History rewards British physician Edward Jenner for being the person responsible for proving the efficacy of vaccines. Plenty of truth in this: he created the smallpox vaccine, which is considered the world’s first scientifically-proven vaccination.
Yet before vaccination was its precursor, inoculation. Same concept, albeit performed with less efficiency. Since it wasn’t a European invention, however, inoculation often gets left out of public health histories.
The earliest citation of the concept of inoculation dates back a thousand years to China. The story goes something like this: people infected with rabies were told to kill the dog that bit them and slather a piece of its brain on the wound.
While biologically questionable, the notion that the “disease provides the cure” has long been touted. Similar attempts were made in India, Turkey, and, as we shall see, Africa, to varying degrees of success.
The important part is that the impulse was there and just needed refinement. If, as Paracelsus said, the dose makes the poison, others realized the dose makes the cure.
I recently stumbled across another intriguing piece of vaccination history while reading Walter Isaacson’s biography of Benjamin Franklin. This moment doesn’t directly involve Ben, but rather his brother and mentor (and a bit of a tyrant), James.
While Ben became known for many things—inventor, scientist, statesman—he started his career in publishing. He was strong-armed into signing a nine-year internship under his brother’s tutelage (which he didn’t complete). James published The Courant, which is mostly famous now as being the paper that first featured Ben’s writing.
A rebellious spirit ran through the entire Franklin family. Unlike many well-known historical lineages, the Franklins grew up poor, with little social standing. The sons pushed back against power structures every chance they got; The Courant is considered one the first gonzo journalist endeavors.
In 1721, James aimed at the wrong target: Cotton Mather. A clergyman and scientist, Mather was interested in the variolation method of inoculation (in this case, smothering scratches with smallpox pustules). A smallpox epidemic in Boston became one of the deadliest in colonial history. Mather was trying to stop the spread.
All of these men owned slaves, an inescapable fact of American history. To his credit, Mather listened to one of his slaves, Onesimus, who told the budding scientist about a variolation procedure he had undergone in Africa. Mather confirmed this process with other slaves. They all seemed immune to the epidemic ravaging the city.
Mather made the case publicly, for which he was derided. As noted in Infectious Disease,
When the 1721 smallpox epidemic struck Boston, Mather took the opportunity to campaign for the systematic application of inoculation. What followed was a fierce public debate, but also one of the first widespread and well-documented uses of inoculation to combat such an epidemic in the West.
At the time, Boston boasted a population of 10,000. A few months into this wave of smallpox, 900 were dead. Mather championed inoculation; doctors ignored him. Their reticence was in part helped by editorials published in The Courant, which called inoculation the superstitious “practice of Greek old women.” (Not sure where these writers thought slaves came from.)
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