Wall Street Journal:
Dieters Curbed Carbs, Loaded Up on Protein Way Back in the
1860s May 5, 2004; Page B1
At 5 feet 5 inches and 202 pounds, William Banting was too
fat to tie his own shoes. He walked down stairs backward to
protect his knees and ankles. The slightest physical
exertion left him puffing.
Yet even worse than the physical agony was his mental
distress, the result of sneers and cruel remarks in
public places.
The year was 1862, and obesity still was rare. In
England, where
Mr. Banting lived, as well as in America, the cost of food
deterred most people from eating too much. All but the
wealthiest burned more calories in daily life than they
were able to ingest. But Mr. Banting, a prosperous
undertaker, watched in horror as he piled on weight.
Even London's most distinguished doctors were confounded by
the unusual complaint of obesity. Little was known about how
the body burned or stored energy. Furthermore, leanness was
associated with immigrants and the lower classes. Successful
merchants were expected to look robust. So Mr. Banting's
doctors improvised, ordering Turkish baths, diuretics and
sojourns at spas. Mr. Banting exercised vigorously, took the
waters at Harrowgate and drank gallons of "physic" -- all to
no avail. By the age of 66, he seemed doomed to live out the
remainder of his life as an obese man.
Then, however, in what turned out to be a stroke of luck,
Mr. Banting started going deaf.
One doctor cleaned out his ears and sent him away. But the
second, William Harvey, an ear surgeon, wondered if Mr.
Banting's hearing loss might be related to his weight. Dr.
Harvey had recently returned from a symposium in Paris,
where an eminent French doctor had lectured on the
relationship between diabetes and the liver. Hypothesizing
that obesity and diabetes might share a cause, Dr. Harvey
suggested that the diet recommended for diabetics -- high in
protein, low in carbohydrates -- also might treat obesity.
Ms. Harvey put Mr. Banting on a diet that banished potatoes,
bread, butter, milk, sugar and beer -- the patient's
favorite foods. As was the custom in late-19th-century
England, Mr. Banting continued to eat four meals a day.
But instead of buttered toast for breakfast, he ate four
or five ounces of meat or fish. At lunch, rather than
bread, beer and pastry, he ate fish, vegetables and
fruit. Tea and supper were similar, although supper
included two or three glasses of claret, sherry or
Madeira. Champagne and port were mysteriously forbidden.
In less than a year, Mr. Banting lost 46 pounds and could
comfortably wear his old suits on top of his new ones. He
pronounced the diet miraculous and not only paid Dr.
Harvey's bill but also gave him a hefty bonus.
He also decided the diet should be publicized to help other
sufferers of "that dreadful tormenting parasite." But he
knew that respected medical journals weren't likely to
publish an article written by an undertaker based on
personal experience. So in 1863, Mr. Banting printed and
distributed 1,000 copies of his "Letter on Corpulence" at
his own expense.
The response from the public was enormous. In the next
eight months,
Mt. Banting printed 50,000 more copies of the pamphlet, some
of which found their way to Germany, France and the U.S.
He received nearly 2,000 grateful letters from satisfied
dieters, and his name became synonymous with dieting, so
that people could be heard saying, "He should bant," or
"She's been banting."
But if the public was sold, the medical establishment was
not. Mr. Banting soon became a target of ridicule in
newspapers and magazines, which suggested Mr. Banting's diet
was unscientific and couldn't be explained in biochemical
terms. Only wealthy people could afford to eat so much meat
and so little bread, yet some doctors complained that the
diet was "too great a sacrifice of personal comfort" for
their affluent clients.
And what was Mr. Banting complaining about anyway?
"We deny that a man weighing but a trifle above 14 stone
[196 pounds] is entitled to call himself obese," argued
Blackwood's magazine. "It may be that such a one is not
qualified to exhibit himself as a dancer on the
tightrope...or to enter himself as a competitor for the long
race at a Highland meeting." But a retired businessman, the
article concluded, didn't have to dress in a leotard or
compete at the racetrack.
Mu. Banting was miffed but not deterred. In a preface to the
fourth edition, published in 1868, he wrote, "I believe
I have subdued my discourteous assailants by silence and
patience; and I can now look with pity, not unmixed with
sorrow, upon men of eminence who had the rashness and
folly to designate the dietary system as 'humbug.' "
Mv. Banting's diet, like all miracle diets before and
since, survived only a few years before other
regimens -- Fletcherism (slow chewing), Phytoline (a
purgative) and the Schweninger cure (lots of
exercise) -- were pronounced less monotonous and more
effective. Mr. Banting stayed loyal to his diet --
cheating sporadically, of course -- until he died at
the age of 81.
Write to Cynthia Crossen at [email hidden]
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@ @ @ Please forgive my typos as my right hand is injured.
@ @ @ char*p="char*p=%c%s%c;main(){printf(p,34,p,34);}";m-
ain(){printf(p,34,p,34);} "It's never too late to have a
happy childhood."