Brendan Mackie works in market research in the ancient metropolis of Chicago. In his spare time, he looks at the books on his bookshelf, and feels pleased. He also blogs about interesting facts--infrequently--at bmackie.blogspot.com.
In the 17th Century there was a shortage of giants in Europe, and only one man was to blame. The giant-greedy Frederick the First of Prussia.
The king’s agents fanned out across Europe, on the lookout for tall men to press into the fabled Grand Grenadiers of Potsdam. Diplomats trying to get on Frederick’s good side quickly learned to send Freddy larger-than-normal men as human presents. Every year the Russian Tsar Peter the Great—who stood at six foot seven inches tall himself—made a gift of fifty giants. Once, when Peter took back an especially large specimen and replaced him with a shorter one, Frederick refused to speak to any Russian diplomat for months. “The wound,” the King explained, “is still too raw.” Fredrick even tried to ensure a race of giants by forcing all the tall men in Prussia to marry tall women.
Though King Frederick wouldn’t ever dare risk his giants in anything resembling an actual war, he didn’t let his giant army just gather dust in a cupboard. He trained with the regiment every day, and showed them off to foreign dignitaries. Whenever he was feeling gloomy, he would have the regiment march through his rooms, led by the regiment’s mascot, a live (though presumably normal-sized) bear.
The men from London arrived just in time to see Mary Toft give birth to her fifteenth rabbit.
It was the winter of 1726, and Nathaniel St. André and Samuel Molyneux arrived in the market town of Godalming in Surrey to meet Mary Toft, a short, stout peasant of “stupid and sullen temper” (per St. André’s later, embittered description). They found the country-woman waiting at the house of local man-midwife John Howard. She was lingering on the edge of a bed, stripped down to her corset. Howard assured the Londoners that they had come just in time.
Soon Mary Toft’s body began to twist and contort. Her throes could be so powerful that her clothes would fly off her body, and the woman would have to be held down in her chair. Sometimes the labors lasted up to a day and a half. Toft’s belly would “leap,” a phenomenon Howard thought was caused by baby rabbits jumping around inside Toft’s uterus. One was observed to hop like this for eighteen hours.
But that winter day, the labor was not prolonged, and soon Toft had delivered her child—the skinned torso of a small rabbit. The men from London started dissecting it right there on the floor. St. André—surgeon anatomist to the King of England himself—took a section of lung and put it in a basin of water. It floated, showing that the lungs had air in them, which suggested that the creature had breathed before it died. The rabbit’s anus was found to have feces in it, which meant that the small animal must have eaten something. There was no blood.
St. André then turned his attention to the mother, who had been waiting patiently by the fire. He found that one breast produced a thin, watery milk. After palpating Mary’s stomach, St. André found a hard lump in the woman’s right side. From this he concluded that the rabbits had been bred in Toft’s fallopian tubes, after which they had hopped down to her uterus, where they developed. With no prospect of another birth any time soon, the men retired.
In the evening Mary Toft fell into convulsions again—this time so violent she had to be held in her chair. “After three or four very strong Pains that lasted several minutes, I delivered her of the skin of the rabbet, rolled and squeezed up like a Ball,” St André wrote later. The rabbit’s head came soon after, complete except for one ear.
Satisfied, St. André and his companion Molyneux returned to London with some of Mary’s purported offspring, preserved by Howard in jars of alcohol. By the end of the year, all of England—even King George I himself—would know about the woman who had given birth to rabbits.
This article was written by our shiny new contributor Brendan Mackie.
François-Marie Arouet knew how to get into trouble. After a very public scuffle with a nobleman nearly ended in a duel, the young playwright was exiled from Paris, the city where his plays were only just coming into fashion. He lived in dreary England for two whole years before slinking back to France, where he lived in the house of a pharmacist. There he experimented with various potions and poultices, but nothing would cure the vague sense of impotence and dread that dogged him.
Finally in 1729 the gates of Paris were opened to Arouet again, but he was still ill-at-ease. At a dinner party held by the chemist Charles du Fay, Arouet, better known by his pen-name Voltaire, found the cure he had been looking for. He met a brilliant mathematician called Charles Marie De La Condamine, who promised a panacea better than any Voltaire had found at his pharmacist.
It wasn’t medicine—it was money. Condamine had a plan that would make both him and Voltaire more money than he could ever scratch together by writing plays or poems, enough money to allow Voltaire to never have to worry about money again. He would be free to live how he wanted and write what he wanted. The plan was simple. Condamine planned to outsmart luck herself. He was going to arrange to win the lottery.