TThe confusion with patent medicines starts with the name, as they are rarely patented; manufacturers just thought it sounded cool. Bamboozling was always part of the package: from the 17th century onwards, concoctions of water, alcohol and herbs were sold with wild claims and exotic origin stories. In the 1630s, Anderson’s pills were hyped with dubious claims that the recipe came from Venice and Anderson’s close ties to the king. By the 18th century there were liniments, wafers, ointments and tonics that confidently proclaimed that they would cure whatever ailed you.
Claiming that you can cure everything – from “general weakness” to “irritation”, “fatigue” to “weak stomach fibers” – was the key to the success of drug patenting. Before anesthesia and antibiotics, the distinction between quack and ‘real’ medicine was vague anyway: why not fall for the tempting claims of a herbal miracle cure when your doctor threatens you with bloodletting?
Mass production and the media fueled patent medicines in the late 19th century, especially in the US, where they became big business. The advertising industry cut its teeth and developed its creativity: ads were everywhere and traveling shows brought quacks live. The striking, color-printed trading cards were especially popular, because they played on fears and ambitions and confirmed prejudices in a lurid way. Women were presented as ethereal, weak idiots (and “unfeminine” behavior, such as having an opinion, could be cured with the right elixir), and racist images, especially of Native Americans, were used to make drinks “exotic,” authentic, and ancient to make it seem. .
The cure was often worse than the disease. Many drugs are known to contain opiates and cocaine; they also often targeted children and babies and contained life-threatening percentages of alcohol. Colden’s Liquid Beef Tonic – advertised to treat alcoholism – had an alcohol content of 26.5%; a similar product, Parker’s Tonic, advertised as “purely plant-based”, was an eye-watering 41.6%. There is no reliable estimate of how many people – especially children – have been killed by patent medicines, but “many” seems a safe bet.
Patent medicines declined with the realization that the unregulated sale of cocaine and opiates could be a bad thing. The press played a major role in – and benefited from – the industry’s success (half of advertising revenue came from trade in the 19th century); “muckraker” journalists like Samuel Hopkins Adams would hasten its demise. Are “Major American fraud‘ report detailed scaremongering, false testimonials and ineffective, deadly ingredients. Regulation followed in 1906 with the American Pure Food and Drug Act; The British Pharmacy Act of 1908 limited cocaine, morphine and opium content to a paltry 1%. Further, stricter regulations followed and now only a few remedies survive in radically watered down versions, such as 7Up, now lithium-free.
Did anything work? Many contained effective (excessive) opiate analgesia; simpler formulas might have been effective for indigestion or iron deficiency, and the placebo effect must have been powerful. A dissertation on Georgian medicine argued that it is anachronistic to judge historical remedies with our contemporary understanding of ingredients and efficacy. Maybe that’s right? It’s easy to scoff at the unscrupulous peddling of snake oil to the gullible, but who are we, in our age of horse dewormer Covid cures and cures? TikTokkers drinking borax judgements? Counterargument: You really shouldn’t give opium to babies who are teething.
I have to continue tinkering with Dr. Beddington’s Tincture for Moral Degeneracy, so let’s dive in. Warning: Side effects may include temporary blindness, hallucinations, and hairy werewolf hands.
Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup
You could make a good guess at the active ingredient in baby nurse Charlotte Winslow’s syrup just by looking at these babies’ eyes. The 65 mg of morphine per ounce (plus alcohol) is believed to have been a major cause of infant mortality – 1.5 million bottles were sold annuallyaccording to an 1868 court summons – and it was condemned by the American Medical Association in 1911 as a “baby killer”. .
Pink pills for pale people
I am a pale person myself, and I long to dance with rosy cheeks through flowery meadows, and carry aloft a gigantic tube of my ferruginous salvation; you don’t get that from bags of Spatone Liquid Iron that taste like rusty nails. There are plenty of English-language advertisements for it Pink pillsmade in Canada in 1886 and sold in Britain until the 1970s, but this one is so bursting with Art Nouveau je ne sais quoi it demanded to be recorded.
Asthma cigarettes
Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but what if I told you that asthma cigarettes contain antispasmodic ingredients, like… stramonium, meaning they were actually an old-fashioned inhaler? Still no? What if I told you that? Proust was a fan? Oh, he was disabled for life and died at 51? Good point.
Hunt’s Remedy
There’s a powerful “not today Satan” energy on display in this late 19th century trading card: Death chose the wrong man in tiny pink shorts. Color was one of the secret weapons of patent medicine – colors on packaging were often touted as proof of authenticity and advertisements were bright and detailed – and Hunt’s has gone all in, with success. They should put this picture on those nice boxes of £8 matches; they would sell as hot, opium-soaked waffles.
Eclectic oil from Dr. Thomas
Nothing says “science” like a completely made-up word (seemingly drawing on the 19th century American fascination with electricity). Patent medicines were often marketed for animals as well as humans, and why not? One of my relatives shared anti-seizure medications with the family dachshund. Although this kitten looks quite gloomy: “alcohol, chloroform… opium tinctures… hemlock and turpentine‘That will happen, I think.
Ayer’s fever treatment
“A sick alligator is given a bottle of Ague Cure by two worried-looking frogs,” reads the Wellcome Collection article. incomparable description of this advertisement. The Ague Cure boasted that it contained no quinine, quite unfortunately for a malaria treatment. Fortunately, that was a lie: it did contain quinine.
Hamlin’s Wizard Oil
This is convincing, but confusing. The circus elephant stole the Wizard’s Oil, okay, but why is someone painting the slogan on its back, and who are the neatly dressed men with wind instruments? What’s happening on the roof? Granted, Hamlin’s was 50-70% alcohol plus ammonia and turpentine, so the world would probably look like this chaotic clown show if you drank it.
More frog medicine, a recurring – and welcome – theme in patent medicine advertising. I would absolutely buy what this very professional looking duo is brewing, or I would have until a friend theorized it was “their own back secretions.”
Dr. McMunn’s
The atmosphere of this 1860 advertisement is very strange: the gray, deceased-looking invalid is a terrible advertisement for Dr. McMunn on her bedside table. She is being cared for by what looks like the Spanish Monkey Christ in a crinoline – no wonder things are going badly – and there are far too many animals and children milling around this apparent deathbed. The men outside are harvesting quinine and cinchonine, the active ingredients; I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.
Vin Mariani
This isn’t just cocaine wine; This is Pope-approved cocaine wine. Leo XIII lived to be 93 years old, probably thanks to a hip flask of Vin Mariani tonic (the ‘tonic’ was 6 mg of coca leaf). Mariani was ahead of his time in marketing: he sent samples to celebrities asking for testimonials, which he subsequently published. Vin-fluencers included Presidents William McKinley and Ulysses S Grant and Pius Kapeau.