The Macabre History of the King’s Drops

Here’s a tidbit your school history books likely skipped: Europeans consumed human remains under the guise of medicine for centuries. This wasn’t some clandestine or fringe practice: it was endorsed by leading physicians, embraced by the upper echelons of society, and deemed entirely respectable during its peak.

Why such a gruesome tradition? The belief in the mystical abilities of human remains ran deep. Skulls, blood, and fat were thought to be imbued with a “vital spirit,” a force that could heal afflictions, replenish lost vitality, and perhaps even extend life itself. 

These weren’t mere superstitions, but rather ideas rooted in the prevailing medical theories of the era. For instance, the renowned Swiss physician Paracelsus championed the principle of “like cures like.” To him, powdered skulls were the ideal remedy for head-related ailments, just as imbibing fresh blood might ostensibly counteract disorders of the blood.

The logic, macabre as it was, gained traction. Apothecaries across Europe offered powdered mummies sourced from Egyptian tombs. Executioners became unexpected participants in the medical trade, selling fresh blood directly from the scaffold. Even “skull moss,” a greenish growth found on unburied craniums, became a sought-after remedy for nosebleeds and other minor ailments.

Of all the grim concoctions of the era, few captivated the imagination of the elite, or their wallets, quite like the King’s Drops. This particular elixir, crafted by Dr. Jonathan Goddard, a chemist and physician, was an elaborate blend of powdered human skulls, dried vipers, hartshorn, ivory, and other exotic ingredients. The preparation process was meticulous, involving multiple distillations to refine its potency. It was marketed as a cure-all for a range of ailments, from fainting spells to apoplexy.

King Charles II was enchanted. He purchased the recipe for an astonishing £6,000, a sum that underscored his fascination. Unlike other monarchs, Charles took a hands-on approach. He established a private laboratory at Whitehall Palace and oversaw his beloved remedy's preparation. It’s an arresting image: the sovereign of England, more often associated with revelry, meticulously measuring and mixing human remains in pursuit of relief from his physical ailments, or perhaps a chance at defying mortality.

The King’s Drops weren’t merely a private indulgence. Charles reportedly mixed the concoction into wine or chocolate and consumed it regularly. Some accounts even suggest he shared it with courtiers, extolling its miraculous properties. Imagine the scene: the glittering court of the Merry Monarch, sipping what they believed was an elixir of life, blissfully unaware of the gruesome journey it had taken before being poured into their cups.

The story of the King’s Drops is inextricably linked to the broader economy it fueled. Skulls didn’t materialize in apothecaries by magic—they were sourced from the dead, often unethically.

Ireland became a major supplier. Its turbulent history, marked by battles and mass executions, left an abundance of unburied remains. Skulls from young, healthy individuals who had died violently were considered the most potent. Gravediggers and scavengers capitalized on this grim reality, turning death into profit as they supplied apothecaries in England and beyond. Even “skull moss” gathered from weathered craniums, became a lucrative commodity.

This aspect of the story is particularly haunting. It wasn’t just the commodification of the dead, it was also a reflection of colonial dynamics. The bodies of the oppressed often became the resources of the privileged, a chilling reminder that exploitation knows no boundaries, not even the line between life and death.

Here’s the million-dollar question: did the King’s Drops work? The short answer is no, at least not in the way their creators claimed. Yet it’s easy to see why people believed in them.

For one thing, the drops were often mixed with alcohol, which alone could provide a sense of relief or euphoria. Add the placebo effect and the power of belief in a cure, and the results could feel genuinely transformative. Anne Dormer, an Englishwoman of the time, praised the drops for helping her combat melancholy, noting that she paired them with chocolate for comfort.

But when it truly mattered, the drops failed their most famous advocate. In February 1685, as Charles II lay dying of a stroke, his physicians administered increasingly large doses of the remedy, up to 40 drops a day. Some historians speculate that the concoction may have hastened his death rather than prolonged his life.

As the Enlightenment dawned in the late 18th century, science began to chip away at the pseudoscientific foundations of remedies like the King’s Drops. The era’s thinkers championed reason and empirical evidence, casting doubt on cures steeped in mysticism. At the same time, cultural attitudes shifted. What was once considered a respectable practice increasingly came to be viewed as grotesque and inhumane.

Even so, the shadow of these practices lingered. Human-derived powders and tinctures continued circulating in apothecaries into the 19th century, reflecting the slow evolution of medical ethics. Today, debates over the commodification of the human body persist in modern contexts, from the black market for organs to controversies surrounding embryonic stem cell research.

As I immersed myself in the King’s Drops tale, I grappled with its more profound implications. Beyond the grotesque details lies a profoundly human story of hope, ingenuity, and the enduring battle against suffering. These remedies, horrifying by modern standards, were born of a genuine desire to heal and to stave off death’s inevitability.

It’s tempting to dismiss such practices as absurd relics of a less enlightened time. Yet progress rarely unfolds in straight lines. It’s a journey through trial and error, with missteps and strange detours paving the way to advancements we now take for granted. Who knows where we’d be today without those forays into the improbable?

The story of the King’s Drops invites us to confront the complexities of our shared humanity. It’s a tale of exploration, exploitation, misguided faith, and enduring innovation. Most of all, it’s a reminder that even history’s strangest detours shape our world, often in ways we cannot immediately see.

Sources: Smithsonian Magazine, Atlas Obscura, Smithsonian Magazine, National Geographic, Medicinal Cannibalism in Early Modern English Literature and Culture by Louise Noble, Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires: the History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians by Richard Sugg