While sitting pretty at the summit of 18th-century society, many members of the British royal family loved to gorge themselves on the sumptuous output of their palaces’ kitchens. The banquet to celebrate the coronation of King George II, for example, lasted for three days. It included 105 dishes, such as geese, crabs, cheesecakes, venison pasties, veal, jellies, sausages, fruit, 50 plates of garnishes, and pyramids of sweetmeats.
George III was known to be more frugal in his habits. But his son, the Prince of Wales (later George IV) was a notorious voluptuary and glutton, as portrayed by Gillray in an equally notorious engraving (below). One of the prince’s pals, the 11th Duke of Norfolk, thought nothing of devouring four pounds of beef in one sitting, and he outdid himself on one occasion by polishing off an astonishing 15 steaks.
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Such conspicuous consumption often led to the debilitating affliction of gout in our ancestors’ overindulged bodies. Although it’s still with us, gout is one of those diseases that we think of as tossed into the dumpster of history in the developed world, like leprosy or scurvy. It’s a kind of arthritis that gives you terrible pain in your joints, especially those of the feet.
Famous gout sufferers of yesteryear include Alexander the Great, Leonardo da Vinci, King Henry VIII of England, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin. It was known as “the disease of kings,” because it seemed to be most common among the landed and wealthy, who lounged around all day eating rich food and drinking flagons of expensive booze. In fact, Ben Franklin once wrote an imaginary conversation with his gout, in which the disease blamed him for eating and drinking too much, and not using his legs enough.
It’s an ailment perhaps most closely associated with the 18th century. This is largely thanks to the caricaturists of that age, who often depicted gouty old gentlemen with their aching hands and feet swaddled in bandages. One of James Gillray’s most famous engravings shows a small demon sinking its fangs and claws into some poor bugger’s big toe, and this was hailed as a highly accurate depiction of gout pain. It was such a popular image that several other caricaturists offered variations on its theme over the next several years.
Engravings were expensive, and most of the print-shops’ clients were from the well-to-do end of the social spectrum, so it’s not surprising that gout is such a common subject of the era’s caricatures. Having the disease was considered a badge of honour because it suggested you were rich enough to enjoy the kind of extravagant lifestyle that would cause it. The wealthier you were, the more red meat you were likely to be consuming; and you’d also be quaffing a lot of wine, and its fortified and distilled variants, port and brandy. If you were predisposed to gout, such a diet would have done you few favours.
Today we know that gout is caused by your kidneys failing to process a substance called uric acid. This turns into needle-sharp crystals that collect in your joints, leading to swelling, and terrible, stabbing pain. Gout can be caused by an excess of alcohol, sugar, and foods that contain too many purines, which are chemicals found in red meat and certain sea foods.
Our forebears had a strong inkling that gout was linked to diet, but few wealthy sufferers were eager to give up their roast beef and claret. They would look to contemporary medicine for relief, and Georgian caricaturists often focused on the doctors and mountebanks who offered dubious gout cures. Some historical remedies included drinking tar water, thrusting your feet into fire or horse poop, and whipping the affected areas with stinging nettles. One quack nostrum was known as “bitters,” which was basically strong alcohol (as we’ve established, a cause of gout) laced with plant ingredients, like horseradish and watercress. In 1712, a British bitters recipe became a successful export to America, and entrepreneurs in Boston made their own version after the War of Independence.
A caricature of around 1820 brings a royal story of unhealthy living full circle. The newly crowned but infirm voluptuary, King George IV, is shown having his inflamed toe massaged by a ‘Doctoress’, (actually his mistress, the Marchioness of Hertford), while his estranged wife, Queen Caroline, eavesdrops in the doorway. Unmanned by epicurean excess, age, and his weakness for the opposite sex, George must suffer the indignity of being nursed by a doting woman, in an age when the only ‘serious’ medical people were men. But he still keeps a decanter of brandy at his side.
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