What鈥檚 the connection between this fairground slot machine, Horatio Nelson鈥檚 mistress and a torpedo fish? All three dispensed electric shocks to people in need of a pick-me-up. A penny in the slot of the Electric Tonic machine promised to perk up the run-down with a harmless jolt through its metal handles. Emma Lyons, later to become Lady Hamilton and consort to England鈥檚 favourite neval hero, promised more than an uplifting tingle in the fingers. In the late 1770s, the nubile young Emma pranced semi-naked around the Temple of Health in London鈥檚 Pall Mall. Posing as a glorious example of health, her job was to encourage the fashionable clients of the city鈥檚 hippest health club to sample the benefits of the electric throne, the celestrial bed and a range of 鈥渆lectrically charged鈥� medicines. And the fish? The torpedo fish can generate shock strong enough to fell a man. According to one Roman doctor, that same power could banish the worst of headaches and relieve the pain of gout. Of the three, only one did any good.
YOU鈥橵E got a searing headache that just won鈥檛 go away. The aspirin hasn鈥檛 worked. What now? If you were a Roman living in the second half of the first century AD and you could afford the services of Scribonius Largus, celebrity doctor of the day, then the answer might be electrotherapy. Scribonius knew nothing about electricity, but he was a keen advocate of the curative effects of the strange force emanating from the head of a fish that lived in the shallows of the Mediterranean, the black torpedo fish Torpedo nobiliana.
鈥淗eadache even if it is chronic and unbearable is taken away and remedied forever by a live black torpedo placed on the spot which is in pain, until the pain ceases.鈥� Scribonius wrote down his headache cure in AD 46, so earning himself the credit for inventing electrotherapy. But as he readily acknowledged, he got the idea from a man called Anteros, who suffered from gout. Anteros related how a few minutes鈥� contact with a live electric fish had eased his gouty toes. Always on the lookout for new remedies, Scribonius tested it and was soon recommending the treatment: 鈥淔or any type of gout a live black torpedo should, when the pain begins, be placed under the feet. The patient must stand on a moist shore washed by the sea and he should stay like this until his whole foot and leg up to the knee is numb. This takes away present pain and prevents pain from coming on if it has not already arisen.鈥�
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If the numbing effect of the torpedo eased pain in the feet why not the head? Scribonius experimented and was sufficiently convinced to try it on his most illustrious patient, the Emperor Claudius, in AD 47. And if it was good enough for Claudius, it was good enough for anyone. The treatment caught on. Thirty years later, the great herbalist and doctor Dioscorides was recommending a few shocks from a live torpedo not just for gout and headaches but for a prolapsed anus. In this case, a jolt in the appropriate place could well have resulted in a muscular contraction powerful enough to remedy the problem. All three treatments persisted for more than a thousand years.
By the 18th century, the science of electricity was coming along in leaps and bounds. In the embryonic field of electrical medicine, some of the greatest leaps were made by some of the greatest bounders. The medical journals carried regular reports of how a few sparks or shocks had cured a vast assortment of ailments, from incurable paralysis and apoplexy to rheumatism and nervous disorders. Such apparent successes encouraged James Graham to open a luxurious 鈥渆lectrical spa鈥� in a fashionable part of London. Visitors could listen to Graham lecturing on the virtues of electricity, attended by beautiful assistants such as the teenaged Emma Lyons, who had not yet embarked on her career as a professional mistress. According to Graham, there was almost nothing that electricity couldn鈥檛 cure or prevent. The rich and famous were soon queueing up for treatment.
Graham鈥檚 establishment was such a success that he was forced to expand, opening the magnificent Temple of Health and Hymen in Pall Mall. Here clients could opt to sit on the celestial throne 鈥� a charged seat insulated atop glass pillars 鈥� or bathe in water through which a charge was passed. Those who preferred a milder form of electrical remedy could buy pills and potions imbued with the revitalising power of 鈥渃elestial fire鈥�.
Electrical Aether, an extract of assorted plants, was said to be particularly potent. 鈥淔or preventing every species of infection and for curing all low, nervous, lingering and putrid diseases, nothing on earth can equal this most noble quintessence,鈥� proclaimed Graham in a pamphlet in 1779. It would also ward off colds and sniffles, he said, and anyone contemplating a visit to loathsome places such as 鈥渃ourts of justice, public meetings, sick persons and those places where hundreds of common people are crammed up in the galleries鈥� would be well advised to take a teaspoon of the aether before they went.
For those with nervous afflictions or 鈥渄ecayed and worn out constitutions鈥�, aethereal balsam 鈥� aether with added wine 鈥� was just the thing. And if neither remedy suited, there were Graham鈥檚 Imperial Pills, guaranteed to cure anything he hadn鈥檛 thought to list for the other two.
But the centrepiece of Graham鈥檚 temple of health was its huge electrical apparatus 鈥� a collection of giant rotating glass cylinders, conducting rods and other electrical paraphernalia designed to send streams of sparks dancing around metal-lined globes filled with Graham鈥檚 potions. It occupied 10 rooms and cost 拢1000. And for wealthy couples who had failed to produce any heirs, there was Graham鈥檚 Celestial Bed. For just 拢50, childless lords and their ladies could spend the night on the gigantic bed with its mattress filled with sweet new straw, fragrant leaves and petals and hair from the tails of English stallions. A little music 鈥� and a few sparks and flashes across the headboard 鈥� and conception was guaranteed.
In 1925, the price of a few revitalising volts had plummeted from pounds to pennies. When the fair came to town, you could get a shot of life-enhancing electricity from a slot machine. Behind the face of the Fairground Tonic machine, which exhorted punters to 鈥淜eep Fit, Use Often鈥�, was a battery and an induction coil 鈥� a type of step-up transformer. You simply put a penny in the slot and grasped the metal handles. When the penny dropped it tripped a switch that connected the battery to the coil, sending a tingling surge through the handles.
But did any of these three electrical therapies do any good? Anyone expecting the slot machine to revive their old spark or improve their fitness was going to be disappointed. It seems strange that anyone still believed electricity had such restorative powers at a time when it was becoming commonplace. In the late 18th century, electricity was a novelty and few knew much about it. While reputable doctors were exploring its potential for healing the sick, others spotted an opportunity to make money. James Graham鈥檚 clients certainly forked out plenty, but it鈥檚 doubtful any of them felt better for it.
Which leaves the torpedo fish. The Romans knew even less about electricity than Graham鈥檚 clientele, but they knew of the torpedo鈥檚 ability to shock. Fishermen around the Mediterranean were only too aware that contact with a torpedo 鈥� even at the end of a spear or trident 鈥� could numb their hands for hours. To someone suffering an attack of gout or a terrible tension headache, such numbness would be a blessing. With care, a good doctor like Scribonius could deaden the afflicted area long enough for the pain to wear off.