For centuries it was believed that monarchs could heal the sick simply by touching them, and scrofula, a disease caused by tuberculosis bacteria, was a prime candidate for this cure. Charles II dutifully touched nearly 7,000 scrofula patients in one year alone.

The thought of visiting the Queen, who could heal us of various illnesses just by her touch, may seem like an unusual thing to do today. But this practice, known as the royal touch – a ceremony in which the monarch restored health to the sick by touching them – held an important position within early modern healing practices, and especially during the reign of King Charles II. 

It was widely associated with a condition called scrofula, more commonly known as “the King’s evil”, as the royal touch was believed to cure it. ‘Adenochoiradelogia’, a medical treatise written by John Browne, surgeon-in-ordinary to Charles II, is the most comprehensive written account of this practice. Browne lauded the touch ceremonies and the “wonders [that had] been performed by his [Charles II’s] Sacred Hand”. According to Browne, even when the best surgeons and physicians failed, the royal touch would cure the scrofulous.

The frontispiece of John Browne's book ‘Adenochoiradelogia’ or ‘An anatomick-chirurgical treatise of glandules & strumaes, or Kings-Evil-swellings’, published 1684.

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Adenochoiradelogia, or, An anatomick-chirurgical treatise of glandules & strumaes, or Kings-Evil-swellings, by John Browne

Scrofula, also known as cervical tuberculous lymphadenitis in the modern world, is a chronic condition in which the bacteria that causes tuberculosis causes symptoms to develop outside the lungs, typically in the lymph nodes of the neck. As a result, areas of the neck and face become inflamed. A person with scrofula might also experience painful lesions, a fever and weight loss. 

Today we understand that scrofula is transmitted by ingesting unpasteurised milk. While it is, therefore, more common in developing countries, it can be diagnosed and treated appropriately.

A clinical photograph of Scrofula in  ‘Atlas of clinical medicine’ by Byrom Bramwell, published 1892-1896. 

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Atlas of clinical medicine, by Byrom Bramwell

Browne’s theory about the cause of scrofula echoes centuries of medical writing concerning ‘humorism’, the belief that good health depended on maintaining a balance between the four humours (fluids in the body): phlegm, blood, yellow bile and black bile. According to Browne, scrofula was caused by an excess of phlegm in the glands, which caused the neck to become inflamed.

The humoural medical system, showing the four humours and their related qualities, elements, and temperaments. 

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The four qualities, elements, humours and temperaments

A person with “scrofulous swellings” writes Browne, must exercise moderately and abstain from a diet that causes flatulence, as certain foodstuffs would “breed gross and viscid humours”. Browne also recommends preparing medicine to work against the nature of the excess humour. As the swellings arise from a “cold and moist being”, hot and dry medicines are suggested – particularly powdered mixtures taken with various teas. 

The powders included several ingredients that are common today, including cinnamon, pepper and salt, among those which are now (hopefully) unlikely to be found in our kitchen cupboards: one physician suggests ingesting a powder made of hog-lice!

Several concoctions claimed to cure scrofula, many of which were aimed at correcting humoral imbalance, and others, such as emollients, which were applied externally to alleviate physical symptoms. None, however, could be compared to the efficacy of the royal touch.  

The royal gift of healing, which originated in medieval France, was an inextricable part of early modern religious and medical culture. It stemmed from belief in the divine right of kings: that their right to rule and heal derived directly from the authority of God. Browne describes the receipt of the gift by means of anointment. Upon “...receiving this Holy Oyl with their Sacred Titles,” asserts Browne, they (the King) are distinguished as “...being Holy, Sacred, and Divine.” Essentially, the monarch became God’s agent on earth. 

To give an idea as to the prominence of the practice in 17th-century England, a register taken by Thomas Haynes (sergeant of the Chapel Royal) reveals that Charles II touched 6,725 persons afflicted with scrofula in the first year of his reign alone (1660). This included a six-year-old boy, who for two years had been completely blind, while also being afflicted with the lesions associated with scrofula. 

According to Browne, it was only after the boy was brought to Charles II to receive the royal touch that he recovered his sight and the lesions began to heal.

The young boy’s family sought treatment from physicians, surgeons and apothecaries. Some of these may have been more painful than the lesions themselves, such as bloodletting – a cure for all ills – which was carried out by a physician (sometimes with leeches) or a barber surgeon. Despite the boy’s family spending a great deal of money on such treatments, it was to no avail. According to Browne, it was only after the boy was brought to Charles II to receive the royal touch that he recovered his sight and the lesions began to heal.

King Edward the Confessor of England (reign 1042-1066), touching one of his subjects to cure him of the 'King's evil'.

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Edward the Confessor touching for the evil

Before attending the healing ceremony, a person with scrofula must first obtain a signed, dated and sealed document from the churchwarden of their parish, certifying that they were indeed suffering from scrofula and had not yet been touched by the King. The person must then travel to the Palace of Whitehall, the main residency of Charles II, where, upon arrival, they would be examined by no less than one physician and two surgeons. If the person was believed to have scrofula, they were provided with a ticket for the healing ceremony – usually held on a Sunday.

Detail from Browne's Frontispiece of King Charles II (reign 1660-1685) at the healing ceremony to 'cure' scrofula sufferers.

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The ceremony began after morning prayers, with the chaplain reading the Gospel (Mark 16:14) that ends with words spoken by Christ: “They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.” These words were repeated between every healing. As the chaplain then continued with the first chapter of St John, the surgeons presented the persons to be cured one by one, who would kneel in front of the King. 

As the King laid his hands upon their head, Christ’s words were spoken. After every person had been touched, they were each presented with the Angel (or royal touch piece) – a gold coin, which was hung around the neck. Like a talisman, it continued to ward off disease. Scrofula was rarely fatal, and often went into remission on its own, perhaps contributing to the impression that the royal touch had cured it.

A gold touch piece, pierced with a hole for hanging around the neck, issued by King Henry VII (1547-1509). 

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Touchpieces issued by Henry VII, England, 1485-1509

‘Touching’ as a cure for scrofula not only exemplifies the ways in which religion, ritual and ceremony were integral to early modern healing practices, but also how some of these practices were inextricably bound with the power and politics of the monarchy. The healing ceremonies, for example, were exercised more frequently by those who sought to demonstrate their right to rule. The royal touch, therefore – bestowed onto the monarch by divine right – was a clear indication of their legitimacy.

Some have argued that the disappearance of the practice in early 18th-century England, a period in which the monarch was no longer divinely appointed, was due to a shift in political realities rather than new developments in medical knowledge.

In studying some of the religio-political underpinnings of early modern health practices, we can better understand their importance to the development of modern medicine. For even today, while we no longer seek out the touch of royalty to miraculously cure us of our various ailments, our health and wellbeing is invariably shaped by political, sociological and religious conditions.

Rita Yates is a PhD student in Art History at the Warburg Institute, University of London. Her thesis examines the production, function and reception of 18th-century French art and visual culture in response to natural disaster.

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Rita Yates

Author

Steven is a photographer at Wellcome. His photography takes inspiration from the museum’s rich and varied collections. He enjoys collaborating on creative projects and taking them to imaginative places.

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Steven Pocock

Photographer

Article

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Adenochoiradelogia, or, An anatomick-chirurgical treatise of glandules & strumaes, or Kings-Evil-swellings, by John Browne. Photo: Steven Pocock

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Our current Queen fortunately doesn’t have to spend hours laying hands on the sick to cure them. But it was a different story for monarchs of the early modern era, whose touch was a sought-after treatment for scrofula.

When monarchs healed the sick

Some believe psychedelic drugs could be the fast track to happiness – and new mental health research seems to suggest these compounds do have positive effects. Kate Wilkinson tracks down a rave-goer with inspiring experiences of MDMA and ayahuasca to share. 

Simon pinches the pill between finger and thumb, feeling its roundness between the pads of his fingertips. Then it’s in his mouth, and with a sip of water he washes the white solid down his throat, where it starts to dissolve before he can undo the swift operation. His friend grins at him and they shuffle forward in the queue. 

If they’d taken the pill closer to the door they might have been noticed, but Simon hopes they didn’t take it too early. He doesn’t know what will happen if he starts getting too high before reaching the entrance. By the time they’re on the dance floor Simon still hasn’t noticed anything different – maybe he’s immune? 

He goes to the bathroom. Then suddenly, as he watches his eyes dilate in the mirror, his heart lifts and the throbbing of the music draws him back onto the floor. He feels good in a way he’s never felt before. He never understood the point of electronic music until this moment, at the ripe age of 25. 

Two years later Simon is recounting the story of his first time on MDMA to me in a busy pub in central London. I’m investigating the relationship between drugs and happiness. Can a pill make you happy? What is the chemical basis for our emotions? Is pleasure dangerous?

Jacques-Joseph Moreau, known as Moreau de Tours, was the first psychologist to experiment with mind-altering drugs and apply their effects to the phenomena of mental illness. In 1845 he wrote: “It is really happiness that hashish gives, and by that I mean mental joy, not sensual joy, as one might be tempted to believe.” He compares the happiness of hashish users to the joy of hearing good news rather than the hungry man satisfying his appetite.

“Simon pinches the pill between finger and thumb. Then it’s in his mouth, and… down his throat, where it starts to dissolve before he can undo the swift operation.”

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Chemical highs

In making a Cartesian division between joy of the body and joy of the mind, Moreau de Tours conceives of happiness as something richer and more mysterious than indulging the bodily senses. The drug might have a physical basis, but for Moreau de Tours the effects are cerebral and profound. Happiness is usually understood as a state that lasts longer than a drug takes to wear off, a feeling of contentment about your life that builds over time. So how can a drug give happiness?

The reason Simon goes to raves and does MDMA roughly monthly now is not simply for sensual indulgence. He likes the way it allows him to “get a little bit lost in [his] thoughts and think through things in a similar way to meditation”. It’s a moment to step out of his life in London, where he feels pressure to be constantly productive both in and outside of work (he’s currently learning Italian and how to ride a motorbike). “There’s always an opportunity cost to resting,” he says. 

Our mid-20s are often seen as some of the most independent and carefree years of our lives. But the pressure to “make the most of it” doesn’t lend itself to a happy existence. Ecstasy (MDMA’s popular name) is generally associated with high energy and frenetic dancing, but it was the pace of Simon’s everyday reality that exhausted him. The raving and taking MDMA, he said, “allowed me to engage with a totally different mode of consciousness”. 

As neuroscience developed in the early 20th century, the Cartesian division between mind and body carried less weight. The brain has a material basis, like any other organ in the body, though we are far from fully understanding it.  

What we do know is that MDMA promotes raised levels of certain chemicals in the brain, especially serotonin, dopamine and noradrenaline. It reduces the amygdala fear response and relaxes the user, promoting feelings of empathy and self-confidence. 

Describing these effects in ‘The Psychedelic Renaissance’, psychiatrist Ben Sessa notes that MDMA users experience “a remarkably consistent pleasurable effect” that is “difficult not to enjoy”, compared with the more variable experiences of other mind-altering substances. MDMA has long been used in a clinical setting, and has been found particularly effective in the treatment of  post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).  

“Ayahuasca, a powerful psychedelic made from the leaves of two plants, takes this effect to the extreme, with users reporting a feeling of dissolved ego, or even ‘ego death’.”

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One reason why MDMA feels good is because it enhances a sense of connectedness with the world, breaking down barriers between self and other.

Simon says, “You feel a really pure, chemical sense of joy.” But he acknowledges the downsides. There’s evidence that the effects of the drug weaken with repeated use and it’s difficult to recapture the high of that first time. This can lead some users into a kind of semi-dependence, although MDMA isn’t commonly associated with long-term addiction. There are other notable side effects, including increased risk of overheating and dehydration.

In ‘How to Change Your Mind: The New Science of Psychedelics’, the American journalist Michael Pollan explores the use of psychedelics to treat depression and addiction as well as help people with terminal diagnoses face death. 

One reason why MDMA feels good is because it enhances a sense of connectedness with the world, breaking down barriers between self and other. Ayahuasca, a powerful psychedelic made from the leaves of two plants, takes this effect to the extreme, with users reporting a feeling of dissolved ego, or even “ego death”. This element of the psychedelic experience seems to lend itself particularly well to therapeutic purposes, allowing people a new sense of perspective.

Three years on from his first MDMA high, Simon sits on a mat in a jungle in Peru with an Andean priest, a doctor, a couple of psychotherapists and a small group of fellow initiates. After weeks of detox – no meat, sex, alcohol, coffee – he’s about to begin the first of two ayahuasca ceremonies. Simon was inspired by Pollan’s book to take ayahuasca for the purpose of personal and spiritual exploration. 

“After weeks of detox, Simon’s about to begin the first of two ayahuasca ceremonies… for the purpose of personal and spiritual exploration.”

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For Simon, there’s “no comparison” between ecstasy – which is fun, meditative, and brings you up – and ayahuasca, which is revelatory, brutal, and breaks you down. Perhaps his openness to one facilitated his openness to the other, but they are fundamentally different. MDMA is recreational, while ayahuasca feels like “eight years of therapy in one night”. But perhaps ayahuasca is recreational too, in its true sense. The word derives from the Latin recreare, to create again or renew. It’s like a renewal of the self, he says.  

Back in London, Simon enjoys raving and doesn’t feel like it’s a temporary phase. “I would love to still be raving when I’m 80 – it’s such a pure experience for me,” he says. But he acknowledges that you don’t see many older people in clubs. As a young gay man in London’s LGBTQ rave scene, he currently fits in perfectly. When he gets older, the opportunities may not present themselves so naturally or frequently.

Michael Pollan started experimenting with psychedelics in his 50s, and reflects, “I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps these remarkable molecules might be wasted on the young, that they might have more to offer us later in life, after the cement of our mental habits and everyday behaviours has set.” 

Taking ayahuasca in his mid-20s, Simon was on the point of developing habits and behaviours, but wanted to check they were the right ones, and make sure he was going in the right direction in his job, his long-term relationship, and his relationship with his family. Did taking a powerful psychedelic help? Yes, Simon says. Although he believes he could have used the “slow, meandery path” of meditation to get to the same place. Psychedelics, he says, are like “the Japanese bullet train”. 

MDMA draws some towards a feeling of primal energy, collective joy and spiritual oneness among the pulsing bodies at raves. Other more reflective types are drawn by the intellectual and therapeutic possibilities of psychedelics in a more controlled setting. Some, like Simon, are drawn for both reasons. What unites all of them is a curiosity about human consciousness and new experience. 

I have a deep natural scepticism towards the idea that consuming a chemical could be in any way related to happiness. It seems like a paltry option in the face of a human being’s complex emotional and social needs. But through our species’ history, consciousness-altering drugs have always been there, and in the right circumstances, can provide a way to see the world, and even your own mind, in a new light.

Kate is a Digital Editor for Wellcome Collection. When not submerged in a book, she can be found walking or practising Spanish. Sometimes both at once.

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Kate Wilkinson

@KAWilko on Twitter

Laurindo Feliciano is a Brazilian contemporary artist and illustrator who has been living and working in France since 2003. Inspired by vintage aesthetics, he creates illustrations using techniques such as collage and digital painting. All his illustrations and posters share a certain nostalgic flair and a great passion for surrealism. His work has been published and exhibited in several countries, and in 2014 he won the AOI (Association of Illustrators) Professional Editorial Award. Among his clients and collaborations are the Musée des Arts Décoratifs/Paris, the V&A, British Airways, WIRED, the Financial Times, Penguin Vintage, Netflix, and many others.

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Laurindo Feliciano

laurindofeliciano.com

@laurindof on Instagram

Artist

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Could recreational drugs make you happy? Kate Wilkinson explores why keen clubber Simon believes taking psychedelics has helped him develop as a person.

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Happy endings

When will we find happiness? In this six-part serial, Kate Wilkinson pursues our experiences at different times in our lives, and asks whether happiness is the ultimate goal of our lives.

Happiness in time

What happy endings teach us in childhood

This is a MOOD

Chemical highs and psychedelic research

Living with less for spiritual gain

Active pensioners, blooming gardens

The Happiness Quest

What parents keep to trigger memories of their baby’s early days ranges from photos and christening gowns to medical paraphernalia and placentas. With recent thoughts of her son’s difficult birth in mind, Erin Beeston explores her family’s 19th- and 20th-century baby keepsakes.

“Something for the memory box,” said the midwife as she handed over my baby’s ECG pads, a device that measure the electrical activity generated by the heart as it contracts, wires hanging from plastic circles decorated with animals and teddy-bear illustrations. 

The ‘memory box’ is a common and curious feature of our material lives, made to collect keepsakes, to ignite reminiscence. Baby memory boxes are a unique form of collecting that I have found to be charged with emotion, whether that’s collecting objects related to my own children or rediscovering my family’s treasures.

In my experience, collecting for the memory box was an active impulse rather than a retrospective decision – an urge to save the precious memory of my child’s first hours, encouraged by healthcare professionals.

Alongside strong maternal emotions, recollecting birthing also brings distress and trauma; I certainly did not expect to bring my son home with medical paraphernalia other than his hospital wristband. I still feel lucky that my baby spent just three days in neonatal intensive care, only needing observation.

Unexpected hospital memorabilia given “for the memory box”. On the left, a neonatal blood-pressure cuff, and on the right, ECG wires and electrodes.

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Hospital memorabilia from the birth of Erin's son

Other objects I gathered over our few days in hospital included his first photograph, taken by a nurse. This is hard to look at now, a reminder that unlike my older boy, I could not hold him and enjoy a messy first photograph on the labour ward. The wires and tubes visible in the picture make his fresh newborn body seem especially vulnerable.

I also kept our comfort squares – a pair of knitted squares that I swapped between dressing-gown pockets and my boy’s incubator, so we had each other's scent. A beautifully simple gesture with an underlying use – apparently keeping this close helps with bonding and milk supply. I was touched by these kinds of objects, often thinking of the parents of ill or premature babies whose lives revolved around ward visits and care given through glass.

With these memories fresh, I returned to boxes and albums of my family's babies and uncovered various keepsakes. You may encounter similar, sometimes surprising, upsetting or even shocking objects; here is how I felt about objects imbued with the precarity of birth.

Erin’s baby record book from the 1980s in front of her own son's modern “red book”, alongside the knitted comfort squares Erin and her son shared during his time in the incubator.

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Baby record book from the 1980s and comfort squares from Erin and her baby's time in hospital

Among my grandmother’s treasured objects, I discovered the baptism certificate of my late father, John, born prematurely on 5 August 1951 at the Jessop Hospital for Women, Sheffield. My grandmother, Doris, suffered multiple miscarriages and stillbirths – I remember her quietly confiding in me about these when I was around 12.

John was baptised in his incubator aged just 11 days. I remember the story well, along with details of how prematurity accounted for his poor vision and his deep-set eyes. Viewing the document took me by surprise – I still found it upsetting despite knowing the positive outcome of the hospital stay.

I noticed the term “clinically baptised” on the certificate, a reminder that a conventional christening in church was deferred. It is common practice for Christians to baptise ill babies, ready to be received by God. I instantly felt empathy with my grandmother; how frightening it must have been baptising her infant, who survived childbirth only to be presumed unlikely to live.

On the final page of the album, following photographs taken in studios of mostly men in formal attire, I was surprised to encounter the unmistakable sight of a lifeless baby.

Treasured photograph album belonging to Erin’s ancestor Nathan Taylor, who carried it with him when he emigrated to America, alongside Erin’s own family scrapbook showing her eldest son's first moments in hospital.

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Family photograph albums, past and present, with other memorabilia and keepsakes

My mother’s family also left mementos, from christening gowns to a grand family album of Victorian ancestors. On the final page of the album, following photographs taken in studios of mostly men in formal attire, I was surprised to encounter the unmistakable sight of a lifeless baby. Two photographs: one close-up of the baby lying limp against a white sheet, another with the child on her mother’s knee.

The mother is wearing a buttoned, dark-coloured dress, her face grave. The baby is held in her arms, like a living infant, but the stiffness and the eyes betray the reality of the image. Post-mortem photographs were adopted in the 19th century, following on from the Memento mori (meaning ‘remember that you must die’) cultural tradition.

Here, a professional photographer from Oldbury, West Midlands, has captured their images. With some help from my mother, we discover that this is Lucrecia, born on 14 April 1895 and dying on 6 June 1895. It was her younger brother, Joseph, who later recorded her birth and curated the photographs in the album.

Objects from my own birth remind me very strongly of place. My mother kept a slim, soft-cover baby-record book containing details of medical appointments, its silver cover depicting toddlers playing. This now seems scant in detail compared to the thick, NHS-issue red books I have for my sons.

Erin with her son in the bedroom, standing in front of a wardrobe bursting with memory boxes and old clothes.

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Erin Beeston with her son

Along with the book are a silver-coloured fork and spoon – not the prestigious variety, rather stainless-steel cutlery given by Jessop’s Hospital on the day I was born. Certainly less medicalised objects than those offered to me in 2020, these were given as mementos of being born in Sheffield – the steel city – on New Year’s Day. Viewing these objects also remind me of my mother’s story – thick snow, a long labour, and a forceps delivery at Jessop’s.

As well as objects like clothes, photographs and documents, some of the stranger items parents (including myself) have kept include physical material from the birth or baby. It is not uncommon to find pickled placentas; a close friend even discovered a foetus her grandmother kept in a jar.

I have kept umbilical cords, mainly because I feel uneasy disposing of a physical part of pregnancy. Given the poor condition they are in, I may change my mind. This quandary – of what to do with the cords (which fall off naturally after a few days) – reflects the emotions of memory boxes more generally: how can we keep a tangible sense of this fleeting moment? It also raises ethical questions on how we keep human remains, especially when one day these may become the possessions of an unsuspecting descendant.

Since the traumatic delivery of my younger son, I find baby memory boxes particularly powerful. The process of curating his box allowed me to address the birth in an intimate and methodical way, which helped to allay distressing memories. Birth and baby boxes represent an eclectic mix of bodily material, handmade items, visual records and medical objects. These objects evoke emotions and signify a time when life and death are immeasurably close, when love and fear abound.

Dr Erin Beeston is a researcher interested in the relationship between history, memory and material culture in narratives of science and technology. Erin’s recent PhD on the history and heritage of Liverpool Road Station in Manchester was an Arts and Humanities Research Council-funded doctoral award between the Centre for the History of Science, Technology and Medicine, University of Manchester, and the Science Museum Group. Erin is continuing to reflect on her personal experiences of motherhood and material culture in-between changing nappies and CBeebies.

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Erin Beeston

@erin_bee on Twitter

Naomi is a documentary and portrait photographer born in Nottingham and based in Bristol. Her work has been published in the Guardian, BBC News, ITV News, Bristol in Stereo, LeftLion magazine, The Everyday Magazine and Fred Perry online. 

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Naomi Williams

naomi-williams.co.uk

@williams.naomi_ on Instagram

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With memories of her baby in neonatal intensive care still fresh, Erin Beeston decides to unearth the poignant objects her family kept following births, going back as far as Victorian times.

Birth, babies and boxes of memories

Nikolina Sika (aka Weewaaz) is a 26 year old non-binary artist and visual designer from Brisbane, Australia. You can find them working mostly digitally but often painting, embroidering and sculpting. Creating fun, funky and hopefully uplifting work for you.

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Weewaaz

Weewaaz on Instagram

Illustrator

Comic

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Full of good things

Join celebrated crime writer Sophie Hannah in this online event unravelling the mystery of happiness.

Sophie will discuss her new book and how she has used her decades of experience in crime writing and observations from her own life to scrutinise and solve the clues that lead to happiness.

Sophie Hannah’s book ‘Happiness, A Mystery And 66 Attempts to Solve It’ was published by Wellcome Collection on 24 September 2020. 

This event will be live-streamed on Wellcome Collection’s YouTube channel and available to watch afterwards. After booking a ticket, you will receive a confirmation email with joining instructions.   

You will be able to comment and ask questions live online using YouTube Live Chat and via Slido during the event. Your microphone and camera will be switched off for the whole session.   

Sophie Hannah is a Sunday Times and New York Times bestselling writer of crime fiction, published in 49 languages and 51 territories. Her books have sold millions of copies worldwide. She has published two short-story collections and five collections of poetry. 

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Sophie Hannah

Speaker

<p>A chance to hear about and talk about ideas with others.</p>

Discussion

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Library Insights: Happiness, a Mystery with Sophie Hannah. Photo: Kathleen Arundell. Portrait of Sophie Hannah © Onur Pinar

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This event will have live speech-to-text transcription which may be useful for people who are D/deaf, hard of hearing, deafened or neurodiverse. The text will be embedded in the event video window and ticketholders will also receive a link to open subtitles in a separate window.

Speech-to-text

Booking a ticket guarantees you entry to the online event. You will be given joining instructions in your confirmation email. If you have any access requests or requirements, for example a transcript of the event, email us at access@wellcomecollection.org or call 020 7611 2222.

Guaranteed (online)

Join celebrated crime writer Sophie Hannah in this online event unraveling the mystery of happiness.

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The viewing room at Wellcome Collection

Hear from researchers and Wellcome Collection staff about the stories that they unearthed in our collections, and take a closer look at some of the items they discovered.

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