The Temple of Health
Shewing the magnetico-electric
pathway to Elysian lovemaking.
Part
2
Thy rod and thy staff...they tingle me.
For regular patrons of the Temple of Health the most sacred and holy place was the richly appointed Chamber of Apollo, where they could pay homage to a healthy libido and recite the Christian’s Universal Prayer; a rigmarole based on the Lord’s Prayer, which Dr. Graham had penned one morning before breakfast. Here, too, they could reflect on Graham’s Treatise on Health, written with the purpose of rendering marriages happy.
The treatise contained hints on personal hygiene; plus a diversity of odd advice, which included barring the moon from the bedchamber. Music was of prime essence for attuning the senses, and couples were encouraged to sing together in bed from the first hours of their honeymoon. According to the doctor, “Music softens the mind of a happy couple, makes them all love, all harmony.” Joined together in lyric concord while engaged in ‘Moll Pratly’s Jig,’ the happy couple would rise above the world and become “inhabitants of a superior region.” Of course, to enhance their performance, the couple was also encouraged to drink Dr. Graham’s Divine Balsam--to the tune of 1 guinea per bottle. Even at that exorbitant price it was much cheaper than the Celestial Bed, which was let out privately for rich couples who could not readily conceive or, presumably, sing.
Bedded Bliss.
The Celestial Bed, Dr. Graham’s greatest gift to the human race (in his own mind), was “magnetico-electric,” and said to possess “magical” properties found nowhere else in the world.
“The truly divine energy of this celestial and electrical fire, which fills every part of the bed, as well as the magnetic fluid, are both of them calculated to give the necessary degree of strength and exertion to the nerves. Besides the melodious tones of the harmonica, the soft sounds of a flute, the charms of an agreeable voice and the harmonious notes of the organ, being all joined, how can the power and virtue of such a happy conjunction fail in raising sentiments of admiration and pleasure in the soul of the philosopher and even of the physician?”
The therapeutic electric field for the bed emanated from a device first developed by Francis Hauksbee in 1706. He called it the Influence Machine, and it worked by cranking a large drive wheel that spun a glass vacuum globe which created a mysterious “luminosity.” It crackled like lightning when touched and attracted metal flakes, threads, etc. By the time Dr. Graham installed the Hauksbee Influence Machine in his Celestial Bed it had been developed to a considerably higher level of performance.
To assure complete secrecy for patrons using the miraculous bed-chamber, it was never shown to regular visitors of the Temple. Dr. Graham had prospective occupants apply in writing well in advance to book the bed for a particular evening, enclosing the £50 fee. The applicants were then sent a ticket of admission to this inner sanctum of hymeneal delight, and spent the interim preparing their bodies and imaginations. Even though Graham tried to keep wantons and mere pleasure seekers from debasing his Temple, spendthrifts, sons of noble families, and aging men of pleasure paid their £50 to spend a night of celestial bliss--though not with their wives--and were never turned away. It was rumored that a whisper in the ear of the Gentleman Usher of the Rosy Rod might procure an Elysian evening with one of the maidens from Vestina’s Fairy Train, and this was most likely true.
Now I lay me down to...
BE FRUITFUL, MULTIPLY AND REPLENISH THE EARTH. This boldly emblazoned commandment, “sparkling with electrical fire,” appeared over the Celestial Bed and bid patrons a grand welcome to the world of stimulating -- or stimulated --sex.
The bed had been constructed to the Doctor’s specifications, then fitted for electrical apparatus by a proficient tinsmith named Denton. Elaborately carved and gilded, the Celestial Bed was twelve feet long, nine feet wide, and sported every touch of Oriental magnificence. It rested on twenty-eight glass pillars, and above it a rich canopy, supported by 40 glass pillars, was festooned with great crimson tassels. Celestial blue curtains hung from the canopy and the bed coverings were a deep purple. Blankets, silk sheets and pillows were impregnated with costly Arabian essences, while other perfumes were brought to the bed-chamber by concealed glass tubes. The Hauksbee Influence Machine hidden beneath the bed, along with the magnetic lodestones, supplied liberal quantities of “celestial fire.”
After the occupants had completed their celestially-enhanced coitus with musical accompaniment, the bed tilted in order to assist conception. At first the novelty of the Celestial Bed brought a profusion of advanced bookings; but later, for reasons unknown or perhaps, inconceivable, it became vacant for a fortnight. At this point Dr. Graham was forced to reduce the fee to £25.
Fluctuating currents.
The cost of running the Temple became very high and in 1781, after audiences declined, Dr. Graham moved his quarters to Schomberg House in Pall Mall, renaming the establishment the Temple of Health and Hymen. In hopes of enticing more patrons, and to add a bit more caché to the business, he appended the words, “Near the Royal Palace,” to his advertisements and lowered the general admission to 1 shilling.
Schomberg House
At Schomberg House, new electrical apparatus was installed to attract and impress a greater audience. It was “infinitely larger and more magnificent than any other that ever was erected in the world,” and gave off arcs and sparks that reflected brilliantly in the mirrors and crystals of the chandeliers. Daytime lectures went on but they were now performed by Graham’s staff of underlings or, junior officiating priests; one of whom later became Dr. Mitford, the father of Mary Mitford, authoress of Our Village: Sketches of Rural Character and Scenery.
On some evenings at the Temple of Health and Hymen lecturing was abandoned in favor of gala entertainments in praise of “Health and Beauty.” These came in the form of “Elysian Parades” where everyone was masked, concerts by the Celestial Choir, and dancing to the music of the mechanical orchestra.
Another form of pleasure, enlarged upon from the previous establishment, was mud baths. Dr. Graham reveled in them and advised all those who wanted to live “to see their hundredth birthday” to indulge in these “warm earth” soaks. He had special pits let into the floor at Schomberg House, which people would lie in for hours. On one occasion, George Dyer, a struggling poet looking desperately for a captive audience, took full advantage of the immobility of Dr. Graham’s mud patients. Dyer described his encounter thusly: “Immersed in earth up to their perukes, they were powerless to escape from listening.”
To increase revenues, the Temple of Health and Hymen was also used for gambling and, on any given evening, hundreds of patrons would crowd around the gambling tables playing E. O., a prohibited game of chance much like roulette. On July 29, 1782, a party of constables acted on a tip and raided the Temple, but were too outnumbered to make any arrests. They returned two days later with a large force sent by the Westminster justices (or, just-asses, as they were later called), which even “Gog” and “Magog” couldn’t turn away, and the tables were broken up. The raid was later discussed in the House of Commons, and one M.P. drew roars of laughter by suggesting that the Celestial Bed might be turned into a gambling table.
Quack! Quack!
Dr. Graham was not alone in his quackery and, concurrently, the illustrious Dr. Katterfelto was plying his own volts and wares in London. He lectured on optics, magnetism, electricity, chemistry, pneumatics, hydraulics, hydrostatics and many other obscure things which were beyond the realm of comprehension--or pronunciation--for most of his audience. Among his magnetic repertoire, Dr. Katterfelto used necromantic black cats for electrical tricks, during which they gave off “supernatural” sparks and, at the same time, probably shed an abundance of fleas.
The illustrious Dr. K also used the power of a microscope to visually shock patrons into buying one of his patent wares. With this device he revealed the “insects” which had caused a recent epidemic of influenza in the city. According to Katterfelto, the insects were “as large as a bird, and in a drop of water the size of a pin’s head, there will be seen above 50,000 insects.” Regardless of how confusing his statement seemed, the jaws of astonished viewers dropped--and so did their coins--with Katterfelto hawking the remedy which had supposedly cured him. Billed as “Dr. Batto’s” medicine, it quickly sold at 5 shillings a bottle.
In addition, Dr. K sold phosphorous matches (which he erroneously claimed to have invented) and gave advice on how to win at dice, cards, billiards and O.E. (which happened to be the game of choice at Dr. Graham’s Temple of Health). Had patrons only put Dr. Katterfelto under a microscope they would have found him to be a larger than life fraud.
The current runs out.
By 1784 both Dr. Katterfelto and Dr. Graham had “shot their bolts”--or, volts--so to speak, and their establishments were sold up. Before leaving London, Dr. K claimed to have discovered the secret of perpetual motion, but there were few believers. He left the metropolis--never to return--and traveled from town to town performing with his cats. Presumably, he is still in motion--somewhere.
After the gates of the Temple of Health and Hymen closed for good in March of 1784, Dr. Graham prepared a new exhibition in Panton Street; and instead of the Celestial Bed, the main attraction was a pile of wet earth. This was hugely anti-climactic after the electrifying wonders of his previous establishment and, with few patrons ready to trade their finery for a suit of warm mud, Dr. Graham set off for his home town of Edinburgh.
Not long after his arrival, Graham was telling everyone that he could impart the secret of living to be 150 years old. The recommended treatment?...the “bath of warm earth,” in conjunction with his special elixir of immortality. He then took his show on the road and drew sizable crowds, advertising in provincial towns that, on a given date, he and a handsome young lady would be buried in earth, “for positively the last time.” An eye-witness account of their performance at Newcastle in July 1791 reads:
“The Doctor and his fair partner accordingly stripped into their first suits about 12 noon and were each interred up to the chin, their heads beautifully dressed and powdered, appearing not unlike two fine, full-grown cauliflowers. These human plants remained in this whimsical situation six hours.”
Gradually, Graham loosened completely from his earthy/earthly pursuits and became a religious fanatic. He began signing his letters “Servant of the Lord, O.W. L.” (Oh, Wonderful Love) and founded the New Jerusalem Church, of which, he was the only member. Sinking further into lunacy, he became a total faster and his last publication was a treatise titled: How to Live for Many Weeks or Months or Years Without Eating Anything Whatsoever. In 1794, by following his own precepts, Dr. James Graham passed away due to starvation--on his forty-ninth birthday.
Even with all his earthly foibles and fantasies, Dr. Graham believed he was doing something good for humanity. And, in fact, he did. He was a visionary of the electrical experiments now used in modern hospitals, proponent of sleeping with the windows open, and “inventor” of the mud-pack. Whatever his earthly transgressions were, the Lord of Heavenly Hosts has forgiven him, as He does for all. And I can envision Dr. Graham sitting on his bed of celestial clouds, smiling down at our own earthly follies, while Dr. Katterfelto and his cats glide by in perpetual motion.
~Robert Whitworth