Harnessed to our frail bodies, we humans are driven to find ways to live better and longer. At the turn of the 20th century in Northwest Colorado, this search took the form of an array of direct, blush-inducing and somewhat hilarious newspaper advertisements extolling dubious products that promised to remedy wide-ranging and extremely sensitive health problems.

Manly-man strength and virility, or the lack thereof, was the target of an ad featuring Dr. Sanden’s Electric Belt and Suspensory. Advertised locally in Craig’s first newspaper — the Pantagraph — for about a year in 1892, the product was part of the era’s fascination with the growing uses of electricity.

Leading off with the blunt question, “Men! Why are you weak?” the electric belt promised to relieve suffering from “nervous debility, seminal weakness, losses, drains, impotency or lost manhood.” Through the application of sustained electric shocks, the belt would also cure health issues such as rheumatism, back and kidney problems, sleeplessness, poor memory and “general ill health.”

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It’s hard to imagine any tough cowboy, homesteader or wagon miner in our neck of the sagebrush who would have conceded their masculinity to the noose-like “suspensory.”

Good grief … this was the Old West! 

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Not to be left out, women’s sensitive health issues were openly discussed in ads promoting the nationally marketed Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. First produced by Lydia herself in her own kitchen, it contained a variety of herbal roots all preserved in a 20% alcohol liquid. 

The tonic, sporting the motherly image of Lydia on the bottle, promised to cure difficulties with menstruation, menopause and miscarriages. Over time, the compound made claims of curing uterine, ovarian and kidney issues and even improving lactation. Women were also encouraged to write Lydia for advice about their personal and unique feminine issues.

Bringing a blushing cringe to this father of three young women was the ad titled “The Dawn of Womanhood.” Through several paragraphs, Mrs. Pinkham urged mothers to address their daughters’ “puberic malady” through a strong dose of her compound in order to “assist nature to perform her regular duties, procure it at once” (Steamboat Pilot on May 18, 1898).

Another popular elixir was Piso’s Cure for Consumption. Running in local ads from 1892 all the way to 1928, it was first produced and marketed in 1864 with an unfathomable combination of chloroform, cannabis, opium and alcohol. For Civil War vets and anyone with an incurable cancer, Piso’s assuredly helped with pain, but that’s about it.

Peruna, another nationally famous tonic, claimed to cure all conditions of “catarrh” in the human body. What is catarrh, you ask? According to Peruna’s founder, Dr. Samuel Hartman, catarrh was the root cause of almost any illness imaginable. Catarrh in the system brought on tuberculosis, pneumonia, appendicitis, indigestion, even yellow fever … and Peruna would take care of it all. 

Peruna’s outlandish claims landed in the local newspapers. Pastors, senators, congressmen and even the Sisters of Charity in Detroit all endorsed Peruna in removing “catarrh.”

For a few months in 1902, Prickly Ash Bitters were advertised to solve everything from kidney problems, constipation, biliousness, dizzy spells, backaches, headaches and even bad breath. After a few bottles, “the complexion loses that sallow muddy cast, giving place to a clear skin and a ruddy glow.”

For $1 per bottle, you could even be cured of laziness by “cleansing the liver, strengthening digestion, and regulating the bowels” (Routt County Courier Nov. 28, 1902, and Craig Courier on June 28, 1902).

In 1905, muckraking journalist Samuel Hopkins Adams published a series of 11 articles in Collier’s Weekly titled “The Great American Fraud” — exposing the baseless claims of alcohol-based elixirs. His exposé aided the passage of the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, creating consumer protection laws and ingredient labels, eventually bringing about the demise of these so-called patent medicines.

In hindsight, we advanced moderns shake our heads in disbelief at the hucksters of the Gilded Age getting rich off the real problems facing people. In our relatively isolated region, with limited access to doctors and hospitals, these panaceas were understandably appealing.

As I chuckled over these ads and the gullibility of the past, I realized we are just as susceptible to today’s cure-all fads. Social media blitzes us with products to keep us alert, smart, vibrant and sexually active long into our twilight years.

Niche pharmaceuticals promise to solve all sorts of sickness and disease, never mind the rapid warp speed warnings of possible hemorrhaging, ulcers, strokes and heart attacks all the while pharmaceutical effluent drains into our sources of drinking water.

Even more damaging, the COVID-19 era and the hope of a panacea vaccine morphed into coercion, demonizing, and the shattering of social bonds over the choice of getting vaccinated.

While knowledge and technology advances, the low hum of our human nature remains constant. Our ultimate demise in this world imbibes us with an insecurity that permits us to accept some fabulously fantastic claims, whatever the era.

James Neton teaches history at Moffat County High School, and he can be reached at netonjim@yahoo.com. Sources for this article include Rainy Horowitz, 5/20/2017, Arizona State University, Embryo Project Encyclopedia, and Jack Sullivan, 5-7/2007, The Peruna Story in Bottles and Extras.