Food safety is an ever more conflictive issue receiving media attention. “The increased activity of interest groups, the impact of the Common Agricultural Policy and changes in the retail economy have combined to transform [a relatively closed] food policy community into an issue network”. This account of recent changes lacks the historical dimension that might endow it with meaning. It is hardly appropriate to describe the current situation as a reawakening after a long slumber. In France at least, complaints about food safety voiced in numerous newspaper articles echo enduring concerns and a permanent sense of alarm. In 1957, Demain ran a catalogue of food scares: industrial bread causing eczema; wine adulterated with sulphur anhydride (for safe transportation); eggs and milk feared by doctors to be toxic (because chickens were being fed with chemicals or fish, and cattle with ground up rubbish); and filthy conditions on cattle and poultry farms. Much the same sort of list could have been drawn up early in the century during meetings of the Société Scientifique d'Hygiène Alimentaire (created in 1904), or run in the press following passage of the 1905 Food Adulteration Act, or printed in popular pamphlets such as Dr Raffray's Le péril alimentaire (1912). As the Common Market took shape in the 1960s, repeated articles in the daily newspapers relentlessly focused on the issue of food and public health. In France, arguments were continually framed in the language of the 1905 act.

In the early-twentieth century, moves to prevent infection from tuberculosis became an integral part of local government public health schemes. While the scale of action was dependent on individual authorities and ratepayers, interest was not limited to the pulmonary form of the disease. Effort was also directed at tackling bovine tuberculosis, which by the 1890s had become “the most important disease of cows” and, with its zoonotic properties accepted, “a substantial risk to the … consumer”. With meat and milk identified as the main vectors, moves to detect infected livestock and limit the spread of the disease became part of a wider preventive strategy. Measures were introduced to control the sale of tuberculous meat and milk. Eradication schemes were promoted, as concern merged with a growing interest in food safety and agriculture, and became caught up with debates on national efficiency, farming and child health.

The licensing of provincial surgeons and physicians in the post-Restoration period has proved an awkward subject for medical historians. It has divided writers between those who regard the possession of a local licence as a mark of professionalism or proficiency, those who see the existence of diocesan licences as a mark of an essentially unregulated and decentralized trade, and those who discount the distinction of licensing in assessing medical expertise availability in a given region. Such a diversity of interpretations has meant that the very descriptors by which practitioners were known to their contemporaries (and are referred to by historians) have become fragmented and difficult to use without a specific context. As David Harley has pointed out in his study of licensed physicians in the north-west of England, “historians often define eighteenth-century physicians as men with medical degrees, thus ignoring … the many licensed physicians throughout the country”. One could similarly draw attention to the inadequacy of the word “surgeon” to cover licensed and unlicensed practitioners, barber-surgeons, Company members in towns, self-taught practitioners using surgical manuals, and procedural specialists whose work came under the umbrella of surgery, such as bonesetters, midwives and phlebotomists. Although such fragmentation of meaning reflects a diversity of practices carried on under the same occupational descriptors in early modern England, the result is an imprecise historical literature in which the importance of licensing, and especially local licensing, is either ignored as a delimiter or viewed as an inaccurate gauge of medical proficiency.

In May 1901 an article appeared in the Yarmouth Advertiser and Gazette entitled ‘Alleged Traffic in Pauper Corpses—How the Medical Schools are Supplied—The Shadow of a Scandal’. It recounted that, although a pauper named Frank Hyde aged fifty had died in Yarmouth workhouse on 11 April 1901, his body was missing from the local cemetery. The case caused a public outcry because the workhouse death register stated that Hyde had been “buried by friends” in the parish five days after he had died. An editorial alleged that “the body was sent to Cambridge for dissection” instead and that the workhouse Master's clerk profited 15 shillings from the cadaver's sale. Following continued bad publicity, the visiting committee of Yarmouth Union investigated the allegations. They discovered that between 1880 and 1901 “26 bodies” had been sold for dissection and dismemberment under the terms of the Anatomy Act (1832) to the Cambridge anatomical teaching school situated at Downing College. The Master's clerk staged a false funeral each time a pauper died in his care. He arranged it so that “coffins were buried containing sand or sawdust or other ingredients but the body of the person whose name appeared on the outside [emphasis in original]” of each coffin never reached the grave. This was Hyde's fate too. Like many paupers who died in the care of Poor Law authorities in the nineteenth century, Hyde's friends and relatives lacked resources to fund his funeral expenses. Consequently, he underwent the ignominy of a pauper burial, but not in Yarmouth. His body was conveyed on the Great Eastern railway in a “death-box” to Cambridge anatomical teaching school. Following preservation, which took around four months, the cadaver was dissected and dismembered. It was interred eleven months after death in St Benedict's parish graveyard within Mill Road cemetery, Cambridge, on 8 March 1902. A basic Christian service was conducted by John Lane of the anatomy school before burial in a pauper grave containing a total of six bodies. The plot was unmarked and Frank Hyde disappeared from Poor Law records—the end product of pauperism.