An Early Salute to America

My personal celebration of our country's 250th year of independence, told through the oldest trade card in my collection.

Author's Note: Yes, I told this story eight months ago, but it was different then. "Living the Dream" told the story of the card's owner, John E. Tyler. I was then asked by an important publication to rewrite and condense the article with focus on the trade card itself. The revised article became the page-one story in the next edition of that publication, but the editors had taken significant license to edit and revise what I had submitted for their purposes. I respect the right of editors (I used to be one) to do that to suit the needs of the publication, but the edits stripped out the soul of my submission - my personal feelings about this treasure in my collection. I have brooded about it ever since and finally decided that I would take it upon myself to publish the version I had submitted for publication because it's that important to me that this important little slice of history can be read as I wrote it. I am not embarrassed to admit that I take pride in my writing. I hope you will enjoy this retelling from my very personal perspective. Thanks for your grace in allowing me the privilege to pass it by your eyes a second time.

J. E. Tyler, Commission Merchant. Advertising Trade Card, ca.1801. John Tyler did not add a middle initial to his name until 7 March 1801, therefore this card was produced sometime during J. E. Tyler’s proprietorship at No.44 Long Wharf, between 1801-1803. While the card could have been produced in 1802 or 1803, it seems highly unlikely.  His business had fallen off precipitously subsequent to its inaugural year. Commissioning the trade card’s design, engraving, and printing at the start of the business was feeding an opportunity, but doing so in 1802 or even worse, in 1803, would have made it an unwelcome expense and represented much less of an opportunity, given the depression that was beginning to descend on the American economy and commerce because of Europe's ongoing Napoleanic Wars (1803-1815). Relocation of his business in 1804 and realigning it into a partnership for much-needed support were probably in the planning stages long before the end of his tenancy in 1803. Rapoza collection.

Holding a 225-year-old trade card in my hand is a humbling moment; it invokes a sacred bond through centuries of time. For reasons lost in a collision of fate and chance, I have been entrusted with the privilege of this card’s current stewardship, becoming its guardian, archivist, and curator for the rest of my shortening tenure on earth. Admiration of this treasure aside, researching its story has been transformative, the opaque paper card becoming a window to the past. It’s why I collect.

Most museum examples of early American trade cards display a rendering of the   shopkeeper’s trade sign or objects emblematic of the shop’s wares. This study, however, is of a card that conveys the spreading sentiment of post-Revolution patriotism and optimism in the same moment that it directly communicates key information about the business.

Deconstructing this artifact of American material culture into several component parts allows its reassembly into a richer, more complete story of the man, his business, and his design choice in commissioning a card so different from its antecedents. It has quite a story to tell.

Context

The person who sold me this card estimated it to be late 19th century. One look told me that was wrong and thus began my research journey of discovery.

Although he had already been alive for 35 years, J. E. Tyler didn’t exist until 1801. Until then, he had no middle name – he was just John Tyler, son of John Tyler, a wealthy farmer in Mendon, Massachusetts, 7 miles north of the Rhode Island border, 34 miles southwest of Boston.

Father John became a widower when his daughter and son were just 8 and 6 years old, respectively. Despite the loss of his wife and the challenge of suddenly becoming the single parent of two small children, John Tyler senior risked everything by participating on a committee of six Mendon men who drafted a formal protest to the various acts of Parliament that trampled colonial rights and privileges, imposing duties or taxation on the Massachusetts Bay Colony. At a town meeting in March 1773, the committee of six drafted nineteen resolutions, starting with “…all Men have naturally an equal Right to Life, Liberty, and Property”; it was one of the earliest instances that such sentiments had been put in writing in the American Colonies. Despite placing themselves at great personal risk, John Tyler and the other signers voted

… that the foregoing Resolves be entered in the Town Book that our Children, in years to come, may know the sentiments of their Fathers in Regard to our Invaluable Rights and Liberties. [emphasis added]

When war broke out, John Tyler senior became a captain in the town’s militia, participating in the 1775-1776 siege of Boston and in the winter of 1777-1778 with General Washington at Valley Forge. In 1785, after almost a decade of hazarding his life for his country, he was killed in a moment of cruel irony by the falling of a large limb off a tree he was in the process of cutting down. This left John, his eldest son and namesake, to carry on his father’s legacies of pride in his estate, his family, and his new country.

John Tyler the scion had started his own career in 1791 at age 25 as a Harvard-educated physician, but after just three years he left the medical profession and moved to Boston in 1794 where he listed himself as a merchant. In 1800 he located his business at No.44 Long Wharf, the shipping hub of the city. The fact that the busy city of 25,000 had other men also being identified in the newspapers as John Tyler may have contributed to the reason that the 35-year-old merchant sought out a legal change of name on 7 March 1801:

John Tyler, of Boston, in the county of Suffolk, son of John Tyler, late of Mendon, in the county of Worcester, deceased, shall be allowed to take the name of John Eugene Tyler.

As soon as the court approved his request, he immediately began using his new middle name and initial to single himself out to his customers. It was a simple but important change: John Tyler (no middle name) was selling goods at No.44 Long Wharf from 1800 to March 1801, but starting in April 1801, newspaper advertisements were identifying the proprietor as John E. Tyler, J. E. Tyler, and John Eugene Tyler – every possible version other than just his given name and surname.

Since he did not add a middle name until March 1801, this card was produced sometime during J. E. Tyler’s proprietorship at No.44 Long Wharf, between April 1801 – December 1803. While the card could have been produced in 1802 or 1803, it seems highly unlikely.  His business had fallen off precipitously subsequent to its inaugural year. Commissioning the trade card’s design, engraving, and printing at the start of the business was probably seen as a justifiable expense that fed an opportunity, but doing so in 1802 or even worse, in 1803, would have made it an increasingly burdensome expense for much less of an opportunity, compounded by the depression that was beginning to descend on the American economy and commerce because of Europe's ongoing Napoleanic Wars. Relocation of his business away from Long Wharf in 1804 and realigning it into a partnership for much-needed financial support were probably in the planning stages long before the end of his Long Wharf tenancy in 1803.

 

Physical Description

The J. E. Tyler, Commission Merchant card is quite different; falling between its paper-thin 18th century progenitors and its mass-produced, chromolithographed descendants, it is something of a missing link in trade card literature. It is a rectangular piece of semi-rigid cardstock – Ricky Jay could have easily flung it into the side of a watermelon. It was designed for a longer life and use than a newspaper page, but it is ephemeral, nonetheless.

The card is printed on just one side and exclusively in black ink. It has toned like a pot of old cream with a soupçon of specks and smears peppered lightly across its surface. Its French line borders are incomplete on the card’s right side; the thicker line suffered from too-close trimming but looks very much like that minor crime was committed as soon as the printed card had dried. Coincidentally, its unusual size – 3 5/8” x 2 5/8” – is almost identical to the modern baseball card, roughly its second cousin eight times removed on the trade card family tree.

The message on the surface communicated the name, business, and location of the printer’s customer, J. E. Tyler, Commission Merchant. His newspaper advertisements served as newsprint fanfare to announce that he was selling whatever was coming to Boston in ships. He sold cotton and cheese, glassware and anchors, bushels of beans and boxes of spermaceti candles; German Steel and Swedish Iron; coffee from Port au Prince and Trinidad; a bunch of sugar from Hispaniola and St. Croix and lots of rum from Jamaica and Tobago; superfine flour from Baltimore and Philadelphia; and coarse salt from Lisbon and Liverpool. While he sold to families, shopkeepers, and country traders, his focus was selling in large lots to businesses, even trying to advance-sell cargo. One of the newspapers in which he chose to advertise also promoted the use of its press for the printing of “Merchants’ Address Cards,” a perfect description of Tyler’s card.

1801 printing services advertisement for the Columbian Centinel office in Boston, just a few blocks down the street from J. E. Tyler's business on Long Wharf. Columbian Centinel, 12 August 1801.

Function

In August 1801, Boston’s Columbian Centinel newspaper ran an advertisement for other printing services it could provide from its office just a few blocks down the street from J. E. Tyler's business on Long Wharf. The first product in its list printed matter was "Merchant's Address CARDS" (emphasis in original), referring to the type of card J. E. Tyler had commissioned. The printer is not listed on Tyler's card but it is interesting to note that he advertised in the Centinel in the same year that the ad ran; it was certainly possible that he had them print up his "Merchants' Address Cards" as well.

The card was almost certainly produced in a small print run, perhaps about 100 cards, and therefore strategically intended for the most preferred clients – the big-quantity and repeat-purchasing business customer. It was not a mass-produced piece of ephemera arbitrarily handed out to any man, woman, or child who happened to stroll by No.44 Long Wharf – that's what trade cards would become after the American Civil War, but John Tyler's world was long before the dramatic improvements in printing technology that allowed for much larger and cheaper print runs.

It's possible but unlikely that the image on John E. Tyler's trade card was a copy of a sign over his business. The various shops and warehouses on Long Wharf during the first decade of the 1800s were identified by a street number – like John E. Tyler's No.44 Long Wharf location – and none, including Tyler, identified their location additionally as "at the Sign of ...". When Tyler was starting his business on Long Wharf, building numbers were just beginning to replace expensive building signs as business locators and the “merchants’ address” form of trade cards were increasingly becoming the preferred means to promote the business and impress the customers.

Paul Revere, "A view of part of the town of Boston in New-England and Brittish [sic] ships of war landing their troops! 1768." In the left foreground is Long Wharf, starting in the city and extending out into the harbor a half mile at one point in its history, but this image shows landfill and Boston's buildings already surrounding some of the wharf. The wharf is surmounted by a long row of buildings that were the merchants' shops and warehouses, counting houses, chandleries, etc. When John E. Tyler was proprietor at No.44, where Long Wharf still jutted into the harbor, ships docked on the opposite side of the wharf from his building, so his location was not yet surrounded by land. Courtesy, American Antiquarian Society.

Culture

It also comes as no surprise that Tyler’s card is not festooned with images of his wares; as a commission merchant, his list of merchandise often changed with every arriving shipload. Instead of having his card filled with images of glassware, candles, lumber, and all sorts of food products he may or may not have in inventory at any given time, the two images he included – a bald eagle and palm fronds – were clearly not trade emblems but symbols with personal meaning.

The pride J. E. Tyler felt in his new country, the legacy of his patriotic father, and his new business were all illustrated symbolically by the bald eagle – bold, strong, majestic, independent, and free; its broad wings stretched out into spread-eagle position, ready to soar at any moment of its choosing, yet controlled enough to display the commission merchant’s business banner. The eagle’s head is haloed by glory rays, classic symbols of a divine origin, suggesting the sacred nature of its mission. When the J. E. Tyler trade card was created in 1801, it must have felt like Heaven was in his corner.

Palm fronds tied to the bottom of the eagle’s oval perch were also likely chosen for their historic symbolism: the fronds from the common desert palm tree have been used for centuries to symbolize Messianic triumph over life's most severe obstacles – sin and death – and they worked equally well to symbolize America’s emergence as a victorious country. Patriotism and Christianity had become twin beacons in John Tyler’s life (upon his public profession of religion in 1793, at age 27, he was baptized, “it not having been done for him in his infancy”). The overall card design may also have intended to subliminally project the eagle in the role of a phoenix, resurrected as Jesus had been and as the former doctor was trying to become in his new occupation and city.

One thing that is quite clear from 18th and early 19th century advertising trade cards is that the designs were purposeful, symbolic, and well planned to communicate a lot and make a strong, memorable impression about the business in a small space. There was nothing haphazard and accidental in the symbolism and design of the J. E. Tyler trade card; it was left to the viewer of 1801 and 2025 to intuitively figure out what those messages were. But the bald eagle was the new symbol of America and as such would have resonated strongly in Boston at the beginning of the 19th century. Having the fairly thick and durable trade card at home or tucked in a pocket made it an ideal memory aid to find Tyler’s business for the first time or to remember where it was when standing among the clatter and clamor of people, horses, carriages, oxen, and cargo-mounded wagons on the docks in busy Boston. The back of the card was blank, as most early cards were, so that the proprietor could record notes of pending or completed sales before handing it to the customer. This example has no writing on the reverse; it remains blank, still waiting to record a sale that, unfortunately, became increasingly infrequent.

Interpretation

In 1801, J. E. Tyler was caught up on the same breezes of optimism and patriotic nationalism that floated through Boston at the dawn of the new century, especially among the docks of the merchant trade. They vividly remembered the economic suffocation of the blockade during the Revolution and were determined to reverse the pains of the past into a future full of promise. The city-wide exuberance was reflected in Boston’s 1801 Independence Day festivities. The jubilant and patriotic celebration was marked by church bells ringing throughout the city, the red, white, and blue Stars and Stripes waving everywhere, and salutes being fired from the frigates Constitution and Boston in the harbor. An orator exhorted a large gathering of his fellow citizens “to feel, and to be AMERICANS,” and many toasts were offered to the new nation; the American eagle finding its way into several:

May every savage beast and bird of prey that shall dare to infest this happy country, or to attempt any depredations either by sea or land, be caught and held fast in the talons of the American Eagle.

May it bring the Barbarians to a sense of their duty … and make them crouch to the American Eagle.

Boston's shop and tavern signs often echoed their owners' newfound postwar patriotism, such as the Golden Eagle Tavern (1784) on Brattle Street and the Eagle Tavern (1798) on Fore Street, the crew recruiting location for the Frigate Constitution. Massachusetts copper cents were the first of many U.S. coins to bear the eagle motif.

(left) Charles Thomson's design for the Great Seal of the United States, 1782. Reports of Committees of Congress; Records of the Continental and Confederation Congresses and the Constitutional Convention, 1774-1789, Record Group 360; National Archives. (right) Massachusetts Copper Cent, 1787. Photo: courtesy of Eric P. Newman Numismatic Education Society https://nnp.wustl.edu/library/ImageDetail/587640 .

The challenge for 21st century viewers of the J. E. Tyler trade card is to overlook the physiologically inaccurate, almost cartoonish rendering of the bald eagle and the palm branches. The bird’s “bald” head is depicted as little more than an eye mask; the secondary feathers are entirely missing from most of both wings; and the head seems too large for a body that is far too short. Even the palm branches were likely created from the imagination rather than a Bostonian engraver's first-hand observation of Middle Eastern palms. The engraver was not trying to reproduce museum-worthy, ornithologically and botanically accurate illustrations.

What the card illustration lacked in scientific accuracy, it made up for in engraved elegance. Calligraphic flourishes and embellishments framed and highlighted the proprietor’s new name and the all-important address of his business, No.44 Long Wharf, Boston. The engraver’s linework was rendered in great detail, giving curving depth to the palm fronds, motion to the banner, scales on the feet, and finesse to the shafts and vanes of each feather. The high-quality paper stock was stiffer and smoother than the era's standard rag writing paper and, combined with the finely engraved linework printed on it by copperplate, the result intentionally conveyed the quality of the card, the new business, and the esteemed customer.

Having contemplated his entire life, I feel that his trade card reflects the high point of his life – at least the business portion of it. Newly married, moved to the state capitol, and ready to do business with the world in one of the busiest locations on Boston’s docks, he commissioned the card – probably the only artwork he ever commissioned – to reflect his optimism, ambition, and excitement as a new Boston merchant in the new United States. It was a bold, proud, and free expression of his dream. His subsequent business and personal life do not seem to have lived up to this apex frozen in time, but we see it now, 224 years later, and are humbled at the thought that this country we enjoy so much was built on the backs of people who weren’t afraid to dream.

 

Lynn Massachusetts History – History of Medicine – 19th-Century Health Remedies – Vintage Medical Ephemera – 19th-century Medicine

Make Salve, Not War

In a world of secrets, revealing a cure was revolutionary - and dangerous.

Reflecting on the brave but shaky start to our great nation on the 250th anniversary of its creation, we hold this truth to be self-evident: Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness have come at a dear price. While all three virtues were passionately pursued by the new government, they were also being sought by its citizens as the unalienable rights of personal health: everyone wanted freedom from sickness and pain, a life enshrined in health and happiness. This is the story of one early American medicine that tried to live up to those ideals.

Dirty Little Secrets

     In 1790 the first U.S. patents reflected the dynamic energy of the emerging nation. Better ways of building bridges, making nails, boots, gun powder, and steam engines were all meticulously described in the new country’s earliest patent applications, along with improvements in candles, stoves, pianos, and medicine. By 1796, the United States issued its first patent for a medicine, Lee’s Bilious Pills; however, very few medicine makers applied for patents; it required revealing the medicine’s formula – the ingredients and method of manufacture – which invited duplication or public derision by competitors. Most medicine makers chose instead to operate in their self-imposed world of secrets.

     Bottles and boxes of secret medicine were wrapped in gilded promises of amazing cure – but promises were hard to swallow. They were also a dubious luxury. At the turn of the 19th century, citizens of the newly united states lived on farms; well over 90% of the population survived on what they grew, raised, hunted, and made. Self-sufficiency was a requirement of their isolated existence. Although patent medicine ads were increasingly becoming regular features in newspapers and almanacs, the vast majority of rural households made their own medicines for their families and farm animals. The occasional medicine formula that also found its way into such publications was an open invitation to make their own medicine as much as a bread or pie recipe was for their next meal.

Keeping the Crew Shipshape

     Philip Crandal grew up in that remote world of self-sufficiency. Samuel and Mary Crandall and their brood of 15 children lived on the expansive family farm in quiet, pastoral Tiverton, Massachusetts Bay Colony (his father’s vast tracts of field and forest stretched over to Dartmouth, Massachusetts, my home town). When Philip was fourteen, his father became “very sick and weak in body” and decided he needed to get his will quickly written. An extensive estate inventory was carefully detailed down to food vessels of earthen ware and glass, eating utensils of “Puter & wood,” and to “a box & case of bottles,” but there was absolutely no mention of medicine containers or ingredients. When Philip grew up and moved to the coast of Maine, he had a recipe for what he called Crandal’s Salve [sometimes spelled Crandel’s Salve]; it may have been a family recipe he learned to make in his youth, but it also may have been a salve he concocted as a ship master, out of necessity to take care of the wounds, aches, and pains among his crew members. He had become Captain Philip Crandal, ship master of a privateer during the American Revolution.

     In 1781 he mastered a vessel named the Roebuck with guns, small arms, and a crew of sixteen men. The previous year he had been reimbursed £360 (about $110,700 in 2026 USD) by the Massachusetts’ Board of War for his services during the ill-fated Penobscot Expedition of July 1779, the worst American naval nightmare until the disaster at Pearl Harbor162 years later. Crandal’s Salve may have soothed some wounds but it wouldn’t have cured the terrible sting of defeat.

Good Deeds of the Dead

      In due course, the American colonies emerged from the debacle and won the war in a few more years. Philip Crandal then lived out the rest of his life on the coast of Maine, passing away in Portland two decades later at 74 years old. In the closing years of his life, the old sea captain was approached several times by others who wanted the formula for his salve. Since it had never been sold to the public, their interest must have been piqued by stories they heard about it or experiences they themselves had with it treating various wounds, burns, and bruises. The apparent demand for the salve suggests it could have enjoyed some commercial success but Philip Crandal wanted the formula for his salve to be made freely available to his countrymen. Despite the wealth he had accumulated from inheritance and a shipping career, and the dangers he had faced while fighting for freedom from British rule in the Revolution, it’s interesting and curious that one of his final concerns was about what was to become of the small pot of greasy unguent that would, indeed, become his legacy: Crandal’s Salve.  

The efficacy of Crandals Salve in cureing wounds bruises &c induced a number of gentlemen to obtain from him for a valuable compensation an exposure of the ingredients with which it was made and the maner of making it. It was however obtained upon the express condition that it Should not be made publick until the Death of Mr Crandall. This event having taken place it is thought proper as it may be of grate benefit to the public in general to publish it from the Original singed [signed] & attested to by him before a Magistrate [orthography and syntax as in original; emphasis added]

     The post mortem wishes of Captain Crandal were honored to the letter: he died on 15 August 1805 and the formula for Crandal’s Salve was published less than three weeks after his demise in the Portland Gazette on 2 September. It may have been submitted to the newspaper by his only son and namesake, Philip, who had followed in his father’s wake, captaining ships in the merchant trade and getting in trouble with foreign powers during the next war. After its publication in the Portland paper, the formula for Crandal’s Salve also took sail and traveled in quick succession to The Maryland Gazette (19 September), The Luzerne Federalist (Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, 11 October), The Post-Boy, and Vermont & New-Hampshire Federal Courier (Windsor, Vermont, 22 October), and The Poughkeepsie Eagle and Constitutional Republican (New York, 19 November). The readership in those regions had never heard of Crandal’s Salve, but their editors knew that free access to a new medicine formula would catch the attention of many eager eyes.

"A Receipt for Making Crandals Salve." Most likely in the hand of Dr. Elihu Barker, circa 1825-1831. Note that in the early to mid-19th century, "Receipt," "Recipe," and "Formula" were used synonymously to mean a list of ingredients and instructions for combining them into final medicinal or food products. Rapoza collection.

Get the Lead Out

     Throughout the Northeast, the public was reading about a formula that seemed practical and useful because its ingredients were commonly known for their benefits on burns and wounds.  The list of ingredients was as follows:

1 gill neatsfoot oil

1 gill linseed oil

¼ lb white lead

¼ lb red lead

½ oz gum of myrrh

½ oz camphor

3 oz rosin

1½ oz beeswax

a large tablespoonful of West Indian

rum "for what I call half a mess" [measure]

     The problem with these ingredients – the very, very big problem – was the use of white and red lead. In any color, lead is an extremely toxic heavy metal; even the smallest exposure to the body is hazardous, tragic, and often deadly, whether it was swallowed, inhaled, or, as with Crandal’s Salve, absorbed through the skin. Like a barrage of bullets, lead targets the whole body; depending on the amount of exposure, serious damage to the brain, blood, heart, skin, kidneys, nervous system, and reproductive organs can develop slowly over months and years or quickly, within days or hours. Pregnant women and children are especially vulnerable. In total, there was a half-pound of lead in Crandal’s Salve – 36% of the recipe’s total volume when even a thimbleful would have been plenty dangerous. The salve was providing extremely temporary relief for a lifetime of misery, whatever lifetime was left.

     In my lifetime, lead has been removed from paint, toys, water pipes, dinnerware, cookware, cosmetics, and gasoline, but Crandal’s Salve was being made in 1805, not 2025. No one back then had a clue that it was harmful and dangerous. Then in 1825, fully twenty years after the formula for Crandal’s Salve had been introduced in the Portland Gazette, it was resurrected by none other than the Boston Medical Intelligencer, a publication in alignment with the educated medical establishment in Massachusetts. Three days later, the New England Farmer was quick to copy it onto their pages from the Intelligencer, effectively reintroducing it to a whole new generation of the general public.

It Must Be Okay – Everybody’s Doing It

     Shortly after the 1825 reprints of the Crandal’s Salve formula, the passion for recipes and formulas to help with home economy and self-sufficiency grew into book form – collections of “how-to” recipes and formulas primarily designed for use in the home. They almost always contained a combination of food recipes and medicine formulas (which were often designed for man and beast, enabling farmers to take care of their draught animals and livestock), and the more robust volumes included formulas helpful to tradesmen like barbers, blacksmiths, painters, and merchants. Some of these massive collections were extremely popular, but with all the improvements the century brought, they still didn’t get the lead out of their medicinal recipes. Leading the way were Lydia Maria Child’s American Frugal Housewife, in which she gave her formula of lead in rosewater for the relief of a nursing mother’s sore nipples, and Dr. Chase’s Recipes; or, Information for Everybody, which instructed how to make a salve for burns from beeswax, opium, and lead; an eye water made of tobacco, lead, opium, and rain water; and laying a sheet of lead on the chest “for days or weeks” to fight cancer. First printed in 1828 and 1856, respectively, these two books were huge best-sellers in that genre; Child’s book went through over 30 editions within a decade, and Chase’s encyclopedic work claimed that by 1867 it was in its 49th edition with over 358,000 copies printed; by 1915 over four million copies had been sold.

Dr. Baxter’s Legacy

     The single piece of ephemeral evidence of Crandal’s Salve in my collection is a tattered copy of the original formula on old, watermarked bond that had once been in the possession of Dr. Elihu Baxter (1781-1863). He was born in Vermont and attended two courses of lectures at Dartmouth College in Hannover, New Hampshire, graduating in 1802. He set up his medical practice in the village of Lemington, Vermont, along the Connecticut River in the state’s remote northern reaches. There he got married in frigid February 1806 during a snowstorm.

     Grief brought him to coastal Maine and the formula for Crandal’s Salve. Six weeks after their white-out wedding, Dr. Baxter’s 18-year-old bride, Clarissa, attempted to cross the iced-over Connecticut River on horseback, but the ice broke and Clarissa (and most likely her horse as well) disappeared into the icy depths; she drowned, her body never to be found. A boy first broke the news to Dr. Baxter, who reacted with anger, assuming it was a bad joke since it was April 1st, known even then as April Fool’s Day. But as other messengers followed quickly with the same tragic news, it was Dr. Baxter’s heart that broke. An account of the tragedy stated, “The young physician was overcome with grief and soon wearied of the place where he had lost his young wife,” so he moved to Maine, eventually ending up in Gorham, outside of Portland.

     He became wealthy and well-established in the community, and the patriarch of a prominent Maine family: one of his sons became a mayor in Portland and one of his grandsons would become a governor of Maine. Dr. Baxter distinguished himself in his medical career, willing to take an unpopular position on controversial medical issues; he was one of the first physicians in Gorham to advocate vaccination as a preventative for smallpox. An admiring fellow doctor called him “a physician rather ahead of his time,” but he didn't have to be an eccentric medical maverick to advocate Crandal's Salve – in 1825 it was a typical salve composed of standard ingredients for wounds and bruises. So it comes as no surprise that Dr. Baxter was apparently one of the “gentlemen” that requested and paid Captain Crandal's son for the salve formula. I have found no evidence of his daybooks or other records documenting his practice, so he may or may not have incorporated the salve into his personal prescribing formulary; however, he apparently thought highly enough of Crandal’s salve formula to eventually pass it on or sell it (either means of transmission by a doctor would have been considered unethical if he considered it ineffective or dangerous) to another gentleman, Hugh D(avis) McLellan, a young merchant in Gorham.

McLellan’s Boondoggle

     A somewhat enigmatic note is written on the back of the copy of the Crandal’s Salve formula that I own; it reads:

                                                A Receipt for

                                                   Crandels Salve .. from

                                                Dr Elihu Baxter .. To

                                                Hugh D McLellan

                                                From the 2 after the origin

                                                al [original]

Advertisement for the store of Hugh D. McLellan, Portland Press Herald, 5 JAN 1838, p.3.

     “From the 2 after the original” is a perplexing notation; perhaps this copy that Dr. Baxter was handing off to McLellan was a copy of a prior revision of the original, but it bears no evidence of a change in ingredients or directions from the first version printed in the newspaper back in 1805. The curious phrase seems more likely to be a count in the formula’s ownership lineage, going from Philip Crandal, the son of the salve’s creator, to Dr. Baxter (the “2 after the original”) before it came into the custody of McLellan. Assuming that Hugh D. McLellan of Gorham, Maine, wouldn’t have been professionally interested in the salve until he was at the age of his majority (21) in 1826 while getting into business as a merchant in Gorham, and given that Dr. Baxter left Gorham in 1831, it seems

most likely that Dr. Baxter gave McLellan the formula for the salve between 1826-1831. McLellan eventually wrote a history of Gorham containing a few biographical lines about Dr. Baxter, whom he clearly knew. These included the observation that Dr. Baxter had “a lasting reputation as a good citizen and a faithful and successful physician.” McLellan trusted and admired the physician who was giving (or selling) him this salve formula. The next question is, did merchant McLellan take ownership of the formula in order to produce tins of the salve for sale in his store? Was he going to dishonor its creator’s last wish by selling it as a nostrum instead of giving it away freely to all?

     As best as I can tell, the answer was no. Advertisements for McLellan’s store in 1836 and 1838 listed scores of items for sale, but they didn’t mention any kind of salve. One of the 1838 ads was especially comprehensive, listing dozens of items from shaving soap, raisins, pepper sauce, thread, forks, and pen knives, to cigars, sugar, and “Preston’s Prepared Cocoa, the best preparation of Cocoa ever made, for the sick, or those in health” – but no salve. McLellan’s History of Gorham, Maine, also made no mention of the salve. If McLellan had purchased the salve recipe for profit, he either gave up on the idea or the result.

Kids, Don’t Try This at Home!

The centuries-old formula eventually found its way into the hands of my friend and fellow historian, Jim Schmidt, and he has now entrusted it to me, it’s current steward. And so I will close this blog post with the formula that Captain Philip Crandal wanted to share with the world; it’s my tribute to him, perpetuating it as he had hoped, making it available in all its toxic, dangerous, deadly glory. Although it’s a cure for nothing (other than perhaps staying healthy and alive), it can serve as a reminder of the blessings we have in modern medicine. Our science is still far from perfect, but at least we’re getting the lead out.

A Receipt for Making Crandals Salve

The Maner of Making as Follows Viz

1st Take the Neats foot Oil and put it into a mug that has not ben used or greased (it must be an earthan mug and nothin els) & boil it, keep stirring it untill it has done sparkling then put in the White Lead & keep stiring it untill it begins to rise Braking the lumps and taking out the gravel if thare be any then put in the red Lead and do the same being carful to Put in no grit; Boil this mixture untill the color turns, not boiling it too much and be careful not to let it boil over then let it cool a little and then add the Gum of Myrrh then the Camphor then the Roosin then the Bees wax stiring it after one ingredient be put in so that thay may be well mixed before you put in another after all these are added. then put in the Rum drop after Drop when it coolls a little so as not to let it foam and run over keep it stiring until it has got Cool and then it is made.                                Philip Crandel [orthography and syntax as in original]  

Note on the reverse side of Crandal's Salve Receipt. ca. 1825-1831. Rapoza Collection.

Postscript: I apologize for the 10-week delay since my last post; the past few months have been a busy time in my life and the delay was unavoidable. I have several more blog posts in the planning stages and hope to resume a more frequent posting schedule for the balance of this year. Thanks for your patience.

Lynn Massachusetts history - History of medicine - 19th-Century Health Remedies - Vintage Medical Ephemera - 19th-century medicine

Magic Cures for a Painful World

Pain Attacks. The first of a two-part “before-and-after” advertisement for Wolcott's Instant Pain Annihilator aka Wolcott’s Pain Paint. Created by: W. Endicott & Co., about 1863. Library of Congress; Museum No. LC-USZC2-36.

PAIN. Throbbing, stabbing, aching, distracting, excruciating, agonizing, unbearable PAIN.

Hannibal Lecter and S&M enthusiasts aside, most people don’t like pain. We’ll do just about anything we can to avoid it and when it does happen to us, we’ll do everything we can think of to get rid of it, as quickly as possible.

A toothache; a hangnail; a sprained ankle; a leg cramp; a migraine headache – every pain is one we want to have go away. You, me, and every one of our ancestors have tried almost everything to get rid of pain quickly. Sometimes what we try defies logic – and almost certainly flies in the face of science – but for thousands of years, in moments of excruciating pain, we have turned to methods and cures that win our praise if the pain goes away. That has often been the sole measure, whether it’s with two Advil pills today or a teaspoon of Wolcott’s Pain Paint over a century ago. When pain hits, our animal instinct just wants it to stop and the method, be it scientific or magical, really doesn’t matter. Be honest with yourself – you probably couldn’t explain the chemistry and active ingredients of Tylenol any better than your Victorian forebears could with Dr. William’s Pink Pills for Pale People.

      The image above shows a Victorian era man plagued by a legion of demons in full attack mode, causing his headaches, sinus pain, toothaches, neuralgia, and more. To his right, the Grim Reaper emerges from his fog-shrouded netherworld, looking pleased at the pain being inflicted by his minions. In the same primal way that such imagery symbolically described their pain, Victorians also wrapped their aching heads around the idea that pain could be cured by magic.

Bartmann Bottle, about 1650. At its base is a modern recreation of typical “witch bottle” contents: nails, a fabric heart pierced by bent pins, and human hair with fingernail clippings. Rapoza collection.

      Such a belief was likely passed down to them by old-timers in their lives who insisted that a special home-made medicine had to be swallowed during the waning of the moon or who still hung a horseshoe on their door. My own grandmother winced as she told me how her grandfather made his own medicinal tea from rat droppings because he distrusted doctors so much; he may have thought it was a magical brew but my grandmother thought he was full of crap.

      America has a long history of reliance on magic and superstition to influence our behavior. Today’s post offers just a few examples for you to steep in your cauldron of possibilities for the next time your body screams at you, “I’M IN PAIN!”

     

Colonial Magic

As I shared with you in my post, “Weaponized Witch Bottles” (10 AUG 2024), colonists in North America relied on biblical passages that warned against the evils of witchcraft. They turned their empty wine and beer jugs into weapons to protect against the attacks of witches and their familiars, especially to protect the sick in their families. They further strengthened their defenses by hanging a horseshoe outside their door and making ritual protection marks around their doors, windows, and fireplaces – all the possible entry points for evil spirits to enter the home. Even biblically-inspired numerology was taken seriously: a braid of 12 garlic bulbs (symbolic of the 12 apostles) hanging behind the door was believed to prevent witches from entering the house; just 11 bulbs was nothing more than a bunch of smelly vegetables hanging on the door.

It was a time when magic was medicine and superstition dominated in the absence of science.

 

Victorian Magic

      Two hundred years after the Salem witch trials, well after the colonies had merged into the United States of America, the country had survived its Civil War and two wars with England, and it leapfrogged into an era of electricity, telephones, x-rays, anesthesia, vaccines, blood transfusions, and the discovery that germs cause disease. Amid all this growth, modernization, and sophistication, it might seem like there was no longer a need for superstition and magic.

Magical Medicine from the Mystical Kingdom. The Egyptian theme of Colwell's medicine tied in perfectly with its promise of magic. The eye-catching trademark featured the bizarre Sphinx above and baffling Egyptian heiroglyphics flanking the word MAGIC. The Egyptian-inspired trademark hinted at the mysterious origins of the magical cure. There was absolutely no effort to ensure scientific efficacy. (Library of Congress: Trade Mark No. 10,302, registered 22 MAY 1883)

If that’s what you’d choose to believe, you have chosen … poorly.

      Pain and disease had not been eliminated and science and medicine still had a long way to go. People were still having headaches and toothaches, rheumatism and sprains, and a bottle or box of medicine still offered low-cost, high-promise alternatives to doctors and dentists. 

      The absence of regulation in the medical marketplace meant medicine makers didn’t have to reveal the contents of their products and it’s fascinating how often they chose to claim their cure was  MAGIC – far too many to list them all here, but a few examples were:

• Bennet’s Magic Cure

• Dr. Colwell’s Magic Egyptian Oil

• Fink’s Magic Oil

• Van’s Magic Oil – None other than a customer named Mrs. A. Pain wrote to the manufacturer, “We will never employ a doctor for cold or diphtheria while we can get your Magic Oil.”

• Dr. Horbson's Magic Oil

• Dalley’s Magical Pain Extractor

• Dr. Hardy’s Magical Pain Destroyer

 

Dr. Hardy's Magical Pain Destroyer (box & bottle), about 1885. It's hard to believe that Dr. Hardy's brooding face could encourage any confidence in the success of his medicine. It was likely a rendering from some early form of photography that required expressionless faces so the result of the slow shutter speed would not be fuzzy. But come on, Dr. Hardy - crack a smile! It's not magic! Courtesy of Sheaff-Ephemera.com

Dr. Hardy's Magical Pain Destroyer (label on interior counter display box lid), about 1885. Courtesy of Sheaff-Ephemera.com

      One look below at the Victorian poster for Renne’s Pain Killing Magic Oil vividly reminds us of how much we hate to hurt. His puffy eyes are almost squeezed shut; a large tear streams out of the corner; his lips look aquiver in misery. The head bandage under his jaw was usually a symbol of tooth pain, but this pathetic soul is also holding his stomach, apparently yet another locus of pain. We empathize with our young friend – we feel his pain.

      Miserable in pain and apparent low on funds with a patched and tattered jacket, the young chap stands dumfounded in front of a drug store full of Renne’s Pain Killing Magic Oil; it’s frankly hard to tell if we are supposed to be witnessing that magical moment when he realized he had just found the cure for his woes or if his tear is because he couldn’t afford to buy the magical painkiller. Either way, he clearly wants some magic in his hard-luck life.

Renne's Pain Killing Magic Oil (bottle & poster, about 1885). Bottle courtesy of Library of Congress. Poster courtesy of Wm Morford Antiques, AntiqueAdvertising.com

      Notice that on the bottle, above the picture of Mr. Renne, was the magical medicine’s slogan, “IT WORKS LIKE A CHARM”; some newspaper ads for assured that its effect was “very magical.” It was, of course, a great word to hide behind, since the public were not invited to know the ingredients and proportions being used in the medicine. Medicines not promising magical results hid behind other fanciful names, such as Dr. Kilmer’s Swamp Root Kidney, Liver, & Bladder Cure, Pocahontas Barrel Bitters, and Smith’s Bile Beans. But “Magic” was more than a just camouflage; it was also a promise of potency and results even though sick customers had no idea why it would work for them. Subconsciously, people who enjoy magic shows want to be deceived. It fills us with wonder and awe and lets us believe that the world is full of unexplainable things. Magic gives us hope there are answers for problems and pains we could not solve ourselves.

      Anyone who collects antique medicines knows that patent medicines had all sorts of names; those promising to stop pain weren’t limited to names implying magical ingredients. Perhaps the biggest selling pain cure of the century was the magic-free Perry Davis’ Pain Killer. Another example is from my own collection, Thurston’s XXX Death to Pain. Not only did its name promise to be the death of pain, but the triple “X” meant triple-strength – no indication of what, but it certainly sounded powerful!

Thurston's XXX Death to Pain (box & bottle, about 1890). Rapoza collection

      Similar to the magic cures was a smaller subset of medicines called “mystic”. The name of Dr. I. A. Detchon’s Mystic Cure made it clear that the contents transcended human understanding and were somehow connected to ancient and perhaps occult mysteries. One of its ads explained that “Its action upon the system is remarkable and mysterious.” - take it, just don’t try to understand it.

      Note that the bottle label explains that the Mystic Cure should only be used in combination with the Mystic Life Renewer.

Detchon's Mystic Cure (box & bottle, about 1885). Rapoza collection.

Newspaper advertisement for Mrs. Wilson's Mystic Pills by the Gray Medicine Co., Toronto, Canada.The Daily Expositor (Brantford, Ontario), 2 OCT 1880.

      Mrs. Wilson’s Mystic Pills from Toronto, Canada, was the perfect name for a medicine designed for the many diseases and disfunctions of the mysterious female reproductive system. The title implied secrecy, the dark closet in which many high-strung Victorians wanted to have the subject hidden. The trademark shows the female angel holding a box of the medicine in her right hand and her left hand pointing to the banner that displayed the “Mystic Pills” part of the name. An enlargement of the knuckles actually suggests the angel may be using the middle finger, but let’s just say it's the index finger!

      For at least some of the many late-19th century remedies, the evocative words “Magic,” “Magical,” “Mystic,” or “Mystical,” in their name were used as more than just convenient marketing adjectives; they were designed to attract those customers who continued to harbor the centuries-old beliefs in magical potions, hoodoo, astrology, charms, and promises of good luck and fortune. The reason so many medicines seemed magical in their result was most likely due to the active ingredient (besides alcohol): opium, morphine, cocaine, or cannabis - they were each dangerous in excess but truly potent and successful in temporarily diminishing or eliminating pain.

Columbia believes in Magic. This Civil War-era newspaper advertisement for Weeks' Magic Compound invokes the patriotism of Columbia herself. The manufacturer was E. B. Magoon & Co. of North Troy, VT, 1862.

      Of course each era has also had its critics. Just like there were colonists who insisted there was no such thing as witchcraft, magic and mysticism had its detractors in the Victoria era. In 1900, Missouri’s Joplin News-Herald complained bitterly that “Americans are still believers in magic …” The newspaper pointed to a single factory of “magical devices” and found that it produced crystal balls and “not less than 5,000 divining rods and many other similar contrivances which are supposed to have the virtue of locating gold mines or hidden treasure.” – and the newspaper was disgusted that gullible fools would spend their money on things supposedly imbued with magic:

For one of these treasure indicators a farmer will pay from $15 to $35, and then, neglecting his toil, firm in the conviction that he has a truly magical device that will bring him untold wealth, he will tramp for days and even weeks over the old fields he had farmed since boyhood, seeking the gold mines and buried treasure the “magician” has assured him is there.

      Medicines made in the name of “Magic” were another clear evidence of a portion of the population still hanging on to remedies emanating from the occult universe. In fact, even as the new Food and Drug Administration clamped down on specious patent medicines, magic oils and the like lingered, defiantly, deep into the 20th century.

     

Digital Magic

      So now, dear readers, we sit in front of the screens of our cell phones and computers, reflecting a little smugly at the centuries of Americans who have believed in and resorted to magic, luck, and the mystical. But while our country may have continued its forward march in medicine, science, and technology, we are clearly far from giving up our superstitions and symbolic acts for warding off evil, eliminating physical and emotional pain, and encouraging good “mojo.”

      Many doctors still administer placebos and patients often believe those harmless pills have made them feel better. Copper bracelets have never been proven to improve health, but many swear by them, nonetheless. (No offense intended to the placebo or copper bracelet manufacturers.) Family, friends, co-workers, and sometimes even strangers will say “bless you” after you sneeze, to ward off illness. And lots of Americans still act out in similarly irrational behavior today to improve, protect, and bring comfort to other areas of their lives in the midst of an often harsh and painful world:

• Since 1952, fans of the NHL hockey team, the Detroit Red Wings, have thrown a dead octopus on the ice for “good luck” in the playoffs, despite the fact that the team has won only 7 Stanley Cups in the 73 years that octopi carcasses have slid across the Detroit ice. Oh, and catfish are similarly tossed onto the ice to invoke good luck for the Nashville team, and plastic rats keep getting flung into a hockey rink just north of Miami after a player killed a rat in the locker room with his hockey stick before the game and then scored two goals with that stick.

  
  

• After you eat your Chinese food, do you throw away the fortune cookie or do you open it to see what the fortune says? (… And does the rare fortune that promises, “Great wealth is coming your way,” get quietly tucked into your pocket?)

  
  

• Do you save the turkey wishbone to engage in a little post-Thanksgiving tugging match for luck?

  
  

• Have you noticed that tall buildings usually have no 13th floor selection in the elevator? The architects and engineers didn’t forget how to count.

  
  

• For the last 51 years, Lucky Charms cereal has featured marshmallow bits in the shape of such luck-laden symbols as blue moons, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes. (My guess is that witches can’t eat that cereal.)

      We may not have been comfortable living in Colonial or Victorian America, but they would probably feel right at home in home here. Our modern world might be full of advanced knowledge but pain still haunts us all and hope for magical improvements still ripple through our souls.

Pain Vanquished. This is the second of a two-part “before-and-after” advertisement for Wolcott's Instant Pain Annihilator aka Wolcott’s Pain Paint. Created by: W. Endicott & Co., about 1863. Courtesy Library of Congress; Museum No. LC-USZC2-36.