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Samuel Clemens left Hannibal for more promising St. Louis in 1853, where he continued to work in the printing trade. In his notebook from 1855, he mentioned how he was reading George Sumner Weaver’s phrenology book. He was so enthralled with it that he copied parts and the skull diagram into his notebook. In 1857, he became a riverboat pilot, a far more exciting and lucrative job. When the Civil War ended river traffic from the North to New Orleans, he headed west with his older brother, now secretary for the Nevada territory. He now began to write for local newspapers, presenting himself as “Mark Twain.” He next tried mining and writing in California, where his hilarious jumping frog story from 1865 was his first nationally acclaimed piece. It led to commissions for pieces on the people and places he would now see, including Hawaii, Europe, and the Middle East. He would present some of his experiences in his travel books, including The Innocents Abroad (1869) and Roughing It. He used phrenological terms, concepts, and portraits in these works, even poking phrenological fun at himself. He did not, however, denigrate phrenology or the head readers in these works.
When Holmes returned to America in December 1835, he quickly completed the requirements for his Harvard medical degree and began practicing medicine. Soon after, he began teaching at Dartmouth and then Harvard. He was now using his pulpit and pen to rail against superstitions, quackery, and unsubstantiated beliefs and therapies in medicine, while making seminal contributions to his profession. He gave a lecture on phrenology in 1850, but it is not clear what he communicated. We also know that he had several phrenology books in his personal collection and used the university’s libraries, also meeting with other New England writers interested in the subject. Wanting to learn more, he had Lorenzo Fowler evaluate his head in 1859, twelve years before Mark Twain used the same phrenologist for his “little test.” What Fowler reported was preserved and is presented. Importantly, Holmes was now prepared to state what he thought about phrenology and the head readers in public.
The extent to which Holmes opened Clemens’s eyes about the head readers as frauds, served as his leading guide into the pseudo-science of phrenology, and provided a template for him to lampoon the head readers is addressed in this chapter. Three questions are asked. First, was Clemens familiar with Holmess writings? Second, did he meet Holmes? And third, is there evidence to suggest that Clemens “borrowed” some of Holmess ideas and humorous ways of presenting his thoughts about the head readers and their so-called science? Each of these questions is answered in the affirmative using the letters they exchanged, showing when they met, and by examining their writings. Most notable is how Mark Twain used the same two-column structure that Holmes had used in 1859 to present what the head reader was telling a client but really thinking. This chapter is particularly important because Holmes has not been recognized for having such an influence on Clemens/Twain. Nor had it been shown how Mark Twain borrowed rather freely from Holmes. Then again, scant little has been published on Clemens’s/Mark Twain’s forays into phrenology and there is nothing on Holmes and the head readers.
Clemens must have continued to have his doubts about the head readers into the 1870s, because he decided to conduct an experiment of his own on a leading head reader in 1872. Having discovered some of the tricks mediums were using, he made two trips to Lorenzo Fowler’s phrenological emporium in London. He dressed and acted like a nobody during the first trip. Then, after some weeks had passed, he returned and presented himself as the famous American humorist and author Mark Twain. He would later describe his great awakening in a short but serious published letter, and with humor and artistic liberties in an autobiographical dictation and his posthumous but never-completed novel Eddypus. The letter and phrenological parts of his dictation and Eddypus are presented in this chapter. Being told on his first visit that his head had a cavity above the organ for a sense of humor and on his second that he had a Mount Everest in the same spot would change how he would depict the head readers in his most famous novels. Writing as Mark Twain, Samuel Clemens would now set forth to educate the gullible public.
This article uses archival material to trace rising rhetoric about prenatal prevention of birth defects. I argue that the new philanthropic framing of “birth defects,” aimed to create a coherent category and scientifically prevent a complex array of intractable anatomical and functional disorders seen in infants and young children, with repercussions for women. Emphasis on scientific prevention of birth defects was built on networks of volunteers, fundraising activities, and philanthropic marketing models that had been developed for a crippling epidemic disease, polio. The National Foundation’s (NF) expansion to congenital malformations fit uneasily within the prior infectious disease eradication model, assuming that elimination of birth defects was a worthy and achievable goal. Scientific research fundraising, advice, and advocacy aims became entangled. Marketing of birth defects as a vast problem and looming undesirable outcome for all potentially pregnant women was shaped by philanthropic and professional domain expansion. The NF initially promised that funding scientific research innovation would yield a return on investment, with scientific research on pregnancy leading inevitably to elimination or repair of congenital malformations or medical rehabilitation. However, definitions of prenatal prevention were unstable, and prioritizing research and medical aid funds for the vast array of chronic conditions defined as their new target became a challenge. Framing birth defects as a public health crisis, such advocacy leveraged parents’ hopes and aspirations for their children’s future well-being towards fundraising for medical research and technologically mediated gatekeeping of bodily and functional differences.
The Jesuit Joachim Bouvet established an analogy between the binary arithmetic developed by Leibniz and the diagram Fuxi liushisi gua fangwei (or FX64), attributed to Shao Yong, which organizes the sixty-four hexagrams according to the Fuxi/Xiantian order. Consequently, this diagram could be considered as binary. Some scholars argue that the diagram is not binary because of the different construction of the two systems and the “wrong” reading direction used by Bouvet and Leibniz—opposite to the one used in China. Nevertheless, by a superimposition of Leibniz’s binary table and of the derivation table used to construct the diagram, this article shows that the diagram is binary, since it is constituted of two elements and the binary system can use other symbols than 0 and 1. The reverse methodology used in constructing the two systems because of their different purpose—division for the FX64 diagram and multiplication for Leibniz’s dyad—allows their reading from either one direction or the reverse. This does not affect the fact that they are both binary, since it leads to the same form and structure.
The cluster of psychiatric concepts that includes “personality disorders,” “psychopathy” and “moral insanity” has long been controversial and uncertain. This article investigates the concept of “psychopathy” in 1950s England and shows how this ambiguity is not a flaw or failure in the concept but absolutely necessary for the role it carries out: policing broad areas of social life. A case of Munchausen syndrome (a type of “psychopathy”) in the late 1950s still functions as a precedent in the welfare system today, denying claimants sickness benefit, “closing a loophole,” and exemplifying the usefulness of this uncertainty.