The Gift

One Father’s Day, a little over 30 years ago, my wife and children presented me with a gift that has ever since been dear to me. They had gone to the famous Brimfield Antique Flea Market and purchased an amazing medicine display: Balm of Tulips. I loved the gift because it wasn’t a tie or fishing pole; they knew exactly how to make me happy. But I was also thrilled to own a piece of patent medicine history that was so unusually beautiful and perfectly complete. It is so pristine, it almost looks brand new, yet it is clearly, quintessentially Victorian.

Peering through the infinite window of the internet over the intervening decades, I have seen this complete set appear in diverse locations, from eBay to the Smithsonian. There are two reasons why such patent medicine artifacts show up in significant quantities.

First, common bottles are evidence of successful sales. The ubiquitous Lydia E. Pinkham Vegetable Compound bottle is a perfect example. They sit covered with dust on dealer’s tables (or in boxes under their tables) at bottle shows and antique shops, as annoyingly omnipresent as trade cards with her face. Why? Because it was one of the best-selling patent medicines of all time. If there’s such a thing as a patent medicine axiom, it might be, “The more popular the medicine, the more unappreciated the collectible.”

Then there are patent medicines that show up more often than would be expected; yet there they are, just like the Balm of Tulips display, with all of its tiny bottles still harnessed to the showbox since the day they were first strapped in. I would speculate that there are two to four dozen of these displays in existence, the result of a cache being found somewhere; perhaps “… sealed in a few master cases stored on the second floor above the store of a former harness maker and carriage trimmer in Foxcroft, Maine, until the late 1980s” (he wrote, hoping to sound something like Sherlock Holmes) “in sealed cases because none appear touched by bugs or vermin and the paper elements show no darkening or bleaching from the sun ... In Maine because they show no staining or foxing damage from high-humidity southern or coastal regions ... Stored above a store because the uncirculated condition (no wear from handling) reveals the fact that they sat unsold ... In storage until the late 1980s because they started appearing broadly in the antique marketplace and museums in the early 1990s ... And on the second floor above a harness maker and carriage trimmers shop in Foxcroft because that’s where Henry A. Robinson, their inventor and maker, had his business. Elementary." (My apologies to Sherlock Holmes; I just couldn’t resist.)

Born in 1840, Henry Addison Robinson lived his entire life in Foxcroft, Maine. It’s northwest of Bangor, on the way to Moosehead Lake and Beaver Cove; it’s deep, central Maine. He was a pillar of the community, well-known and well-liked by his townsmen, who fondly recalled after his death how he loved to visit and swap stories at the local store and newspaper office. He took it upon himself to make and put street signs (“name boards”) on the thirty different streets in Foxcroft and neighboring Dover.

He graduated from the Philadelphia Dental College and Hospital of Oral Surgery in 1867 and came back to his hometown to practice dentistry there. He was earnest and determined in his new profession, trying to improve on the process of filing down old Spanish quarters like his Foxcroft predecessor and mentor had done to create amalgam for filling cavities, and in 1883, even inventing and patenting a metalized rubber compound for dental use. He was very well-regarded in Foxcroft as a dentist and citizen. He practiced dentistry in his hometown for 40 years, but dentistry was not his passion.

He also made the Balm of Tulips. The product’s trade card explained in a straightforward way, that a “lady writer in one of the popular household monthlies ‘wished some Yankee would find a cure for Cold Sores.” As a dentist, he explained, he was well aware of the “annoyance and inconvenience caused by cold sores,” especially on the lips of his patients, and with his education and expertise in oral medicine and surgery, he already had “a clue to a remedy.” His choice of name was also a clue; it may have been a scientific statement (if the medicine was made from tulip oil) or a metaphorical device for its use on two lips. After several years of experimentation he had invented Balm of Tulips: a little dab on the fingertip, rubbed on the lips was a cure for cold sores. The responsible dentist and pillar of his community made no claims that it also fixed bad livers, weak kidneys, or congested lungs, like the barrage of promises constantly fired by many cure-alls on the market. He stretched his medicine’s singular purpose a little bit, claiming it also “relieves the irritation and soreness of many skin and scalp diseases,” but the single sentence came across as more of a modest observation than a fabricated sales pitch. He tried his best to make a good medicine, but the Balm of Tulips was not his passion.

Had it been his passion, the product would have been advertised more aggressively and distributed much farther than his hometown; he was one of the largest taxpayers in town so had the means to do so, but he didn’t. Out of thousands of newspapers searched in a major online newspaper archive, only a single sentence in one 1890 newspaper could be found: “Balm of Tulips cures cold sores.” I’ve only seen one style of trade card advertising his products in 40 years of collecting – the one packed in his product boxes. No testimonials of satisfied customers have been found. No endorsements by the press as often happened even for obscure and unsuccessful medicines. His obituary covers all the highlights of his life, but makes no mention of the Balm of Tulips.

His heart wasn’t in sales. Interestingly and accurately, he described himself on his trade card as being “of an observing and inventive turn of mind.” He was an inventor, not an entrepreneur. Besides his invention of improved dental material, he had three more patents for packaging medicines. He didn’t patent his own medicine (as a dental professional, he probably considered it unethical to do so), but he patented the containers in which they were shipped and displayed.

The first was the “Postal Packet,” patented in 1886, a small wooden cylinder with a tightly fitting wooden cover and a band ensuring it stayed in place, yet “easy for a postmaster to undo it to examine the contents of the packet, and afterward to refasten it without breaking it.” It was a crush-proof shipping container that would even survive today’s often perilous shipping journeys. The one I recently purchased had not been opened in over 130 years – I didn’t feel like I was opening an antique, but a time capsule. Inside was a vial of the Balm of Tulips, with full, perfect label, crystallized contents, crowned in tin foil with a little, bright pink twine tied around the neck – the means by which the consumer could pull the vial out of the postal packet. Wrapped around the vial was a piece of advertising surrounded by an elegant illustration of a tulip, the perfect homonym for his medicine.

Robinson’s other two packaging inventions were both patented in 1890. Number 435,022 was the vehicle which carried his medicine on its voyage through time to my collection today. The result with his product in it, is a stunning display of color and creativity. The header card features the actual image of Dr. Henry A. Robinson, surrounded by the product name and the words “PREVENTS. BANISHES.” (I just love the use of BANISHES here.) It’s promise to cure “Band Players’ TENDER AND SORE LIPS” seems smart too; my dad was a musician, playing clarinet and saxophone – his lips were his moneymakers.

The trade cards and other instructions were all exactly the dimensions of the box, as was the header card, all of which were designed to arrive at a store ready to be removed, assembled, and set up as a counter or shelf display, with trade card handouts for the customers. The showbox displays from both sides: the header card is printed on both sides and there are a half-dozen bottles on each side as well. Robinson knew exactly what he was doing – he was trying to do things better than they were being done by medicine makers anywhere else in the country:

We aim to excel and be original. Original medicine, trade-marked. Original mailing packet, patented. Original double-faced, self-advertising carton, patented. All our own.

Keep it in sight of customers, and hereafter in stock. It is not in the way, does not catch dust, cannot be pilfered from. It displaces nothing else that you now sell. (His emphasis.)

The third patent, number 435,023, born minutes after the Balm of Tulips showbox, was another style of showbox that, if it was ever made, I haven’t yet seen. Perhaps it was designed for use by other medicine makers, as Robinson never made his medicine in a large, square-based version, to the best of my knowledge. The compartments in the front were designed to each hold three much smaller versions of the featured product than the display bottle in the center, making a full dozen with all four sides of the display. The patent suggested the corners could be used for “statuettes, or other ornamental articles.” Dr. Robinson spent a great deal of time and effort designing effective packaging for shipping and display medicines, but inventing was still not his passion.

His passion, by all accounts, was fruits and flowers. “Flowers, both wild and cultivated, were his friends, and a small knot of them usually adorned his coat through the summer.“ He was very active in Maine’s Pomological Society and won five first prize awards for various species of apples after the 1901 harvest season, just a few months before he died. He loved being on his land, caring for his large orchards of apple, pear, and plum trees, and cultivating all manner of grape and berry vines. It was eloquently said of him,

Each individual tree and bush received his careful attention, and he was never happier than when working among them. As his health failed, his interest in fruits seemed to increase. He was as eager to see and learn about a new variety as an astronomer to see a new star.

For several years, Dr. Robinson had suffered from severe stomach trouble which had gradually reduced his strength, but he persisted in taking care of his dental patients and his fruit trees until just a few days before his death on 24 January 1902. Dentist, community leader, medicine maker, inventor, horticulturalist – he was a true renaissance man. For one who accomplished so much, it is all the more amazing that his least significant achievement, the Balm of Tulips, is his most visible legacy, wrapped in his brilliant packaging, survived hidden away somewhere for decades, to re-emerge in collections today, looking as grand as the day they were made. His cure for cold sores has turned into a gift; ironic to be sure, but thankfully true.

Epitaph for “The Metaphysical Cure”

Well, the beautiful box I featured a few posts ago has been sold – definitely not to me. It went for $1,850 which comes as no surprise – it’s a historical treasure for sure.

I’ve done more research on these metaphysical medicines and their maker and I thought that these tidbits about a little-known 19th century medicine may be of interest, at least to the new owners of that great box!

Borrowing from Ben

Mrs. Martha G. Brown started her medicine selling career in 1860 when she was living in Philadelphia, selling Poor Richard’s Eye Water for 25 cents a bottle. Early on, her ads were accompanied by the quaint, cartoonish image of a bespectacled logo-style image of fellow Philadelphian, Ben Franklin, author of Poor Richard’s Almanac and the obvious inspiration for her medicine. The image was dropped by 1862.

Oh no I didn’t!

Mrs. Brown toured across much of the country over the next two decades, consulting with customers and promoting her medicine. In December 1862 she was at the Penobscot Exchange and the Bangor House, both in Bangor, Maine. She included one of several testimonials from Maine customers that got her in hot water. It was that of John Holyoke of Brewer, who testified that he had been “quite deaf in one ear for the past seven years”; then he visited Mrs. Brown on the 5th and after just one treatment, he could hear sounds. “The next day I could hear words distinctly.” Sounded great – it just wasn’t true – according to John Holyoke:

Mr. Editor:

     I notice in your paper, something purporting to be a certificate that I have been a subject under the treatment of Mrs. M. G. Brown, for deafness. As I have never been troubled with deafness, and as I never saw the woman, and know nothing of her, except that she has imposed upon the public in the use of my name, (for there is no other person of the name in Brewer) will you please publish this, and expose the imposition and oblige the public.

Respectfully yours,

John Holyoke

Mrs. Brown responded quickly, just two days later, hoping to restore her reputation. On Christmas Eve, she explained:

The cure of deafness performed in Brewer by Mrs. M. G. Brown, was on John W. Holyoke, nephew to John Holyoke …

Nothing more was heard on the subject, but by doing some genealogical, research, I determined that while John did have a nephew named John W. Holyoke living in Brewer, he was only 14 years old when Mrs. Brown claimed he had gone to her for help with his deafness – a problem that he supposedly had since he was only 7 years old. So, it could have happened ... maybe.

Bumpy Genius

In 1864 some of her newspaper advertisements carried a large portion of the phrenological reading she received at the famous New York phrenological firm, Fowler & Wells. It revealed, in part,

You are capable of making great discoveries; you have the power of invention. … You are not inclined to adopt other peoples’ thoughts.

She explained that she shared her phrenological reading to prove (1) that she shouldn’t be “classed  with Quacks or Humbugs who have experimented on the suffering masses till the blood of those slain by Quackery, pouring Medicine down the throat …” and (2) “I wish to appear before the world in my true colors …” She was absolutely convinced of the validity of phrenology.

The Lynn Connection

In the 1866 directory for Essex County, the Colcord & Snow drug store of Lynn, Mass., advertised Mrs. Brown’s Poor Richard’s Eye Water alongside its tough competitor, Thompson’s Eye Water, and many other patent medicines, such as Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters and Romaine’s Crimean Bitters, Cocaine, and Hasheesh Candy. Mrs. Brown's eye medicine means that much more to me since my focus has always been remedies that were made and/or sold in Lynn. Sweet!

So are Vegans Cannibals?

Here's an interesting excerpt from Mrs. M. G. Brown’s Metaphysical Pamphlet, published in 1871; after rereading it a few times, it sort of grows on you:

The hair is a field of grass; the eyes and ears are plants; the sight and hearing are Metaphysical plants, messengers to the mind; the teeth are plants; the tongue, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, etc., etc., are all plants growing in the body – the Earth. God … preserves the earth in its abnormal state, with Dew, Rain, Frost and Snow ….

Selling Forever and Ever

Mrs. Brown kept spreading the good word about her medicines until her death. In 1868 she visited Chicago at the Matteson House and the Briggs House; in 1879 the then 70-year-old medicine maker gave consultations at the Carrollton Hotel in Baltimore, Maryland. In May 1881 she was in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but she was nearing the end of her tour of Earth; she died two months later, in July. The New Orleans Times Picayune irreverently teased that although she was deceased, her advertising might live on forever on her gravestone:

Among recent deaths is that of Mrs. M. G. Brown, inventor of “Poor Richard’s Eye Water” and the eye, ear and scalp remedy known as the “Metaphysical Discovery.” The lady was in her seventy-third year, and although a dealer in quack medicines, was from all accounts very religious. It is said that she regarded the testimonials sent her as a reward from Heaven to be enjoyed in secret, but such a statement arouses a lurking suspicion that her heirs might …  inscribe a metaphysical advertisement on her monument.

Your doctor said There’s a Sucker Born Every Minute

In the year of her death, a doctor shared his unfavorable view of Mrs. Brown in a medical publication. He discussed three patients who had taken Mrs. Brown’s medicines, each experiencing eye irritation and ear pain until they finally came to him for help. The doctor was frustrated that all three went to Mrs. Brown before they came to him:

The well-known expression, “The majority of people wish to be humbugged,” seems to be true. It ever was, and no doubt ever will be, the fact, as long as the world stands, and mysticism and superstition reign over scientific and educated ideas.

The Legacy

The federal census of 1870 listed [Mrs.] M. G. Brown as a Metaphysical Physician with a personal estate valued at $100,000. Also living at her house were her assistant in the medical business, another general assistant, and a domestic servant, plus Elizabeth Billsland, who was simply “keeping house”, but she had $80,000 in real and personal assets.

 

In the 1880 census, only M. G. Brown and Elizabeth Billsland were listed in the house together; Mrs. Brown was simply “keeping house” and Elizabeth had “no occupation”. But then Mrs. Brown died in the next year and Elizabeth took over the business and even assumed the “Mrs. M. G. Brown” name to make a seamless transition in the medicine business.

 

When Elizabeth Billsland died on 20 November 1903, she was 65; she was never married and had no children. She had created her will back in 1883 when the medicine business Mrs. Brown had left behind was apparently still going strong. The will stipulated that her sister would receive her house at 51 Bond Street in New York City, along with all the furniture, books, & personal effects which it contained. She further instructed that The Metaphysical Discovery and Poor Richards Eye Water each be sold for $500,000.

 

I don’t think her heirs were ever able to sell the medicines, let alone for a half million dollars, since they disappeared from the marketplace. ... But one empty box has just sold for $1,850 – I think Mrs. Brown and Elizabeth Billsland would both be proud.

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

Curing with Frost, Rain, and Dew

One thing you have to give to the patent medicine makers of the 19th century - they were definitely creative. Since each was positioning their remedy as unique in a very crowded marketplace, there were many that were determined to come up with a unique message - a never-before heard, unforgettable backstory to their discovery of the ultimate, unquestionable king of all medicines. Mrs. M. G. Brown's Metaphysical Discovery has to be counted among the most memorable concepts: medicines made of dew drops, rain drops, snow flakes, and frost crystals.

Mrs. Brown declared with no false humility whatsoever, that her medicine was "the greatest discovery ever made since the creation" and that "it has never failed in a single case to cure and prevent disease ...." It's hard to imagine why anybody else even tried to sell other medicines!

photo courtesy of AntiqueAdvertising.com

The stunning box pictured above is a treasure I would love to have in my collection. It's just made of wood and paper, but the story it tells is so much more. Printed somewhere between 1863 (the date on the label) and 1871, the label design is glorious in its Victorian effusiveness, telling in four different languages (one on each side), the curative joy found inside. The box contained three 18-ounce bottles, one each of the three remedies constituting the METAPHYSICAL DISCOVERY. To cure ANY disease, all three of her remedies had to be used together, "as they work in conjunction." They were:

No. 1 - Dew-Drops, entering in at the eyes ... correspond[ing] with the tear.

No. 2 - Rain, entering in at the ears

No. 3 - Frost and Snow, entering in at the Scalp

Mrs. Brown had published a pamphlet that explained the master plan behind her three medicines were really the plan of the Master "... I did not make the principles," she said humbly, "I discovered them":

... the sea is taken up by the water-spout into the clouds, the laboratory of the earth, and there prepared by Divine skill into moisture of a three-fold character ; the dew-drops, which God's industrious hand supplies every night, preparing the earth for the bursting forth of the sun ; the rain, which penetrates the heart of the earth, clearing obstructions ; the frost and snow, which act as a tonic, producing immediate circulation, bidding the dead earth leap into life.

The cost was $6.00 in 1871, which is equivalent to $151.31 in USD near the end of November 2023. Not bad for a trio of medicines that cured absolutely everything ... as long as you don't stew over how these cures were just three degrees of water ... it might make you steam.

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