be announced on March 9^th.

Whether you donate to the campaign, or simply help spread the word about ‘Medicine’s Dark Secrets,’ I want to thank you in advance for your support. I couldn’t do this without you.

So, without further ado, please click HERE to view the campaign video!

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Perhaps it’s not something I’d blurt out at a dinner party, but between you and me, the number of anti-masturbation devices I come across in my research is astonishing!

The Victorians were obsessed with preventing acts of self-love.

Take the example to the left. This terrifying contraption is called a ‘jugum penis.’ It was designed to prevent both masturbation and ‘nocturnal incontinence.’  Should a man become aroused in the middle of the night, this contraption would clamp down, extinguishing both his desire as well as his erection in a very sudden and painful way!

But why were the Victorians so obsessed with what they termed ‘self-abuse?’ Many medical practitioners during this period believed that masturbation caused a wide range of mental and physical disorders, and could even prove fatal over time.  Doctors and surgeons alike devoted their lives to finding a ‘cure.’

The fact that the Victorians were so preoccupied with making sure no one was ‘buffing the banana’ may not shock us. After all, they aren’t exactly known for their sexual openness.

Representing the last stage of mental & bodily exhaustion from self-pollution (1845)

But you may be surprised to discover that this idea began to take root nearly a hundred years earlier. In 1758, the Swiss doctor, Samuel Auguste Tissot, claimed that masturbation was more dreadful than smallpox because it depleted the body of sperm, which provided vital energies. Those who regularly masturbated could expect to form ‘suppurating pustules on the face, the nose, the chest, the thighs,’ amongst other things! [1]

These beliefs weren’t confined to Europe.

Back in America, Dr John Harvey Kellogg, suggested smalls boys be circumcised ‘without administering an anaesthetic, as the brief pain attending the operation will have a salutary effect upon the mind.’ [2] For young girls, he ‘found the application of pure carbolic acid to the clitoris an excellent means of allaying the abnormal excitement.’ [3]

Kellogg believed that the masturbator ‘literally dies by his own hand,’ and was hellbent on preventing this from happening. One method that he was particularly fond of involved inserting silver sutures into the penis to prevent an erection:

The prepuce, or foreskin, is drawn forward over the glans, and the needle to which the wire is attached is passed through from one side to the other. After drawing the wire through, the ends are twisted together, and cut off close. It is now impossible for an erection to occur, and the slight irritation thus produced acts as a most powerful means of overcoming the disposition to resort to the practice. [4]

Kellogg also believed that a diet rich in fibre and poor in taste was essential to dampening those lusty urges. While working as the director of Michigan’s Battle Creek Sanitarium in the latter half of the 19^th century, the good doctor created oatmeal and cornmeal biscuits to feed to patients. Later, he and his brother developed the perfect anti-masturbatory breakfast which could be consumed by the public at large: Kellogg’s Cornflakes.

Dr Kellogg wasn’t the only person to believe in the numbing effects of a proper diet. Earlier in the century, Presbyterian minister, Sylvester Graham created an unsweetened cracker. Reverend Graham, who often railed against the evils of ‘self-abuse’ from his pulpit each Sunday, thought that the blandness of what eventually became known as the Graham Cracker would curb one’s sexual appetite.

So there you have it. Through proper diet, and the use of terrifying metal contraptions, one could overcome the fervent desire to touch oneself, thus leading to a longer…a much longer life.

BONUS IMAGE: Because I know you are insatiable, I leave you with this 19th-century anti-masturbation device. I’m glad that the Wellcome Collection had the forethought to photograph it with a pair of Levi’s.

1. Quoted in Jean Stengers and Ann Van Neck, Masturbation: The History of a Great Terror (2001), translated by Kathryn Hoffmann, p. 50.
2. J. H. Kellogg, ‘Treatment for Self-Abuse and Its Effects,’ in Plain Facts for Old and Young (1888), pp. 294–296.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.

Posted in Casebooks

Just under two weeks till we kick off the fundraising campaign for ‘Medicine’s Dark Secrets!’ I can’t tell you how excited I am about this project!

When I began The Chirurgeon’s Apprentice a little over 2 years ago, I had no idea how many people would be interested in this subject. I’m constantly surprised and delighted by your emails and queries. Your passion for the macabre and wonderful world of medical history fuels my own.

Therefore, it only seems fitting that you tell me what you want to see on ‘Medicine’s Dark Secrets.’ After all, this is as much your project as it is mine. I could never have gotten this far without your support and encouragement, and I want to make this documentary with your views in mind.

Over the next few months, I’ll be running polls to find out what makes your intellectual curiosity tick.

Perhaps you’d like to learn more about anthropodermic bibliopegy? Or why anatomical collections came into existence in the first place? What about the executioner’s role in medical history? Or how body-snatchers dealt with the physical and emotional realties of their grim tasks?

Whatever it is, I want to know!

In the meantime, please have a look at the trailer – and continue to spread the word about ‘Medicine’s Dark Secrets’ in the lead up to the campaign!

I really appreciate your support and enthusiasm!

Posted in Casebooks