Post contributed by Ani Karagianis, Centennial Archivist.
Hello again! You may have noticed if you follow the Devil’s Tale with as much fervor as I do, that this is a continuation of a blog series on Civil Rights, a series that will end whenever somebody stops me. This blog post highlights one person who had simultaneously stayed in the Georgian East Campus and spent time in prison for her participation in the Freedom Rides.
They say well behaved women seldom make history. Joan Mulholland, in the eyes of a segregated Duke in 1959, certainly fit that mold. A woman who was deemed odd for not rushing a sorority would later become a crucial member of the Freedom Rider movement, and has advocated for civil rights all her life.
Joan’s story begins in Washington D.C. in 1941. She was born to working parents, a father from Iowa and a mother from rural Georgia. Joan spent her early years in Arlington, VA, which she claimed, according to a 2013 oral history now housed at the Library of Congress and part of the Museum of African American History and Culture, “was definitely the South, maybe not the Deep South, but everything by law and custom was segregated.”[1] Growing up in a Presbyterian church, Joan would later become annoyed at the perceived hypocrisy of the church preaching equality in a segregated town. The church became an early place for her growing interest in civil rights, starting with Black students attending her then all white church, a move that had to be kept secret to maintain the safety of both Black and white students.[2] Joan would later note that “as a Southerner, that we needed to change. And when I had my chance to do something, I would seize it”[3] after viewing the stark differences between Black and white schools.
Fast forward a few years, and Joan started to look at colleges. While Joan wanted to go to a small school in Ohio, her mother, “a product of her environment” pushed Joan towards Duke University, a school that, according to Joan, “was safely segregated.”[4] At this point (1959), Duke University was still two years away from desegregating the graduate schools, and three years away from desegregating the undergrad population. Duke students had begun advocating for desegregation in 1948, when members of the Divinity School sent around a petition calling for desegregation. Unfortunately, these early efforts and the efforts throughout the 1950s fell on mostly deaf ears in the Board of Trustees.
Joan Trumpauer from the 1960 Chanticleer yearbook. It’s digitized here!
Joan attended Duke for a year—1959-1960. Durham proved to be a great place for Joan to build on her growing desire to make things right, and North Carolina was a good spot for the growing Civil Rights movement. Not long after four students from North Carolina A&T in Greensboro integrated their lunch counter at Woolworth’s, Joan and some other white students attended sit-ins at segregated lunch counters in Durham with students from North Carolina Central University.
Article from the July 2, 1960 edition of the Durham Herald about sit-ins at the S.H. Kress Store.
More news coverage of the Kress Store sit-in, including a list of students who participated.
[1] Mulholland, Joan Trumpauer, Interviewee, John Dittmer, and U.S Civil Rights History Project. Joan Trumpauer Mulholland oral history interview conducted by John Dittmer in Arlington, Virginia. 2013. Video. https://www.loc.gov/item/2015669178/.
Post contributed by Madeline Huh, Trent History of Medicine Intern.
A couple weeks ago, Rachel Ingold, curator of the History of Medicine Collections, and I were setting up for a library instruction session in the Rubenstein that included some materials relating to midwifery, labor, and childbirth. One of these books discussed what were known as “monstrous births” during the medieval and early modern period, which sparked a discussion about Mary Toft, an 18th century woman infamous for tricking doctors into thinking she had given birth to rabbits.
Mary Toft was a 25-year-old poor, illiterate servant from Surrey who became pregnant in 1726 but apparently miscarried in August 1726 after an encounter with a rabbit. Around a month later, in September, she claimed that she was still pregnant, and her family called upon the obstetrician John Howard to watch over her in her apparently pregnant state.
According to Howard, Toft soon gave birth to several animal parts, including a cat without a liver, a rabbit’s head, the legs of a cat, and nine dead baby rabbits. The story of her miraculous births reached the press and spread around England, and consequently the King of England dispatched two men to investigate the situation, one of whom was surgeon-anatomist Nathanael St. Andre. St. Andre wrote an account of Toft’s alleged supernatural births called A short narrative of an extraordinary delivery of rabbets (1727), a copy of which is held in the Trent Collection within the Rubenstein Library’s History of Medicine Collections.
The title page of Nathanael St. Andre’s A short narrative of an extraordinary delivery of rabbets.
St. Andre describes the circumstances under which Mary claimed to remain pregnant after miscarrying:
“The account she further gave of herself, was, that on the 23rd of April last, as she was weeding in a Field, she saw a Rabbet spring up near her, after which she ran, with another Woman that was at work just by her; this set her a longing for Rabbets…The same night she dreamt that she was in a Field with those two Rabbets in her Lap, and awaked with a sick Fit, which lasted till Morning; from that time, for above three Months, she had a constant and strong desire to eat Rabbets but being very poor and indigent cou’d not procure any. About seventeen Weeks after her longing, she was taken with a Flooding and violent Cholick pains, which made her miscarry of a Substance that she said was like a large lump of Flesh…she did not perceive her self to grow less but continued with the symptoms of a breeding Woman” (23-24).
St. Andre then goes on to discuss Toft’s secondary labor and her subsequent birth of rabbits as it was told to him by Dr. John Howard.
St. Andre’s narrative about Toft’s miscarriage and animal births is indicative of a broader cultural fascination with monstrous birth in early modern Europe. Broadly, a monstrous birth is defined as an animal or human birth involving a defect that renders a child so “malformed” as to be considered monstrous. Deformed tissue, incompletely separated twins, ambiguous sexual development, or irregularly shaped children, which we would now in many cases attribute to genetic or chromosomal causes, all fell under the general umbrella of “monstrousness.” In the early modern imagination, monstrous births could be religious omens, signs from God, or evidence of supernatural influences. But perhaps more interestingly (to me, at least), monstrous births were also seen as indicators of a mother’s morality, or rather, a lapse in her morality. Private gynecological “disasters” and abnormalities of birth were highly public and sensationalized affairs within communities that often reflected poorly on a mother’s social and sexual reputation.
For example, when Margaret Mere gave birth to a deformed child in 1568, her neighbors attributed it to her wanton sexual behavior and accused her of having sex out of wedlock. Agnes Bowker’s alleged birth of a cat in 1569 led to the slander of her sexual propriety and resulted in concerns about the consequences of such an abnormal birth for the community as a whole. Both cases highlight the tendency of neighbors and community members to condemn mothers who miscarried or gave birth to “monstrous” children and the sense of anxiety that pervaded communities in the aftermath of gynecological disaster.
Mother and monstrous child both became sources of fear and dread beyond the immediate community through the representation of monstrous births in pamphlets, broadsides, and other relatively cheap printed materials accessible to a broad audience. One example of this is a little pamphlet called Signes and wonders from heaven (1645), also in the Trent Collection, which reports on several supernatural events including a discovery of witches, a cat that gave birth to a monster, and a monster born in Ratcliffe Highway. Public fascination with abnormal animal and human births created a popular demand for these types of publications.
Pamphlets discussing monstrous births like this one were popular among the English public.
Sometimes, the sensationalism that came with a monstrous birth was desired and even pursued by women, which seems to be the case with Mary Toft. Toft and her family seem to have perpetuated the story that she had given birth to rabbits to exploit some of the benefits of fame and money associated with faking a monstrous birth.
As the intern for the History of Medicine Collections, I’m currently working on an exhibit which will open later in the spring–not on monstrous births, but on a tangentially related topic–and the idea of monstrous births has emerged several times throughout my research. I’ve found the representation of monstrous births interesting not only for the way that early modern sources depict the relationship between mother and monstrous child but also for the way that they publicize these sorts of obstetrical events and inspire a sense of terror. I always enjoy learning about strange moments in the history of women’s health, and the case of Mary Toft is certainly one of these.
Post contributed by Ani Karagianis, Centennial Archivist.
As a continuation of my series, I have decided to highlight Duke students and their activism around Civil Rights. Likely inspired by the Greensboro sit-ins, Duke and NC Central students joined in their own civil disobedience, participating in sit-ins at Woolworth’s and Kress in Durham and boycotting local theaters.
In the early 1960s, some Duke students took part in Civil Rights movements and organized as such on the campus. One example was the Human Relations Coordinating Committee, creating a group that was interesting in human relations and race relations. In this document, found in our Student Activism Reference Collection, box 1, co-chairman Lucia Brunn calls for the creation of a newsletter for their committee.
Lucia Brunn, from the Chanticleer yearbook, 1960.
Within this document is a note received by a Duke Divinity student, Edward Opton Jr, who picketed Durham theaters. Here’s his call to action:
Feeling the Cold War vibes, his notes about nations choosing between “Democracy and Communism” does feel more than a bit pointed, considering the idea that some people viewed Communism as a greater threat than the racism in their own backyards.
Opton also asked for some support from the Divinity school administrators, hoping for an increase in faculty participation, as found in this letter from the Divinity School records, box 29.
Opton and Brunn were just a few motivated members of the Duke community committed to advancing the cause of civil rights. Stay tuned for more!
Post contributed by Ani Karagianis, Centennial Archivist, Duke University Archives.
[A small exhibit related to this blog post can be viewed near the Perkins Library service desk for the next month.]
Recently, the Rubenstein Library put up a small exhibit about the Greensboro Woolworth Sit-ins in February 1960. Since I participated in the creation of the exhibit, naturally, I wanted to look more into the early sit-ins and other movements of the early 1960s. It is here where I can say that there is a Duke angle to some subsequent events after the sit-ins. Duke angle #1: Professor William Chafe of the history department. Bill Chafe, who wrote a great book that I was able to devour during the holidays (Civilities and Civil Rights) interviewed three of the four members of the Greensboro Four: Ezell Blair Jr. (known as Jibreel Khazan), Joseph McNeil, and David Richmond. Rather than having me write about their interviews and their experiences of the sit-in, I have provided the readers with some snapshots of them speaking about their experiences in Greensboro, North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University, and the Woolworth sit-ins. These oral histories can be found in box two of the William Chafe Oral History collection.
Some good soundbites courtesy of these interviews:
Jibreel Khazan (labeled as “Jabriel Kajan”, 1974, speaking about his youth NAACP council and providing a little background of the idea behind the protest:
Joseph McNeill, 1978, reflecting on the movement the role of the Greensboro community:
David Richmond, 1972, providing a breakdown of the day’s plans:
Post contributed by Baylee Staufenbiel, Ph.D. Candidate, Department of History, Florida State University.
During my recent research visit to the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, I had the opportunity to work with the Duke University’s extensive holdings on medieval and early modern medicine. The highlight of my trip was Latin MS 182, a copy of the Pantegni Practica, a foundational medical text traditionally attributed to Constantine the African. The Pantegni is particularly significant as it one of the most comprehensive and well-known texts to synthesize Greco-Roman and Arabic medical knowledge. The Practica is interesting as it was never completed by Constantine. Various copies appeared, but current scholarship is unsure of the provenance of the additional chapters. The Rubenstein’s copy has some of these chapters that may have been compiled or written by his pupil Joannes Afflacius, who’s attribution is given to the accompanying treatise Liber Aureus. Figure One shows the table of contents of the Rubenstein’s Practica (33r).
Figure One: Pantegni Practica, 33r, Latin MS 182, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University.
As I worked with the Pantegni Practica, I really began to think about the roles of translators, manuscripts, prints, and productions. Constantine’s contribution to the spread of Arabic texts is undeniable. I have begun to think locations like Monte Cassino and Salerno as more than places of translation and transmission of texts. They are nodes for the establishment of epistemic authority. The texts, knowledges, and individuals that came from these locations constructed what would become medical and anatomical practice throughout the medieval and early modern periods.
The reliance on authoritative voices continued with my exploration of early modern sources. For example, in “On the Liver” (Sec. A Box 183, 1654-1677, England), I saw a compelling look at how seventeenth-century physicians balanced classical authority with contemporary anatomical findings. A Latin paragraph detailing liver striation was followed by an extensive English letter discussing Hippocrates, Galen, and early modern physicians’ beliefs about the structure and function of the liver. Shown in Figure Two, this text demonstrates the enduring influence of ancient medical models, even as new anatomical observations complicated long-held theories. The discussion of Rufus of Ephesus (70-110 CE) and Schenckius (likely Johannes Schenck von Grafenberg, 1530-1598) reinforced how early modern practitioners continued to situate their work alongside pre-existing medical authorities. The letter references humoral theory mentioning the relative temperature of the liver as well as the questions about its role in conception (notably Galen saw the liver, heart, and brain as the seat of the natural, animal, and vital souls respectively). As my research is focused on perceptions of the uterus, reading a meditation on the function of a specific organ further suggests that understandings of the internal body were constantly in flux, even for a well discussed structure like the liver.
Figure Two: “On the Liver,” David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University
My time at the Rubenstein Library was an incredible privilege. The collection provided invaluable access to texts that shaped medieval and premodern understandings of medicine and the body. Engaging with these manuscripts firsthand enriched my assessment and evaluation of these texts in my current research project. I am deeply grateful to the Rubenstein staff, curators, and archivists who made this trip possible.
Please join us for our next Trent History of Medicine Event, a symposium celebrating Remarkable Stories of American Black Surgeons in the 19th and Early 20th Centuries.
Speakers include:
Jill L. Newmark, “Without Concealment, Without Compromise: Black Civil War Surgeons”
Margaret Humphreys, “Searching for Dr. Harris”
Todd L. Savitt, “Entering a ‘White’ Profession: African American Physicians in the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries”
Jill L. Newmark is an independent historian and former Curator and Exhibition Specialist at the National Library of Medicine, National Institutes of Health. She has curated numerous exhibitions and written several articles on African American medical personnel who served during the American Civil War.
Margaret Humphreys is the Josiah Charles Trent Distinguished Professor of the History of Medicine in the School of Medicine at Duke University, as well as Professor of History, Professor of Medicine, and affiliate with the Duke Global Health Institute. A specialist in the history of science and medicine, she has focused her research and publications primarily on infectious disease in the U.S. and the American south, as well as the history of medicine during the American Civil War.
Todd L. Savitt is an historian of medicine with a particular interest in African-American medical history. He is professor in the Department of Bioethics and Interdisciplinary Studies in the Brody School of Medicine at East Carolina University.
There is no registration required. The event will be recorded.
Sponsored by Duke University History Department, the Trent Center for Bioethics, Humanities & History of Medicine, and the History of Medicine Collections in the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library.
An archive like that at Duke University can be approached from numerous angles. Professors might partner with the Rubenstein Library to encourage student engagement with materials that are relevant to their courses. Students might flock to the reading room to fulfill requirements for a paper. Researchers from across the world might visit the Rubenstein’s collections to identify sources that pertain to their independent studies. There is also the possibility that people might visit the reading room out of pure curiosity, stumbling in search of rare books, letters, and artifacts that are simply “cool” to them. I found myself in this category while perusing the catalog for a topic that could be reflected well in an exhibit, and I was pleased to see how a streak of curiosity can lead down a rabbit hole of literary exploration.
Beginning my quest by analyzing works celebrating an anniversary year, I found myself in the middle of a pastoral tale full of drama, love, and a surprising amount of sheep, as known as Thomas Hardy’s fourth novel, Far from the Madding Crowd.
Far from the Madding Crowd as it appeared in January 1874 for Cornhill readers.
In January 1874, Thomas Hardy obliged Sir Leslie Stephen, editor of Cornhill Magazine, by publishing his novel serially for Cornhill readers to enjoy. Describing his work as a story involving “a young woman-farmer, a shepherd, and a sergeant of cavalry,” Hardy set forth on a yearlong adventure of watching the public and critics receive his novel before him (Hardy 1928, 125). Later that year on November 23, 1874, Hardy saw the publication of his work in its entire form. While reading the novel, which is an experience in and of itself, is where some people end their journey down this Victorian English path, the Rubenstein’s holdings allow for a much deeper dive of Hardy’s process to and through publication, from an exploration of his title to the aftermath of the story in his wake.
While we can give Hardy credit for the storyline and characters that emerge in his novel, the title must be attributed to another prominent figure in English poetry, Thomas Gray. Hardy’s use of Far from the Madding Crowd is a direct reference to Gray’s 1751 poem, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, where Gray writes:
“Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.”
The Rubenstein is home to various versions of Gray’s poem, many of which include illustrations to accompany the famous line later used in Hardy’s title. An 1850 edition includes illustrations by R. S. Gilbert, depicting two adults and two children in their home, with one woman gazing into the distance while the other helps a child to read. An 1861 edition includes an image, created by E.V.B. and engraved by William Meason, depicting angels in their robes. An 1887 edition includes illustrations by Alfred Woodruff, centering the focus on a cemetery, with plants overtaking the emerging gravestones on the stanza’s partnering page. An 1899 edition pictures a cottage set off from a path, surrounded by the sky and vegetation. While Gray’s poem was published nearly a century before Hardy’s birth, the Rubenstein’s holdings create the space to imagine how Hardy may have seen the poem for the first time, and how its presentation led him to use one of Gray’s lines as the title for his work.
Illustrations from two editions of Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 1899 (left) and 1861 (right).
Jumping further down the rabbit hole of this investigation, I then pulled two books by Florence Emily Hardy, Hardy’s second wife, with the hope of learning more about the historical context surrounding Hardy’s process of creating and publishing Far from the Madding Crowd. The first of the two books, The Early Life of Thomas Hardy, which covers his life from 1840 to 1891, is where the drama began to unfold. While published under Florence Hardy’s name with an understanding that Hardy himself contributed much of the work, the reception of this book has been contested by some scholars in the field. Some believe that Florence altered much of the text from its original form, a topic covered thoroughly by Michael Millgate in The Life and Work of Thomas Hardy, which was published with Hardy’s name after Millgate edited the work to resemble Hardy’s final version. Other scholars in the field have responded to this controversy, such as Tim Dolin in the 2007 article, “The Early Life and Later Years of Thomas Hardy: An Argument for a New Edition,” calling for Florence Hardy’s text to be reinstated as a credible account. Regardless of the criticism for Florence Hardy’s Early Life, the work presents additional information on Hardy’s writing practices as his novel continued to be published serially in Cornhill.
“So Hardy went on writing Far from the Madding Crowd—sometimes indoors, sometimes out—when he would occasionally find himself without a scrap of paper at the very moment that he felt volumes. In such circumstances he would use large dead leaves, white chips left by the wood-cutters, or pieces of stone or slate that came to hand. He used to say that when he carried a pocket-book his mind was barren as the Sahara” (Hardy 1928, 127).
Florence Emily Hardy’s 1928 publications on the life of her husband, Thomas Hardy.
Duke University is also home to additional texts that provide understanding to the world that Hardy lived in and how it was brought to life on the page. One book in particular, Hardy’s Wessex by Hermann Lea, showcases the real places that served as inspiration for Hardy’s setting, including images to better understand the farmland and lifestyle in Far from the Madding Crowd.
Hermann Lea’s descriptive work on Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, published in 1913, reprinted in 1928.
The Rubenstein also houses a few of Hardy’s papers in their archive. While they do not speak directly to this novel’s anniversary, they include some of Hardy’s correspondence and an etching of him completed by William Strang, an artist and printmaker who worked with other notable figures like Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Now 150 years old, Far from the Madding Crowd is a story that continues to see itself adapted and discussed. You may have read it in an English course, watched it unfold on-screen, or never heard of the sheep-filled tale before now. No matter the case, Duke Libraries has just enough copies for you to join the fun of guessing who Bathsheba Everdene will marry in the end!
Interested in reading more on the topic of Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd? “Far from the Madding Crowd at 150: Seven Reflections” includes writings from a group of Victorian scholars, all focusing on a different aspect of the text and bringing forth their unique perspectives on Hardy’s work.
Works Cited
Gray, Thomas. Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. London: Printed for the Guild of Women-Binders, 61 Charing Cross Road, W.C., 1899. David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University.
Hardy, Florence E. The Early Life of Thomas Hardy, 1840-1891. New York, The Macmillan Company, 1928. David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University.
Post contributed by Madeline Huh, Trent History of Medicine Intern, MSLS student at UNC Chapel Hill.
I’ve been working as the History of Medicine intern at the Rubenstein Library for a little over a month now, and in my short time working here, I’ve had the opportunity to look at some truly remarkable materials–from the gorgeous illustrations of Elizabeth Blackwell’s A curious herbal, to handwritten notebooks by nineteenth-century Japanese physicians, to an atlas of midwifery from 1926. And, of course, I’ve also had the chance to look at fascinating historical artifacts like the 16th century Scultetus bow saw, an 18th century trephination kit, and a very intriguing little box of pills labeled as “female pills.”
One of my favorite books I’ve encountered so far has been the Gynaeciorum, an encyclopedia of obstetrics and gynecology compiled in the 16th century by Conrad Gessner and Hans Kaspar Wolf. It is the first gynecological encyclopedia to be published, and I was surprised to discover that an entire book was dedicated to this topic in the 16th century. The Gynaeciorum combines the works of several different ancient and medieval medical authors who wrote about women’s health. A few of these include Trota, a twelfth-century female physician and medical writer; Abū al-Qāsim Khalaf ibn ʻAbbās al-Zahrāwī, one of the great surgeons of the Middle Ages; and Muscio, the author of a treatise on gynecology from ca. 500 CE.
The subject matter of the book often goes beyond what we generally think of as the realm of gynecology and obstetrics, exploring neonatal and pediatric inquiries as well. One section asks, “What should be the first food that we give to an infant?” The provided answer is, “Something like bread–that is, crumbs poured into honey-wine, preserved fruit, or milk, or perhaps a drink made of spelt, or porridge” (Gynaeciorum, 79–translation from Latin is my own). Other inquiries discuss menstruation, pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum health.
I was also very intrigued to find the first printed edition of Muscio’s Gynaecia at the back of the book, printed in Greek no less, which struck me as unusual. In medieval Europe, it was more common for Greek works to be translated and disseminated in Latin, rather than the other way around. Literacy and interest in Greek in the west decreased during this period before a revival of interest in Hellenistic culture and language occurred during the Renaissance. I did a little research on the medieval manuscript transmission of Muscio, and what I discovered was a very convoluted story of translation, retranslation, and misattribution.
According to Monica Green, a historian of medieval medicine and women’s health, Muscio (who is also known as Mustio in some places–not to be confused with Moscion, who is another ancient medical writer entirely) originally wrote a treatise on gynecology in Latin around 500 CE known as the Gynaecia. This was probably a translation and paraphrase of the Greek Gynaikeia by the physician Soranus of Ephesus who was active around 100 CE. Muscio’s work was copied into several manuscripts in western Europe during the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries, and his work was popularized later in the Middle Ages, eventually being translated into French, English, Dutch, and Spanish. But intriguingly, Muscio’s treatise on gynecology was also translated into Greek within the Byzantine Empire. Finally, in 1793, the Greek translation was retranslated back into Latin by Franz Oliver Dewez! I can only wonder how close (or far) Dewez was to Muscio’s original language and phrasing.
All of this was fascinating to learn. Looking at the edition of Muscio in the back of the Gynaeciorum, we see that Gessner and Wolf, who were working in the 16th century, have chosen to present it in its Greek form. I wonder, then, did Gessner and Wolf know about the manuscript transmission of this text and that it was originally written in Latin? I assume they did, based on the fact that we see a Latin preface to Muscio’s Gynaecia included at the very beginning of the Gynaeciorum. So did Gessner and Wolf include the Greek version in the book to appeal to contemporary interest in Greek language and literature, or for another reason? And what information about women’s health and childbirth has been lost or misinterpreted in the process of translation and retranslation? My deep dive into Gessner, Muscio, Soranus, and the transmission of gynecological texts has left me with even more questions than I started with.
Post contributed by Sarah Bernstein, Josiah Charles Trent History of Medicine Intern.
As someone who studies unorthodox and fringe medicine, I was incredibly pleased to find the large arrangement of unorthodox, fringe, strange, and frankly “quack” medicine within the Rubenstein Library. While the rich History of Medicine Collections includes classics of Western medicine like a first edition of Andreas Vesalius’ De Humani Corporis Fabrica, a memento mori in carved ivory, and various microscopes (on permanent display in the Trent Room), I am glad to share that there are also patent medicine bottles, advertisements, and numerous writings and publications on alternative and unorthodox medicine. George Starr White’s My Little Library of Health is one such series of advice from a so-called “quack,” or an illegitimate and opportunistic, doctor.
The 1928 “little library” by White is a series of 28 books whose length ranges from 20–48 pages. While small, I would say that calling them “thumb-nail” editions is a little misleading; the books measure at 4.5 inches in height and near 3.5 inches across (3 ⁷⁄₁₆ to be exact) is far from what is considered a miniature book or thumbnail sized. The advertisement at the back for each book boasted that each book contained illustrations, sometimes in color, and provided White’s sound advice on “health building by natural living.” Each book could be purchased for 25 cents (now somewhere near $4.50) or, for 5 dollars prepaid (around $90 for us today), one could score for the entire set.
White was a proponent of chromotherapy, light therapy, and heat therapy. In My Little Library of Health he informed his readers about his research and strong belief in the healing properties of Ultra-Red Rays. Although White’s belief in chromotherapy began by viewing sunlight through oak leaves, based on his account in volume 27, his tests had revealed to him that artificial lights from electric lamps still produced healing effects. In fact, some electric lamps worked better than others. Why? Ultra-Red Rays, that White describes as “the ‘thermal’ Rays upon which all life depends,” more commonly known as infrared light. Based on these beliefs, White developed the “Filteray Pad,” a heat pad which generated Ultra-Red Rays and was meant to be applied to the affected area. The price for this cure-all device? A cool $35 (~$620-30 in 2024).
Figure of the Filteray Pad in Volume 28, page 14, of My Little Library of Health (1928).
White would go on to develop other light-based therapies and medical systems. In 1929, White was unflatteringly covered in the “Bureau of Investigation” section of The Journal of the American Medical Association (volume 92, number 15) for his dubious claim of medical schooling and his career in patent medicines. The article lambasted White and all of his medicines and cures. Along with the “Filteray Pad” there was “Valens Essential Oil Tablets” (sold during the 1918 Flu Epidemic for “Gripping the Flu out of Influenza”) and his methods of “Bio-Dynamic-Chromatic (B-D-C) Diagnosis” and “Ritho-Chrome Therapy” (light-based diagnosis and cure using multiple colored rays that were similar to other forms of chromotherapy; the “Electronic Reactions of Abrams” by Albert Abrams and Dinshah Ghadiali’s “Spectro-Chrome” device respectively).
The Bureau of Investigation (formerly the Propaganda for Reform Department) was created as an outgrowth from the Council on Chemistry and Pharmacy to specifically investigate, disprove, and inform the public about fraudulent nostrums and patent medicine. The effort was headed by Dr. Arthur J. Cramp, a passionate doctor who was highly critical of nostrums, patent medicines, and the lax regulations which enabled proprietors to label and advertise their products as legitimate medicines.
George Starr White was just one of many quacks that Dr. Cramp and The Journal of the American Medical Association investigated and denounced, and who are represented in the Rubenstein Library’s collections. While I would not advise anyone to turn to White for medical advice today, I would encourage people to think about illegitimate medical professionals like White—and the world that they operated in—in contrast to medicine and the medical system today. These quacks from the past can provide insight into how medicine is legitimized, the rise of the medical profession, and continuous efforts throughout history to seek and provide unorthodox care.
Page with a portrait of George Starr White signed “Youthfully yours” at the end of each My Little Library of Health (1928) book.
14 June 1850 resolution of the Joint Committee of the Library of Congress, Box 15, Wilkes Papers
Upon successfully passing the motion at their meeting in June 1850, the Joint Committee of the Library of Congress resolved to compel Charles Wilkes to “notify Mr. Pickering that the Committee think he was not authorized to devote his time” as a member of the United States Exploring Expedition between 1838 and 1842 to jotting notes for his book The Races of Man.[1] Nevertheless, Pickering published The Races of Man as the ninth volume of the multi-volume Narrative of the United States Exploring Expedition in 1848, six years after returning from their voyage under the command of Lieutenant Wilkes. The committee’s resolution to Wilkes and Pickering is among the Wilkes Papers held by the David M. Rubenstein Manuscript and Rare Book Library, which generously funded my research at the library in the summer of 2023.
During their time in the Pacific Ocean––including stopovers in the Tuamotu Archipelago, Tuvalu, Tahiti, Samoa, Fiji, Hawaii, and the Philippines––Pickering resolved to produce a classificatory schema of “all eleven races of man.”[2] At the start, he found “difficulty arose, in fixing in the mind, while passing from place to place, the relative shades of complexion” of the people the Exploring Expedition, or Ex. Ex., encountered during their voyage.
Fijian skin, for instance, upset English-speaker’s reliance on vision to discern race in the early nineteenth century. In May, 1840, Pickering looked through a spyglass from the deck of the Vincennes, the squadron’s flagship, toward a cluster of people gathered on the shore of Levuka, a town on the eastern coast of Ovalu, to obtain “evidence of the lightness of the Feejeean complexion.” Ovalu is one of the more than three hundred volcanic islands that make up the Fiji archipelago in the South Pacific.
At first, Pickering incorrectly hypothesized the group contained a mixture of “Malayan”, “Polynesian”, and “Negro” peoples rather than Fijians. Seeing people from afar thus proved to be inadequate for the purposes of collecting scientific facts concerning skin color in the Pacific Rim. Pickering improvised by terming them “purple men” on closer inspection. Ocularity and visibility, then, proved to be incomplete methods for knowing race.[3] So, Pickering concluded, his racial scientific program required collecting “more obvious distinctive characters” to serve as an evidentiary basis for his racial taxonomy. Some of these characters included notes on Papuan skin as “harsh to the touch, and the hair crisped or frizzed”, hearing Pa‘umotus “making a kind of purring noise”, and wincing at “the strong ill odour” of Fijians that “make them thoroughly disgusting to persons newly arrived.”[4]
“Organization for the Exploring Expedition”, Box 3, Folder 1, Wilkes Papers
Pickering’s inability to fully rely on vision matters for historians of science and the senses. Relying on prior analyses of race as a phenomenological apparatus, in particular the scholarship of philosophers including Sachi Sekimoto and Christopher Brown, I am investigating how the Ex. Ex. produced scientific ideas about race via the sensorium. What is at stake here is the place of vision and visibility in histories of science in the Enlightenment as hallmarks of modern scientific epistemology. Forms of visualization equipped what Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison term the disciplinary eye that lay at the ethico-epistemic foundations of contemporary science.[5] Yet, scientists like Pickering used hearing and ideas about noise, smell and notions of cleanliness, and mores around touch and taste, to articulate race as a scientific fact through the itinerary of the Ex. Ex. Put simply, ocularcentrism was too brittle an epistemological basis for the Ex. Ex. to taxonomize the various groups they “discovered” through their transpacific itinerary. Rather, the Ex Ex used olfactory disgust, sonic boundaries, and norms surrounding touch and gustation to classify Pacific Islanders as racialized others through the body and the senses.
Before the Ex. Ex. departed from Hampton Roads in 1838, Wilkes argued that the operation would prove to be “useful to the Navy, honorable to this Country, and highly advantageous to the Commercial interest of the Country” and to “Science generally.”[6] In his “Organization for the Exploring Expedition”, Wilkes did not propose sending a race scientist like Charles Pickering––who joined the Ex. Ex. as the scientific corps’s zoologist––along with the other “Scientifics” like the geologist James Dwight Dana, the botanist William Rich, or the artists Alfred Thomas Agate and Joseph Drayton.[7] The Wilkes Papers at the Rubenstein contain material on these figures, as well as the John Torrey Papers, which pertain to the Ex. Ex. Torrey––a botanist who did not travel with Wilkes––later classified the plant collections made by the scientific corps and prepared specimen catalogues as an affiliate of the Smithsonian Institution, and his papers contain letters with people associated with the SI like Spencer F. Barid, Joseph Henry, and Louis Agassiz. Torrey’s correspondence also contains letters from the phrenologist Johann Gaspar Spurzheim, and Josiah Nott, a leading race scientist of the antebellum era.
Moving forward, my aim is to produce a phenomenological account of the Ex. Ex. that provides insight into the formation of the racist ideas that undergirded Indian removal and Manifest Destiny via the senses. Like Sachi Sekimoto––who argues that “race constantly renews its material presence through latching onto our bodily felt, sensorial experiences, making itself feel-able and sensible and therefore ‘natural.’”––I claim that the narratives produced by the scientific corps and the naval personnel of the Ex Ex justified beliefs in American Indian and Polynesian “savagery” in Jacksonian America.[8]
[2] Charles Pickering, The Races of Man: And Their Geographical Distribution (London: H. G. Bohn, 1850) 2nd edition, 2.
[3] Charles Pickering, The Races of Man: And Their Geographical Distribution (United Kingdom: John Chapman, 1849), 146-147.
[4] Pickering, The Races of Man, 3; Wilkes, Narrative of the United States Exploring Expedition, vol.1, 324; Walter Lawry, Friendly and Feejee Islands: A Missionary Visit to Various Stations in the South Seas in the Year MDCCCXLVII, (United Kingdom: C. Gilpin, 1850), 79-80.
[5] Lorraine Daston, and Peter Galison, Objectivity (Princeton: Zone Books, 2007), 48, 148
[6] Wilkes Papers, Box 3, “Organization for the Exploring Expedition”
[7] William Reynolds, Voyage to the Southern Ocean: The Letters of Lieutenant William Reynolds from the U.S. Exploring Expedition, 1838-1842 (United States: Naval Institute Press, 1988), 3.
