Smallpox cartoon
The smallpox vaccine was derived from cowpox, a relatively benign viral cousin to smallpox that triggered a similar immune response. The cartoon was intended to both lampoon the most extreme anti-vaccination efforts and to illustrate ongoing social anxieties. Many medical advances lay at least partial claim to greatest of all time, from older achievements like anesthesia and antibiotics to more modern triumphs like organ transplants , stem cell therapy s and artificial intelligence 21 st century. Vaccines often make these lists—they are both old and new—but they are also overlooked because their power is primarily in prevention, and a disease dodged is harder to count, though the World Health Organization estimates 2. The debut of multiple effective vaccines has measurably reduced the death toll: A recent study estimated , lives have been saved and 1. And yet significant segments of the population continue to resist vaccination—and comprise the vast majority of current COVID hospitalizations.
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Стоковые иллюстрации на тему Sick Monkey Cartoon
All agree that this latest fad is not dangerous to life—only annoyingly disagreeable to him who has it and excruciatingly funny to him who has it not. There will be a tightness of the chest. You will cough a dry cough and your throat will be sore. Then you will wonder if life is really worth the bother of living, your spirits will go down, your ambition ooze out at the ends of your fingers and a languor will possess you.
You will not care whether school keeps or not for about ten days, then you will brace up, and in another week you will be able to laugh at your neighbor, who is just beginning to sneeze his head off. The winking irony of the reporting would, in a matter of weeks, abruptly end. New York was particularly hard hit as Americans received glimpses of the full horror of the pandemic racing across the globe. Ultimately, more than 1, New Yorkers and 15, people across the United States died in the first few months of The dead numbered over 1 million around the world.
Listen on The Deep Dive. It has long been assumed that the Russian flu was just that: an illness caused by an influenza virus. This was a relatively clear-eyed assumption to make. After all, in the absence of any other major respiratory viruses, influenza was the only suspect. There was also the matter of timing. The Russian flu followed on the heels of successive influenza pandemics in , , and , all of which had emerged at roughly fifty-year intervals, a fact that made it rather predictable that a new influenza would strike in the waning decades of the nineteenth century.
Without microscopes powerful enough to see the structures of viruses—the electron microscope was invented in —scientists had only a dim sense of the pathogens causing these recurring flare-ups. In the aftermath of the Spanish flu, experts pointed to the Russian flu as its likely viral precursor, a harbinger of doom that humanity had failed to heed.
While it was conceivable that the Russian flu was a precursor to the Spanish flu, the two pandemics produced subtly different symptoms. Perhaps most strikingly, the Russian flu had a peculiar telltale symptom: the loss of smell and taste, which was common among those infected with coronaviruses but not among those with influenza. Instead, OC43 was nearly indistinguishable from—or 98 percent identical to—bovine coronavirus, which infected only cattle.
This meant that OC43 almost certainly emerged from sustained contact between coronavirus-infected cattle and human beings. By charting the 2 percent of genomes that differed between the two closely related viruses and then applying a molecular clock analysis to track how long those changes would have taken to arise, Van Ranst was able to pinpoint the moment when the virus first diverged from its most recent viral ancestor and began to infect our species.
When he ran the molecular clock analysis on OC43, Van Ranst landed on as the year it had separated itself from its closest ancestor, bovine coronavirus. The Russian flu was not, in fact, one of the influenza pandemics that regularly appeared every fifty years. Instead, Van Ranst proposed that shifts in the epidemic triangle—a model for tracking infection involving a pathogen, a host, and an environment—leading up to had caused the ideal conditions for a coronavirus to jump from cattle to humans.
Beginning in , cattle across the world began to suffer from a disease that caused fever, respiratory tract infections, and dysentery. Because these livestock were transported cheek by jowl, the infection, known as cattle fever, reached pandemic levels.
Fevered cattle, driven across wide prairie expanses or shipped for weeks by boat, would drop dead en route; whole herds were felled by the disease. Ultimately, using nineteenth-century technologies, scientists identified the purported agent of disease: Mycoplasma mycoides , a deadly and highly transmissible bacterium that spreads through herds via respiratory droplets.
But the case was hardly closed. As far back as , researchers pointed out that the symptoms the bacterium produced were essentially indistinguishable from those of bovine coronavirus infection.
And, while M. From which source bovine coronavirus first emerged is a mystery, though the virus is closely related to rat, pig, horse, and bat strains. The novel pathogen just needed the right environment to reach its human hosts. Van Ranst and others suspected that the real cause of the Russian flu had been lurking in cattle herds throughout the late nineteenth century, hidden by the more easily detectable M.
Beginning in the s, countries across the world began massive culling operations, some of which lasted decades, to eradicate cattle fever. Millions of herds of cattle were slaughtered to stop the spread, which put humans and infected cows in prolonged and intimate contact. As cattlemen in fields and barns held the animals in place, readying them for their deaths, human and animal breaths commingling as the beasts were dispatched into darkness, both bacteria and virus would have found their way from cow to man—but only one of those pathogens would have been able to flourish in its new hosts.
Repeat this scene over two decades and across the world, and the chances of a zoonotic jump move from unlikely to inevitable—but only, of course, if the pathogen had the right tools to survive the journey.
OC43, like so many members of its viral family, had those tools. That it succeeded is beyond debate. Billions of copies of the virus circulate freely among us, evidence that it has attained the viral equivalent of immortality: OC43 has become endemic among our species. SARS pushed researchers to probe the origins of known coronaviruses throughout history. It also launched a search for new members—and new threats—emanating from the viral family.
And so, while Van Ranst was decoding the byzantine trail of mutations that led OC43 to separate itself from bovine coronavirus, other researchers were stumbling upon evidence of coronaviruses that had also successfully made zoonotic leaps. The discovery of HCoV-NL63 by Dutch virologist Lia van der Hoek marked the first time scientists had isolated an endemic human coronavirus since OC43 and E both benign were discovered in the s.
If the field of coronavirology had been a backwater before SARS, it became something of a curiosity after the epidemic went global. Still, nobody knew how long the family had been evolving to master our host biology and carve out a home within our bodies. Van der Hoek wanted an answer, so she cross-referenced the genomic makeup of NL63 with its known relatives and discovered that HCoVE was its closest known match.
This placed the moment that the two viruses branched off from each other much further back in time. But when? During this time, the population of China boomed from roughly 32 million in to more than million by the fall of the dynasty, in —almost 30 million more citizens than the Roman Empire at its peak.
Kaifeng, the capital, flourished, its million-plus residents densely packed together in close quarters. As the Chinese political state stabilized, land and sea routes kept expanding, reaching farther and farther away and bringing contact with new places, new people, and undoubtedly, new pathogens.
In short, it was the perfect environment for an emergent virus to exploit. Over a span of nearly two decades, from to , ten major epidemics hit China, an unprecedented conflagration of disease. But that was just the beginning. The spike in epidemics would continue over the next eighty-five years, until the demise of the Northern Song dynasty, with twenty-eight major epidemics mentioned in official court records.
Xu Shuwei, a Northern Song physician, compiled case studies of such disorders. We cannot say for certain that NL63 was the pathogen that drove decades of epidemics across China. We can, though, rule some others out. The Black Death, which killed as many as million people, emerged as a pandemic only in the middle of the fourteenth century, roughly two centuries after the Song dynasty.
T here is a version of modern human history in which the pandemic potential of coronaviruses was recognized early. If it had been, the careful work of coaxing life-saving information out of these bloated, balloon-like virions could have begun with the nineteenth-century Russian flu rather than at the dawn of the twenty-first century, during the SARS epidemic.
In that other version of history, humanity would as a matter of course have undertaken early and concerted efforts to develop coronavirus vaccines, just as we have for influenzas. Coronaviruses, widely considered curiosities, concealed dark pasts as terrifying human pathogens. The sad truth is that innovation in epidemiology, the science of epidemics, is a frustrating kind of progress, always facing backward.
The harder task is preventing those that have not yet emerged. The sources of flu contagion have long been obvious. Birds and pigs, familiar animals with which our species coevolved, have since the nineteenth century been known as byways for influenza strains to mix, recombine, and find their ways into human beings. But the animal sources of the Coronaviridae have proven elusive. Genomic sequencing, DNA manipulation, vaccine development—for all the cutting-edge scientific tools at our disposal, we have had a glaring inability to fully grasp the dangers emanating from this strange and bulbous family and to determine its animal origins.
Part of this inability has been due to timing: the Spanish flu, that cataclysmic event, occurred just as our knowledge of viruses and our technology had matured to the point that viruses could be seen.
The absence of pathogenic coronaviruses during this stretch meant that humanity fixed its gaze squarely on the danger it could see: the flu. Still, our failure to match the threat posed by coronaviruses was part of a broader pattern. For all the scientific successes of the twentieth century, this period was actually marked by a steep and quantifiable decline in the rate of scientific production.
In the subsequent century, the US population boom obscured the fact that creating inventions was getting demonstrably harder. On average, research productivity has dropped 5 percent every year since the s. Nowhere was this drag on innovation more evident than in the pharmaceutical industry. By the s, morphine, penicillin, Aspirin, insulin, and chemotherapy, along with vaccines for polio, measles, smallpox, and tuberculosis, had been developed by or in partnership with private pharmaceutical companies.
But the sheer glut of life-saving medicines they produced in the first half of the twentieth century left them with a choice: either take a chance on more difficult goals, like vaccines for rare or emerging diseases—and risk costly failures—or use their library of intellectual property to make incremental improvements to existing products that were surefire money-makers. By and large, they chose the safer route.
This trend continued well past the turn of the twenty-first century. By , when SARS emerged, the creation of drug therapies and vaccines for novel pathogens had slowed to barely a trickle.
And so, when, after more than a century of lying dormant, the Coronaviridae family once again threatened our species, it found us made vulnerable by hubris, rigidly fixed on the dangers of the past, and unable to muster our forces to contend with what might lie ahead.
The future, it seemed, had been ceded to our enemies. Reproduced by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
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The cow-pock,-or-The wonderful effects of the new inoculation!
David Pope was about to go to bed when he got a news alert on his phone. It was January 7, , and the offices of the French satirical weekly, Charlie Hebdo , were under attack by an Islamic terrorist group. Pope turned on the television and watched, horrified, as the news unfolded that 12 people had been killed, and 11 others injured. Five of those killed were cartoonists. He tweeted it out, adding his own words to the flurry of commentary and commiseration. Then he went to bed. Millions of people had seen his drawing, and many more had re-tweeted it. Pretty much every newspaper in the northern hemisphere reproduced it, and interview requests were pouring in. The thing was, though, there was nothing much more that needed to be said. The cartoon had been spontaneous and quick, quite unlike the process that goes into his daily cartoon for The Canberra Times , which is often labour-intensive and painstakingly plotted out.
COMIC: If history is a guide, schools will start requiring COVID vaccines
Anya Kamenetz. LA Johnson. The first time kids had to get a vaccine to go to school was more than years ago. The disease?
A Nineteenth-Century Pandemic May Be a Window into Coronaviruses
Boss Tweed operated with impunity—until he got under the skin of a year-old political cartoonist named Thomas Nast. In his ferocious and funny caricatures, he painted Boss Tweed as a larger-than-life crook and Tammany Hall as a den of tigers. Thomas Nast was an immigrant himself. In the election, Ulysses S. With Boss Tweed, Nast saw an opportunity to release a lot of venom in pursuit of something that would make him famous.
Cartoon Archive
Sign In. Balloon Land Hide Spoilers. This is a visually impressive cartoon, which should be expected from an Iwerks cartoon. As plots go, this was actually a pretty intricate one for the Iwerks studio, with a great villain voiced by a Disney regular, Billy Bletcher, who did Pegleg Pete, among others. The funniest bit for me was the town's "alarm" system. The Pincushion Man is really the most interesting character in the short, but it does offer some entertaining moments and is genuinely tense and frightening in spots.
A political cartoon is a cartoon that makes a point about a political issue or event. You can also find them in newsmagazines and on political Web sites. Their main purpose, though, is not to amuse you but to persuade you.
Thousands of copies were being distributed across Auckland by anti-vaccination activists, or anti-vaxxers. Today the world is full of anti-vaxxers. A survey found that about a third of Americans say they will refuse vaccination against Covid Anti-vaxxers are often considered a 21st-century phenomenon, a product of the conspiracy theories and paranoid memes that teem on social media. But opposition to vaccination is old.
Nobody is looking at you funny". Political cartoon by Etta Hulme. This cartoon appeared in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The cartoon shows a man watching TV. In the first frame, the TV says the word "anthrax. Any use of content downloaded or printed from this site is limited to non-commercial personal or educational use, including fair use as directed by U.
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