Katerfelto was a foreigner who had “seen service,” and according to his own showing was both brave and learned. A notice of him which appears in an article on quacks says: “In a pamphlet on quackery, published at Kingston-upon-Hull, in 1805, it is stated that Dr Katerfelto practised on the people of London in the influenza of 1782; that he added to his nostrums the fascinations of hocus-pocus; and that with the services of some extraordinary black cats he astonished the vulgar. In 1790, or 1791, he visited the city of Durham, accompanied by his wife and daughter. His travelling equipage consisted of an old rumbling coach, drawn by a pair of sorry hacks; and his two black servants wore green liveries with red collars. They were sent round the town, blowing trumpets and delivering bills of their master’s performances. These were—in the daytime, a microscope; in the evening, electrical experiments, in which the black cats—‘the doctor’s devils’—played their parts in yielding electric sparks; tricks of legerdemain concluded the entertainments. He was a tall, thin man, dressed in a black gown and square cap; he is said to have been originally a soldier in the Prussian service. In one of his advertisements he states that he was a colonel in the ‘Death’s Head’ regiment of hussars, a terrific prognostic of his ultimate profession. He had many mishaps in his conjuring career; once he sent up a fire balloon, which, falling upon a hay-stack, set it on fire, and it was consumed, when Katerfelto was sued for its value, and was sent to prison in default of payment. And not long before his death, he was committed by the Mayor of Shrewsbury to the House of Correction in that city as a vagrant and impostor. Katerfelto mixed up with his quackery some real science, and by the aid of the solar microscope astonished the world with insect wonders. In one of his advertisements in the Morning Post, of July 1782, he says that, by its aid, the insects on the hedges will be seen larger than ever, and those insects which caused the late influenza will be seen as large as a bird; and in a drop of water the size of a pin’s head there will be seen above 50,000 insects; the same in beer, milk, vinegar, blood, flour, cheese, etc., etc., and there will be seen many surprising indifferent vegetables, and above 200 other dead objects. He obtained good prices for his show:—‘The admittance to see these wonderful works of Providence is only—front seats, three shillings; second seats, two shillings; and back seats, one shilling only, from eight o’clock in the morning till six in the afternoon, at No. 22 Piccadilly.’ He fully understood the advantages of puffing, and one of his advertisements commences with a story of ‘a gentleman of the faculty belonging to Oxford University, who, finding it likely to prove a fine day, set out for London purposely to see those great wonders which are advertised so much by that famous philosopher, Mr Katerfelto;’ that the said gentleman declared, ‘if he had come three hundred miles on purpose, the knowledge he had then received would amply reward him; and that he should not wonder that some of the nobility should come from the remotest part of Scotland to hear Mr Katerfelto, as the people of that country in particular are always searching after knowledge.’ He elsewhere declares himself ‘the greatest philosopher in this kingdom since Sir Isaac Newton.’ ‘And Mr Katerfelto, as a divine and moral philosopher, begs leave to say that all persons on earth live in darkness, if they are able to see, but will not see his wonderful exhibition.’” Katerfelto, who had been in trouble both in his own country and in France, showed an aptitude for distinguishing himself in a similar way here, not only in the ways we have already quoted, but with regard to impositions practised on the confiding. He obtained £2000 from a Captain Paterson, but had to return it. This he afterwards referred to as instance of his generosity and love of honesty, and his admiration for this country is shown by his avowed desire to stay in it, “though unpensioned, notwithstanding the many offers from the Queen of France, the request of his friend and correspondent Dr Franklin, and the positive commands of his liege lord the King of Prussia.”
Mention of the Queen of France reminds us of another impostor, perhaps the greatest in his way that ever lived, Joseph Balsamo. As, however, he had little or nothing to do with advertising, and as he has already afforded work for many able and vigorous pens, we will be content to quote a few lines from Carlyle regarding the arch-quack’s description and personal appearance: “The quack of quacks, the most perfect scoundrel that in these latter ages has marked the world’s history, we have found in the Count Alessandro di Cagliostro, pupil of the sage Althotas, foster child of the Scherif of Mecca, probably son of the last king of Trebizonde; named also Acharat, and unfortunate child of nature; by profession healer of diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of the poor and impotent, grand-master of the Egyptian mason-lodge of high science, spirit-summoner, gold-cook, grand cophta, prophet, priest, and thaumaturgic moralist and swindler; really a liar of the first magnitude, thorough-paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call the king of liars. . . . One of the most authentic documents preserved of Joseph Balsamo is the picture of his visage. An effigy once universally diffused in oil paint, aquatint, marble, stucco, and perhaps gingerbread, decorating millions of apartments. Fittest of visitors, worthy to be worn by the quack of quacks! A most portentous face of scoundrelism: a fat, snub, abominable face; dew-lapped, flat-nosed, greasy, full of greediness, sensuality, ox-like obstinacy; a forehead impudent, refusing to be ashamed; and then two eyes turned up seraphically languishing, as if in divine contemplation and adoration; a touch of quiz, too; on the whole, perhaps the most perfect quack-face produced by the eighteenth century.” The subject of this flattering portrait was born in 1743, and died in the fortress of St Leo, Rome, after an imprisonment of six years, aged fifty-two.
The system of showing on oneself the effect of one’s own specifics has had many admirers and practisers. A Mrs Harden, in Newman Street, Oxford Street, used to advertise some years ago a hair-dye, the effect of which was to be seen on her own hair at her private residence, or at ladies’ own residences if preferred. In a similar manner a quack in the time of King Charles II. commenced his handbill with this statement: “Salvator Winter, an Italian of the city of Naples, aged 98 years, yet by the blessing of God, finds himself in health and as strong as any one of fifty, as to the sensitive part. Which first he attributes to God, and then to his Elixir Vitæ, which he always carries in his pocket adayes, and at night under his pillow. And when he finds himself distempered he taketh a spoonful or two, according as need requireth.” He then goes on to state that people should call and see its effect on him, and purchase so as to ensure health.
A most original, unique, and successful humbug, quite worthy of mention here, though not a dealer in medicines, was the late Monsieur Mangin of Paris. While passing through the public streets, there was nothing in his personal appearance to distinguish him from any ordinary gentleman. He drove a pair of bay horses, attached to an open carriage with two seats, the back one always occupied by his valet. Sometimes he would take up his stand in the Champs Elysées; at other times near the column in the Place Vendôme; but usually he was seen in the afternoon in the Place de la Bastille, or the Place de la Madeleine. On Sundays his favourite locality was the Place de la Bourse. Mangin was a well-formed, stately-looking individual, with a most self-satisfied countenance, which seemed to say, “I am master here; and all that my auditors have to do is, to listen and obey.” Arriving at his destined stopping-place, his carriage halted. His servant handed him a case from which he took several large portraits of himself, which he hung prominently upon the sides of his carriage, and also placed in front of him a vase filled with medals bearing his likeness on one side, and a description of the blacklead pencils in which he traded on the other. He then leisurely commenced a change of costume. His round hat was replaced by a magnificent burnished helmet, mounted with rich plumes of various brilliant colours. His overcoat was laid aside, and he donned in its stead a costly velvet tunic with gold fringes. He then drew a pair of polished steel gauntlets upon his hands, covered his breast with a brilliant cuirass, and placed a richly-mounted sword at his side. His servant watched him closely, and upon receiving a sign from his master he too put on his official costume, which consisted of a velvet robe and a helmet. The servant then struck up a tune on the richly-toned organ which always formed a part of Mangin’s apparatus. The grotesque appearance of these individuals, and the music, soon drew together an admiring crowd. Then the charlatan stood up. His manner was calm, dignified, imposing, indeed, almost solemn, for his face was as serious as that of the chief mourner at a funeral. His sharp, intelligent eye scrutinised the throng which was pressing around his carriage, until it rested apparently upon some particular individual, then he gave a start; then, with a dark, angry expression, as if the sight was repulsive, he abruptly dropped the visor of his helmet and thus covered his face from the gaze of the anxious crowd. Thus far he had not spoken a word. At last the prelude ended, and the comedy commenced. Stepping forward again to the front of the carriage, he exclaimed—“Gentlemen, you look astonished! You seem to wonder and ask yourselves, who is this modern Quixote? What mean this costume of bygone centuries—this golden chariot—these richly-caparisoned steeds? What is the name, what the purpose of this curious knight-errant? Gentlemen, I will condescend to answer your queries. I am Monsieur Mangin, the great charlatan of France! Yes, gentlemen, I am a charlatan—a mountebank; it is my profession, not from choice, but from necessity. You, gentlemen, created that necessity! You would not patronise true, unpretending, honest merit, but you are attracted by my glittering casque, my sweeping crest, my waving plumes. You are captivated by din and glitter, and therein lies my strength. Years ago I hired a modest shop in the Rue Rivoli, but I could not sell pencils enough to pay my rent, whereas, by assuming this disguise—it is nothing else—I have succeeded in attracting general attention, and in selling literally millions of my pencils; and I assure you, there is at this moment scarcely an artist in France or in Great Britain who does not know that I manufacture by far the best blacklead pencils ever seen.” And Mangin so far differed from other mountebanks in the fact that his wares were everywhere said to be superior to any others.
Speaking of Mangin reminds us of another French itinerant who forms the central figure of a rather amusing story. In July 1817 a man of imposing figure, wearing a large sabre and immense moustache, arrived at one of the principal inns of a provincial city in France, with a female of agreeable shape and enchanting mien. He alighted at the moment the dinner was being served up at the table d’hôte. His martial appearance and bearing caused all the guests to rise with respect; they felt assured he must be a lieutenant-general or a major-general at least. A new governor was expected in the province about this time, and everybody believed that it was he who had arrived incognito. The officer of gens d’armes gave him the place of honour, the comptroller of the customs and the receiver of taxes sat each by the side of madame, and exerted their wit and gallantry to the utmost. All the tit-bits, all the most exquisite wines, were placed before the fortunate couple. At length the party broke up, and every one ran to report through the city that M. le Gouverneur had arrived. But, oh, what was their surprise, when the next day his Excellency, clad in a scarlet coat, and his august companion, dressed out in a gown glittering with tinsel, mounted a small open calash, and preceded by some musicians, went about the squares and public ways selling Swiss tea and balm of Mecca! Imagine the fury of the guests! They complained to the maire, and demanded that the audacious quack should be compelled to lay aside the characteristic mark of the brave. The prudent magistrate assembled the common council; and those respectable persons, after a long deliberation, considering that nothing in the charter forbad a citizen to let his beard grow on his upper lip, dismissed the complaint altogether. The same evening the supposed governor gave a serenade to the offended diners, and the next day took his leave, and continued his journey amid the acclamations of the populace.
It would be interesting to know what quack—for a quack it certainly must have been—was first responsible for the belief that a child’s caul would save a man from drowning. The origin of this fiction is, however, hidden under the dust of ages. It is customary for people who assume what they wish to believe, to state that the superstition went out when education came in; but that such is not the case a perusal of the advertisement sheets of current journals will show. Here is a rather curious specimen of a generation ago:—
A CHILD’S CAUL to be disposed of, particularly recommended to persons going to the Continent on pleasure or business, officers in his Majesty’s navy, merchants trading to the East and West Indies, and all other parts of the globe, being exposed to the dangers of the seas, having the caul in their possession their life will most assuredly always be preserved. Address by letter only, prepaid, to Mr W., Temple Chambers, Falcon Court, Fleet Street.
It must be admitted that the demand for these extremely portable life-preservers has quite gone so far as advertisements are concerned, all that we have seen of modern years being in reference to cauls that the owners wished to part with. When these preventives were fully believed in, an ancient mariner must have been as much surprised as afraid when he went down to the bottom. Captain Marryat tells a rather funny story of a pair of canvas inexpressibles that refused to sink because they had a caul in one of the pockets; and in the days of Howe, Collingwood, and Nelson, a rare trade was driven in cauls, real and imitation, which then fetched fancy prices.
The motives will be apparent which prevent our entering on the merits and demerits of quacks and quack medicines of the present day. Some of the latter are doubtless concocted with skill, and, under peculiar circumstances, are productive of much good, while others are quite the reverse in all particulars. Into this subject we cannot go, as we have no wish to advertise any one nostrum at the expense of another, or to subject ourselves to the expense and unpleasantness which too often attends on outspokenness. We shall rest content with the facts that the most impudent empirics confine themselves to “certain diseases” and hole-and-corner advertisements, and that analytical chemists and comparatively recent legislation have provided for us remedies for any excess on the part of the patent-medicine manufacturers, any one of whom a single false step would irretrievably ruin. Besides, the curious need look no further than the current newspapers for any quantity of average specimens.
Graham and his Celestial Bed are worthy of a chapter to themselves, especially as we have already run to such length on the subject of quacks and quackery.