The Enduring Impact of the X-Ray

Today we have part two of a guest post written by Dr. Daniel S. Goldberg, 2016 recipient of the Audrey and William H. Helfand Fellowship in the History of Medicine and Public Health. Part one can be read here.

X-ray exhibitions were hugely popular all over the country, and the greater NY area was no exception.  At a February 1896 demonstration run by Professor Arthur Wright, director of the Sloan Laboratory at Yale University, a newspaper reported that despite the auditorium being literally jam-packed, students were still crawling through windows 30 minutes into the lecture — and all this despite the fact that none of the audience, save those in the first few rows, could even hear Wright’s discussion.  The deans of multiple Yale schools (Divinity, Law, and Science), the head of the Yale Corporation, and the chief medical examiner were all in attendance.

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Perhaps the first published X-ray in the United States of a clinical condition. In “Rare Anomalies of the Phalanges Shown by the Röntgen Process,” Boston Medical and Surgical Journal 134(8), February 20, 1896: 198–99.

The pressing question is “why”? Why did X-rays exert such tremendous power across a wide spectrum of social domains? (X-rays were a constant topic of conversation in sermons and religious journals, in women’s journals, in influential satirical periodicals like Punch, and were the subject of a seemingly endless number of political and non-political cartoons, to name but a few).  Although historians of the X-ray have offered a number of plausible answers, I believe there is a key element left unexplored in the historiography: the intellectual frameworks, or ideas, relating to changing ideas of truth, doubt, and objectivity in U.S. society at the time.

Two of these frameworks are most useful in unpacking the stunning impact of the X-ray: the rise of mechanical objectivity, and what can be called “somaticism” within medicine and science.  Historians of science Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison explain that a new model of ‘objectivity’ begins to take hold during the middle decades of the 19th century.  Under this new model, the truth-value of scientific knowledge is a function of the investigator’s ability to remove or eliminate human, subjective influence from the knowledge-making process.  The fact that this is more or less impossible, and that X-rays can be manipulated in all sorts of ways was well-known to contemporaries and remained a source of anxiety for some time.  The important point is the ultimate goal: to let the mechanical processes of nature speak for themselves and reveal their truths.  Ideas of objectivity, as Daston and Galison point out, have for over four hundred years been connected to scientific images, which makes media like photography and X-rays especially significant.

By the end of the 19th century, ideas of mechanical objectivity begin to fundamentally reshape ideas of what is known and what is certain.  This is especially crucial in a century that features so much intense change, including but not limited to governments, family and labor structures, migration patterns, and, of course, industrialization and urbanization.  Late Victorians were beset with anxieties connected to their changing world, and they were especially concerned with artifice and deception — that the world was not what it seemed.  As such, intellectual frameworks that shaped the criteria for truth were hugely influential, and traveled well beyond narrow networks of scientists and medical men.

Somaticism integrates in important ways with constructs of mechanical objectivity.  Historians of medicine have documented the influence of somaticism (or, “empiricism,” as it is also sometimes termed) within medicine over the long 19th century.  The core of the framework is that truths about disease and the body are to be found in pathological anatomical objects.  The existence of these objects can then be clinically correlated with the illness complaints the patient has, or more likely had given that pathological objects are most likely to be located precisely during a postmortem — until the X-ray.  The truths of the sick body are to be found in the natural objects of disease, which makes seeing those objects so essential.  Laennec himself explained that the point of the stethoscope was not to listen; listening was merely a means to an end.  The point, as Jacalyn Duffin explains, was “to see with a better eye.”

Collectively, these frameworks go a significant length in explaining the enormous and enduring social impact of the X-ray.

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Article from the New York Record. May 1896.

For example, Morton’s clippings contain a May 1896 article from the New York Record entitled “X Rays for a Consideration: Light in a Human Kidney.”  The article details what may be the first private X-ray laboratory opened in New York City, founded by Mrs. M.F. Martin, and located at 110 East 26th Street.  The lab was intended solely for the use of physicians and hospitals.  One of its first patients was a doctor named George McLane, who traveled from North Dakota to have his kidney X-rayed for evidence of a possible stone.  A surgeon removed McLane’s kidney, and Morton placed it on a plate and subsequently irradiated it with X-rays.  The procedure “revealed the absence of any stone in the organ, demonstrating the entire reliability of doctors to prove the absence of stone in the kidney.”

The X-ray shines its light into the hitherto dark spaces inside the human body, revealing the truth of a disputed question: whether McLane suffered from a kidney stone or not.  The truth resides in the natural object itself, and the mechanism of the X-ray supposedly insulates the production of medical knowledge from the whims and artifices of the investigator (as compared to illustrations and drawings, for example).

Or, as Dr. McLane himself stated at the Post Graduate Hospital (the primary hospital at which Morton cared for inpatients):

“Dr. McLane spoke modestly at the Post Graduate Hospital about the risk he had taken in the name of science . . . ‘Hitherto a great many mistakes have been made owing to the inability of doctors to prove the absence of stone in the kidney . . .’  Now, by a very simple process, the truth can easily be determined.”

It is difficult to imagine how powerful it must have been, in 1896, to witness an X-ray operator remotely anatomize the living body.  Seeing inside the body had been a dream of physicians for centuries prior, and there is every reason to believe that its achievement has not eroded much of its social power.  Americans still perform significantly more medical imaging procedures than virtually any of our comparator societies, and what is most interesting is the evidence that this utilization is driven both by supply and demand.  That is, it is not merely that we have expensive X-ray and medical imaging machines — so we use them.  Across a wide variety of illness paradigms, illness sufferers and patients request medical imaging; they want it to be performed on their bodies.  The history of the X-ray helps us understand the enduring power of these tools, of what it means to delve into the penetralium.

The Early Days of the X-Ray

Today we have part one of a guest post written by Dr. Daniel S. Goldberg, 2016 recipient of the Audrey and William H. Helfand Fellowship in the History of Medicine and Public Health. Dr. Goldberg is trained as an attorney, a historian, and a bioethicist.  He is currently on the faculty at the Center for Bioethics and Humanities at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus.

After news of Wilhelm Röntgen’s discovery of X-rays was cabled across the Atlantic late in 1895, evidence suggests X-ray experimentation was taken up eagerly all over the U.S. almost immediately.  While scientists and physicians scrambled to build their own X-ray machines, newspapers in major cities throughout the country eagerly reported on their progress, with stories small and large appearing in nearly every significant daily from New York and Philadelphia to Chicago and St. Louis to San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Historians of the X-ray estimate that within only a year of Röntgen’s discovery, literally thousands of articles had been published on the X-ray in both lay and expert periodicals.  Even in the fertile print culture of 1896, this is a significant accounting.

Therein lies the methodological difficulty for the historian of the X-ray.  So often, the craft of history is a tedious search for small scraps of information that may not even exist.  Yet, as to X-rays, the problem is one of feast, not famine.  With so much print material appearing in so many different sources in so many different places all at the same time, sifting through the morass to articulate coherent and important narratives is difficult.

What makes this task far easier is a remarkable collection held at the New York Academy of Medicine Library.  The William J. Morton Collection is a small holding, consisting of only two boxes.  The second box is the true treasure, containing a single folder, approximately six inches thick.  Inside is an unbound series of pages consisting solely of newspaper clippings related primarily to early X-ray use in the U.S.  These are Morton’s clippings, and as far as is known, the order and arrangement of the pages is original to Morton himself.  The collection is astounding, for it represents something of an index or a cipher for the ferment of X-ray use in NYC in the first half of 1896.

Clippings

Newspaper clippings from the William J. Morton Collection, New York Academy of Medicine Library.

There is no question that New York City played an important role in early X-ray use, if for no other reason than the enormous shadow cast by the inventor, Thomas Edison.  There were, however, many other important figures involved in early X-ray use in NYC, including Nikola Tesla[1], Michael Pupin[2], and Morton.  Morton, the son of William T.G. Morton of anesthesia fame, was a prominent physician, a fellow of the New York Academy of Medicine, and a respected neurologist and electro-therapeutic practitioner.

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A telegram dated January 2, 1896 from Dyer & Driscoll, attorneys for none other than Thomas Edison, indicated that Morton visited Edison’s workshop for the purpose of conducting experiments (almost certainly with X-rays) several days earlier.

Because Morton was unquestionably at the forefront of early X-ray experimentation in NYC, his curation is a reasonable index as to important events and moments in the early use of X-rays in NYC.  There are limitations to this approach, of course.  Morton was obviously interested in his own role in early X-ray experimentation, so there is something of a selection bias at work (although it should be noted that there are no shortage of clippings pertaining to Pupin’s important work).

The collection is full of interesting and significant stories in the early history of X-ray use.  For example, in March 1896, strongman Eugene Sandow, considered the father of modern bodybuilding, turned to Morton in an effort to locate the source of a frustrating pain he was experiencing in his foot.  Apparently Sandow had stepped on some broken glass, but even his personal physician could not specify the location of the glass in his foot.  The potential for the X-ray must have seemed obvious, and Sandow reached out specifically to Morton to see if he could be of help.  Morton was eager to oblige.  He turned the X-rays on Sandow’s foot and located the shard of glass disturbing Sandow’s equanimity.  A surgeon subsequently operated and removed the glass, and the story made national news.

How the photograph was made_watermark

The X-Ray of Eugene Sandow’s foot in process.

Interestingly, Sandow was apparently impressed enough with the powerful rays to send an unsolicited telegram to Edison, offering his services as a human subject for any X-ray experiments Edison wished to undertake.

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Letter to Thomas Edison from Eugene Sandow.

It is difficult to imagine how powerful it must have been, in 1896, to witness an X-ray operator remotely anatomize the living body.  Seeing inside the body had been a dream of physicians for centuries prior, and there is every reason to believe that its achievement has not eroded much of its social power.  Americans still perform significantly more medical imaging procedures than virtually any of our comparator societies, and what is most interesting is the evidence that this utilization is driven both by supply and demand.  That is, it is not merely that we have expensive X-ray and medical imaging machines; so we use them.  Across a wide variety of illness paradigms, illness sufferers and patients request medical imaging; they want it to be performed on their bodies.  The history of the X-ray helps us understand the enduring power of these tools.

Footnotes:
[1] Tesla was heavily involved in early X-ray experiments in his laboratory at 46 East Houston Street; much to Edison’s likely chagrin, given the frostiness of their relationship by the time. The New York newspapers constantly asked Edison about Tesla’s progress.
[2] Pupin, a Columbia University physicist, would in short order — in 1896, in fact —  go on to discover a way of substantially reducing the exposure time needed to produce an X-ray image from hours to minutes.  The basics of Pupin’s method are still used today.

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.

See-Through Science: The Rise of the X-Ray

By Paul Theerman, Associate Director, Center for the History of Medicine and Public Health

One X-ray-related movie scene stands indelibly in my mind: Henri Charrière (Steve McQueen) getting X-rayed in the escape-thriller Papillon. While purchasing his escape from a French penal colony in the 1930s, Charrière dutifully submits to being X-rayed. He lies down, a photographic plate is put under his head, and a big glowing tube is brought near, which then glows even more brightly and loudly crackles for many, long seconds. The scene is repeated with Charrière on his stomach, a new plate next to his chest, and the tube right over his back. When I first saw this film, this X-ray scene brought out loud gasps in the audience. To me, the scene still captures some of the wildness, improvisation, and, viewed through today’s eyes, danger of early X-rays.

Wilhelm Röntgen. From the frontispiece to Charles E. Phillips, Bibliography of X-ray literature and research, 1896–1897; being a ready reference index to the literature on the subject of röntgen or X-rays (London: The Electrician Printing and Publishing Company, Ltd., [1897]).

Wilhelm Röntgen. From the frontispiece to Charles E. Phillips, Bibliography of X-ray literature and research, 1896–1897.

X-rays were discovered on November 8, 1895, by Wilhelm Röntgen (1845–1923) of the University of Würzburg. Quite serendipitously, he found that an active vacuum tube, shielded with a cardboard sleeve so that no visible or ultraviolet light could come out, caused fluorescence on a light- and UV-sensitive screen some distance away. When he inadvertently passed between the tube and the fluorescing screen, he saw a projection of his own skeleton. As X-rays (as Röntgen named the effect; others later called them Röntgen-rays) also affected photographic plates, these ghostly images could be fixed. The first published X-ray was of the human hand, that of his wife Anna Bertha Röntgen. Röntgen presented it in a formal paper at the end of December 1895. A Viennese newspaper picked up the story on January 5, with international papers following—The New York Sun covered it on its front page on January 7—and Röntgen and his rays became a world-wide phenomenon. For his work, he received the first Nobel prize in physics in 1901.1

X-ray of the hand of Anna Bertha Röntgen, submitted by Wilhelm Röntgen, to the Physico-Medical Society of Würzburg, December 28, 1895. Image from Bettyann Holtzmann Kevles, Naked to the Bone: Medical Imaging in the Twentieth Century (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1997), pp. 21.

X-ray of the hand of Anna Bertha Röntgen. Image from Bettyann Holtzmann Kevles, Naked to the Bone: Medical Imaging in the Twentieth Century.

The X-ray’s medical potential was glaringly obvious. By early February the first medical uses of X-rays began to make their way into the published literature. It wasn’t hard to work with X-rays: vacuum tubes and photographic plates, the basic tools, were readily available. In the United States, three different institutions made claim to the first documented use of X-rays for medical purposes. Likely the very first was at Dartmouth (like many claims of priority, this has its competitors) where two faculty brothers, Gilman and Edwin Frost, a physician and a physicist, respectively, took an X-ray of a local boy with a broken arm. Edwin mentioned this case in his February 14 article in the premier journal Science—the first known published American reference to medical X-rays.2

An 1897 set-up for taking an X-ray of the hand. David Walsh, The Röntgen Rays in Medical Work (reprint ed.: New York: William Wood and Company, 1898), opposite page 36.

An 1897 set-up for taking an X-ray of the hand. David Walsh, The Röntgen Rays in Medical Work, opposite page 36.

Perhaps the first published X-ray in the United States of a clinical condition. In “Rare Anomalies of the Phalanges Shown by the Röntgen Process,” Boston Medical and Surgical Journal 134 (no. 8, February 20, 1896): 198–99.

Perhaps the first published X-ray in the United States of a clinical condition. In “Rare Anomalies of the Phalanges Shown by the Röntgen Process,” Boston Medical and Surgical Journal 134(8), February 20, 1896: 198–99.

Two other institutions also took early medical X-rays, in each case resulting from a doctor- physicist pairing. New York surgeon William Tillinghast Bull brought in a case of a person shot in the hand to Columbia scientist Michael Pupin.3 And in Boston, physician Francis Henry Williams, who was both an MIT grad in chemistry and a Harvard Medical School–trained physician, asked MIT physics professors Ralph R. Lawrence and Charles L. Norton to take X-rays of patients. Though unsigned, some attribute a February 20 article in the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal to him, which provides the first published X-ray in the United States of a pathological condition.4 Yale physicist Arthur Williams Wright also did early X-ray work, but not in a medical context.5

The speed with which this technology developed medically is breathtaking. In 1897, British physician Dr. David Walsh—who already identified himself as honorary secretary of the Röntgen Society of London—published The Röntgen Rays in Medical Work (reprint ed.: New York: William Wood and Company, 1898), almost 150 pages of instructional anatomy, physiology, and legal medicine. The American Roentgen Ray Society was founded in 1900, and became a forum for working out some of the safety concerns about X-rays. By 1901, Boston physician Francis Henry Williams (who had done that early work with MIT) oriented his practice completely to the topic, as shown by his magisterial 650-page book, The Roentgen Rays in Medicine and Surgery: As an Aid in Diagnosis and as a Therapeutic Agent, Designed for the Use of Practitioners and Students (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1901)—the first of three editions and, in five years, his eighth book on the subject.

From the sales pamphlet, Roentgen Ray Apparatus, published in June 1897 by the Edison Decorative and Miniature Lamp Department of the General Electric Company, Harrison, NJ.

X-rays are now routine, but scientists continue to develop new modes of imaging. In 2000, the National Institutes of Health founded the National Institute of Biomedical Imaging and Bioengineering. A lot of progress in just over 100 years!

References

1. Bettyann Holtzmann Kevles, Naked to the Bone: Medical Imaging in the Twentieth Century (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1997), pp. 17–23.

2. Edwin B. Frost, “Experiments on the X-rays,” Science New Series 3 (February 14, 1896): 235–36. See also Peter K. Spiegel, “The First Clinical X-Ray Made in America—100 Years,” AJR 164 (1995): 241–43, from http://www.ajronline.org/doi/pdf/10.2214/ajr.164.1.7998549, accessed November 6, 2014, for photographs of what is believed the first clinical X-ray session, at Dartmouth, and for a copy of that X-ray.

3. Kevles, pp. 35–36.

4. “Rare Anomalies of the Phalanges Shown by the Röntgen Process,” Boston Medical and Surgical Journal 134 (8), February 20, 1896: 198–99. See also Abdul-Kareem Ahmed, “The Race to Give X-ray Vision to Medicine,” posted December 18, 2012, http://scopeweb.mit.edu/articles/the-race-to-give-x-ray-vision-to-medicine/, accessed November 6, 2014.

5. National Academy of Sciences, Biographical memoir of Arthur Williams Wright, 15 (1932):252.