From Roots to Rods

Old joke: What are APCs?

For those who are old enough to recall them, APCs were a combination of aspirin, phenacetin, and caffeine. Phenacetin was an analgesic similar to aspirin (though later found to be hepatoxic) and the mixture was either thought to be, or claimed it be (it was hard to tell which) synergistic. The caffeine was supposed to speed up the analgesic action. APC was sold under the brand name Anacin (which now does not include phenacetin), with a huge advertising budget, and was once used almost as widely as aspirin.

But the joke answer to "What are APCs" was All Purpose Capsules. APCs were never promoted as a cure-all, but for many people they filled that function, just one in a line of all-purpose remedies that dates back to the Bible, and probably hasn't ended yet.

The difference between a cure-all and quackery is fairly basic. Anyone can fill a bottle with a mixture of alcohol and leftover turkey gravy, label it, and make absurd claims, but a real cure-all has to convince a good part of the medical establishment of its effectiveness.

The Early Days of Cure-Alls

While the earliest civilizations had extensive pharmacopoeias, they don't seem to have had any all-purpose cures other than prayer. The Egyptians used a mixture of honey and garlic as an all-purpose tonic, and the Greeks used honey alone for the same purpose, but cure of actual illness was left to prayer. While the Old Testament has several references to divine healing, the clearest single statement is James 5:14-15: "Is any among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord: and the prayer of faith shall save him that is sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, it shall be forgiven him." But, just in case, 1 Timothy 5:23 offers an alternative: "Be no longer a drinker of water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities."

The first cure-alls seem to date from the Middle Ages, and the people of that period had two – although neither one really existed. One was the legendary mandrake root, which was a fabulous plant with a root that had the appearance of a human being, and shrieked when pulled from the ground. The rituals and legends of the mandrake were extensive, and it was believed to be an aphrodisiac, soporific, analgesic and anti-inflammatory. Mandrake root, or rather, roots fashioned to look like the legendary mandrake, was tried for every known disease, with dramatic claims for all of them. At the same time, mandrake may have been the opposite of a cure-all, since witches mixed it with wine as part of their evil spells. But, as widely used as mandrakes were, nobody knows precisely what plant the term referred to. The items sold as mandrakes were often roots of local plants, carved to look like human beings, buried in the ground to develop a suitable appearance, and then sold as the magical mandrake.

The alternative to mandrake was the Philosopher's Stone (the term applied to the stone itself, and to the elixir that was made with the stone). This material would infinitely prolong life, cure illness, and provide spiritual revitalization. Regrettably, no alchemist (besides the one in the first Harry Potter novel) ever created one, but physicians of the period believed in it all the same.

Perkins' Tractors

Strangely, the development of the scientific method resulted in more, rather than fewer cure-alls. The late 18th and early 19th centuries saw major advances in science and physics, but it also a period when medicine, even conventional medicine, was dominated by means other than research. In Scotland, John Brown, and in the United States, Benjamin Rush, attempted to simplify the material medica. While these physicians represented the orthodox practice pf medicine, Rush, Professor of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania, and signer of the Declaration of Independence, used calomel and jalap together so often that the combination almost qualifies as a cure-all. Still, the most significant cure-all of this period was the Perkins' Tractors, a device, rather than a drug.

Perkins' Tractors were effective against every known disease. The Tractors were two metal rods, one of iron, the other brass, blunt at one end and pointed at the other, which, if drawn across the body, could literally pull diseases out, and induce cures. They relied on electricity, or possibly magnetism, both mysterious forces which were just coming under study. It was essential that the Tractors be applied to the afflicted area and drawn towards the feet, since any other direction might cause disease to enter, or at least become more firmly entrenched. However improbable this may sound, in their time, Perkins' Tractors were found in every well-to-do home, and some people carried a set when traveling. It has been reported that George Washington had a set of tractors. The Perkins' Tractors worked against arthritis, gout, cancer, and inflammation, and would have worked against infections if only germ theory had been around at the time. Not only were the Tractors in common distribution, but a long satiric poem, "Terrible Tractoration," by Thomas Greene Fessenden was widely read, even after the tractors themselves were forgotten.

See POINTED METALS, blest with power t'appease,

The ruthless rage of merciless disease,

O'er the frail part a subtil fluid power,

Drench'd with invisible Galvanic shower,

Till the arthritic, staff and "crutch forego,

And leap exulting like the bounding roe!"

Perkins Tractors were widely accepted by the medical profession. By 1798, they were being used in the Royal Hospital of Copenhagen, and the faculty published a book describing their successes. In 1804, the Perkinsian Institution was founded in London.

But, by 1883, when Oliver Wendell Holmes was writing his book Medical Essays, he found it almost impossible to locate a pair of Perkins' Tractors. As common as they had been, once they were debunked, by the simple method of comparing their effects with those produced by carefully painted wood, the devices were hidden like a secret shame.

Entering the Modern World

The 19th century had more than its fair share of snake oils and herbal tonics. The active ingredient in most of them was alcohol, their therapeutic claims were purposely vague, and none was accepted by the medical establishment. But one remedy was in wide use, and found its way into the National Formulary of the United States: Smilax officinalis, better known as sarsaparilla root.

In folk medicine, sarsaparilla was used as a diuretic, antibacterial, antirheumatic, anti-inflammatory, antifungal, and antipyretic. Like many other herbal preparations, sarsaparilla has been reported to "purify the blood" and act as a general aid to good health but, unlike so many other cure-alls, sarsaparilla was advocated in the medical literature. As late as 1960, it was described as an effective adjunct to the drug dapsone in treatment of leprosy. A 1928 review concluded that sarsaparilla was effective in treatment of syphilis, probably through stimulation of the immune system. Between 1931 and 1942, several papers were published reporting that sarsaparilla extract was effective in control or even cure of psoriasis, with a 1942 paper (NEJM, vol 227, p. 128) suggesting that the drug acted by lowering hypercholesterolemia.

Today, sarsaparilla has effectively disappeared from the Americas, but it's still available in the UK, either ready to drink or as a concentrate to be mixed with water or seltzer. In health food stores, there are still claims that sarsaparilla is useful for psoriasis and rheumatoid arthritis, but add to these traditional notes a new one: "It has been shown that Sarsaparilla contains chemicals with properties that aid testosterone activity in the body." Possibly, just possibly, sarsaparilla will see another revival, this time among competitive cyclists.

There will probably never be another true cure-all. Modern medicine has improved the quality of placebo controls, so that it's unlikely that a drug or device of questionable value can gain wide acceptance. Similarly, because there are so many more known diseases, it's unlikely that any drug or device can claim to cure everything. In recent years, the closest was ascorbic acid (aka vitamin C). During the 1980s, it was the subject of studies for common cold, asthma, atherosclerosis, cancer, osteogenesis imperfecta, psychiatric disorders, susceptibility to infection, Paget's Disease, enhancement of athletic capacity, and HIV.

It didn't work.

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