The Unwelcomed Success of Dr. Curtis

He proudly specialized in upsetting the apple cart.

John Lackland Curtis lived just 50 years, from 1830 to 1880; exactly half of those years were spent as a doctor. During his abbreviated career, he attracted a devoted base of patients and a bitter group of enemies among his fellow physicians. Today, the scant evidence of his career could just as easily be interpreted to expose him as a dangerous quack or to shine on him as a valiant physician. Either way he is a fascinating actor on the Victorian stage of sickness and health – Shhh! The play is about to begin!

SCENE 1: (painted on the backdrop) – The Eagle Hotel

The three-story brick hotel was a hive of commotion, abuzz with activity. Workers and drones from near and far came to the Eagle Hotel and its watering hole, the Eagle Tavern. It was a landmark in the village of Batavia, New York, half way between Buffalo and Rochester; the village was building up quickly now that the Civil War was over, and the Eagle Hotel lorded over the bustle.

“Opposite the Eagle” was the key direction in advertisements of businesses that stood on the other side of Main Street, in the shadow of the hotel. The local news stand, the incongruously paired Oyster, Fish, and Fruit Depot, and the furniture store carrying chairs, coffins, and picture frames, all told their customers to find the hotel first in order to find their stores. The Eagle was also namedropped to help customers find the Sunbeam Gallery, a photographic studio in its second-floor perch on Main Street. Nearby businesses thrived on the existence of the Eagle.

The Eagle Hotel as it appeared in 1868. Corner of Main and Court Streets, Batavia, NY. "EAGLE TA" (for EAGLE TAVERN) is visible on the side of the building above the second-floor windows. Batavia is approximately 36 miles from Buffalo and 33 miles from Rochester. (image from Facebook: Memories of Batavia, Ny)

The Eagle provided free omnibus transportation to and from the trains and it had large barns and an attentive hostler to take care of the carriage and wagon teams of those who came by horse. The Eagle also had its own tavern “furnished with the best brands of Wines, Liquors, and Cegars,” as its 1866 advertisement promised. The Eagle’s telegraph connection had also given it some national attention back on 15 April 1861 when President Lincoln’s call for 75,000 volunteers was read at the hotel and immediately responded to with what a congressional investigation later confirmed was the Union’s first volunteer. In 1869 an ambitious salesman was allowed to set up his American brand sewing machines in the hotel’s drawing room (parlor). The Eagle also served as a wedding venue in 1867 for a groom from Battle Creek, Michigan, and his bride from the nearby village of Pavilion. From hotel and tavern to wedding venue, salesroom, and local landmark, the Eagle was a gathering point for everyone and none relied on it more than traveling doctors.

A well-located, affordable hotel provided traveling doctors everything they needed: a place to sleep, set up a temporary office, receive patients, and leave quickly when it was prudent. Temporary doctor’s offices in hotels happened so frequently and in so many of the nation’s hotels, those needing medical care often accepted such a location as a standard part of the medical landscape during the mid and late 19th century.

The doctors’ hotel accommodations served as clinics, examining rooms, and operating rooms, when necessary. In July 1866 a local farmer injured in a carriage accident had his leg amputated at the Eagle Hotel and he was reportedly recovering favorably “under the circumstances." Four years later he was still lame but for the balance of his life he was able to resume his career as a farmer.  

The public were nonetheless generally leery of traveling doctors – the very term smacked of quackery and those claiming special skills made them even more suspect – but there were those whose advertisements were well written with tones of supreme medical knowledge, accompanied by testimonials of astounding success and, well, they just sounded so doggone believable. People who were sick enough and already disillusioned by the ineffectiveness of their regular, local doctor were ready to try something new because maybe, just maybe, that new doctor at the Eagle Hotel had the cure. So the desperate and hopeful went down to the hotel quickly because the traveling doctor was usually there just a day or so before he had disappeared in the morning haze or the dusk of twilight.

The Eagle Hotel was that kind of hotel, a favorite stopover for traveling doctors. Dr. Bort, the “Celebrated European Eye, Ear and Lung Physician,” was an eclectic doctor, meaning he tried a little bit of everything in his healing. Dr. Williams assured Batavia he was “no impostor or quack” but a “master of his profession,” thoroughly educated at a university, and Dr. Liston from the Albany Eye and Ear Infirmary would operate on your eyes there in his hotel room. Dr. Crumb promoted himself as an “Oculist and Aurist” who could also remove cancers without pain or use of the knife, and  Dr. Vescelius, Magnetic Physician, had “performed such wonderful cures in this village recently.” In 1867 the Batavia newspaper wrote admiringly of its prompt-paying customer, Dr. White, an Analytical Physician:

We do not count the doctor as a "travelling physician," since his appointments are so regularly kept. … we have always found him …  a good example to the many jugglers who wander the country over, calling themselves "physicians"! Dr. White must not be confounded with these. The Doctor will be at the Eagle Hotel on Monday, Oct 21st.

Even the Genesee County Medical Society held meetings at the Eagle Hotel, probably while protesting that quacks were allowed to nest under the same roof for the day. It was bad enough that the Batavia newspapers were filled with ads for quack medicines, like Cherokee Pills, Dr. Wright’s Rejuvenating Elixir, and Dr. T. B. Talbot’s Medicated Pineapple Cider, all designed to thwart the use of medical society doctors; and J. W. Poland’s Humour Doctor – a veritable doctor-in-a-bottle – but in the eyes of the medical society, the Eagle Hotel had become a den of iniquity, a seedy shelter for pay-by-the-day medical scoundrels. On 25 May 1867, Dr. John L. Curtis, “Physician, Surgeon and Obstetrician” was the newest of those non-medical society doctors to set up in the hotel for a one-day stay. He had already been selling his medicines out of Batavia from June through August 1866 and was the only doctor advertising surgical services during that time, so he might have been the one who performed the farmer’s amputation in July. It was getting crowded at the Eagle; feathers were going to fly.

SCENE 2: (enter) – The Villain

By their way of thinking, there was a lot for the Genesee County Medical Society to dislike and disapprove of about Dr. J. L. Curtis; to them, he was the poster boy for quackery. He made and advertised his own medicines, the principal one being Curtis’ Cholera King. He also promoted himself in Batavia’s The Spirit of the Times newspaper from 1867 to 1868, touting his specialization in cancer, consumption (tuberculosis), and “Obscure Diseases of the BRAIN and MIND.” He duplicated the wording from his newspaper ad on an eye-catching advertising trade card that also let people know he would be at the Eagle Hotel each Wednesday afternoon.

Photographic Trade Card, ca. 1867 (front; card reverse below). Albumen print and letterpress. The content details are identical to the newspaper advertisement copy appearing in "The Spirit of the Times" (Batavia, NY), running from 25 MAY 1867 - 18 JAN 1868 (Collection of the author)

I believe Dr. Curtis's choice of card style was a significant reflection of his personality. He was innovative in his medical methods and not afraid to explore options for the optimal solution to a problem. This card style, developed during the closing years of the Civil War, was a little-used choice among advertising trade cards at the time he selected it, being overshadowed by designs transitioning from the century-long use of ornate copperplate engraving to the arrival of color lithography, often with illustrations of flowers, animals, and children. Instead, Dr. Curtis chose this avant-garde technological advance that blended together a piece of albumen print photography glued on to a card printed in letterpress. His card focused not on the intense detailing of copperplate, nor the attraction of color or appealing florals or animal designs, but on himself and his business – and given the description of his practice, which stated that he was a physician and surgeon specializing in such difficult and usually hopeless diseases as cancer and consumption and, more radically, “Obscure Diseases of the BRAIN and MIND,” his card was quite unusual and distinctive in the public’s hands. They knew exactly who he was and what he said he could do, as well as where he would be doing it.

In the medical society court of opinion, however, Dr. Curtis was a medical heretic. An ugly, painful wart on the backside of the medical profession. They were convinced he was just another quack, no more creditable than Dr. Vescelius, the magnetic healer; just another nostrum maker who bottled and sold his fraudulent cure to a gullible public, using newspapers, these “private cards,” and handbills to attract their business. They were right about one thing – he was not one of them.

The medical journey of John Lackland Curtis started long before he came onto Life’s stage. His father, Newman Curtis, the son of a farmer, engaged in a personal migration in search of his own farm. He traveled from his home in the hills of western Massachusetts, across upstate New York, and settled on the fertile black muckland of the Genesee Valley. The land treated him well, providing bounteous harvests of wheat, corn, and potatoes, and feeding his many sheep, swine, horses, and cows. There, on a farm in Shelby, Orleans County, one mile south of Millville, he and his wife, Mariah, raised their eight sons and six daughters in a way few parents equaled – all fourteen survived their childhood and became adults.

In the process of guiding them through their young lives, all of the children were enrolled in Millville Academy, where their father Newman served as president of the academy’s board of trustees for at least a year. The Curtis farm was 120 acres; it was larger and more profitable than a majority of the 200 farms in the county. The Curtis farm and family were both doing well; five sons continued the family legacy of farming while the other three continued their education, two becoming lawyers and one, John, becoming a physician.

In 1855 new opportunity called John’s parents to Iowa. They sold their 120-acre Shelby farm and purchased 250 acres of prime farmland in Iowa. Ten of their children moved west as well, of which six continued their father’s farming legacy with their spouses. The three daughters and one son remaining in New York were adults; two of the daughters were already married and settled down, and the third may have been engaged, since she married shortly after her parents’ move. The only son remaining in New York was 25-year-old John L. Curtis; in 1855 he had gotten married and graduated from medical school, the culmination of ten years of medical education. The Iowa soil did not call out to him; New York was the young doctor’s past, present, and future.  

SCENE 3: (backstage) – The Medical School Marathon

John started down a medical path early in life when he had developed a passion for  reading and study. After his graduation from Millville Academy, his parents sent 15-year-old John 53 miles away to Genesee Wesleyan Seminary in Lima, NY, to engage in more advanced studies, ranging from chemistry and electricity to trigonometry and zoology. A year later in 1846, the 16-year-old was able to begin his medical apprenticeship, training for the next five years under Dr. Azotus M. Frost, physician, druggist, and county coroner in Medina, NY (next to Millville), then with Dr. Almon V. Belding (a physician in Shelby who later became a dentist), and finally with a Dr. Benjamin.

In 1852 the 22-year-old John went off to Geneva Medical College, a school noted for producing the nation’s first female physician, Elizabeth Blackwell in 1849, and the Native American physician, Wa-o-wa-wa-na-onk of the Cayuga tribe in 1844. While there, John was advised and influenced by the school’s chair of surgery to attend the Philadelphia College of Medicine to get specialized training in treating obscure diseases of the brain and mind and chronic diseases considered incurable. The highly motivated medical student took his mentor’s advice.

Philadelphia College of Medicine, pamphlet cover. The 5-story building contained two lecture rooms, an anatomical theater, a dissecting room, classrooms, and a pharmacy department.

For the next two years, John prepared for his matriculation at the Philadelphia Medical College by first attending the Philadelphia School of Anatomy where he specialized in microscopic anatomy, specifically cell structure. He then entered the Philadelphia Medical College, a five-story building with two lecture rooms, an anatomical theater, a dissecting room, classrooms, and a pharmacy department to instruct advanced students. He took two semesters of courses from its vigorous medical curriculum, which included such subjects as chemistry, obstetrics, toxicology, surgery, and pathology. The courseload involved five or six lectures daily, except for  Wednesdays and Saturdays, when those mornings were devoted to attendance at hospitals and the college clinic, where patients were “exhibited, operations publicly performed, and lectures delivered.”

There were six requirements for graduation; the student must have: (1) been at least 21 and have spent three or more years acquiring knowledge of medicine; (2) studied two or more years as a pupil of a regular and reputable physician; (3) taken two full courses of lectures; (4) completed a thesis upon some medical subject; (5) presented a letter of recognition from a preceptor; and (6) successfully passed an examination before the faculty. John Lackland Curtis, age 25, had passed through all the hoops of the medical gauntlet and he excelled as he did so, having been named the college’s prosector for several terms (the student appointed by the college’s surgical chair to have the privilege of dissecting the corpses during anatomical demonstration). He was one of nineteen in his graduating class, receiving his medical degree on 7 July 1855. His parents probably missed his graduation – two months earlier they were almost a thousand miles away, purchasing their new farm in Iowa. Then two months after becoming a medical doctor, he married Lucy Cram back in New York. Babies followed shortly thereafter, as babies usually do.

SCENE 4: (stage right) – The New Physician Breaks the Mold (with brief cameos by his children)

Marriage and career can both be demanding masters, which can make their co-existence a challenge. The newly minted Dr. Curtis was now juggling both, dividing his time between providing for his family and succeeding in his new career. The year following his graduation and marriage, he returned to Philadelphia and studied at Dr. Warrington’s Obstetric Institute; only graduated physicians were invited to attend. The post-graduate study of the diseases of women and children was a professional choice, but preparing for his own family may also have been on his mind. After ten years of almost continuous medical study, he was ready for the practice of medicine, settling his new family in the village of Elba in the Genesee Valley, close by the old family farm of his youth. And then the children made their appearances, some in brief cameo roles.

In 1858 Bellanora “Bell” Curtis was born, but she died after just a little more than two months of life. It was a bitter reality for 19th-century families, but perhaps a little more bitter when a doctoring father couldn’t save his own baby. The next year Lucy gave birth to their second daughter, Cora Belle Curtis, and she was able to slip past the lethal accidents and diseases of youth. Then in 1862 John and Lucy were blessed with their first son, Franklin H. Curtis, but in another ten months, he too had passed away; today the graves of Bellanora and Franklin share a single white marble headstone with two weather-worn carved lambs resting peacefully on the top. Three months after Franklin’s death, Lucy gave birth to their last child, John L. Curtis, their only surviving son, named after his proud father. 

The medicine bottles of Dr. J. L. Curtis were unembossed; far more 19th century medicine bottles were unembossed than those that were. The absence of a label makes it impossible to tell their story, but the beauty of the glass allows us to appreciate them nonetheless. (author's collection)

During the Civil War, Dr. Curtis was busy trying to create his family and establishing an income. He took up manufacturing goods for market, starting with grape wine; he was taxed on 160 gallons in 1865. He then began advertising his own medicines in 1866. He undertook making and selling conventional medical products of the day, like a croup balsam, a blood and liver corrector, and medicated plasters, all of which were put up in bottles and boxes that simply had glued-on labels. None of his medicine bottles were embossed; the glass was probably aqua tinted and riddled with bubbles, but all sides were smooth and slick. The majority of embossed bottles on store shelves were nostrums competing for attention and full of empty promises – perhaps young Dr. Curtis was trying to distance his product from those his newspaper advertisement called “Life Elixirs, Quack Cures, and Pain Eradicators, &c. &c.” Even his principal product with the high-toned name, Curtis’ Cholera King, came in plain, labeled bottles. The price of his medicines were also not exorbitant like so many patent medicines that cost a dollar or more; his were fifty cents per bottle and twenty-five cents per plaster.

Dr. Curtis had focused on making medicines that he said benefited the entire family; he called them “FAMILY MEDICINES.” He vividly described what he saw when his oldest and youngest patients (perhaps even his own children) were attacked by Asiatic cholera, “when scorched by fever, frantic with pain, writhing in colic cramps, or seemingly torn in flesh and broken in bone by convulsive spasms.” He again wrote with the first-hand knowledge of a doctor and perhaps, also as a father, when he called his croup balsam “a Heaven-sent harbinger of good to the family during Fall and Spring,” when lung diseases hit, “decimating the ranks of childhood, dangl[ing] the pall of death over every hearthstone.” Selling his own medicines was an excellent way of generating some cash in the post-war economy and it was a practice he had seen his medical predecessors engage in while he was under their tutelage. Dr. Frost, for example, ran his own pharmacy and had been actively promoting the sale of Vaughn’s Vegetable Lithontriptic Mixture for kidney stones and James McClintock, M.D., the founder of John’s alma mater, the Philadelphia Medical College, also sold an entire line of his own proprietaries, including Dr. McClintock’s Diarrhea Cordial and Cholera Preventive; Dr. McClintock’s Dyspepsia Elixir, and Dr. McClintock’s Vegetable Purgative Pills.

In 1866 Dr. John L. Curtis advertised his medicines in the Batavia newspaper. Unlike the flashy, brassy claims and promises other medicine companies splashed around in the same newspaper, his ad copy read more like a treatise for medical students; in fact, his erudite writing style probably made it too difficult for some of the less-educated readers to follow:

Cholera King is a therapeutical agent of acknowledged pre-eminent merit. Thoroughly scientific in its chemical combination, while it possesses mildness, safety, and marvelous potency of remedial action, combined with an extended range of application in domestic practice.

While he understood a memorable product name was important, it seemed as though he had no idea or just wasn’t concerned that it was equally important to keep the message simple; or perhaps he just lacked the requisite skills for effective marketing and compelling copywriting.

After just three months (from June to August 1866) of advertising his medicines in Batavia’s The Spirit of the Times, the advertisements disappeared from the newspapers – even his trade card in 1867 didn’t mention his medicines; his focus, first and foremost, was on being a successful physician.

John Curtis did well as a doctor and provider for his family. In 1860 he was recognized by the census taker as a “Phisisian & Surgeon” with an estate valued at $1,850; by 1870 it had increased to $10,000 ($71,281 in 1860 vs $239,325 in 1870, when inflation-adjusted into 2024 USD). His increasing affluence allowed him to contribute $25 ($503 today) to a fund-raising campaign for purchasing a site for a blind asylum in Batavia in 1866. His prosperity also seemed to be a measure of his popularity. He was repeatedly elected to be one of the county coroners, like his early apprenticeship master, Dr. Frost had been. He was an active Methodist and was chosen by its members to represent them at several conferences.

Depending on who was looking, Doctor Curtis might have seemed like other shady traveling physicians who practiced strange, unorthodox, and even dangerous methods out of a hotel room and were gone by the next day’s light. But neither his travels or his methods were borne out of devious design – right or wrong, he did what he did because his believed his education and self-confidence elevated his ability above the standard, orthodox practice of medicine in his day. His travel was not a shady itineracy but a well-publicized travel triangle with a scheduled pattern of stops in Buffalo, Batavia and Rochester, each on the same day or days each week, at the same hotels. He was recognized for using many non-standard medical tools and methods in his practice that reflected his medical education in electricity, chemistry, and microscopy. He used electricity and magnetism “for those multitudinous diseases of the nerve and brain which are so alarming on the increase”; for lung congestion and consumption he used electro-atomic pulmonary baths (whatever those were); and his treatment of cancer involved hypodermic medication of the parts, accompanied by electrolysis with the galvanic battery – hypodermics were a new technology that had only become available for general use after the Civil War. His allies and apologists in the newspapers said his unusual methods were all a reflection of his approach to medicine,

(1874): His method of treating disease varies according to the requirements of the case. He will not be tied down to any one straight-jacket theory or practice but is a reformer in every sense of the word; and yet he adheres strictly to the use of only approved remedies and remedial agencies.

(1875): Dr. Curtis is a specialist in the ranks of the old school of practice.

(1876): While adhering, as a basis, to the old school of practice, he has had the independence to seize upon and apply every discovery of modern thought and science, from whatever source it came, that promised any valuable aid in the art of healing. … his mission is to … break down all merely arbitrary barriers, and extend all such limits … [emphases added]

The rather awkward high-brow advertising copy for his medicines were a reflection of who he had become: a well-educated, innovative, non-conforming doctor.  Depending on who was speaking, he was called a medical reformer, pioneer, or an outright quack. Wounded and angered that Dr. Curtis was being hoisted on a pedestal at the expense of their reputations and “old school” orthodox practices, the Genesee County Medical Society publicly excoriated him, it being centuries too late to stone him.

SCENE 5: (stage left) – The Bull in the China Shop (cacophonous crescendo)

The Genesee County Medical Society loathed everything about Dr. John L. Curtis; every diagnosis he made, every treatment he advised, and every medicine he sold was an abomination. To them he was an iconoclast, a revolutionary disrespectfully breaking every rule they lived by – he was the proverbial bull in their China shop. When he applied to join their medical society they refused his application. Their list of his violations to the rigid code of conduct for a member of the medical society ranged from major and minor infractions to ones that were totally fabricated. Their list of 13 sweeping objections can categorically be synthesized town to a half dozen:

• He practiced “irregular” medicine (practicing outside of the codified medical society standards). (major violation that was true)

• He was unschooled in medicine (he didn’t attend medical society-approved schools). (major violation that was false)

• He bought his medical diploma. (major violation that was false)

• He filled out the medical society membership application incorrectly. (minor violation; the truth is unknown)

• He advertised his medical services. (major violation that was true)

• He made, advertised, and sold his own medicines. (major violation that was  true)

The newspapers analyzed the medical society’s objections differently:

… he incurred the hostility of certain members of the county medical society because he sometimes differed with them as to the proper mode of treating certain cases or forms of disease. [He preferred practicing] medicine in his own way, rather than to be hindered or interfered with by any society. This so irritated the members … that they began to [spread rumors that he] was a mere quack and medical swindler; that he had no diploma; that he couldn’t become a member of the society. (Jamestown [NY] Daily Republican; emphasis added)

Dr. Curtis took the Genesee Medical Society to court – the New York Supreme Court – and won his case. The court ordered the medical society to admit him as a member and said that, once a member, if he didn’t abide by the by-laws, “the question of expulsion will arise.” The society received him as a member in January 1872, “under protest.” Like a stern parent, the court had laid down the law between two squabbling children, but neither side was willing to play nice. Nothing had been resolved.

SCENE 6: The Expulsion and Life Beyond (trumpet flourish)

The court’s opinion proved prophetic – Dr. Curtis was expelled from the Genesee County Medical Society slightly more than two years later, on 9 April 1874, for “gross violation of the Code of Medical Ethics.” Yet Dr. Curtis’s career didn’t skip a beat – if anything he became more successful. The newspapers in all three corners of his travel circuit supported and praised the doctor and consistent advertiser. At each destination he had established his own staffed pharmacy (called “one of the most elaborate and extensive in the country”) and medical office, where “he did a large business both in the sale of his medicines and by his practice.” In 1877 the editors of a Buffalo newspaper proclaimed,

Dr. John Lackland Curtis, about 46 years old (Combination Atlas Map of Genesee County, New York 1876)

Dr. Curtis is a Physician whom we can endorse from personal knowledge, and we venture to assert that no man in the United States has, during the past three years, treated the same number of difficult cases, of all sorts of diseases, with anything like the average success that Dr. Curtis has met with. … if you are suffering from any obstinate or malignant disease, seize upon the first opportunity of consulting Dr. Curtis.

In 1878 the Buffalo and Batavia newspapers published a three-part guest lecture by Dr. Curtis on the subject of diphtheria, a highly contagious and often-lethal disease, especially of children that ultimately ended in their suffocation by formation of a greyish membrane that blocked the entrance of air into their lungs. The well-meaning doctor declared that a clean body, inside and out, were the best means of removing blood poison that he believed caused diphtheria to end fatally. He emphatically concluded,

… any legalized practitioner of medicine who ignorantly or wantonly allows his patient to pass on day after day with skin unbathed and bowels constipated, should have his diploma nullified and his action held answerable to the charge of malpractice.

He sounded, at least, like the local expert on diphtheria.

SCENE 7: The Double Finale (curtain closes)

In March 1879, three months after the diphtheria series concluded, Johnny, the only remaining son of Dr. John L. Curtis, just a little over 15 years old, died at his parents’ residence – of diphtheria.

The disease which caused his death was diphtheria, contracted while tenderly caring for his father’s patients. He was a bright, manly little fellow, loved by all who knew him. To have him taken away at this time when he was just on the threshold of manhood was a cruel blow to father, mother and sister …Johnnie’s most marked virtue was his devotion to his father and mother …The sports which are so dear to others of his age, he freely gave up that he might render assistance to his father in his visits to the sick, with whom he often stayed all night to administer the remedies which his father prescribed. … He was taken sick on Wednesday, and the Lord received his released spirit on the following Sunday.

A few months before Johnny’s death, the Daily Morning News of Batavia had found it newsworthy to mention that Dr. Curtis had managed to walk up two flights of stairs to their office, “This was the first time the Doctor had ascended alone to such an elevation since he was injured a year ago last September, and his many friends will congratulate him upon this evidence of increased strength.” The injury had taken a lot out of him, but it wasn’t due to his age – he was only 48. There was apparently something else wrong with his constitution and it was probably in evidence at his death.

Despite his personal health problems, he tried to keep busy after his injury and the loss of his beloved son. In October 1879, he was summoned by telegraph to Medina to serve as a medical expert in a murder trial, to give his opinion about the sanity or insanity of the accused. Less than a week later he was attending a Methodist conference in Buffalo at the request of his church; they were confident in his ability to represent their interests, “He will do his work well, for whatever he becomes interested in he pushes with zeal that knows no defeat.” (emphasis added) It was a fitting summary of his character throughout his life’s labors. In March of 1880 another telegram summoned him to Fredonia, NY, to visit a bank president from Pennsylvania who had sought him out because of his reputation in curing cancer.

On the 15th of June, after a restless night of not feeling well, he took some of his medicine and decided to go outside for some fresh air. “He walked out into the yard, where he was suddenly seized with faintness, and when his friends reached him – which they did in a few seconds – they found his mouth filled with blood and he was unable to speak.” He passed away quickly, before medical aid could arrive. He was just 50 years old. The immediate cause of his death was a ruptured blood vessel, which caused faintness and suffocation. “It is thought that the loss of his only son, a few months ago, wore upon the doctor. He also suffered from injuries received by the recent overturning of his carriage.”

Months after his decease, a Batavia newspaper complimented their deceased and admired friend one more time, “We knew Dr. Curtis from his boyhood and never had a doubt of his being an upright man and a Christian gentleman, and multitudes of our best citizens will testify to the excellence of his character.” As late as 1894, fourteen years later, Dr. Curtis’ Cholera King was still being advertized as a first-class medicine and was kept on hand at a pharmacy in Batavia that promised, “We have all of Dr. Curtis’ Receipts and can put up any of his remedies that are called for.” His reputation and his medicines lived on after him and now, his story lives on as well.

 

AUTHOR’S PERSONAL NOTE: In 1867 Dr. Curtis represented one of the few hopes for people suffering from mental illnesses – dementia, retardation, depression, senility, and so much more. As my dear wife struggles with the onset of a dementia-related disease in her brain, the trade card of Dr. Curtis called out to me, telling me that if we lived back in 1867, in my anxious pursuit to help the love of my life, we very well might have searched out Dr. Curtis because of that phrase on his avant-garde, sophisticated, photographic trade card. I have no reason today to believe he had any valid knowledge or skills in dealing with “Obscure Diseases of the Brain and Mind” but I do understand how worried, despairing people could cling onto that hope, hold on to that card like it was gold, and search out that doctor, whether or not he was a member of a medical society.

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

The Last Gasp Miracle

Starkey & Palen sold air to the terminally ill – it was Alsina Richards’ last hope.

She was desperate and scared.

Each breath she took felt like it was stolen, scraping up nothing but bloody phlegm from an empty chest with nothing left to give. Cough pains sizzled across her lungs that long ago had filled softly and emptied effortlessly.

With every passing day, she became weaker. The once vibrant woman who did housework, helped her husband, visited friends, and went shopping had dissolved into a fragile, feeble weakling for whom each movement took far more out of her than any benefit she got back.

As the disease set in more aggressively, it seemed to be consuming her from the inside – she was becoming emaciated and skeleton-like, the type that people across the street pointed at, whispered about, and walked away from, quickly.

Her skin became paler, as if the very lifeblood was being drained from her body. In a way, it really was: when she coughed, there was blood spatter in her handkerchief. There was nothing left about her that suggested life, certainly not a future.

Weaker, paler, thinner, sicker. She knew she was dying.

Mrs. Alsina Richards was 33 years old and terminally sick with tuberculosis.

In her day, 1880, the disease was most often called “consumption” because of the hallmark symptom of emaciation. It was, far and away, the leading killer in the 19th century and unlike most diseases that attacked children and old people, it most often struck young adults, like Alsina.

  

Infection

Alsina Richards was just about as unassuming as any other young Victorian woman in rural America. Her most distinctive feature may have been her name – no one seemed to know how to spell it – she appears in records as Elzina, Alcina, Alsina, and Alsona. She lived with her parents at their small farm until she was married. In 1877, at 30 years old, she married Alphronso Richards, three years her junior. Like her parents, he was of modest means, pouring concrete for a living. A scant four months after their wedding, Alsina gave birth to a stillborn daughter; it was the only pregnancy she would ever have.

On 16 June 1880, Alphronso and Alsina were enumerated together for the first time in their own home in East Pepperell, northern Massachusetts; Nashua, New Hampshire was just over the border. Although some neighbors were found to be afflicted with such troubles as rheumatism, measles, and dyspepsia, Alsina was not among those listed as “sick or temporarily disabled” – but she knew there was something very, very wrong with her. About six months before the census she was trying to find a cure for sickness that had come over her so quickly, out of nowhere. It wasn’t a casual concern; it was a deep-seated fear of what was taking over deep in her lungs.

 

Stamped Starkey & Palen advertising envelope, cancelled PHILADELPHIA, PA, 17 DEC [1881], 2AM; addressed to Mrs. A. [Alsina] S. Richards, East Pepperell, Mass. (author's collection)

Consolation

Alsina wrote to several women whom she had read about in promotional materials for a lung remedy. She was curious and guardedly hopeful that the women really existed and whether they truly benefited from the remedy. These questions were the common concerns shared by other sick women all over America; even the manufacturer acknowledged that many cautiously wondered about the testimonials, just like Alsina: 

… they write to know if there really is any such person ... or is it only an advertising dodge? … the simple truth about [the remedy] would be the best credentials it could have; hence we were not tempted to invent testimonials, nor to steal genuine ones, nor to romance on any.

Alsina didn’t have money or time to waste on a bogus medicine, so she was determined to find out if she could really believe the testimonials that appeared for Starkey & Palen’s Compound Oxygen, an unusual product that was grabbing a lot of attention and gaining popularity. To protect the writers’ privacy, the manufacturer rarely included their names, but told readers that “Any one, upon application, will be furnished with the exact address of any … of these cases.” So Alsina had to write to the manufacturer to get the testimonial writers’ addresses, wait for the reply, then write and send letters to the testimonial writers and wait again, hoping they would reply … all while she got sicker and weaker.

The women’s responses to Alsina, dated from 15 February 1880 to 20 November 1881, assured her that they had, indeed, written them and were not distorted or rewritten by the medicine maker. Mrs. A. G. Fourquereau of San Marcos, Texas, began her postcard response to Alsina, “I take pleasure in stating that the testimonial … with my name attached, is genuine, and was sent to [the manufacturer] without solicitation from them.” In her postcard response, Julia Barnes of Carmel, New York, wrote, “Yes, my letters … are just as I write them” and Mrs. E. L. Miller of Beecher City, Illinois, also told Alsina that her statements in the publication were true.

The correspondence of five postcards and two letters saved by Mrs. Alsina S. Richards; their dates range from 15 FEB 1880 - 20 NOV 1881. Their retention as a group implies that Alsina Richards valued them, used them as reference for her reply correspondence, and retained them for the last several years of her life due to the relationships built, even though the remedy was unsuccessful in bringing about her recovery, or perhaps she stuffed them away and forgot about them in the face of the increasingly difficult symptoms of consumption that were overwhelming her. (author's collection)

Each response Alsina received was handwritten, further making them seem very much like personal notes from good friends and all of them asked their new friend Alsina to write back. Sallie R. Fisher of Irvington, Illinois, wrote to Alsina like a dear friend and fellow sufferer, full of empathy:

Your card was received last night. I hasten to reply, I know just how you feel in regard to hearing of others being cured. I thought if I could know of one [who] had benefited as low as I was … it would revive my spirits, [emphasis added]

Sallie had written to another testimonial giver, just like Alsina had done with her; and so the correspondence read like chain mail, the women who were writing to reassure Alsina had once upon a time been in Alsina’s situation, writing to someone else who suffered from a lung disease. Alsina valued the correspondence, keeping five postcards and two letters from the women who responded to her pleas for help. The personal notes validated the printed testimonials, allowing Alsina to trust the promotional stories of the ladies’ harrowing ordeals, use of the remedy, and consequent restoration of health. Several personal descriptions of women who were suffering from consumption must have resonated with Alsina – they really did know just how she felt:

Julia Barnes told her, “I used to think last Winter, oh, if I could only stop coughing one day.” Vienna Douglas of Huntsville, Alabama, knew she had consumption; her testimonial in one of the promotional booklets must have been what triggered Alsina to write to her to verify her existence and her story:

I … was hollow-chested, with deep-seated pain in my lungs and great difficulty breathing. That dread disease, consumption, had been coming on me for more than fifteen years. [I] was so reduced [in strength] that I was unable to attend to my household duties – hardly able to go from room to room – with the expectation of myself and family and friends that I would not live many months. [emphasis in original]

Similarly, another consumption testimonial by the apparently wealthy Texan, Mrs. Anna Givhan Fourquereau, (described as the wife of a “gentleman of elegant nature” in the 1880 census), was the likely reason that Alsina wrote to her,

She had been coughing for two years, with occasional hemorrhage. .. having fever all the time, expectorating profusely, so much so that she could not sleep at night, having night sweats, and reduced so in flesh and strength that she could barely leave her bed. [emphasis in original]

What Alsina did not know was that despite endorsing Starkey & Palen’s Compound Oxygen as “the most wonderful remedy in the world for sick lungs,” Mrs. Fourquereau died at 37, just a little more than a year after responding to her. Consumption was no respecter of wealth or social status. The only protection from the disease would have to be a medical miracle.

Sensation

Alsina Richards had learned about these ladies from the promotional materials of the Starkey & Palen Company of Philadelphia, the makers of Compound Oxygen, the product that all the women she heard back from were swearing performed miracles on their medical miseries. Despite the fact that naysayers from the medical fraternity called magnetized oxygen compounds “the quintessence of bosh,” the fairly new product was in high demand by the time Alsina Richardson was in desperate need of a miracle.

Emaciated by the consumption, Sallie Fisher and Julia Barnes happily regained weight after using Compound Oxygen; Sallie went up to 172 pounds and Julia to 150; plus, she noted, the pain in her lower left lung left her after just a half hour after her first treatment with the Oxygen, “and I have not felt it since.” Vienna Douglass called the stuff her “life preserver.” By using it regularly, she was once again able to walk to and from town “and is in a great many respects vastly superior to a dead woman.” [emphasis added. Although this phrase was clearly meant to be tongue-in-cheek, it reads as one of the strangest endorsements in my forty-plus years of research on 19th century medicines!]

As was the case with many patent medicine success stories, Compound Oxygen was not the invention of those who made it a big seller. It was invented by a Dr. Harrison J. Hartwell of Philadelphia in 1867, but he transferred his entire interest in the business to George R. Starkey, A.M., M.D., in 1870. By that time, others in New York City, Chicago, and Omaha were advertising their own therapeutic products also named Compound Oxygen, but only the version sold by Dr. Starkey was successfully promoted and sold across the country.

Prior to building their oxygen empire, Starkey and Palen had been non-practicing physicians. George Rogers Starkey had been teaching in a homeopathic medicine school until poor health forced him to stop, and Gilbert Ezekiel Palen worked as a chemist in a tannery before the two men became partners in the Compound Oxygen venture. The principles of using air medicinally fit perfectly into Dr. Starkey’s homeopathic mindset; homeopathy favored only the smallest, most diluted doses of medicine until it seemed to many like there was nothing there – just like air.

Dr. Starkey considered it strategically critical for the public to believe his remedy was just full of air; even the trademark he registered adamantly insisted in big, bold letters: “NOT A DRUG”. It was only oxygen and nitrogen infused in water, he explained, “the two elements which make up common or atmospheric air, in such proportion as to render it much richer in the vital or life-giving element”; then he somehow magnetized the air then infused it in water and bottled it. When inhaled, the Compound Oxygen supposedly stimulated the nerves, “giving energy to the body.” This magnetized air was said to be so energizing that a certain clairvoyant was unable to slip into a clairvoyant trance because she was too stimulated. Like coffee and cocaine, Compound Oxygen kept its users invigorated and all aflutter.

Trademark for Starkey & Palen's Compound Oxygen and Inhaler, No. 10,449; registered 17 JUL 1883

“The cases of consumption – confirmed phthisis – which the Compound Oxygen has cured can be counted by scores,“ Starkey & Palen’s literature promised, and Alsina’s postcard friends urged her to join their pilgrimage of converts to the miraculous compound:

“I hope you will not delay …” – Sallie R. Fisher

“Hoping you will give it a fair trial” – Grace Davis

“I hope you will get it and take it.” – Julia Barnes

“I do hope you will feel safe in using it as it is the onley [sic] thing that will restore the Lungs.” – Vienna T. Douglass

Every day was getting incrementally worse than the previous day for Alsina. As she exchanged letters and postcards about Starkey & Palen’s Compound Oxygen  and studied its literature, she was trying to make the wisest, most conscientious decision possible, but like so many others in her situation, she really just hoped for a miracle.

Decision

Dr. Starkey knew there were many, like Alsina, in poor health, desperate for a miracle in his bottles, so he tried to temper their wild-eyed expectations and even admitted that sometimes his product would not work:

Do not expect a miracle to be wrought in your case. Although some cases here reported are marvelous in the rapidity with which they have marched health-ward; still many of the most satisfactory and even brilliant cases have been slower paced.

… more than eighty percent of these victims could have been well people to-day had they made TIMELY USE of the Compound Oxygen. Note the emphasis laid upon the phrase, timely use. … Not in all cases would we recommend it, with the idea of holding out a promise of cure. [emphases added]

Dr. Starkey’s pragmatism and cautious confession about his remedy’s limitations might have been the sign of an honest medicine maker, but it also gave him plausible deniability if things didn’t work for a customer, even to the point of death.

Alsina was very sick but her postcard friends urged her to try the Compound Oxygen. It’s also possible that her own doctors had told her she had a chance if she took their own prescriptions to cure consumption, but she took the leap of faith and chose Starkey & Palen’s Oxygen Compound. It was her last gasp of hope.

Sick of sickness and scared of dying, Alsina Richards made the hefty $15 investment in a two-month supply of Compound Oxygen home treatment and hoped for her own miracle, despite Dr. Starkey’s public disclaimer.

Invention

At first Dr. Starkey made the oxygen treatment available for those visiting his Philadelphia office, but soon after buying out Dr. Hartwell's business, he realized the Compound Oxygen could go national if he also sold it as a kit for home treatment.

Compound Oxygen bottle (label missing). Embossed: STARKEY & PALEN / PHILADELPHIA, PA. (courtesy of b-toast online auction; see link)

Unlike most other medicine makers, his whole business focused on lung disease and his medicinal repertoire consisted only of his two lung remedies, Compound Oxygen and Oxygenaqua (a liquid form of the magnetized oxygen compound that could be swallowed rather than inhaled). Sure, he threw in claims that the magnetized oxygen products cured other parts of the body of other things – dyspepsia (indigestion), diabetes, headaches, sometimes paralysis, rheumatism, and kidney disease, and perhaps most obscurely, spermatorrhea (involuntarily ejaculation). “We have proved that a number of diseases which … have been assigned to the category of ‘incurables’ no longer belong there,” the Starkey & Palen literature crowed, but virtually all of their advertising focused on the benefits of the magnetized oxygen for diseased lungs.

Paper-covered wooden box that held one Oxygen Compound (cobalt blue glass) and one Oxygenaqua bottle (clear glass). About 1890. (Photo courtesy of Morphy Auctions, morphyauctions.com)

Dr. Starkey saw a nation full of potential customers with corset-constricted lungs and inescapable sickness forming in the stagnant, smoky air of factories and homes. He told the consumptives, asthmatics, and victims of pneumonia, bronchitis, or other lung diseases his Compound Oxygen was a three-pronged remedy that: (1) increased oxygen in the lungs; (2) purified the blood of poisons that collected there from disease and pollution; and (3) energized the nerves and nerve centers (he liked to compare the nervous system to a galvanic battery with electricity sparking through it), bringing vitality to the person.

When someone at home received their two-month supply, they received two boxes: a larger one containing a cobalt blue bottle of Compound Oxygen and a clear glass bottle (Dr. Starkey referred to it as “the white bottle”) with Oxygenaqua. A paper cover, illustrated with the two medicine bottles and either images of Drs. Starkey and Palen or a woman using the inhaler, was glued to the wooden box. The box was hinged for the bottles’ storage and reuse.

The smaller box was constructed in the same way and contained what looked like a little laboratory. There was a clear glass inhaler bottle with a rubber stopper and two rubber corks in the top, and a set of attachments: two glass elbow straws, two nasal tubes, a tiny bottle, a vial, and a few other glass fittings. The whole lot must have made the user feel something like a pharmacist, preparing the medicine for their own cure. The label covering the box showed the inhaler bottle sitting in a tin cup filled with hot water, per the directions – tin cup not included – the customer had to get their own. This inhaler kit only needed to be purchased once since it could be used over and over, so the Compound Oxygen was sold separately.

Starkey & Palen Inhaler kit; paper label over wood; hinged cover with locking mechanism on the front. Side panels: instructions for use of the inhaler. Back panel: nasal spray instructions; top panel: nasal tube instructions. (about 1880; author's collection)

The instructions for use were pretty basic but important to be followed exactly since any misstep by the junior pharmacist could mean their own demise. Water was to be poured into the inhaler bottle up to the line embossed on the glass, then the measured dose of Compound Oxygen was added, the chosen breathing attachments inserted into the rubber stopper, and the whole unit immersed in the tin cup full of hot water “as hot as a cook can bear her finger in it”. Then the pharmacist became the patient and inhaled the vapors created by the heated mixture of water, magnetized oxygen, and nitrogen - it operated on the same principle as a hookah pipe. Inhalation treatments were done twice a day and increased in one-minute increments every other day from a starting treatment of two minutes to a maximum of six minutes after several days. Each subsequent dose would be stronger because more Compound Oxygen would be poured in to replace the liquid that had been inhaled and otherwise evaporated.

Alsina followed every step precisely and she inhaled.

Over and over.

 

Starkey & Palen Inhaler kit. The clear glass bottle sits in a tin cup (not included with the kit) per the instructions and the box illustration. During actual use, the tin cup would contain very hot water into which the bottle (partially filled with the Compound Oxygen) would be immersed. The glass of the bottle is spattered with chemical residue, indicating extensive use of the inhaler at some point in time. Embossed around the bottle's shoulder: STARKEY & PALEN / PHILADELPHIA PA. The bottle also has an embossed line around the circumference, about half way down the bottle, above which reads: WATER LINE. The kit also contains 7 attachments: 2 glass nasal tubes (in box and on table foreground with white rubber tube attached); 2 glass elbow straws (in box and in bottle); 1 straight tube, corked (in box); 1 measuring tube (in foreground); 1 small vial (in foreground); about 1880. (author's collection)

Devastation

It wasn’t working – she continued to spiral towards her death and she knew it. Panicked, she wrote to Starkey and Palen. She told them how sick she was with consumption and apparently pleaded for

Letter Starkey & Palen to Mrs. A. S. Richards, East Pepperell, Mass., 13 DEC 1881. (author's collection.)

hope – perhaps there was something she was doing wrong or something else she could do. What she received in return, twelve days before Christmas, was the hardest letter she had ever had to read:

 

Philadelphia, Pa. 12 Mo 13 1881

Mrs A. S. Richards

Dear Madam,

Yours of 12-9 is received and its contents are carefully noted. We are sorry to be obliged to say that we cannot recommend the Compound Oxygen as being able to do anything more than to make you comfortable. You have indeed been a victim to wicked charlatanry. The disease has made too great progress to be checked.

We remain

Very Respectfully,

     Starkey & Palen

 

Starkey & Palen confirmed her worst fear – she was doomed – their medicine would not cure her. What “wicked charlatanry” she had been subjected to is not clear without seeing what Alsina had written to them. Perhaps she had explained that local doctors had wasted valuable time earlier in her illness, prescribing other medicines or instructions of no remedial value. Possibly, but unlikely, the phrase might have been referring to the zealous testimonial writers she corresponded with who overpromised a cure from the Compound Oxygen that never came. The somber letter was accompanied by two gratuitous pamphlets containing more information and advice that would never help her.

There is one more piece of correspondence in the Alsina Richards collection. One year after the heartbreaking response from Starkey & Palen, she received another letter  from them in response to her request for their charity. She apparently told them that she and her husband were financially on hard times and could not afford their medicine, which she had apparently continued to take because it provided some measure of relief even as the disease continued its destruction. Starkey & Palen responded, “From your representations of pecuniary disability we will send you a 2 [month] Home Treatment for the Ten Dollars.” [emphasis added; it implies that she requested they discount the cost to ten dollars and they were agreeing to her terms. Saving five bucks may not seem like a lot today, but $15 in 1882 would be $461 in 2024 USD and $10 back then would be $307 now; when’s the last time your pharmacist agreed to a $154 discount on your medicine?] Ironically, it came with another booklet, “Unsolicited Testimonials,” but the time for striking up a correspondence with them was past.

Small, envelope-sized pamphlets included in the Starkey & Palen correspondence to Mrs. A. S. Richards; "Unsolicited Testimonials" (left) was included with the 1881 letter; the other two (center & right) were included with the 1882 letter. (author's collection)

Alsina S. Richards died 22 January 1884 of pulmonary tuberculosis (the death certificate called it phthisis); she was buried in the Pepperell Cemetery and her husband joined her in death 22 years later – he also died of “pulmonary phthisis” after being afflicted with it for just eight months.

 

Conclusion

Alsina and other users of Starkey & Palen’s Compound Oxygen died sad, shortened lives despite their desperate hopes for recovery, but ironically, the medicine enjoyed healthy sales, growth in distribution, energetic advertising, and four more decades of life.  A few years after Alsina’s death, Starkey & Palen put out a series of four trade cards featuring four people from very different corners of life with Compound Oxygen the one ingredient that tied them together. There was one card of an accomplished businessman, apparently a railroad tycoon, who was taking a break during his busy day to take his inhalation treatment of the Compound Oxygen; a second card showed an old woman relaxing at home, happily taking her Compound Oxygen treatment as well, while her cat played with a ball of yarn on the floor; both of these older people were healthy, at ease, and capably managing their health by using the Starkey & Palen products. In contrast, the third card was a close-up of an athletic, muscular young man sailing his boat while holding up a bottle of Starkey & Palen’s Oxygenaqua, implying that just a sip of the stuff was easy treatment for a man on the ocean.

The last card would likely have been the one Alsina would have stared at the longest, comparing her own decrepit health to the subject of this fourth card: the young, wasp-waisted woman was promoting the Compound Oxygen along with the inhaler bottle on the table, ready for use. She was stunningly attractive, vivaciously healthy and self-assured, dressed in daring clothing, reclining seductively, and smiling coyly – it was the perfect “painted lady” portrait, worthy of hanging over the back bar of any saloon. The unquestionably healthy young lady seemed to be taunting consumption, tightly corseted and looking like she would be more comfortable in a dance hall than a sanatorium for consumptives. Oh, to be young, healthy, and full of life – but Alsina Richards was only able to dream of such things before she died at 37 years old, miserably sick for at least her last four years, robbed of life and joy. She never had a chance; there was no miracle for Alsina.

Adverising Trade Card for Starkey & Palen's Compound Oxygen (author's collection)

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

The Clairvoyant Healer's Secret

From the Civil War until the end of the 19th century, he was a mystical clairvoyant healer, performing surgery in the dark or with his eyes closed. Many sought him out to remove cancers and other things that regular doctors couldn’t fix – and it made him lots of money. Looking down our 21st century noses it would be easy to just dismiss him as a scheming fraud and laugh at his patients as ignorant fools. But that’s not history. Come walk in his world and find out what really happened.

This is the story of Orrin Fitzgerald, born in March 1842. His father was a carpenter of modest means and the family lived in the quiet town of Dexter, deep in the woodland interior of central Maine, along the banks of Lake Wassookeag and far from any major town or city – hardly the classic setting for fame and fortune.

News and entertainment took time to reach Dexter in the 1840s and 50s. A slow stream of itinerant preachers, professors, and healers trickled through Maine’s tiny towns and villages like Dexter with their sermons, lectures, and cures, and catch-penny menageries and magicians occasionally stopped by to entertain with their oddities and tricks. Newspapers from Maine’s distant cities revealed the lives and doings of people all over the country and the world whom they had never seen but who were out there, nonetheless. Articles also shared that some scientists claimed their telescopes had found life on the moon and Mars and their microscopes had discovered another whole universe of creatures living in their water, food and bodies.

The newspapers also reported the rising tensions before the war and displayed advertisements of messengers from calmer realms – spiritualists and clairvoyants. The Fox Sisters of Rochester, New York, had begun the modern era of spiritualism in the late 1840s, allegedly communicating with the spirits of the dead, yet another level of life invisible to the naked eye. Fascination with the invisibles had even entered the White House, with the First Lady, Mary Todd Lincoln, conducting seances. Life was so much bigger than the small world of Dexter; so much more complex, exciting, and mystifying. Knowledge was being tested and remeasured every day.

Maine newspapers in the 1850s included ads for a clairvoyant Indian doctress, a husband-and-wife team of clairvoyant healers, one that combined their mystical skill with electricity, and others offering a host of clairvoyant medicines that “produce the most wonderful and cheering effects.” When you’re sick, fevered, and in awful pain, it’s hard to resist the promise of a remedy that’s “wonderful and cheering,” regardless of the science behind it.

One physician employed a clairvoyant woman for her unusual diagnostic ability: she had the power to mentally “enter the interior part of the body, tell the most minute disorder, what and where the complaint is seated, and prescribe a remedy, and where the medicine can be found.” In a similar case, a woman in Falmouth, Maine, gratefully gave her testimonial for a clairvoyant physician who cured her. The sick woman had told disbelieving physicians for years that she felt “as though something was eating me up inside, but they all laughed at the idea of anything of the kind, and said I was nervous.” The clairvoyant, however, confirmed her suspicion; with her sixth sense she could see something brown inside the sick lady, looking “like a caterpillar as much as anything.” The healer then warned the sickly woman that she would be very sick when she took the medicine, and her prediction was as spot-on as her diagnosis, “I vomited for three days, and the third day I threw up something that resembled a lizard, and a horrible looking thing, about three inches long, about as large [a]round as my finger, and I think I owe my life to Mrs. Manchester” [the clairvoyant physician]. One ad estimated that “more than half of the towns and villages of New England” had people who had been cured by clairvoyant healing, “monuments of its mysterious skill.”

Dr. Fitzgerald's Clairvoyant Discovery, ca. 1873. (Collection of Wyatt E. Brumfield II)

Insanity or Clairvoyant Genius?

Like the magicians, spiritualists, and travelling patent medicine showmen, clairvoyants had three audiences: the absolute believers, the equally adamant disbelievers, and the curious – probably the largest group – who balanced their wary skepticism with hope that there might be something to it after all. The Fitzgeralds had the debate thrust into their own home: as a teenager, young Orrin showed signs of “unusual healing power.” It was unnerving for his family who were “embarrassed by him as he walked along and suddenly went into a trance.” On some of these occasions his language became a halting, garbled form of Pidgin English, mixed with Indian words. Maybe it was all just teenage dramatic hijinks or the delusions of a daydreamer, or even a condition now called Dissociative Trance Disorder (DTD). But when it was happening, 150 years ago, it was unnerving and embarrassing and his family didn’t know how to deal with their oddball son. His father, “thinking his son insane,” sent his teenage son six miles away in “the wilds of” Garland to “refine his ability” with the help of a farmer there who also had a reputation for being able to reach into the invisible world. Orrin’s first experiences of applying clairvoyance to doctoring occurred in Garland when he was 17, “and the excitement caused by his cures at that time was most intense.” It was said he felt compelled to walk long distances to visit sick people who hadn’t even sent for him.

By 1860, 18-year-old Orrin was back to living in his father’s home, picking up odd jobs as a day laborer, but things changed quickly over the next few years. Orrin channeled his clairvoyant abilities into healing and had significant success. By 1863, the 21-year-old Orrin was a prime candidate for the wartime draft, but he paid the $300 commutation fee ($7,465 in 2024 USD), buying his way out of military service. His father’s entire real and personal property had amounted to only $900, so it’s unlikely he could pay the bill. In three years, Orrin had ascended from day laborer to clairvoyant physician and avoided the risk of war. For the next three years he paid the additional wartime taxes levied upon his occupation as a physician and in the year after the war was over, his tax payment also covered the piano he had purchased.

In an 1869 newspaper ad he was promoting himself as “THE GREATEST WONDER OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY!! Acknowledged by all to be the GREATEST LIVING CLAIRVOYANT, PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON.” It was improbable that he could establish a large enough clientele to match his ambition along the backroads of Dexter and the wilds of Garland, so he joined in the traveling life of so many other irregular healers, but his ad spun that negative into a positive: “It was with the greatest reluctance that the Dr. was induced to leave his extensive home practice and travel; knowing that a prejudice exists against traveling Physicians.”  By 1870 he had accumulated an estate of $6,000 ($143,595 in 2024 USD); he was, indeed, doing very well.

Carte-de-visite of a very young Dr. Orrin Fitzgerald, ca. 1864, set in a photo album page. (Collection of Elton Brumfield.)

Orrin’s healing methods were the quintessential repertoire of a clairvoyant physician: he kept his eyes closed when examining patients or preparing medicine and performed surgery in the dark or sometimes when blindfolded; it was even rumored that he picked his medicinal plants at night. Darkness was the clairvoyant’s friend;  it was said they could see into bodies, the future, and other mysterious realms – all places where the normal-sighted were hopelessly blind.

Young Dr Fitzgerald had quickly honed his clairvoyant diagnostic skills into a dramatically simple procedure; he could learn all he needed to know with the touch of a finger and a listening ear:

Dr. Fitzgerald always touched the forehead with his finger and a report would be heard that sounded almost like a pistol. (… one touch on the forehead and you could hear the snap of an electric shock all over the room.) Then, placing his ear over the heart, he would locate the trouble in an instant. With this diagnosis he never failed, and although all sorts of traps were placed for him he was never caught.

His reputation for performing wonderful cures followed him in his travels like a king’s royal mantle elegantly shuffling behind in his wake. He had quickly mastered the clairvoyant’s craft and finessed how to convert onlookers into disciples:

… a woman in Nashua [New Hampshire]… was a severe sufferer from some internal trouble. The doctors of that city failed to discover the nature of the disease and then Fitzgerald happened along and was called into consultation. Instantly he declared that she had a hard substance in her lung. Ordering everybody from the room and darkening the windows he performed a surgical operation and drew from the woman’s lung a bone nearly four inches in length. This wonderful operation was performed in the dark and without any assistance or pain to the patient. Although with no training as a surgeon he performed many marvelous operations and always in the dark or with his eyes closed.

     In the town of Canaan, Maine, a man had his toe cut off and the doctors threw it away. When it came to Dr. Fitzgerald’s attention the next day, he ordered the discarded toe to be found. He then called for a needle and thread and then instructed to have all the gas lamps extinguished. When they were lit again, “perhaps three minutes later, … the toe was discovered neatly sewed in place, and the doctor was putting on his overcoat ready to depart.” 

Appointments with the clairvoyant doctor were executed in rapid-fire succession, taking only moments for him to psychically diagnose and resolve, either by surgery or some of his medicine. In June 1873 he introduced his first bottled medicine, Dr. Fitzgerald’s Life Invigorator (the name appeared on the bottle label and the subtitle, Clairvoyant Discovery was embossed on the glass, along with the doctor’s name and his residence, Dexter, Maine) and his advertisement for the stuff was as enthusiastic as his claims for the medicine itself,

“YOUNG AGAIN. The “LIFE INVIGORATOR” that is now being introduced by me … Gives Youth and Buoyancy to the Body and Mind, Restores your Memory, … Gives Elasticity to the Step, and, in fact, makes the sufferer. HAPPY! COURAGEOUS!! SOUND!!! … I do claim to have discovered the secret of Renewing Health, Cheerfulness and Strength … [emphasis added]

There were certainly those disbelievers who tried to expose him through various acts of trickery, but he could apparently detect chicanery as clearly as cancer. An observer noted that in a village hotel where he was receiving patients for the day, a man came to his office appearing very much like a hopeless cripple. His legs were bandaged and he hobbled in on crutches. “No sooner had he crossed the threshold of the room than the doctor caught him by the neck, whirled him around and kicked him clear into the street …saying, ‘There, damn you, don’t ever attempt any of your tricks on me again!’”

The very next patient who came to the room was just the opposite – the very picture of health and strength. The doctor touched his forehead with a snap of his finger, then placed his ear on the man’s breast and stated somberly: “I am sorry, but it is too late. I can do nothing for you.” The unfortunate man was later reported to have heart disease and died shortly thereafter.

A Dandy Doctor

Aqua, square-based DR. FITZGERALD'S // CLAIRVOYANT DISCOVERY // DEXTER, MAINE, ca.1871. (author's collection; photo by Daniel G. Lakatos)

If he had just settled in on being a clairvoyant physician, Orrin Fitzgerald would have slipped off into history as nothing more than another colorful footnote like the rest – one of the many traveling clairvoyants who made a few dollars at the local village hotel before moving on to the next town. But he was a savvy, multi-dimensional businessman. He had two inventions patented in his career, the first being a wooden capsule to protect the necks of bottles during shipment and handling. He also established two very impressive business ventures in Massachusetts and a third in Waterville, Maine. But what really set him apart in the eyes of the public was his flair for showmanship. Panache, not inventiveness, business acumen, or even clairvoyance, was what set him apart from all the other clairvoyant healers.

Dr. Fitzgerald made every effort to stand out and to be remembered; for example, he dressed ostentatiously, somewhere between a dandy and peacock. When he was called to the governor’s mansion to treat his housekeeper (whom the governor’s own physician had failed to heal), he wore a magnificent sealskin coat, brightly colored silk stockings and patent leather shoes. Governor Coburn was well-known for dressing plainly and made a “subtle but rather caustic comment” about Fitzgerald’s outfit, but the clairvoyant doctor replied with a bill of $1,500 for his visit.

He had the best carriages and horses  that money could buy – a stable of 20 horses with impeccable bloodlines, faultless form, and high spirits; one was a prize racehorse  that he purchased for $7,000 ($261,000 in 2024 USD). An 1869 visit to a sleigh factory caused a newspaper reporter to froth in envy over the new sleigh being built for Dr. Fitzgerald: it was painted imperial green with white runners and gold and carmine pinstriping and trimmed with brown silk and velvet. The reporter declared it was “rich and elegant in the extreme” and excelled in beauty the famous sleigh that had been exhibited at the state fair. “We feel very sure he will have by all odds, the finest turnout in the Pine Tree State.” 

Orrin Fitzgerald's 1873 patent for a bottle protector, a wooden block bored in the center to protect the neck from damage. INSET: Photo of the square-based CLAIRVOYANT DISCOVERY bottle, ca.1871, the shape of which was the pattern used for for the wooden collar patent. [Note: The fourth panel was unembossed for placement of the label, which bore the main product name, Dr. Fitzgerald's Invigorator.] (author's collection; photo by Daniel G. Lakatos.)

Rare, original medicine banner for Fitzgerald’s Improved Invigorator, ca.1880. Oil-cloth and linen banner, 3ft x 6ft. (Photo courtesy of McMurray Antiques and Auctions)

Dr. Fitzgerald usually drove a four-horse team in single file with harnesses that matched their coloring so closely they looked almost unconnected to each other and the carriage: the black horse had a black harness; the spotted horse had a harness with spots that match the horse’s coat perfectly, and so on with the white horse and the chestnut-colored sorrel horse. Other times he had his uniformed Black coachman drove a team of four white or four black horses with gold-embellished harnesses. He also owned a splendid carriage with a calliope installed, making music as the horses moved along, “and such a spectacle was certain to attract the whole community. As an advertising genius the State of Maine has never seen his equal.” In 1871 an advance team for President Ulysees Grant scouted out the best hotels and restaurants to accommodate the nation’s leader when he was scheduled to tour the state and the came to Orrin Fitzgerald to ask for the use of his carriage and horse team. The doctor’s treasured carriage and team were polished and groomed for the president’s arrival. Cannons were fired when President Grant’s train arrived at the Bangor, Maine, train station. In ceremonial fashion, the doctor stepped out of his magnificent carriage as the war hero approached it, walking between rows of uniformed soldiers. A newspaper poignantly observed, “Aesculapius evacuated and Mars occupied. All the time of the Presidential stay did the high official ride in state, [while] the owner of all the elegance, on foot and undisguised, mingled with the common herd.”

DR. FITZGERALD'S // IMPROVED // INVIGORATOR, ca. 1880. [Note that the "Z" in the doctor's name is reversed.] (Collection of Wyatt E. Brumfield II)

People were thrilled when Dr. Fitzgerald arrived in town; word spread quickly. He was an empresario of flash and brass, shining brightest in the spotlight; a one-man traveling sensation. A Belfast, Maine, newspaper reported, “When the doctor drives out in his elegant barouche … all the town is agog with excitement, admiration, and wonder.”

The Face of Success

His advertising was as pretentiously unique and memorable as his clothing and transportation. Several of his newspaper ads were big and bold with his face prominently featured; it was his trademark, for all intents and purposes. One newspaper reporter called him “one of the best-looking men in the State.” He kept his face in the public eye everywhere – in his product packaging, newspaper ads, trade cards, and handbills:

His handbills are scattered as the snowflakes, and his strikingly handsome portraiture which adorns them has thus become as familiar as household words through the paper proclamations which bear healing on their wings. Printing ink has done much for the doctor …

Two of the doctor’s advertising trade cards still exist in quantities that hint at their prolific distribution. An octagonal trade card with his face imprinted in the center was used to promote his arrival in town in about 1892. Surviving examples of the card are always printed on brightly colored stock – yellow or orange. Among the vast array of rectangular cards with bucolic scenes and childlike humor, these octagonal placards were startling and arresting to the public and the army of picture-card collectors. Dr. Fitzgerald was ahead of his time: in the 1920s, brightly colored octagonal road signs stopped travelers in their tracks; just like these cards had been designed to do to potential customers some thirty years earlier.

Advertising trade card, front side, for Dr. O. Fitzgerald, ca.1892. (author's collection.)

The other surviving trade card, from 1880, was equally notable and unique in its own way. Its purpose was to announce Dr. Fitzgerald’s Improved Invigorator. It was executed in cartoon format with speech balloons, the front side showing the classic before-and-after images of an emaciated sick man, leaning on his cane, envying the robust, healthy man to his right who is enjoying a stroll with his lovely lady; his walking stick is held as a social marker rather than a crutch. The sick man asks the healthy one how he came to be so healthy, to which the healthy man tells him to go see his friend, Dr. Fitzgerald and get his Improved Invigorator. His lady friend chimes in, telling the reader to turn the card over to find Dr. Fitzgerald. (Ironically, behind the sidewalk banter there is a subliminal scene of a four-horse chaise being ridden by the doctor and driven by his driver, with spectators on the far side erupting in cheers for the vaunted clairvoyant healer.)

Dr. Fitzgerald's Improved Invigorator trade card, front side, ca.1880. (author's collection.)

The reader is now irresistibly drawn to the other side of the card to find out the rest of Dr. Fitzgerald’s story. Here we see the mustached doctor under a tree, standing next to an emaciated, sickly man who is seated at the edge of his friend’s grave. His own coffin, labeled “WAITING,” lies nearby, but he won’t be needing it because he avoided death by half an hour! His friend died on June 2nd, 1880, at 11:45 PM, but the health of the seated man began to improve just minutes after his friend’s death, on June 3rd, 1880, at 12:15 AM. Seems that the clairvoyant doctor had improved his invigorator in time to save the seated man, but too late for the dead one – even the clairvoyant healer, with all his supernatural skills, couldn’t bring the dead back to life. This specific date and time may mark the actual moment that Orrin Fitzgerald finished improving his invigorator; if so, it may be the most specific record of a product’s creation in patent medicine history.

Dr. Fitzgerald's Improved Invigorator trade card, back side, ca.1880. (author's collection.)

Fitzgerald House still stands in Dexter Maine. [Note: home is privately owned.] (Photo from Google Maps.)

In an amusing display of gallows humor, the dead man is reanimated, poking his head out of his coffin and saying to the gravedigger, “Say old sexton, I wish Fitzgerald had improved his invigorator half an hour sooner.” The gravedigger, looking tired of digging graves, replies unsympathetically, “Oh! Close the box.”

Once again the background paints a subliminal scene, first of the doctor’s fine carriage, horse team, and driver (without the doctor, who is now under the tree consulting with his patient); then up the hill are his mansion and the stables beyond. It is clearly identified as the “RESIDENCE OF DR. O. FITGERALD, DEXTER, ME.,” but the subliminal message was about the grandeur and success that his estate displays. The foreground scene of the doctor, patient, and cadaver were all about announcing his Improved Invigorator, but the addition of his estate and riding team in the background was all about his greatness. Pure pomposity. And he wasn’t close to done.

Nothing But the Best

When the traveling healers and clairvoyants arrived in town, they took up lodgings they could afford, which often meant seedy rooms in dodgy hotels, but not so for Orrin Fitzgerald. He booked himself in some of the best hotels the host towns offered; not only did he enjoy its creature comforts, but as the rooms he rented served as both his lodging and his place of business while in town, it was important to him that his clientele were suitably impressed that the handsome, popular, well-dressed doctor was staying in the kind of place befitting his public image.

On his frequent visits to Skowhegan, Maine,  he stayed at the Hotel Heselton, one of its finest hotels. On his visits to Lynn, Massachusetts, he would be found at its popular Sagamore House, and in Bangor, he frequented the Bangor House where President Grant stayed during his visit. When in Boston he was a guest at the landmark Revere House, where the cream of society floated, like author Charles Dickens, poet Walt Whitman, singer Jenny Lind, four U.S. Presidents, the king of England, the emperor of Brazil, and the grand duke of Russia. And he was so enamored of the Elmwood Hotel in Waterville, Maine, he became its proprietor.

Advertising trade card of the Elmwood Hotel, Waterville, Maine, Orrin Fitzgerald, Proprietor, ca.1880. (Photo courtesy of Dave Cheadle Card Store on Ebay.)

Header of a sheet of letterhead for The Medical Home, Dr. Orrin Fitzgerald, Proprietor, Chief Examining and Consulting Physician. [Note: Handwritten letter below this header is signed by Orrin Fitzgerald and dated 29 August 1888 .] (author's collection)

The fashionable, comfortable, powerful life of Dr. Fitzgerald was made possible by a combination of many sales of his one-dollar medicines and his doctoring and surgical fees. “His fees in many cases have been enormous,” reported his obituary, like those paid him by the governor, “and scores of other rich men paid equally as well,” but he was generous to the poor and many patients receive free treatment along with a ten-dollar bill slipped into their hand as they left the doctor. He had also sold a half-interest in his original Life Invigorator medicine back in 1873 to Noyes P. Whittemore, an ambitious livery stable owner in Nashua, New Hampshire and in 1891 he put out his third medicine, Fitzgerald’s Membrane Cure for lung disease, hay fever, and deafness. But “had he the disposition to save,” his obituary continued, “he might have been a multimillionaire long ago.” Instead, he embellished his image and empire by elegantly finishing his home estate and buying and updating other impressive properties with fine furnishings, as well as tip generously and quietly donate to impoverished patients.

The doctor’s house in Dexter was often referred to as a mansion and one of the finest homes in the state. It had two sets of ornately carved mahogany front entrance doors with exquisitely etched glass windows; murals were painted on interior walls and chandeliers hung from 12-foot-high ceilings of copper and steel. A half-dozen marble fireplaces and mahogany woodwork spread throughout the house and elaborate gingerbread laced the exterior. Even the stable was grand and beautiful, exceeding the craftsmanship of most houses. A small army of Black servants maintained his house, stables, and prize horses.

He also owned a newspaper, the Eastern State, which he used largely for self-promotion, printed in yet another of his buildings, the Fitzgerald Building in Dexter. One of its advertisements featured another of his new enterprises, a building in Allston, west of Boston, that he named the Massachusetts Medical Home. It was a sanitorium for the wealthy, complete with elegant rooms, hot and cold water, electric bells, baths, modern appliances, and expansive lawns. 

His last purchase was the estate along the Merrimack River in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts that he named Colonial Hall. The place cost him  $80,000 ($2.75 million in 2024 USD), then he spent much more to beautify the grounds, build structures, create a trotting racecourse and generally turn the place into one of the finest estates in eastern Massachusetts.

Taking the Blindfold Off

Understanding Orrin Fitzgerald’s success seems an impossible task. He made a lot of money on the basis of his alleged clairvoyance and he spent it with the swagger of someone who was certain the money would continue to flow in – he was either truly psychic, a business genius, or very lucky – maybe it was a little of all three. He was definitely more complicated than just another blindfolded healer wowing onlookers by peeling away a tumor as if it was a banana. His inventive turn of mind had him devising a protective device for bottles, a capsulized form of anesthetic; and of all things, an invention to protect train passengers from smoke inhalation and accompanying cinders and sparks from coming into their cabins.

The smoke and spark conveyer invention, patented in 1887, was extraordinary, in some ways, far ahead of his time. Fitzgerald’s redesigned locomotive looked every inch like a futuristic invention from a Jules Verne novel. He bent the engine’s smokestack backwards at a rakish 45-degree angle and extended it by a series of pipes, clamps, and braces that predicted the automobile exhaust engine of the 20th century. While the invention’s design came from a mechanically-oriented engineering mind, the reason for its creation clearly came from the health-conscious heart of a doctor:

The great discomfort and inconvenience in traveling by rail arises from the smoke and cinders which come from the locomotive. The vast cloud of smoke which is always pouring from the smokestack often obscures the landscape, and the cinders, from the same source, enter the cars at every crevice, and almost fill the eyes, ears and mouths of the passengers. The cars must be closed even on the hottest and most sultry days, on account of this nuisance.

As far away as Tahlequah, Cherokee Nation, Indian Territory, the newspaper Cherokee Advocate bubbled over with enthusiasm about Dr. Fitzgerald’s train exhaust improvement:

Railroad men all over the country have evinced great interest in the matter, and Dr. Fitgerald has received many offers for an interest in his great invention. There can be no doubt that in a short time it will be applied to every passenger train in the civilized world, and travel upon the railroad will be shorn of its greatest inconvenience and discomfort.

Theoretically, redesigning a train’s exhaust system was no more complicated than removing a cancerous tumor or reattaching a toe, but I just have the feeling that while the healer worked in the dark, the inventor wasn’t wearing a blindfold.

The Secret of Health

The back of Fitzgerald’s unusual octagonal trade card proclaimed “THE SECRET of Health is in Fitzgerald! Who is Fitzgerald?” It was both a great philosophical and practical question. Was he truly a clairvoyant or a charlatan? Did he perform baffling cures or skillful tricks?

Fitzgerald himself admitted he was not a qualified physician in the traditional sense, but insisted that his clairvoyance was even more valuable the regular doctor’s tools:

The Dr. has never graduated at any Medical School, neither has he diplomas from any institution of Science, yet in the SUPERIOR CONDITION [in the clairvoyant state] – the human system is transparent as Glass. … by the peculiar gift bestowed upon me … I am enabled to discover the source of diseases hidden from the eye of the common practitioner.

  

The debate between believers and non-believers continued to rage throughout his life and likely upon the completion of each surgery or performance, as the case may be. An adamant believer insisted he was cured by the clairvoyance of Dr. Fitzgerald and tried his best to convince others that Fitzgerald presented himself to be.

Now, readers, what can I say of Dr. Orrin Fitzgerald? Is he a fraud? Is he a quack? Or has he ability? Some of my friends advise me not to see him! [But] where would I have been, had I not seen him? I consider myself free from this terrible cancer and am a living witness of the most wonderful and successful physician living.

A newspaper reporter who knew Fitzgerald well and followed him closely shared a rare personal glimpse of the man behind the blindfold after his death:

At heart, the doctor was an entirely different man than what the casual observer judged him. His outward appearance was rather a game of bluff while he read the emotions of those with whom he came in contact and admired or despised them according to his standard of measurement. Those who knew him well realized this fully. [emphasis added]

As the newspapers told the story, wherever he went, the people came, crowding his hotel room and parlors, sometimes waiting all day without getting to see the popular doctor. They followed the clairvoyant healer like devoted disciples following their biblical savior. And why not? He really seemed to be performing miracles.

He gave me a singular-tasting medicine and made an application to the cancer for ten days which entirely separated it from the flesh and left the leg in a perfectly healthy condition. After enduring what I had, this process and result was marvelous to me. It seemed as natural as the separating of the banana from its peeling. I can describe it in no other way.

He performed another medical miracle, so the story goes, in front of everyone at a busy train station … in just two minutes … with his eyes closed:

The doctor was about to depart when a team drove up frantically conveying a  lady who had not time to consult him during his stay in town. It was a case of a tumor on the eyelid or the eye itself, tradition in this instance not being fully explicit. The doctor asked for the train to be held two minutes, got out a knife, SHUT HIS EYES, and proceeded to operate. The growth was removed and the patient afterwards stated she felt little pain during the operation. [emphasis in original]

It was either a breathtaking demonstration of courage, clairvoyance, and skill or a fabulously staged hoax to increase his legend – you be the judge.

Orrin Fitzgerald, clairvoyant healer of thousands, died of cancer at age 55, in 1897. Even after his death, non-believers criticized the clairvoyant for his inability to detect his own illness or to get cured by his Clairvoyant Discovery, the Improved Invigorator ...

But then again, maybe he did see the prophetic writing on the wall about his impending end. His advertising always stated, “He will undertake no cases that he cannot cure.” – perhaps he applied that rule to himself as well – "THE SECRET of Health" in Orrin Fitzgerald may actually have been that he didn't have it - he was dying of cancer and he chose not to let anyone know until the end. Instead he decided to spend every dollar as soon as he earned it and enjoy every moment of life he had left. After all, life is short, even for a clairvoyant healer.

Advertising trade card, back side, for Dr. O. Fitzgerald, ca.1892. (author's collection.)

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