Category Archives: Sex and Childbirth

The Compleat Midwifes Practice

By Kate Stidham (Vanderbilt University)

The Compleat Midwifes Practice is an intriguing midwifery text printed in England during the seventeenth century.  The first edition was released in 1656 and the fifth and final edition was released in 1698.  The first edition included a preface, descriptions of male and female anatomy, birth procedures and practices, how to care for the mother and child, a series of anecdotes about actual births, and, finally, a letter written from Louis Bourgeois, midwife to the Queen of France, to her daughter describing proper midwife behavior.

The second edition changed names to The Compleat Midwife’s Practice Enlarged and added a section pulling from the works of Nicholas Culpeper, a famous apothecary of the day, describing how to conceive wise, male children.

The third edition added a section from the papers and notes of Sir Theodore Mayern, physician to several kings of France and Charles I of England.  This section expands upon the original bulk of the text, adding new recipes to bring about labor and treat various symptoms or discomforts of delivery.  The fourth and fifth editions do not add additional content.

The text was produced during a time of change in midwifery.  There were a rising number of men becoming interested in childbirth.  Surgeons had traditionally been called for difficult deliveries only, but more and more people were relying on them to deliver their children without the help of midwifes.

Because the text has content attributed to female midwifes, male apothecaries, and male physicians and because of the changing times, the question of authorship becomes an interesting one.  If women wrote this, they would be endorsing men that are encroaching on their field.   If men wrote this, they would be praising the expertise of Louise Bourgeois, acknowledging that women are extremely capable of doing a good job.  Unfortunately, there is no explicit naming of the authors or editors of these texts. The first edition was by T.C., I.D., M.S., and T.B., calling themselves practitioners.  Doreen Evenden claims that the text was written by female midwives of the day, but with only a series of initials to work with, there is no way of knowing for sure who wrote it.

Bibliography:

Evenden, Doreen. The Midwives of Seventeenth-Century London. N.p.: Cambridge University   Press, 2000. Print.
Cody, Lisa Forman. Birthing the Nation: Sex, Science and the Conception of Eighteenth-Century 
               Britons. New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. Print.
Pechey, John. The compleat midwife's practice enlarged in the most weighty and high concernments of the birth of man containing a perfect directory or rules for midwives 
               and nurses : as also a guide for women in their conception, bearing and nursing of 
               children from the experience of our English authors, viz., Sir Theodore Mayern, Dr. 
               Chamberlain, Mr. Nich. Culpeper ... : with instructions of the Queen of France's 
               midwife to her daughter ... 5th ed. London, 1698. Early English Books Online. Web.

When the Only Safe Sex was with Vampires

By Karen Essex

Women with "Nymphomania"When answering questions about my latest novel, Dracula in Love, I am inevitably asked about the sequences that readers find the most chilling and frightening – the scenes in the Victorian insane asylum. Surely those shocking scenarios, like the fantasy scenes of vampirism, are products of the author’s perverse imagination? Ironically, the answer is no; the asylum sequences are based on painstaking research. Truth, as it turns out, is always is stranger than fiction.

Dracula in Love retells Bram Stoker’s original story from the perspective of the vampire’s muse, Mina Harker, and in the process, turns the story on its ear, freeing Mina from her role as “victim,” and putting her at the center of her own story. A good deal of Stoker’s book takes place in an asylum. I wanted to utilize that Gothic setting in my book, but I also wanted to paint the asylum as it actually would have been at the time – full of women incarcerated for having what we today would consider normal sexual and other desires.

In the course of my research, I quickly discovered that women in the 1890s had more to fear from their own culture than from vampires. I read the psychiatric journals of the period, which prescribed bizarre treatments for ladies who were “hysterical,” which usually turned out to mean that they were “excitable in the presence of men.” In many instances, the desire to read all day or engage in intellectual studies, were also regarded as symptoms of mental illness in the female. Young women were committed to asylums for doing cartwheels in mixed company, for desiring sex with someone other than one’s husband, or for staring seductively at a man. Most behavior that showed spunk, spirit, or sexual need, was pathologized.

All sorts of harrowing and torturous cures were developed to “settle” these women – restraints, forced housework (to help them remember their true natures), repeated plunges in ice water, and force-feeding, to name a few. As mental illness in females was thought to originate in the womb, doctors also were obsessed with menstrual cycles, figuring that if a patient’s cycle could be regulated to a strict 28-30 day cycle, the “illness” of wanting to have sex or read books all day, would disappear. Not coincidentally, an irregular cycle was also considered a sign of mental illness and required treatment.

Curious as to whether these “cures” were actually implemented, I visited the archives of Victorian mental hospitals and read physicians’ reports from the late 1800s, often in the doctors’ own handwriting. Reading of young women committed for losing interest in housework, for lying about sexual encounters, or in one case, of a fifteen year old girl diagnosed with hysteria because she refused to stick her tongue out for the doctor’s tongue depressor, was heartbreaking.

Worse yet were the treatments, which often involved restraints to “pacify” the women. Women’s “fluttering, nervous hands” were thought to be a sign of hysteria, and the proscribed treatment was confinement – cuffs, muffs, straps, and strait jackets. Psychiatrists figured that if they could only calm the woman’s hands long enough, the patient would be soothed, hence, cured. More often than not, after prolonged periods of restraint, women’s spirits were entirely broken, at which point, they were allowed to return home. One of the most amusing anecdotes I ran across was the euphemism of “camisole” for the strait jacket because wearing it soothed a lady’s nerves in the same way that putting on a lovely garment might.

Think about that next time you slip into a bustier!

Though the Victorian era had its charms and pleasures – and I do explore those as well in Dracula in Love – it was a dangerous time to be a woman. If I were living in that era, I would surely have been committed. And I’m guessing that if you are reading this, you might have been my cellmate.

About the author: Karen Essex is the best-selling author of Dracula in Love, Leonardo’s Swans, Stealing Athena, and two acclaimed biographical novels, Kleopatra and Pharaoh. She lives and works in London and Los Angeles. To learn more about Karen’s work, please visit her website: www.karenessex.com.

Dracula in Love

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Women’s Subtle Arts Shape History

By Scott Ridley

Women's Subtle Arts Shape HistoryThe first European and American voyagers to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) in the 18th century were stunned by the women. They came swimming out to a ship, or paddling in canoes, naked, or nearly naked, and brazenly flirted with the crew as they signaled that they wanted to come onboard. The younger ones wore their hair crowned with flowers, and long and flowing over their shoulders. Those who had been married had it cut short in back and longer in front, stained white in streaks with clay or crushed coral. Strings of shells or polished black wood hung around their necks. Some wore only a short skirt of grass, or a barkcloth loin skirt, which they readily stripped off. In the understated modesty of one ship’s officer they “seemed not to esteem chastity a virtue.”

Coming from societies with strict sexual constraints, what the men didn’t understand was that sexual hospitality was a common custom in the Pacific islands. Women had a certain amount of sexual freedom and they had been taught from girlhood the ‘amo’amo – the ‘wink-wink’ of the muscles of the vulva, as well as other arts of love. Espousing their passion and practicing their art was equated with praising their god. It typically came to pass that while the women were honoring their religious teaching, the sailors were quickly trying to forget their own. Many of them deserted their ships to stay in the islands and ally with a local chief. Inter-island war had been raging off and on for generations, and this was part of the social strategy of the custom, for the women to bond these men who had foreign knowledge and powers to their tribe.

Sailors who stayed ashore, including men left by American captain John Kendrick in 1789, 1791, 1793, and 1794 brought guns and cannons and taught native warriors how to use them. When British commander George Vancouver arrived in the islands in 1792 with an intent to take them over, he was struck by the fact that the natives were not only well armed with muskets, but could use them as well as European soldiers. Supported by his American allies, King Kamehameha of Hawaii ultimately conquered all of the islands in 1795. Peace arrived for the first time in generations. Without the power of the women and their subtle arts, history may have taken a very different course.

About the author: Scott Ridley is the author of Morning of Fire: John Kendrick’s Daring American Odyssey in the Pacific; William Morrow/Harper Collins, November 2010.

Morning of Fire

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To the mountain!

By Hugh Bowden

Every other year in many Greek cities, processions of young women wearing deerskin with wreaths of ivy in their hair, and ivy-wrapped wands in their hands, set off out of the city, through the fields and into the wild uplands beyond. They took with them flutes and tambourines, and they were going to dance. They were led by the priestess of Dionysus, and the dances were in his honor.

The men of the city would watch them depart, but would see nothing of what happened in the hills. For the women, the journey symbolized a break with everything they were used to. They exchanged the shelter of the home (a woman’s place) for the wilderness, woven woolen clothes for the skins of wild animals, bread and cooked food for berries, and quiet dignity for ecstatic dancing and singing. And they experienced something beyond all that.

We are given an imaginative picture of these activities in Euripides’ play Bacchae, in which the women of Thebes are driven mad by the god Dionysus, and find themselves in the wilderness, suckling wild beasts, and striking stream of milk from the rocks. That is fantasy, and Euripides’ story ends in disaster, but the play points to an important truth. The psychological impact of the escape from normal life, the noise and the excitement of the singing and dancing will have had a profound effect on the women. The experience would be beyond anything they could know or understand, and could only be explained in the terms they used to describe what was beyond knowledge: in their ecstasy they found themselves in the presence of the god Dionysus himself.

Afterwards the women returned to the city, and to their everyday lives. But for their lives had been transformed forever.

Hugh Bowden is senior lecturer in ancient history at King’s College London. He is the author of Classical Athens and the Delphic Oracle and general editor of “The Times” Ancient Civilizations (HarperCollins). His new book is Mystery Cults of the Ancient World (Princeton, 2010).

IMAGE: The Women of Amphissa by Lawrence Alma-Tadema – Once during a war in the middle of the third century BC, the entranced Thyiades (or maenads), as the women that worshiped Dionysus were called, lost their way and arrived in Amphissa

Congratulations to the W & M winners of this book:

Leslie, Anne, and Marie!

Good Ole Aunt Epp!

By Christopher Rush

My great-great aunt, Elspeth Marr, died in 1947. I was only three at the time, but still recall with terror the literary, religious and sex education she handed out to me from her hearth. The sex education was that boys came from the Bass Rock and girls from the May Isle (well known islands off the Scottish east coast, where we lived). Later I was given a more truthful version: ‘Thou camest from a stinking drop’!

So, many years later, when I came to edit Epp’s notebooks and journals, I was not surprised to discover many staggeringly frank entries on everything to avoid conception: ensure that your knicker elastic is good and strong, if the knickers come off, make sure that you have planted a stale fish beneath the floorboards on the man’s side of the bed – this will occupy his mind and take it off intercourse. If in spite of this he sows his seed in you, be up and active on your feet for an hour afterwards, and if the sea is within spitting distance, give yourself a good salt douche.

If on the other hand you are anxious to conceive, she has other remedies, even one for conceiving a girl: give your fertile crescent a good splash of vinegar. (Apparently acid is inimical to male sperms.) When you come to give birth, she has much sage advice. If it’s a boy, don’t cut the umbilical too short, as this will proportionately affect the length of the penis, and a man is best left too long than too short. A long umbilical on a girl, though, will determine the length of her tongue – so if you don’t want a long-tongued gossip in the family, cut her short.

My favourite entry is on insomnia. For this she recommends a bath, a glass of brandy, and intercourse. ‘Otherwise try onions. These are marvellous adversaries to insomnia, and onions do not get you pregnant. Do this before bed but not before sexual congress… onions and intercourse do not blend well. With such incompatible bedfellows, do without your onions, and let your man have his oats.’

All this plus hundreds of cures and recipes and remedies were penned by Epp over six decades and headed ‘Notes for a Young Lady’. Whoever that lady was, she had some start in life!

Christopher Rush is the great-great nephew of Elspeth Marr and knew her only two years before her death. He is the author of Aunt Epp’s Guide for Life: Miscellaneous Musings of a Victorian Lady and numerous critically acclaimed works of fiction, poetry and memoir, including Will, a fictional autobiography of Shakespeare. He lives in Fife, Scotland.

IMAGE: Photo of the authors Aunt, Elspeth Marr (Aunt Epp) from his own collection

Congratulations to the following winners of this book:

Arwen, Audra, and Jill

We’ll be in touch with you real soon!

The Cow Dung Fertility Cure—and other odd adventures in baby-making

By Randi Hutter Epstein

Last year, I visited a sperm bank (was awash in a winter wonderland of frozen samples), watched a woman have her egg frozen, and sorted through websites of available egg donors. Would anyone really want an egg from a woman who put cheerleading under academic information in her donor-web entry? That was Donor 850991 in the Donor Egg Bank. This was all, of course, for book research. But even before I started my journey, I knew that for many couples, today, getting pregnant means marching through a whirlwind of conflicting advice and sorting through all sorts of low-tech and high-tech remedies.

What I didn’t know was that our great-great-great grandmothers, who may have been literally scared to death when pregnant, were bombarded with often contradictory words of wisdom. And they, too, had to pick and choose between an array of how-to-get-pregnant treatments.

Take Catherine de Medici, France’s sixteenth century Queen, for one. For years, the teenage queen (she married at 14) could not get pregnant. First, like so many women today, she tried folk remedies. But in her case, the Queen drank the urine of a mare and then soaked her “source of life” (vagina?) in a sack of cow manure mixed with ground stag’s antlers. The king was never attracted to his wife, preferring his mistress Diane de Poitiers. I can’t imagine the dung diaper helped get her back her man.

The teenage Queen then tried her own tactic. She had her servants drill a hole in the floor so she could watch her husband have sex with his mistress and learn a thing or two. Talk about an emotionally painful remedy. Finally, the two youngsters went to see a doctor who diagnosed the couple with physically deformed reproductive organs. We don’t know what he saw, what he did, or what he recommended, but shortly thereafter, they went on to have nine children.

Randi Hutter Epstein, MD is a medical writer, non-practicing physician, adjunct professor at The Graduate School of Journalism, Columbia University and author of Get Me Out: A History of Childbirth from the Garden of Eden to the Sperm Bank. A sampling of her articles are available at www.randihutterepstein.com

Little Men in Sperm

By Holly Tucker

Something major happened during the scientific “revolution” of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-centuries. Telescopes, barometers, blood circulation, air pumps, vacuums, early calculating devices, discovery of planetary systems…yes, yes, we know all about that.

The discovery of the egg and the sperm in 1672 and 1677 changed the way people understood babies–and how. Heated debates took place about whether possibly, just possibly, humans existed preformed in either the egg or the sperm. Animaculists argued that shrinky-dink-sized beings lay wait in the head of each sperm.

Ovists argued that tiny humans sat in each egg. At the end of the day, the ovists won out. One of the most difficult aspects of spermist theory to reconcile was the knowledge that there are millions of sperm in a single ejaculation. Surely God would not allow the genocide of all of those beings in a single embrace! And imagine what they had to say about going solo…

The best study out there on preformation is, without a doubt, Clara Pinto-Correia’s The Ovary of Eve: The Egg and the Sperm and Preformation.

IMAGE: Antonio Vallisnieri, Histoire della generazione dell’uomo e degli animali

Decades-Long Pregancies?

By Holly Tucker

Putting aside all modesty, let me scream and shout to you my excitement about a feature article that just came out in the New Scientist, one of my favorite magazines.

I uncovered this story several years ago as I was writing a book on early pregnancy and childbirth. I tried and tried to find a way to include Pierre Dionis’s detective story in my chapter on “Uterine Legends,” but could never find a way to fit it in.

The question of “fetus in fetu” and the links to testicular pregnancies were too much of  a detour from my main point, so I had to let it drop.  (Yes, there were claims that a man carried a fetus in his testicles!)

Tales about decades-long pregnancies are actually very common in 16th- and 17th-century medical treatises.  In my book, I tracked variants one specific legend from the late 16th century through to late 18th century.  In each, a woman went into labor and then the labor stalled–leaving her “pregnant” for decades.

What fascinated me was that the outcome changed ever so slightly in each variant. In 1582, there was absolutely no mention of the possibility of removing the post-term fetus.  In 1678, the woman begs doctors to operate to get rid of her “unpleasant load.”  But the doctors refuse.  By 1748, however, the doctors actually beg the woman to submit to a c-section.  She refuses and dies.  The doctors end up by admonishing the woman for her stubbornness and watch her die.  (Medical history is rarely pretty, folks.)

Interestingly, these accounts track–precisely–the dramatic shifts that were taking place in regard to attitudes toward caesarean sections.  In the 16th century, c-sections were frankly inimaginable.  By the 17th century, they had been proposed by certain renegade doctors by summarily dismissed by the majority of surgeons as “cruel and dangerous operation” (Phillipe Peu, 1694) or, worse, “a great excess of inhumanity, of cruelty, and of barbarity” (François Mauriceau, 1668).

By the second half of the eighteenth century, things began to change.   The procedure was considered more practical and less painful, after surgeons changed the location of the incision: horizontal, across the abdominal muscles to vertical, between the connective tissues of the muscles.  (Yet, it’s well worth pointing out that “less painful” is all in the eye of the beholder–given that we are still centuries away from effective anesthesia and antisepsis.)  While still rare and usually deadly, c-sections were now part of surgeons’  procedural toolboxes.  And, hence, in the last variant of the tale, they were newly ready to stress–and adamently so–that the parturient mother submit to the horrific procedure.

I couldn’t be more pleased with the home that it found in the New Scientist–and with the layout of the feature in the print edition.  I love the inclusion of Rosamond Purcell’s  extraordinary recreation of the engraving of Ole Worm’s Cabinet of Curiosity (Have fun comparing it with the image above.)  The print version of the piece also includes an image of an ectopic pregnancy by Dionis (the protagonist of the story).

Childbirth as a Spectator Sport


By Catherine Delors

At Versailles, not only the Queen, but princesses of the royal blood were required to give birth in public. Why? To prevent any substitution of the infant in case he was destined to reign. I say “he” by design, because France’s unwritten constitution prevented women to step unto the throne in their own right, though they could, and often did govern the Kingdom as Regents.

In the case of Marie-Antoinette, her first laying-in was all the more eagerly awaited that she had been married for eight years without presenting her husband with an heir. For a Queen, this was a glaring failure. Her sister-in-law, the Comtesse d’Artois, married to the King’s youngest brother, had already been delivered of two healthy little boys. Marie-Antoinette had attended the deliveries, as required by the etiquette, and deeply felt the political and personal humiliation of her own childlessness.

Now at long last she herself was pregnant. The stakes could not be higher: if the child were stillborn, or a girl, the heir to the throne would remain the Comte de Provence, another brother of Louis XVI. The Comte de Provence was cunning, ambitious, and probably the most dangerous enemy of the royal couple. Every year that passed without Marie-Antoinette giving birth to a Dauphin brought him closer to the throne (to which he would eventually ascend, decades later, under the name of Louis XVIII.)

Let us listen to what Madame Campan, First Chambermaid to Marie-Antoinette, tells us in her irreplaceable Memoirs: “The Queen’s laying-in approached; Te Deums were sung and prayers offered up in all the cathedrals. On December 11, 1778, the royal family, the Princes of the royal blood, and the Great Officers of State spent the night in the rooms adjoining the Queen’s Bedchamber.” This, by the way, was days ahead of time because the child would not be born until the 19th of December.

Finally, before noon, it became certain that the birth was imminent. “The etiquette,” continues Madame Campan, “allowing all persons indiscriminately to enter at the moment of the delivery of a queen was observed with such exaggeration that when the obstetrician said aloud: “The Queen is going to give birth!” the persons who poured into the chamber were so numerous that the rush nearly killed the Queen. During the night the King had taken the precaution to have the enormous tapestry screens which surrounded Her Majesty’s bed secured with cords; but for this they certainly would have been thrown down upon her. It was impossible to move about the chamber, which was filled with so motley a crowd that one might have fancied himself in some place of public amusement. Two chimney-sweeps climbed upon the furniture for a better sight of the Queen.”

Marie-Antoinette fainted. Was it simply pain? The body heat created by the crowd packed in the bechamber? The feeling of being exposed to strange eyes in a circus scene? Or the pressure to give birth to a boy? Apparently Marie-Antoinette and her friend the Princesse de Lamballe, Head of the Queen’s Household and member of the royal family, had agreed on a sign the Princesse would make to inform Marie-Antoinette of the child’s gender as soon as it became apparent. Normally that announcement would have been made more formally minutes later, and Marie-Antoinette wanted to know right away. And the child turned out to be a girl! Maybe the disappointment was enough to make the Queen lose consciousness.

The obstetrician decided that the patient needed to be bled (indeed what patient wasn’t in need of a good bloodletting in the 18th century?). More sensibly by modern standards, he called for the windows to be opened wide.

The King sprung to action. The windows had been stopped up (Versailles has always been notoriously drafty) and he rushed to force them open. Let us not forget that Louis XVI was a man of unusual height and strength.

The Court’s head surgeon then seized his lancet and bled the Queen. Whether thanks to his ministrations or more likely the rush of fresh air in the stifling room, she opened her eyes. At this moment the Princesse de Lamballe, who was much given to what was then called “nervous spasms,” added to the general confusion by fainting herself. She had to be carried through the crowd “in a state of insensibility.” Only then was it deemed necessary to empty the room of all idle onlookers. “The valets,” writes Madame Campan, “dragged out by the collar such inconsiderate persons as would not leave the room.”

“This cruel custom,” continues Madame Campan, “was abolished afterwards. The Princes of the family, the Princes of the blood, the Chancellor, and the ministers are surely sufficient to attest the legitimacy of a prince.”

Certainly it was an improvement, but that still left a few dozen people to attend every royal birth…

Catherine Delors is author of Mistress of the Revolution. She also keeps a fascinating blog on all things royal during the eighteenth century.

Women’s Medical Secrets


by Renee Hanemann (Vanderbilt University)


Queen Elizabeth I, the queen of England and Ireland in the late 16th century, was a public participant in what was usually considered women’s secret, private household medical practice. She helped to create broader public recognition of women’s medical knowledge with the publication of “Closset of Secrets.” The “secrets” contained in the text were extensive, covering numerous aspects of women’s health and beauty. In a segment entitled “The Child Bearer’s Cabinet,” the text exposed monthly medical instructions for pregnant women, including nutritional information and advice for avoiding imaginary and psychological traumas which might affect the fetus. Additionally, the segment contained post-birth medical instructions, both for the newborn child and the new mother. The main purpose of this selection was to ensure that women of the royal court (among other readers) would make no mistakes in childbearing due to their own ignorance. Thus the queen used her position as queen to educate other women.

Another segment of Elizabeth’s “Closset” concerned the Black Plague and Smallpox. Epidemics in London created widespread fear and panic, calling for new medical knowledge. The selection “Treatise Concerning the Plague and the Pox” focused on presenting cures for both illnesses through the use of home remedies and recipes that could ward off contagions and keep the population healthy. In this way, Elizabeth I used her public position to draw connections between the queen’s duty to share knowledge and protect her people, and the housewife’s duty to use household wisdom to cure her family.

Arnold, Ken. Cabinets for the Curious: Looking Back at Early English Museums. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006.

Evans, Robert John Weston. Curiosity and Wonder from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006.