Dr. William Edmund Aughinbaugh, Medical Adventurer (Item of the Month)

By Arlene Shaner, Historical Collections Reference Librarian

Dr. Aughinbaugh, circa 1915. In: "A Globe-Trotting Physician," American Magazine, Nov. 1915, 34.

Dr. Aughinbaugh, circa 1915. In: “A Globe-Trotting Physician,” American Magazine, Nov. 1915, 34.

In the November 1915 issue of The American Magazine, the “Interesting People” section profiled an unusual physician. The article described Dr. William Edmund Aughinbaugh (18711940) as being “round like the earth; and he has rolled around it often. He has sawed bones and prescribed pills in every degree of latitude on both hemispheres.”1

As the article, and his autobiography, I Swear by Apollo, make clear, Aughinbaugh lived a life of adventure, traveling the globe for decades. Cuba, Venezuela, India, Peru, and Mexico were all early destinations where he treated lepers, studied the plague, and set up hospitals. He was a founder or early member of the Explorers, Adventurers, and Circumnavigators Clubs; taught courses about foreign trade at New York University and Columbia; and spent many years writing about and helping negotiate foreign trade agreements in Latin American countries and for South American natural resources.

The Academy’s manuscript collections contain a small album of photographs donated by the New York Public Library in 1952 (NYPL began sending items of medical interest that were given to them to the Academy in 1900). NYPL has a small collection of Aughinbaugh’s papers, mostly related to his work as the foreign editor of the New York Commercial. Aughinbaugh probably assembled the album between 1897 and 1906. Most of the photographs are unlabeled and trying to contextualize them has presented interesting challenges, demonstrating both the ways in which the written record helps us uncover more information and how much will probably remain forever unknowable.

It’s pretty clear that the first couple of photographs date to around 1895–97, when Aughinbaugh was a medical student at Columbian University (now George Washington) in Washington, D.C., and then an intern at Emergency Hospital there.

As both Aughinbaugh’s autiobiography and his New York Times obituary attest, he helped finance his medical education by founding, with several other students, the Hippocratic Exhumation Corporation, essentially a grave-robbing operation. Aughinbaugh justified the less than savory labors of the corporation by assuring his readers that “care was always taken to undress the corpse and return the clothing to the grave… “as, according to court decree “a naked body belonged to no one—no crime would be committed by taking it.”2

Aughinbaugh insisted that he and his friends were not alone in this enterprise. Most medical students were desperate for bodies to dissect, and few legitimate ways to procure them existed. John Harley Warner and James Edmonson, in their recent book, Dissection: Photographs of a Rite of Passage in American Medicine: 1880-1930, corroborate this assertion, noting that in Washington, D.C., as well as in many states, there were no legal ways of obtaining bodies at that time, even though students were required to complete dissections to graduate. These two photographs, of Aughinbaugh (on the left) and two other students dissecting a body, and of Aughinbaugh and a fellow physician with a skeleton companion, fit right into the tradition of medical students posing with their cadavers in dissecting rooms.3

The album also contains posed portraits of patients suffering from diseases or showing the results of surgical operations. In some cases, Aughinbaugh pasted multiple photographs of the same patient into the scrapbook. The album dates from a time that witnessed the expanded use of photographs to document treatments and disease. While there is no way to be certain, these photographs may have been taken by Aughinbaugh himself.

Another group of pictures shows groups of people that include Aughinbaugh himself (here in a white coat and hat). These images must date to Aughinbaugh’s years in Cuba. Having been denied the opportunity to enlist during the Spanish-American War in 1898 because of a heart condition, Aughinbaugh signed on as the ship’s surgeon for a vessel ferrying sick and wounded soldiers between Cuba and the United States. After the signing of the Treaty of Paris, he jumped ship while the boat was docked in Havana and stayed on as a civilian surgeon, working at the largest hospital in Cuba devoted to the care of leprosy patients, which, although he does not name it, must have been the hospital at San Lazaro, on the outskirts of Havana.4

Aughinbaugh’s autobiography provides real documentation for only a single photograph in his album. Aughinbaugh spent about four years (ca. 1902–1906) in India during a bubonic plague epidemic, working for the Indian Plague Commission. The picture shows an Indian ascetic suspended upside down over a fire. “I photographed one man who hung suspended by his feet from a banyan tree, while his youthful assistant built a fire of dried cow dung within a foot of his head,” Aughinbaugh writes, “When he was lowered, I… could not detect one sign of a burn”.5 He later submitted the photograph to a contest run by the New York Herald, won a prize, and added the clipping to the album.

This album raises many questions, both about the use of photography by physicians to record information about medical practice and about the ways in which individuals choose to save images that document their own life experiences. Aughinbaugh’s choice to conflate the personal with the professional is part of what continues to make the album an intriguing part of our collections.

References

1. Barton, Bruce, “Globe Trotting Physician,” The American Magazine v.80 (Nov 1915), p. 34. Accessed online on July 29, 2015: http://hdl.handle.net/2027/coo.31924065598967?urlappend=%3Bseq=446

2. Aughinbaugh, W.E., I Swear by Apollo (New York: Farrar & Rineharrt, 1938), pp. 44-49. NYTimes obituary: http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive/pdf?res=9C06E5D91F3CE73ABC4152DFB467838B659EDE Accessed online on July 29, 2015.

3. Warner, John Harley and James Edmonson, Dissection: photographs of a right of passage in American medicine, 1880-1930 (New York: Blast Books, 2009), pp. 17-19.

4. Aughinbaugh, pp. 103-113.

5. Aughinbaugh, p. 165.

How Air Conditioning Changed the NICU

By Johanna Goldberg, Information Services Librarian

We’ve entered the season of hot, humid, frizzy-headed misery outside and freezing temperatures from blasting office air conditioners inside. Which got me to thinking: What impact did air conditioning have on medicine?

Constantin P. Yaglou. From the Harvard School of Public Health 1955 yearbook.

Constantin P. Yaglou. From the Harvard School of Public Health 1955 yearbook.

One man did impressive work on this front. Constantin P. Yaglou (1897–1960) was not a physician, but a professor of industrial hygiene at Harvard’s School of Public Health. Born in Constantinople, he came to the United States in 1920 and earned a master’s degree from Cornell. He joined the Research Laboratory of the American Society of Heating and Ventilating Engineers in 1921, where he spent five years studying the influence of humidity, temperature, and air circulation on working and resting adults. In 1925, he joined the department of industrial hygiene at Harvard.1

His cross-disciplinary collaboration with Harvard Medical School’s pediatrics department, notably Dr. Kenneth Blackfan, proved innovative. Assisted by nurse Katherine MacKenzie Wyman, they published “The premature infant: A study of the effects of atmospheric conditions on growth and on development” in the American Journal of Diseases of Children in 1933.

The air conditioning unit in a nursery for premature infants. In “The premature infant: A study of the effects of atmospheric conditions on growth and on development,” American Journal of Diseases of Children, 1933, 46(5).

The air conditioning unit in a nursery for premature infants. In “The premature infant: A study of the effects of atmospheric conditions on growth and on development,” American Journal of Diseases of Children, 1933, 46(5).

They studied the effects of Harvard’s newly air conditioned nursery from 1926–1929, and compared their measurements to those from pre-air conditioned 1923–1925. (From 1926–1929, they controlled for variables like diet and dress.) They found that premature infants were less able to stabilize their body temperatures than infants born at term. Even among premature infants, ability to regulate temperature changed depending on birth weight. They determined the ideal temperature for premature newborns to be 75-100 degrees Fahrenheit with 65% humidity.2 These influential findings lay a foundation for the development and use of temperature-controlled incubators.3

Yaglou published a figure neatly summarizing the study’s major results in JAMA in 1938:

A summary of the results of the premature infant study. In "Hospital air conditioning," JAMA 1938, 110(24).

A summary of the results of the premature infant study. In “Hospital air conditioning,” JAMA, 1938, 110(24).

This figure comes from Yaglou’s broad-reaching “Hospital Air Conditioning,” which brought together studies on air conditioning’s effects in the operating room, recovery wards, premature nurseries (summarizing his prior work, as in the figure above), fever cabinets, allergen-free rooms, and oxygen chambers.4

According to the article, not only did air-conditioned operating rooms help those involved in surgery feel more comfortable, it also reduced “the risk of explosion of certain anesthetic gases.”4 In the post-operative recovery rooms, air conditioning reduced the risk of heat stroke and improved the body’s ability to recuperate, though Yaglou did not recommend a particularly cool temperature. “With a relative humidity of about 55 per cent,” he wrote, “a temperature of about 80 will probably prove acceptable.”

But even with the benefits of air conditioning discussed in the article, it was difficult to employ at a large scale in the late 1930s. Yaglou concluded, “High cost precludes cooling the entire hospital, but the needs of the average hospital may be satisfactorily fulfilled by the use of built-in room coolers in certain sections of the hospital and a few portable units which can be wheeled from ward to ward when needed.”4

In addition to his work in medical settings, Yaglou also performed military research on extreme climates like the Yukon, the tropics, and the Arizona desert, “working with volunteers to determine the limits of human endurance under severe heat, cold and humidity.”5 Perhaps it should come as no surprise that the UK Antarctic Place-names Committee christened Yaglou Point in his honor in 1965.6

References

1. Whittenberger JL, Fair GM. Constantin Prodromos Yaglou. Arch Environ Heal An Int J. 1961;2(2):93–94. doi:10.1080/00039896.1961.10662820.

2. Blackfan KD, Yaglou CP, Wyman KM. The premature infant: A study of the effects of atmospheric conditions on growth and on development. Am J Dis Child. 1933;46(5):1175–1236. doi:10.1001/archpedi.1933.01960060001001.

3. Rutter TL. Comfort zone. Harvard Public Heal Rev. 1997:29.

4. Yaglou CP. Hospital air conditioning. J Am Med Assoc. 1938;110(24):2003–2009. doi:10.1001/jama.1938.62790240003010.

5. Constantin Yaglou, Harvard Professor. New York Times. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=9A06E6DF123DE333A25757C0A9609C946191D6CF. Published June 4, 1960. Accessed July 21, 2015.

6. Yaglou Point, Antarctica – Geographical Names, map, geographic coordinates. Available at: http://www.geographic.org/geographic_names/antname.php?uni=16847&fid=antgeo_126. Accessed July 21, 2015.

X-raying Orphans: Fictionalizing Medical History in Orphan #8

Guest author Kim van Alkemade has a doctorate in English from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and is a professor at Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania. Orphan #8 is her first novel.

“They weren’t treatments,” I interrupted, surprising both of us with my vehemence. “It was an experiment. I was experimented on, not treated.”1

The premise of my historical novel Orphan #8 is this: in 1919, four-year-old Rachel Rabinowitz is placed in a Jewish orphanage in New York where the fictional Dr. Mildred Solomon is conducting X-ray research using the children as her subjects. Years later, Rachel, who has become a nurse, is given the opportunity for a reckoning with her past when old Dr. Solomon becomes her patient. While the novel is fiction, medical research on children in orphanages was a common practice, and a child like Rachel Rabinowitz would not have been unique at the time. Not only were children “used as subjects in a number of experiments involving X-rays”2 but a “preponderance of the children subjects were poor, institutionalized, mentally ill, physically disabled, or chronically ill.”3

A dormitory in the Hebrew Infant Asylum. From Annual Report 1914 Hebrew Infant Asylum of New York.

A dormitory in the Hebrew Infant Asylum. From Annual Report 1914 Hebrew Infant Asylum of New York.

The inspiration for the novel arose from research I was doing about Jewish orphanages for a family history project. In the archives of the American Jewish Historical Society, I read that Dr. Elsie Fox, a graduate of Cornell Medical School, X-rayed a group of eight children at the Home for Hebrew Infants in New York City, resulting in persistent alopecia. Upon the transfer of these children to the Hebrew Orphan Asylum in October 1919, the Board of Trustees discussed what to do in the “matter of the children received with bald heads.” On November 9, 1919, they entered into their meeting minutes a letter from the Home for Hebrew Infants “assuming responsibility… for the condition of these children.” The letter refers to an enclosure of data about the eight children, as well as a letter from Dr. Fox detailing her X-ray treatments. Unfortunately, the enclosures were not entered into the minutes. On May 16, 1920, the matter was put to rest when the Trustees “ordered that children afflicted with alopecia should have wigs made, and be boarded out, if possible.”4

Detail of the Meeting Minutes of the Board of Trustees of the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Courtesy of the American Jewish Historical Society.

Detail of the Meeting Minutes of the Board of Trustees of the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Courtesy of the American Jewish Historical Society.

Dr. Solomon blinked, confused. She stared at me as if trying to focus on print too small to read. “You were one of my subjects?”

I nodded, imagining for a moment that she recognized me: her brave, good girl. She lifted her hand to my face, bent my head back to expose the underside of my chin. Her thumbnail circled the scars there, tracing the dimes of shiny skin. Then she placed her fingers against my drawn eyebrows and wiped away the pencil. Finally, she reached up to my hairline and pushed along the brow. My wig shifted. She pulled her hand back in surprise. It wasn’t tenderness I saw in her face, not even regret. Fear, maybe? No, not even that.

“So the alopecia was never resolved? I was curious about that, always meant to follow up. What number were you?”

I adjusted my wig. “Number eight.”5

Though I invented the character of Dr. Mildred Solomon before I discovered more about Dr. Elsie Fox, it turned out the real person was similar to my fictional character. Elsie Fox was born in Vienna, Austria, in 1885. When she graduated from Cornell with her medical degree in 1911, she was one of 8 women in a class of 53 graduates. She became a fellow of the New York Academy of Medicine in 1916, and was a member of the Bronx Roentgen Ray Society.6 A published medical researcher, she went on to become the Director of the Harvey School for the Training of Analytical and X-ray Technicians in Manhattan and was a Roentgenologist at City Hospital. She was 58 when she died in June 1943.

From Hess, Alfred F., M. D. Scurvy, past and present. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1920.

From Hess, Alfred F., M. D. Scurvy, past and present. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1920.

In my novel, I paired the fictional Dr. Solomon with a character closely based on a real orphanage pediatrician of the time. Dr. Alfred F. Hess was attending physician to the Hebrew Infant Asylum and a renowned researcher into childhood nutritional diseases. He was the innovator of an infant isolation ward at the orphanage in which babies were kept in separate glassed-in rooms to avoid the spread of disease. Hess is well-known for a quote in which he extolled the advantages of conducting research on “institutional children” who provided the advantage of belonging to “the same stratum of society,” being “reared within the same walls,” and having the “same daily routine, including similar food and an equal amount of outdoor life.” He concluded: “These are some of the conditions which are insisted on in considering the course of experimental infection among laboratory animals, but which can rarely be controlled in a study in man.”7

Glassed-in babies, from Annual Report 1914 Hebrew Infant Asylum of New York.

Glassed-in babies, from Annual Report 1914 Hebrew Infant Asylum of New York.

Dr. Hess’s approach to the study of scurvy, which involved inducing the condition in children and then experimenting with various cures, was controversial even in his lifetime. In 1921, Hess was criticized “for using ‘orphans as guinea pigs’ in studies of the dietary factors in rickets and scurvy” by “withholding orange juice from institutionalized infants until they developed the characteristic small hemorrhages associated with the disease.”8

From Hess, Alfred F., M. D. Scurvy, past and present. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1920.

From Hess, Alfred F., M. D. Scurvy, past and present. Philadelphia, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1920.

“My name is Rachel, I’ve told you that. But you don’t care, do you? Even now, I’m just a number to you. All the children at the Infant Home were nothing more than numbers to you.” I thought of the tattoo on Mr. Mendelsohn’s frail arm. “Just numbers, like in the concentration camps.”

She gripped the sheets. “How can you say such a thing? You were in an orphanage, not some concentration camp. They took care of you, fed you, clothed you. Jewish charities support the best orphanages, the best hospitals. Even this Home is as good as it gets for old people like me. You have no right to even mention the camps.”

Of course the orphanage wasn’t a death camp, I knew that, but I wasn’t backing down. “You came into a place where we were powerless, you gave us numbers, subjected us to experiments in the name of science. How is that different?”9

When I would tell people about the medical experimentation on children depicted in my novel, they would often say it sounded like something the Nazis would do. As first I was impatient with the comparison: these experiments were conducted well before the rise Hitler in Germany, and the doctors conducting the research, many of them Jewish themselves, intended to advance medicine for the benefit of all children. Yet, as I thought about it from the point of view of one of the child subjects, I wondered if that distinction would matter.

It is easy for contemporary readers to conflate all medical experimentation on children with the atrocities of the Holocaust, but even after “the world was outraged at the murders carried out in the name of science by Nazi physicians during World War II,”10 some American doctors continued to use orphans, prisoners, and other disenfranchised populations in medical research without their consent. In my novel Orphan #8, I bring this aspect of medical history to general readers through the use of narrative and story. Medical students and physicians may also find that fiction provides an opportunity to explore these complex issues with empathy and imagination and to engage a wider community in the discussion of medical ethics.

References

1. van Alkemade, Kim. Orphan #8 (New York: William Morrow, 2015), 232.

2. Lederer, Susan E. and Michael A. Grodin. “Historical Overview: Pediatric Experimentation.” In Grodin, Michael A. and Leonard H. Glantz. Children as Research Subjects: Science, Ethics, and Law (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 10.

3. Lederer and Grodin, 19-20.

4. Executive Committee Minutes 1909-1930. Hebrew Orphan Asylum Collection, Archives of the American Jewish Historical Society, Center for Jewish History, 15 West 16th Street, New York, NY.

5. van Alkemade, 173.

6. The Bulletin of the New York Academy of Medicine. September 19 (1943): 676.

7. Lederer, Susan E. “Orphans as Guinea Pigs: American Children and Medical Experimenters, 1890-1930.” In Roger Cooter, ed. In The Name of the Child: Health and Welfare, 1880-1940 (New York: Routledge, 1992), 115.

8. Lederer and Grodin, 13.

9. van Alkemade, 282.

10. Lederer and Grodin, 16.

Adventures in Rare Book Cataloging

By Tatyana Pakhladzhyan, Rare Book Cataloguer

At the October festival celebrating the 500th birthday of anatomist Andreas Vesalius, The Drs. Barry and Bobbi Coller Rare Book Reading Room exhibited seven anatomical works drawn from the library’s extensive rare book holdings. Anatomy is one of the library’s major collecting strengths, including works by and related to Andreas Vesalius.

Visitors looking at books on display at 2014's Vesalius 500 festival.

Visitors looking at books on display at 2014’s Vesalius 500 festival. Photograph by Charles Manley.

Since the exhibited materials have been in the library’s collection for decades, I was curious to see how their online bibliographic records looked. As card catalogs turned into online catalogs at the end of last century, collection holdings became increasingly findable from far away. But in the process of converting card catalog records into online records, some items ended up with incomplete or incorrect information reflected in the online catalog. I found that the records of the seven anatomical holdings required some attention.

The purpose of rare book cataloging is to create elaborate catalog records for books printed during the hand-press period (c.1455c.1830) and to describe and record copy-specific information that would uniquely identify the library’s holding from other copies of the same title. Descriptive cataloging should be sufficiently detailed to represent the work.

Female flap anatomy from The Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Female flap anatomy from The Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Rare book cataloging requires complete and faithful transcription of the title page in its original language, greater detail in the physical description area, and careful and thorough recording of various distinguishing points in the note area, including signature statements, identification of bibliographic format, annotations, pagination errors, illustration techniques and creators, printing method, binding style, and provenance. Full and accurate descriptions allow researchers to find materials in online catalogs. Adding images or links to digital copies is another catalog feature that allows for more sophisticated experience for rare material users.

I was particularly delighted to update the catalog record for the 1559 edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa totius anatomiae delineatio, aere exarata (A complete delineation of the entire anatomy engraved on copper). This beautiful folio is simply a work of art! Read more about the work in a recent blog post.

Male flap anatomy from The Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Male flap anatomy from The Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

The title page is an engraved plate, with a hand-colored portrait of Queen Elizabeth at center and the royal motto “Dieu et mon droit” under the portrait. Facing the title is the leaf with arms of the Order of the Garter “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” decorated with jewels. (Thanks to my library colleagues for helping me prove that “Honi soit qui mal y pense” motto is, in fact, the motto of the Order of the Garter.)

The coat of arms, left, and title page, right, of the Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

The coat of arms, left, and title page, right, of the Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Checking standard bibliographies for corresponding period and making identifying references is an essential step to rare book cataloging. While consulting A Bio-Bibliography of Andreas Vesalius by Harvey Cushing, (1943, no. VI.C-4, p. 128), I found his comment about known copies at that time, stating that the “leaf before title bearing royal arms and ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ is missing in all copies but London (BM [British Museum]).” Our copy has this leaf, seen above left.

Rare book cataloging also requires pointing out differences between printings, or manifestations, of a particular work. While consulting the English Short Title Catalogue (ESTC) that lists more than 480,000 items published between 1473 and 1800, I found that the entry for this work has a note, “a variant state has B7 unsigned.” In the hand-press era, books were printed as sheets with varying numbers of pages per side, with signature marks as letters, numbers, or symbols at the bottom of each leaf to help binders assemble the sheets of a book into the right order. I was curious to find out if the NYAM copy was a variation with signature B7 unsigned, but it is signed, although not on the bottom of the page.

Note "B.vii" hiding at the bottom right of the page. The Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Note “B.vii” hiding under the text at the right of the page. The Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

The library’s 1559 edition, the English translation by Nicholas Udall, is a reissue of the 1553 edition, with a slightly different title page, a dedication, and a colophon leaf. Bookseller information from the colophon at foot of last leaf reads: “Imprinted at London within the blacke fryars: by Thomas Gemini. Anno Salutis. 1559. Mense Septemb.”

Final leaf with colophon. The Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Final leaf with colophon. The Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

Cataloging rare books is an exciting process and sometimes even an adventure, as older books are unique and carry impressions of their formal owners. Our copy’s provenance includes bookplate of bibliophile George Dunn, “From the Library of George Dunn of Woolley Hall near Maidenhead.” It was a generous gift to the Academy library from Mrs. George S. Huntington, the wife of a prominent anatomist.

The Long Road to Medicare

By Danielle Aloia, Special Projects Librarian

July 30 marks the 50th anniversary of the establishment of Medicare. But getting to the signing of the Social Security Amendment of 1965, which created Medicare, was a long road.

In the 1910s and 1920s, numerous reports, recommendations, and programs advocated the development of a national health system, especially after the United Kingdom adopted National Health Insurance in 1911. Due to opposition from the American Medical Association (AMA), labor unions, and insurance companies these recommendations were never fully accepted. However, there was consensus that something needed to do be done to protect the poor from the burden of healthcare costs.

As the charts below show, in 1929 citizens spent over three billion dollars on health care. The next chart shows where that money was spent. As noted by William Foster, chairman of the Committee on Public Health of the National Advisory Council on Radio in Education, “We now spend every year for medical care over three billion dollars, yet only one dollar out of every thirty goes to public health services for the prevention of disease.”1

From: Foster, William Trufant, U.S. Public Health Service. Doctors, dollars, and disease. [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1937.

From: Foster WT, U.S. Public Health Service. Doctors, dollars, and disease. [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1937.

From: Foster, William Trufant, U.S. Public Health Service. Doctors, dollars, and disease. [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1937.

From: Foster WT, U.S. Public Health Service. Doctors, dollars, and disease. [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1937.

In the 1930s, Roosevelt established the Committee on Economic Security to study social insurance and public assistance needs and programs to help combat the economic effects of the Great Depression. The Committee did not put forth any legislative proposals in regard to health insurance because, among other controversies, of the “possibility that any such a proposal would be declared unconstitutional….”2 (How telling in light of the debates at the Supreme Court in 2012 on the constitutionality of the U.S. Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act!) The Committee did put in their report that more research and investigation was needed in the health insurance area. Franklin D. Roosevelt signed the Social Security Act (SSA) in 1935 with clear understanding that it was just the beginning of a more extensive program, one that would include a healthcare component.3

Roosevelt signing the Social Security Act, 1935. See here for names of participants. Courtesy of the Social Security Administration.

Roosevelt signing the Social Security Act, 1935. See here for names of participants. Courtesy of the Social Security Administration.

After the SSA was passed, Roosevelt quickly formed the Interdepartmental Committee to Coordinate Health and Welfare Activities. This committee held The National Health Conference in 1938, to “present and discuss the needs of the people of this country for preventive and curative service in illness and for the reduction of the economic burdens caused by illness.”4

The conference laid out five recommendations from a commissioned report of the Technical Committee on Medical Care, entitled the Need for a National Health Program:

From: Ratliff Beulah Amidon, U.S. Public Health Service. Who Can Afford Health? [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1939.

From: Ratliff BA, U.S. Public Health Service. Who Can Afford Health? [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1939.

Ultimately, the Committee adopted four of the five recommendations, all but recommendation four.5 The remaining recommendations were to be a “gradual expansion along well-planned lines with a view to achieving operation on a full scale within 10 years.”6

The recommendations were then embodied in the Wagner Bill in 1939, which outlined a broad federal health program. Not surprisingly, the bill was not brought to vote because of the opposition of the AMA and others.7 Subsequent legislative proposals were put forth, but none took hold.

In Marmor TR, Marmor JS. The Politics of Medicare. [Rev. American ed.]. Chicago : Aldine Pub.; 1973.

In Marmor TR, Marmor JS. The Politics of Medicare. [Rev. American ed.]. Chicago : Aldine Pub.; 1973.

In the early 1950s, the Truman Administration found “the right people” to move a health program forward—older Americans. The aged were sicker, poorer, less insured, and comprised the most hospitalizations. By focusing on this population, the administration hoped it could curb opposition.8 The focus of the program would be on hospitalization rather than on general health insurance.

But it would take the next 25 years for the passage of a health law. The Kennedy Administration led the charge in 1961 with the introduction of Medicare legislation, but the majority voted against it. The 1964 election brought a shift in the majority to the Democrats, allowing for further consideration of the bill. In 1965, with the backing of the AMA and insurance companies, Congress was ready to make a deal. They split Medicare into mandatory Part A: hospitalization, and voluntary Part B: medical insurance. This split helped appease opponents of a national health care system, or what some viewed as “socialized medicine.” Hospital costs were an easy target because hospital bills were large, costs were easier for actuaries to calculate, and patients were more likely to accept help. A portion of the Social Security taxes established by FDR were earmarked to cover the costs of the program and the elderly would pay extra if they opted into Part B.

LBJ signs the Medicare Act (Social Security Amendments) with Harry Truman looking on, 07/30/1965. Courtesy of OurDocuments.gov.

LBJ signs the Medicare Act (Social Security Amendments) with Harry Truman looking on, 07/30/1965. Courtesy of OurDocuments.gov.

In 1967, 19.36 million were enrolled in Part A and 17.87 million took advantage of Part B.9 Today, 55 million people are enrolled in Medicare.10 As the population ages, the economics of the program may need alteration—indeed, the Affordable Care Act has provisions for reforming physician payments and health care delivery. Medicare may need additional modernization in the future to support the population and remain economically viable. But as the history of Medicare shows, life-changing legislation takes time and patience.

References

1. Foster WT, U.S. Public Health Service. Doctors, dollars, and disease. [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1937.

2. Ibid.

3. Myers RJ, McCahan Foundation. Medicare. Homewood, Ill.: Published for McCahan Foundation, Bryn Mawr, Pa., by R. D. Irwin; 1970.

4. U.S. National Health Conference. Proceedings of the National Health Conference. Washington : U. S. Govt. print. off.; 1938.

5. Ratliff BA, U.S. Public Health Service. Who Can Afford Health? [New York]: Public Affairs Committee, Inc.; 1939.

6. U.S. National Health Conference. Proceedings of the National Health Conference. Washington : U. S. Govt. print. off.; 1938.

7. Myers RJ, McCahan Foundation. Medicare. Homewood, Ill.: Published for McCahan Foundation, Bryn Mawr, Pa., by R. D. Irwin; 1970.

8. Marmor TR, Marmor JS. The Politics of Medicare. [Rev. American ed.]. Chicago: Aldine Pub.; 1973.

9. Witkin, E. The Impact of Medicare. Springfield, Ill.: C. C. Thomas; 1971.

10. Davis K, Schoen C, Bandeali F. Medicare: 50 Years of Ensuring Coverage and Care. New York: Commonwealth Fund; 2015. Available at: http://www.commonwealthfund.org/~/media/files/publications/fund-report/2015/apr/1812_davis_medicare_50_years_coverage_care.pdf

Spoiled by a Certain Englishman? The Copying of Andreas Vesalius in Thomas Geminus’ Compendiosa

Laura Robson, the author of today’s guest post, is our 2014–2015 Helfand Research Fellow. She completed her PhD in Classics at the University of Reading, UK.

“I wish the Epitome had not been spoiled so disgracefully by a certain Englishman (who I think lived with my brother for a time). He took what had been written with great care succinctly as a list in the Epitome and expanded it with excerpts taken from the books of the Fabrica… He utterly corrupted what had made it most praiseworthy and so roughly and absurdly copied what had been set forth with elegant drawing and engraving that he preserved no appearance of Oporinus’ majestic edition.”1

These were the concerns of Franciscus Vesalius, brother of the famous anatomist Andreas Vesalius, published in the preface to The China Root Epistle in 1546. Within only three years of the original publication of Andreas Vesalius’ De Humani Corporis Fabrica and its companion work, the Epitome, a number of medical authors had copied and reproduced the beautiful illustrations that had made Andreas Vesalius and his work so famous.2

Andreas Vesalius (1514-1564). De humani corporis fabrica libri septum. Basel: Johannes Oporinus, 1543. The most famous illustrations are the series of fourteen muscle men, progressively dissected. Some figures, such as this one, are flayed. Hanging the muscles and tendons from the body afforded greater detail, not only showing the parts, but how they fit together.

Andreas Vesalius (1514-1564). De humani corporis fabrica libri septum. Basel: Johannes Oporinus, 1543. Click to enlarge.

The Fabrica was one of the first anatomical treatises of the 16th century to present illustrations of the anatomised body in a naturalistic way. Vesalius promoted the dissection of the human body as the best way to learn about anatomy. By performing human dissections, he uncovered errors in the work of the ancient anatomist Galen, whose use of animals as dissection material to substitute for the lack of human cadavers had dominated the understanding of the body for centuries. Vesalius was caught in a conflict: how to show the anatomical errors in Galen’s treatises without going against such an important medical authority and potentially damaging his own medical career. He used the Fabrica to present his findings and to build on Galen’s important work.

The Fabrica contained 700 folio pages of Latin text and beautiful woodcut illustrations depicting the anatomical body in different poses. Readers were signposted to turn back and forth several times between image and text. This, as well as each image being accompanied by a letter key, encouraged a very active reading of Vesalius’ treatise.3 The work proved popular, with people taking a particular interest in the figures, although people copied, adapted, and reused both the images and text of Vesalius’ work in many different medical treatises. Due to the size and high cost of the Fabrica, cheaper copies were often more accessible than the original, even though the pirating enraged Vesalius and his close circle. Book piracy was common at this time. There was not the modern sense of intellectual property or copyright legislations. Licenses allowed particular printers to print works first, but the Venetian and imperial privileges obtained by the authors to try and protect their books from piracy did little to stop others from copying them.4

In fact, Franciscus Vesalius accused the wrong man of copying his brother’s work (suggesting, perhaps, that he had not seen a copy of the offending book). The only Englishman known to live with Vesalius was John Caius, when they lodged together in Padua during their studies. Caius went on to be physician to King Edward VI. There is no evidence that he pirated any version Vesalius’ work.5

The work Franciscus refers to is in fact Thomas Geminus’ Compendiosa.6 The first edition is predominantly made up of the Latin text of the Epitome and its illustrations, with the addition of many Fabrica figures. It is believed to be one of the first books to use copperplate illustrations.7 Geminus stated in his dedication that he followed Vesalius, but shortened his book to make it more useful to readers, in particular students.8 Reproducing the images of the Fabrica with the text of the Epitome meant that there was little interaction and connection between the two. However, the publication of the Compendiosa did bring Vesalius’ illustrations to a wider audience as the book was shorter and therefore cheaper than the original.

In order to make the work more accessible to those who could not read Latin, Geminus published an English edition of the Compendiosa in 1553. Nicholas Udall translated the short captions from the Fabrica figures into English. However, the main text of the Epitome was not translated. Instead the illustrations were placed after the text of Thomas Vicary’s The anatomie of mans body, first published in 1548.9 Geminus rearranged this text to follow the order of dissection for the parts of the body that decayed the fastest—the abdomen, the thorax, and the head. Although the images were not rearranged to fit this order, they connected more strongly to the text than in the Latin edition, as readers were signposted to particular figures discussing different parts of the body.

In his preface to the English Compendiosa, Nicholas Udall puts forward some interesting points about the uses of images and texts in medical manuals of his time. He said he did not know whether images or texts were more important when presenting anatomical information. He argued that information is set forth in writing for “high learning” and in pictures for the unlearned. He also explained that surgeons often performed duties like resetting bones by looking at figures alone.10 Surgeons had a low status in the medical profession at this time. They were not university educated like physicians and they were accused of having little knowledge about the science of medicine and healing. This suggests that readers who could not understand Latin, like surgeons, used anatomical figures and not written texts. I believe the English version of the Compendiosa was an attempt at encouraging these readers to read the text as well, by providing it in the vernacular language.

The coat of arms, left, and title page, right, of the Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa.

The coat of arms, left, and title page, right, of the Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa. Click to enlarge.

In 1559 the English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa was reissued.11 The annotated copy of this edition in the collection at the New York Academy of Medicine reveals hints as to how this anatomical text was used by readers at the time. The coloured and illuminated title page includes a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I. Slithers of gem stones have been attached to her necklace and the coat of arms opposite her on the adjacent page. The nude figures known as Adam and Eve are also coloured, and a reader inscribed the verse, “The Eyes of Them Both were opened, and They knew that They were naked: Genesis Chapter 3 Verse 7.”

Adam and Eve in the Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’  Compendiosa. Click to enlarge.

Adam and Eve in the Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa. Click to enlarge.

Two readers annotated this copy, both with different handwriting from the owner who in 1769 wrote his name—“G. Molesworth”—on the title page. One reader underlined key words and sections of the text, marking these with almost illegible notes in the margins. The other reader, though, focused on the illustrations. This second reader annotated the first three Vesalian musclemen images in the copy, adding the letters of the key, along with the Latin names for the body parts they represent.12 This English edition of the Compendiosa seldom uses the Latin names for parts of the body. So our reader did not get the information for his notes from this edition of the text. He must have consulted another text, such as the Latin edition of 1545, or even the original work of Vesalius’ Fabrica, in order to make his annotations.

Image of annotated muscleman figure  in the Academy's copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’  Compendiosa. Click to enlarge.

The annotated muscleman figure in the Academy’s copy of the 1559 English edition of Geminus’ Compendiosa. Click to enlarge.

This demonstrates the culture of active reading in the early modern period. This reader engaged with more than one treatise, perhaps even several works, when learning about the dissection of the body. He was familiar with the Latin language, and was therefore not one of the unlearned readers mentioned by Nicholas Udall in his preface to the work.

While Andreas and Franciscus Vesalius opposed the reproduction of the Fabrica and Epitome, the works that copied, adapted, and reused material from these texts allowed for the transmission of Vesalius’ knowledge of the body to a wider audience than the original works could reach. And this new audience interacted with the material, coming to a greater understanding of the dissected human body in the early modern period.

References

1. Andreas Vesalius (1546), Vesalius: The China Root Epistle, translated by Daniel H. Garrison (2015), p. 6.

2. Andreas Vesalius (1543a), De Humani Corporis Fabrica Libri Septem, Basel and Andreas Vesalius, (1543b), Andreae Vesalii Suorum de Humani Corporis Fabrica Librorum Epitome, Basel.

3. On active reading in Vesalius’ anatomical texts see, Nancy Siraisi (1994), “Vesalius and Human Diversity in De humani corporis fabrica”, in Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, Vol. 57 p.64 and Sachiko Kusukawa (2012), Picturing the Book of Nature: Image, Text, and Argument in Sixteenth-Century Human Anatomy and Medical Botany, Chicago and London, p. 24.

4. On history of copyright and pirating see Christopher L. C. E. Witcombe (2004), Copyright in the Renaissance: Prints and Privilegio in Sixteenth-Century Venice and Rome, Leiden.

5. See Charles O’Malley (1955), “The Relations of John Caius With Andreas Vesalius and Some Incidental Remarks on the Guinta Galen and on Thomas Geminus,” in Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences Vol. 10.2 pp.147-172.

6. Thomas Geminus (1545), Compendiosa totius anatomie delineatio, aere exarata: Thomam Geminum, London.

7. Leroy Crummer (1926), “The Copper Plates of Raynalde and Geminus”, in Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine Vol 20.1 p. 53.

8. Thomas Geminus (1545), Compendiosa totius anatomie delineatio, aere exarata: Thomam Geminum, London, p. 1.

9. Thomas Vicary (1577 [1548]), A Profitable Treatise of the Anatomie of mans body: compyled by that excellent chirurgion, M. Thomas Vicary esquire, seriaunt chirurgion to king Henry the eyght, to king Edward the. vj. to Queene Mary, and to our most gracious Soueraigne Lady Queene Elizabeth, and also cheefe chirurgion of S. Bartholomewes Hospital. Which work is newly reuyued, corrected, and published by the chirurgions of the same hospital now beeing, London.

10. Thomas Geminus (1553), Compendiosa totius anatomie delineatio, aere exarata: Thomam Geminum, London, p.1.

11. Thomas Geminus (1559), Compendiosa totius anatomie delineatio, aere exarata: Thomam Geminum, London.

12. Ibid. p. Cii.

Making Collections Accessible: The New York Academy of Medicine Library’s Health Pamphlet Collection

By Katarzyna Bator, Collections Care Assistant, Gladys Brooks Book & Paper Conservation Laboratory

Every library is likely to find parts of its collection in need of protective enclosures and unique storage solutions. As part of our responsibility for the physical care of the collections at The New York Academy of Medicine, staff in the Gladys Brooks Book & Paper Conservation Laboratory routinely engages in large-scale rehousing projects. One such project currently underway is rehousing the library’s Health Pamphlet Collection. We estimate the project will take up to three years to complete.

The Health Pamphlet Collection consists of 19th– and early 20th-century health-related publications in many languages. It covers a wide range of topics, such as nutrition, proper hygiene, exercise, as well as medical innovations and research.

A damaged document box housing health pamphlets.

A damaged document box housing health pamphlets.

Approximately 50,000 health pamphlets are currently housed in acidic envelopes or plastic bags. These are in oversized boxes too big for the compact shelving unit on which they are stored. This limits accessibility, as the compact shelving cannot move properly, leaving little room for a librarian to retrieve each box from the shelf. In addition, each box is heavy and overstuffed with materials. This puts the pamphlets at risk of damage during storage and retrieval, and is problematic for staff who have to move and transport heavy boxes for patron use.

Previous storage space, with overstuffed document boxes.

Previous storage space, with overstuffed document boxes.

As part of the rehousing efforts for this collection, staff members place each pamphlet in an archival envelope with a 10-point folder stock insert for additional support, and then into a custom-made enclosure. The design of the enclosure is borrowed from the New-York Historical Society Library’s conservation laboratory. It is economic, sturdy, easy to make, and most importantly allows for safe and easy access to the collection.

Storage space with rehoused pamphlets

Storage space with rehoused pamphlets

The process of rehousing a collection involves more than simply making new enclosures and moving items to a new space. In order to make the Health Pamphlet Collection more accessible, staff members also dry clean each item with soot sponges—absorbent vulcanized rubber dirt erasers— and assess them for other conservation treatment needs, which they record in a spreadsheet to address as needed over time. In addition, a volunteer is creating an accurate inventory of all of the pamphlets to aid in future cataloging updates.

The Health Pamphlet Collection contains a wealth of information for researchers; through this project, conservation staff hopes to guarantee its accessibility to patrons both today and for generations to come.

Visiting Ellis Island’s Hospital Complex

On June 7, our Friends of the Rare Book Room and ARCHIVE Global: Architecture for Health enjoyed a private visit to the hospital zone on Ellis Island. The private support group Save Ellis Island offers hardhat tours of the hospital complex, which is adjacent to the main reception center operated by the National Park Service. More than 30 people took the ferry from Battery Park across New York Harbor to Ellis Island to learn more about the site and its importance to the history of public health in New York City. Some stayed on for lunch afterward at historic Fraunces Tavern.

Our Save Ellis Island tour guide gives safety instructions before the group enters the hospital zone.

Our Save Ellis Island tour guide gives safety instructions before the group enters the hospital zone.

On the south side of the island, and out of use since 1954, the hospital complex housed would-be immigrants who were not permitted to immediately enter the country. All steerage passengers were inspected—usually for only a few seconds, given their great numbers—and some 1 to 2% were detained for health reasons. Completed in 1909, the 750-bed hospital included wards for infectious diseases, kitchens, massive laundry facilities, an autopsy room, and recreation spaces for patients and staff alike.

The autopsy room.

The autopsy room.

Even in its semi-derelict condition, the complex is one of the few remaining “pavilion” style hospitals in the country. Pavilion hospitals were first built in France in the 18th century, and were enthusiastically endorsed by reformers such as Florence Nightingale in the 19th century. The design emphasized the need for ventilation, with wards built to promote sanitary conditions, provide light, and maximize the circulation of air. Pavilion hospital design fell out of use in the 20th century.

Caged verandas allowed patients access to fresh air while controlling their movement around the complex.

Caged verandas allowed patients access to fresh air while controlling their movement around the complex.

The Ellis Island site, already abandoned and crumbling, was further damaged during hurricane Sandy, and Save Ellis Island is working to stabilize the buildings, while preserving the sometimes eerie atmosphere of the site, now partially overgrown with vegetation. For more information about the complex, and the Save Ellis Island project to bring it back into public view, see: http://www.saveellisisland.org/history/hospital-complex

20150607_122018

Wall with a tide mark showing the level of water during Hurricane Sandy.

We are increasingly offering our Friends group exclusive events such as this visit. If you are interested in becoming a Friend, find out more here. Friends who missed out on this sold-out event should e-mail culturalevents@nyam.org to express their interest in another tour at a later date.

Apply for our 2016 Research Fellowships

Are you working on a history of medicine project that would be enhanced by spending a month mining our collections?

NYAM Library, Rare Book Room photos by Amy Hart © 2012We are now accepting applications for the Paul Klemperer Fellowship in the History of Medicine and the Audrey and William H. Helfand Fellowship in the History of Medicine and Public Health. Each fellow receives a stipend of $5,000 to support travel, lodging, and incidental expenses for a flexible period between January 1, 2016 and December 31, 2016. Fellows are expected to spend at least four weeks in New York City, working at The New York Academy of Medicine. Besides completing a research project, each fellow will be expected to make a public presentation at the Academy and submit a final report.

Both fellowships are designed to support researchers who can demonstrate how an opportunity to immerse themselves in our rich holdings will enhance their work. Preference in the application process is given to early career scholars, although the fellowships are open to anyone who wishes to apply, regardless of academic status, discipline, or citizenship. While both fellowships are for researchers engaged in history of medicine projects, the Helfand Fellowship emphasizes the role of visual materials in understanding that history.

The application deadline is Monday, August 17, 2015. Letters of recommendation must be received by Friday, August 21, 2015. Fellowship recipients will be notified by Thursday, October 1, 2015.

Perspective applicants are encouraged to contact Arlene Shaner, Reference Librarian for Historical Collections, at 212-822-7313 or history@nyam.org with questions or for  assistance identifying useful materials in the library collections.

Swimming from 1818 to 1918

By Johanna Goldberg, Information Services Librarian

Summertime is swimming time! Two books from our collection, published exactly 100 years apart, offer beach tips (some of which have aged better than others).

Title page, J. Frost, The Art of Swimming, 1818.

Title page, J. Frost, The Art of Swimming, 1818.

In The Art of Swimming (1818), J. Frost encouraged parents to teach their sons to swim:

“Some parents may object to their children being taught the art of swimming, from an apprehension that they would be more exposed to danger, on account of its inducing them more frequently to bathe: to them I would reply, that bathing produces very salutary effects, and expert swimmers are seldom in danger in the water; while, to those who are ignorant of the art, bathing is really dangerous.”1

Frost was ahead of his time. In the 19th century, New York and many other U.S. cities fined people for public swimming (no day swimming in the East River! It’s “‘extremely offensive to spectators.’”). As is evident from the male-oriented focus of Frost’s book, swimming only became acceptable for women with the availability of gender-segregated facilities. It was not until the mid-1800s—the age of a growing fitness movement—that upper and middle class Americans turned to swimming as recreation at seaside destinations and private fitness clubs. Public pools opened around the same time, but with a hygienic mission rather than a recreational one.2

In a footnote, Frost explains why learning to swim was so important:

“The writer, when young, had the happiness to rescue his brother from a watery grave; and he has lately had the pleasure to hear, that two of his pupils were the means of saving a person from drowning; and still more recently, that one of his pupils was preserved by swimming, when accidentally thrown from a ferry on the river Trent, though encumbered with his clothes.”1

In addition to 49 pages of swimming instructions, followed by the text of a swimming-related letter written by Benjamin Franklin, the book includes “twelve copper plate engravings comprising twenty-six appropriate figures, correctly exhibiting and elucidating the action and attitude, in every branch of that invaluable art.”1

Click on an image below to view a selection of these plates:

 

Cover of Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918.

Cover of Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918.

By 1918, when Frank Eugen Dalton published Swimming Scientifically Taught, America was on the cusp of a golden age of swimming. From 1920–1940, pools opened in more than 1,000 cities across the country as centers for recreation for men and women of all classes.2

Yet public pools were not Dalton’s focus, at least not in his introduction. He paints this evocative picture:

“When slaves of the desk and the counting-house are looking forward for an all too brief vacation and seek the mountains or seashore to store up energy for another year’s work, they should know how to swim. Poor indeed is the region which can not boast of a piece of water in which to take an invigorating plunge.”3

Dalton’s enthusiasm for swimming was limitless: “Most other forms of exercise, after they have been participated in for some time, are apt to become something like efforts, or even hardships. Swimming, on the other hand, continues to be exhilarating.”3

Dives. In  Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, pp. 98-99.

Dives. In Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, pp. 98-99.

Dalton believed that all but the most nervous person could “become a very fair swimmer” by reading his book.3 In addition to teaching basics, like the back stroke, breast stroke, and side stroke, the book also covers more advanced ground. Dalton shows a number of dives, a maneuver called “The Monte Cristo Sack Trick,” and includes instructions for learning to swim while clothed (“Practice first with a coat, then with a coat and waistcoat; next add trousers, and last the shoes and stockings”) and with hands and feet tied (a trick for advanced performers).3

The Monte Cristo Sack Trick.  Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, p. 142.

The Monte Cristo Sack Trick. Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, p. 142.

The final chapters focus on emergency response. Dalton describes two forms of resuscitation, Hall’s and Sylvester’s.3 Hall’s originated in 1856 as a method that did not require artificial respiration.4 Sylvester’s similar procedure followed two years later.5 Neither were very effective. It wasn’t until 1958 that mouth-to-mouth ventilation—a practice recommended by some medical societies as early as the 1770s—regained acceptance.4 Two years later, the American Heart Association developed CPR.6

Rule 1 of the Sylvester technique.  Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, p. 191.

Rule 1 of the Sylvester technique. Dalton, Swimming Scientifically Taught, 1918, p. 191.

Whether you prefer Frost’s or Dalton’s instructions, swim safely this summer.

References

1. Frost J. The art of swimming: A series of practical instructions, on an original and progressive plan…to which is added, Dr. Franklin’s treatise, also some anecdotes respecting swimming. New York: P.W. Gallaudet; 1818.

2. Wiltse J. Contested waters: A social history of swimming pools in America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press; 2007.

3. Dalton FE, Dalton LC. Swimming scientifically taught: A practical manual for young and old. Fifth ed. New York; London: Funk Wagnalls Co.; 1918.

4. Fahey DG. The self-inflating resuscitator—evolution of an idea. Anaesth Intensive Care. 2010;38 Suppl 1: 10–5.

5. Liss HP. A history of resuscitation. Ann Emerg Med. 1986;15(1): 65–72. doi: 10.1016/S0196-0644(86)80490-5.

6. American Heart Association. History of CPR. Available at: http://www.heart.org/HEARTORG/CPRAndECC/WhatisCPR/CPRFactsandStats/History-of-CPR_UCM_307549_Article.jsp. Accessed June 24, 2015.