RELIGION THE SUPPORT OF MEDICAL
SUPERSTITION
Religion undoubtedly plays the most conspicuous
part in the history of medical superstition.
Religious teaching, of whatever character,
has fostered medical superstition more
than any other factor of civilization. Not only
has religion called forth and nourished medical
superstition, but it has also defended it with all
the influence at its disposal. Indeed, it has not
infrequently happened that those who were reluctant
to believe in the blessings of a medical
theory ridiculously perverted by religion were
exposed to persecution by fire and sword. And
this not only from one or other religious denomination,
for all religious believers, without
exception, had proved to be the most assiduous
promotors of medical superstition; so that we
are probably not wrong in designating priesthoods
in general, whatever their creed, as the
most prominent embodiment of medical superstition
during certain periods of the world’s history.
But the details will be learned from the
following paragraphs:
§ 1. Priesthood the Support of Medical
Superstition.—The principal reason for a not
quite reputable activity in the chosen representative
of a deity is probably the fact that, with the
appearance of a physico-mechanical contemplation
of the world, the theistic theory of life,
which until then had exclusive sway, was forced
into a pitched battle with a newly formulated
definition of nature. This struggle was carried
on principally by the priesthood, who, as a
matter of fact, had most to lose from the ascendency
of a new theory of life which only reckoned
with natural factors. They indeed had
been the means, until then, of procuring for the
people the assistance of the gods in all bodily
ailments, as they had been the exclusive depositories
of physical knowledge. And it could
scarcely be expected that the priesthood would
at once willingly relinquish the extensive supremacy
hitherto exercised by it as the oracle
of divine guidance in all medico-physical questions;
for humanity has always considered the
possession of authority much more delightful
than submission, and the ruler has always objected
most energetically to any attempt which
disputes his rule. This was precisely what was
done by priests of all creeds when the mechanico-physical
theory of life began to supersede the
obsolete dreams of theistic medicine. Fair-minded
persons will surely allow that such action
was natural. But they can not approve of the
methods resorted to, unless they belong to those
who feel bound always to discern nothing but
what is sacred in every action of a servant of
heaven.
In order to wage war most effectively against
the physico-mechanical theory of life, the priesthood
at once claimed for themselves the power of
completely controlling nature. They made the
people believe that the celestials had bestowed
upon them the faculty of dominating nature in
the interests of the sick, and that all powers
of the universe, the obvious ones as well as those
mysteriously hidden in the depths of nature,
were obedient to sacerdotal suggestions. The
servant of heaven professed that he could regulate
the eternal processes of matter, with its becoming,
being, and passing away, quite as irresistibly
as his eye was able to survey the course
of time in the past, present, and future.
Equipped with these extensive powers, a
priest necessarily appeared to the people not
only as physician, but also as a miraculous being
crowned with the halo of the supernatural. And
this was the rôle he actually played in many
ancient religions. With the peoples of Italy the
priest appeared—at a period, indeed, which was
previous to the beginning of Rome—as physician,
prophet, interpreter of dreams, raiser of
tempests, etc. He held exactly the same offices
among the Celtic tribes in Gaul and Britain.
His position was the same in the Oriental world,
and by the Medians and the Persians especially
were priests considered to be persons endowed
with supernatural powers. We may notice that
members of a certain Median tribe formed the
sacerdotal caste, and bore the name of “Magi.”
However, this name, which originally was confined
to the priestly order, obtained, in the course
of time, a distinctly secular meaning. Very soon
many cunning fellows arrived at the conclusion
that the trade of a sacerdotal physician and conjurer
might bring a profitable livelihood to its
professor, even if this professor were not a priest
but a layman. Thus there arose a special profession
of sorcerers, miracle workers, and medicine-men,
who protested with solemn emphasis
that they were able to cure all physical as well
as psychical ailments of their fellow men as
thoroughly as the priests had done. But in
order to bestow the required consecration upon
this art, these gentlemen usurped the venerable
name of the above-mentioned Median sacerdotal
caste and called themselves “Magi.” Thus it
happened that the name “Magus” (magician),
which originally served to designate a distinct
sacerdotal caste, deteriorated into a designation
of charlatans and swindlers. This could never
have occurred unless the priests had prostituted
their sublime profession and degraded it to various
kinds of discreditable medico-physical
deceptions. This alone is why priesthood is
responsible for the rise of the magicians, of these
worthless fakirs. But if Pliny (Book 30, Chapter
I., § 2) attempts to rank magic as an offshoot
of medicine, he is justified in doing so only in so
far as the priest, during the theistic period, was
also the physician, as is well known. Only from
this point of view is it possible to trace a genetic
relation between medicine and magic. But medicine
in itself has not taken the slightest part in
the promotion of magic and the success of its
unsavory reputation. Indeed, our science has
suffered too much through the practise of magic
to burden itself with the paternity of this disreputable
child of civilization.
It appears that the name of the Celtic priests
(“druids”) had become subject to the same abuse
as the name of the Median priests of sacerdotal
caste. Thus we learn of female fortune-tellers
of the third century, A.D., who call themselves
“druidesses.” But it seems that this application
of the word “druid” has remained a local one and
strictly limited, whereas the expression “magician,”
quite generally employed, became, in the
course of time, the designation of charlatans
and medical impostors. For these swindlers, who
carried on medico-physical hocuspocus, and who
claimed to exercise supernatural powers, were
called “magicians” during the entire period of
classic antiquity, and we find the same use of the
word in the middle ages, and sometimes also in
more modern times.
But this profession of magician, which sprang
from priesthood, has largely promoted superstition
in medicine, and was particularly instrumental
in bringing it into extraordinary repute.
It is our intention to concern ourselves a little
more minutely with magicians and magic.
§2. The Spread of the Word “Magic.”—How
and when magic was transplanted from its
Oriental home to the Occident can not be determined
with certainty; for the Greeks, as well as
all antique peoples, probably all nations, had a
belief in ghosts and demons, in fortune-telling,
and in sorcery. But it appears, nevertheless,
that the ancient civilized peoples of the Orient,
and particularly the Persians, cultivated the
magic arts with especial devotion, and it is more
than probable that it was from the East that the
prevailing cult of magic had been imported into
the West. Pliny, for one, tells us (Book 30,
Chapter I., § 8) that magic was brought to
Europe by a certain Osthanes, who accompanied
King Xerxes on his military expedition against
Greece. This man Osthanes, as Pliny reports
further, is said to have disseminated the seeds of
this supernatural art (velut semina artis portentosæ
insparsit) wherever he went, and with such
success that the Hellenic peoples were actually
mad after it, and prominent men traveled
through parts of the Orient, there to acquire
personally and thoroughly these magic arts, thus,
as was the case with Pythagoras, Empedocles,
Democritus, and Plato. In fact, it is said of
Democritus that he opened the tomb of a celebrated
magician—Dardanus of Phœnicia—that
he might restore to publicity the mysterious writings
of the latter. It appears, moreover, that
Alexander the Great entertained an implicit belief
in magic—at least, Pliny reports that during
his wars he was always accompanied by a celebrated
magician.
Magic arts were likewise in favor among the
Romans. Even Nero attempted to master the
secrets of magic, altho unsuccessfully (Pliny,
Book 30, Chapter II., § 5). A particular impetus
was given to magic toward the end of the
last century before Christ and during the first
century of the Christian era, when the rise of
many fantastic philosophical systems greatly
promoted and supported the belief in the supernatural
powers of magic. Subsequently, in the
middle ages, magic experienced an accepted and
systematic development. These conditions, however,
will be more explicitly referred to later on.
The treatment of the sick through supernatural
agencies assumed quite astonishing dimensions
under the Roman emperors. The belief in
magicians was so generally disseminated that
even the emperors themselves and the imperial
authorities were almost completely devoted to it.
Thus, for instance, the emperor Hadrian (117-138,
A.D.) caused himself to be treated by physicians
who claimed miraculous powers, and he is
said to have written a book on theurgy. In
fact, Suidas (62 Julianus) reports that Hadrian,
on account of a severe outbreak of pestilence in
Rome, sent for the son of the Chaldean, Julian,
who, simply by the power of his miracles,
arrested the progress of the disease. Under
Antoninus Pius official proclamations were made
in the forum, directing the attention of the people
to the importance of magicians (Philostratus,
43), and the emperor Marcus Aurelius even relates
that, when in Caieta, the gods in a dream
prescribed a remedy for the hemorrhagic cough
and vertigo from which he was suffering
(“Marcus Aurelius,” Chapter I., § 17, page 11).
But it appears that the magicians finally went
too far with their tricks, and endangered human
life by their treatment; so that several emperors
decided upon adopting more rigorous measures
against their knaveries. The emperor Septimius
Severus (193-211), altho himself originally
devoted to magic, prohibited, when on a visit in
Egypt, all books which taught curious arts
(Aelius Spartianus, “Hadrianus,” Chapter
XV., § 5, page 146). Later the emperor Diocletian
took energetic steps toward abating the
mischief done by magical treatment of the sick,
and the magicians were permitted to carry on
such arts only so far as would not be detrimental
to the health of the people. However, this order
did not check the magicians any more than it
benefited those who were still tortured and
brought to the point of death by magic quackery.
Neither did medical science derive any advantage
whatever from this well-meant but completely
abortive effort of the emperor, for the
magic physicians persisted in carrying on their
hocuspocus, and unconcernedly debased the
pharmacopœia by the introduction of nonsensical
and loathsome substances. Let us examine more
in detail this department of medical practise
among the magicians.
§ 3. The Medical Practise of the Magicians.—The
magicians adopted various modes of
procedure in the treatment of the sick: they
either attempted, as do our modern quacks, to
create the impression, by administering medicine,
that they were actually able to direct the
treatment of the ailing in a rational manner, or
they restricted themselves to various kinds of
magical observances.
The drug therapy of the magicians actually
utilized everything under the sun as a remedy.
The more out of the way and the less suitable for
a remedy a substance seemed to be, the more likely
it was to be chosen by the magician intent upon
healing. For it was always the main object of
these practising quacks to make their treatment
as sensational as possible. In this they succeeded
best by employing the most extraordinary
substances as remedies. Thus they made use of
gold, silver, precious stones and pearls, just because
these, owing to their value, were held in
great esteem, and their medical application,
therefore, was bound to create a sensation. But
the most loathsome substances were quite as
readily employed, for here, too, the most general
attention was bound to be attracted by their application.
Human feces, urine, and menstrual
blood were introduced into the materia medica
in such a manner. The awe with which parts
of corpses usually inspired the non-medical part
of the public was relied upon by the magicians
to advertise their cures. Thus these quacks
administered powders of human bones to the
ailing.
But inasmuch as what is conspicuous and unusual
has always enjoyed an especial esteem with
humanity, the incredible remedies of the magicians
naturally found everywhere an abundance
of believers; and as particularly the most nonsensical
theory is most tenacious of life, provided
it has been presented in apparent combination
with the miraculous, the medical armamentarium
rapidly took on a very peculiar aspect.
Until the present more modern times medicine
was condemned to the encumbrance of this rubbish,
this list of odd and loathsome remedies,
whose admission to the pharmacopœia was only
due to the whim of a human mind that constantly
hankers after the extraordinary and the miraculous.
Finally the magic observances to which the
magicians resorted in the treatment of the sick,
have shown a remarkable vitality, for they are
in vogue even in modern times, and many sections
of our people even to-day swear unconditionally
by the curative efficacy of various agencies
which demonstratively have been derived
from the medicine of the magicians. But now
such agencies are no longer ascribed to magic or
sorcery, but they are called “cures by means of
sympathy.” And as many modern people believe
that various incomprehensible mystic performances
cause certain mysterious powers,
otherwise absolutely unknown, to exert a curative
influence upon certain diseases, so did the
ancients believe exactly the same. This was the
origin of exorcism as a remedy for disease. Exorcism
played a conspicuous part in the middle
ages as a means of stopping hemorrhages, and
even in these modern times, as is well-known,
this method of cure finds many adherents.
This magic treatment was believed to be especially
efficacious if the exorcisms had been written
or engraved upon paper, gold, precious stones,
etc., in which case they were suspended around
the neck of the patient. Countless talismans
(from the Arabic tilsam, magic image) and amulets
(from the Arabic hamalet, trinket) were thus
manufactured, and even to our own time there
are survivals of this medical superstition. Altho
these mystic observances are performed in various
ways, and their modifications are practically innumerable,
yet certain radical resemblances are
continually appearing among the magic rites of
the most diverse races, and some of these practises
have even persisted up to the present time.
Thus the rope of the hung criminal plays a conspicuous
part in antique magic as well as in
modern sympathy treatment; the same importance
is attributed to shooting-stars, to the moon,
to crossroads, to certain numerals, such as 3, 7,
9, etc. It is a highly interesting fact that such
conceptions, as remarkable for their therapeutical
associations as for their crass superstition, are
possessed of a vitality which persists for centuries.
Peoples, religions, philosophical systems,
political revolutions have risen and vanished,
but the belief in the curative action of the rope
of a hung criminal or the therapeutic significance
of the crossroad has survived. The mystic
influence which is exerted by the numerals 3,
7, 9, and still more so by the dreadful 13, upon
the life and health of man, haunts the minds of
the multitude in this century of physical enlightenment
exactly as it did in remote antiquity. But
we can not here enter into the reason for these
interesting facts, and we must refer those who
desire more detailed information on this subject
to the voluminous literature of superstition.
Furthermore, the belief in magic cures was
not more prevalent among the ancient professors
of medicine than among the laity, and even the
most prominent practitioners were not able to
emancipate themselves from this belief. Galen,
for instance, who, as is well-known, mastered
the entire literature of antique medicine as none
before or after him has ever done, openly avows
his belief in the efficacy of magic cures, and,
what is more remarkable, Galen in this respect
has changed from a Saul to a Paul. He ruefully
recalled, later, the condemnatory decree which
he had originally promulgated regarding the
magic treatment of the sick. Let us call to mind
how he expresses himself in his essay on medical
treatment in Homer: “Many, as I have done
for a long time, believe that conjurations resemble
the fairy tales of old women. But gradually,
and from the observation of obvious facts, I have
come to the conclusion that power is exercised
by them; for I have learned to know their advantages
in stings of scorpions, and also in bones
which became lodged in the throat, and which
were at once coughed up as a result of conjuration.
Many remedies are excellent in every respect,
and magic formulæ answer their purpose”
(“Alexander of Tralles,” Book 11, Chapter
I., Vol. II., page 477). One of the most
prominent post-Galenian physicians also, Alexander
of Tralles, openly avows, with reference
to this utterance of Galen, that he himself is a
believer in magic cures, and he says: “If the
great Galen, as well as many other physicians of
ancient times, bear witness to this fact (the efficacy
of magic treatment of the sick), why shall
we not impart to you what we have learned from
our own experience and what we have heard
from trustworthy friends?” (“Alexander of
Tralles,” ibid.). Accordingly, his Βιβλία Ἰατρικά
was filled with enumerations of the most various
magical cures. But, now, if the classics of antique
medicine have proven themselves to be so
friendly to the medical science of magicians,
what was the condition of the mind, then, of
the average physician of ancient times? Is it
astonishing if young and old, high and low, without
distinction, were blind adherents of magical
medicine? Thus medical literature of the last
century, B.C., and especially that of the centuries
from the Christian era until late in the middle
ages, was an actual treasury of conjuration
and other mummeries. This description applies
specifically to the “Materia Medica” of Quintus
Serenus Samonicus, written in hexameters. It
is true, the magical sequel to this book entailed
painful consequences on the writer, for the emperor
Caracalla had the poor author executed
(Ael. Spartian., “Caracalla,” Chapter IV.,
§ 4) merely, as it is reported, because he dared
to advise in his works as a remedy against intermittent
fever the wearing of amulets, a medical
expedient which had been prohibited by the
emperor himself.
The work of Sextus Placitus Papyriensis, who
lived in the fourth century, which treats of remedies
derived from the animal kingdom, teems
with magic nonsense.
But an actually inexhaustible stock of medical
conjurations was contained in the work of a layman,
Marcellus Empiricus. This gentleman, who
had been foreign minister under the emperors
Theodosius the first and the second, had written
a thick folio volume on medicaments. This literary
performance, which, according to our ideas,
appears to be very odd for a minister of state,
was by no means remarkable in the fifth century,
for the study of medical subjects was, so to say,
fashionable among the laity of that period; in
fact, even prelates and bishops did not think it
beneath their dignity to busy themselves with
various medical questions and to write medico-physical
books. Thus the laurels of medical renown
haunted our good Marcellus and would not
let him sleep, so that he abridged his hours of
official duty to such an extent that he was able
to compile a Materia Medica of thirty-six apparently
never-ending chapters. But if the statesmanship
of Marcellus was on a par with his
medical book-making, the two Theodosii could
not have missed the time their cabinet minister
stole from them, for his medical scribbling is an
utterly worthless compilation. Not only did
Marcellus copy from medical authors of the most
discordant opinion, but he particularly busied
himself in collecting indiscriminately all the
magical nonsense of the ancient times; in fact,
it seems that he was very eager to obtain all this
magical rigmarole direct from the mouth of the
people, for he says that he collected his remedies
“ab agrestibus et plebeiis.” Accordingly his book
is as worthless and insipid to the physician as it
is valuable to the historian, especially the historian
of civilization. Here are a few examples
of this medicine of the magicians:
Remedy against warts and corns (Pliny, Book 28,
Chapter IV., § 12, page 268): “Lie on your back
along a boundary line on the twentieth day of the
moon, and extend the hands over the head. With
whatever thing you grasp when so doing, rub the
warts, and they will disappear immediately.”
“Whoever, when he sees a shooting-star, soon
afterward pours a little vinegar upon the hinge
of a door, is sure to be rid of his corns.”
Remedy against headache (Pliny, ibid.): “Tie
the rope of a hung criminal around the forehead.”
Remedy against bellyache (Priscian, physician
of the fourth century, Book 1, Chapter XIV.,
and Sprengel, Vol. II., page 248): “If any one
suffer from colicky pains he may sit down on a
chair and say to himself: ‘Per te diacholon, diacholon,
diacholon.’”
“A person who has an attack of colic may
take the feces of a wolf, which, if possible, should
contain small particles of bone, enclose them in
a small tube, and wear this amulet on the right
arm, thigh, or hip.”—Alexander of Tralles, Book
8, Chapter II., page 374.
“Take the heart from the living lark and wear
it as an amulet at the left thigh.”—Alexander of
Tralles, ibid.
Remedy against epilepsy (advised by the physician,
Moschion Diorthotes. “Alexander of
Tralles,” Book 1, Chapter XV., page 570):
“The forehead of an ass is tied to the skin of
the patient and worn.”
“Gather iris, peonies, and nightshade when
the moon is on the wane, pack them into linen
and wear as an amulet.” Advised by the magician
Osthanes.—Alexander of Tralles, Book 1,
Chapter XV., page 566.
“Take a nail from a cross and suspend it from
an arm of the patient.” Given by a physician
of the second century, A.D., by the name of
Archigenes.—Alexander of Tralles, Book 1, Chapter
XV., page 566.
“Wear on the finger a jasper of bluish-gray
luster.”—Advised by Dioscorides, Book 5, 159.
Remedy against podagra [gout] (“Alexander of
Tralles,” Book 12, page 582): “Take a gold leaf
and write upon it when the moon is on the wane:
mei, threu, mor, for, teux, za, zon, the, lu, chri,
ge, ze, on. As the sun becomes firm in this
name and daily renews itself, so does this formation
also make firm as conditions were previously.
Quickly, quickly, rapidly, rapidly. For behold!
I call the great name in which becomes firm
again what was destined to die: Jas, azyf, zyon,
threux, dain, chook. Make this formation firm
as it has been, quickly, quickly, rapidly, rapidly.
This document must be covered with the tendon
of a crane, enclosed in a capsule, and worn by
the patient at his heel.”
Remedy against diseases of the eye (advised by
Sextus Placitus Papyriensis. Magnus, “Ophthalmology
of the Ancients,” page 597): “If the
right eye becomes afflicted with glaucoma, rub it
with the right eye of the wolf, and, similarly, the
left eye with the left eye of the wolf.”
In photophobia (fear of light) “Wear as an
amulet an eye which was taken from a live
crab.”—Quintus Serenus Samonicus. Magnus,
“Ophthalmology of the Ancients,” page 595.
With pains of the eye the patient must, with
a copper needle, put out the eyes of a green lizard
caught on a Jupiter day, during a moon
that is on the wane, in the month of September.
The eyes must be worn in a golden capsule, as
an amulet around the neck (Marcellus Empiricus.
Magnus, “Ophthalmology of the Ancients,”
page 602.)
The above illustrations are surely sufficient to
give the reader an idea of the medicine of the
magicians. At the same time they show the
great similarity which exists between these ancient
magic cures and the sympathetic cures of
our people at the present day.
§ 4. Ancient Medicine and Magic.—But
how is it possible that the ancient physicians,
and even the most enlightened minds among
them, should not only have tolerated such a
crass medical superstition as the above examples
have shown us, but should even have
incorporated them in their works? Incomprehensible,
however, as this fact may appear
to the modern practitioner, it becomes conceivable
if the condition of antique medicine and of
the medical profession of ancient times is considered.
In the first place, ancient medical science
adopted an entirely different mode of diagnostico-theoretical
method than that employed by
professors of medicine in modern times. Ancient
natural science (compare also Chapter V. of this
work), as well as ancient medicine, obtained
their scientific views exclusively by deduction—i.e.,
they deduced individual results from general
presumptions, or, rather, they construed, by
reason of some general presumption, the physico-medical
consequences which were to follow from
such a general supposition. If this attempt to
obtain an insight into physical processes is extremely
hazardous, it becomes still more precarious
when the manner and means in which
these general presumptions were arrived at
were primarily of an entirely hypothetical
nature. It is true, no fundamental objection
can be raised to this method, as even modern
natural science and medicine, despite the fact
that their methods of investigation in a diagnostico-theoretical
respect scarcely admit of material
objections, can not do without hypothesis.
But hypothesis is not always mere hypothesis.
It is well known that there are hypotheses
which, even in the minds of the most conscientious
investigators, are not inferior to that
knowledge which is obtained by experiment and
observation, whereas other hypotheses again
present the distinct stamp of insufficiency and
makeshift. The trustworthiness and the heuristic
value of an hypothesis depend upon the
quality of the diagnostico-theoretical process by
means of which it was obtained. If this process
has been such as physical investigation is bound
to insist upon, the hypothesis thus arrived at is
fully justified to supply the still absent data with
regard to the phenomena in question. This,
however, can be accomplished by hypothesis
only when the latter is not set forth until it
plainly appears that, in spite of a conscientious
and orderly arrangement of observation after
observation, of experiment upon experiment,
without the admission of logical loopholes, full
data in regard to the nature of the phenomena
is not forthcoming. In such a case we may consider
as actually proven by hypothesis what observation
and systematic experiment, continuous
and logical, were intended to prove, and failed.
However, this inductive hypothesis is alone entitled
to be considered in medicine. Naturally,
such an inductive hypothesis was not thought of
by the ancients, as the inductive method of investigation
was generally quite unknown to
them. The process by which ancient medicine
usually attempted to find its hypothesis was by
an argument from analogy. Each and every
point of resemblance, however superficial, between
two phenomena was considered sufficient
by the ancient naturalists to warrant the assumption
that analogous phenomena in the most
various domains were most certainly proven to
possess similar points of resemblance. And
upon the basis of such an insecure method of
deduction—which, moreover, was selected entirely
at the option of the observer—the ancient investigator
erected the boldest hypotheses. Thus,
for instance, the atomic theory of Leucippus and
Democritus is an hypothesis which rests upon
the basis of a conclusion from analogy. The
motes which appear in the rays of the sun led
these two ancient investigators to the conception
that, like the particles of dust sporting in the
air, the primary component parts of everything
that exists in the entire universe consisted of
similar particles.[2]
It appears that Epicurus arrived at his theory
of light (according to which, as is well known,
images of things were brought to the senses by
delicate but absolutely objective small pictures
which were detached from the surface of things
in a continuous current) by the fact that many
animals—for instance, snakes—shed their skins.
The theory of humoral pathology, one of the
most important advances in medical science, was
based on a conclusion from analogy and arrived
at by the deductive method.
The diagnostico-theoretical lines in which
antique medicine moved were bound—and this
is the point of importance in this case—to exert
a determining influence upon medical criticism.
For medico-physical criticism can only appear
in closest connection with the prevailing condition
of the respective sciences, being really
nothing else but a precipitate from them. Thus
the ancient physicians were compelled to take an
entirely different position toward magical medicine
than we moderns, educated in the school of
inductive methods, have always taken. The
probable and similar, the supposable and possible,
in which deductive medicine found its
data, working on the lines of argument from
analogy, were necessarily bound to find expression
also in the character of medical critique,
and it was impossible, therefore, for the ancient
physician to detect anything absurd or contrary
to experience in hypotheses which the practitioner
of to-day at once brands as nonsensical
and superstitious.
We are not in the least justified, therefore,
in speaking disparagingly of Galen and Alexander
of Tralles because they believed in magical
medicine and applied it in their practise.
As no human being can jump out of his skin, so
is he unable to get beyond the intellectual advancement
of his time. As the ancient physicians
were also unable to do this, accordingly
they were believers in the magical medicine.
But there is still a second point which explains
the remarkable position taken by ancient physicians
in relation to magical medicine—namely,
the fact that the conception of miracle and magic
were essentially different in the ancient world
from what they are at present. The belief in
the interference of spirits and supernatural
beings in terrestrial matters, and the manifestations
of their influence exerted in manifold ways—sometimes
for good, sometimes for evil—had been
widely disseminated from the earliest times, and
we encounter them in all periods of classic antiquity.
This belief in demons had become incorporated
in the systems of many leading philosophers
of antiquity. Now if the world were filled with
demons the natural consequence was that their
activity would manifest itself in various ways.
It was necessary, therefore, that man should always
be prepared to experience manifestations
which more or less violated the customary order
of terrestrial happenings, and for this reason
nothing that could be styled a miracle really existed
for him. A miracle could not be conceived
in its full modern sense until it was realized that
the course of all natural phenomena was nothing
but the expression of eternal and changeless
laws. However, it was not until comparatively
late that this conception became generally disseminated;
thus, for instance, it was considered
as self-evident, even in the latest periods of the
middle ages and during the first beginnings of
modern times, that divine influence could always,
and actually did always, cause an alteration
in the course of the functions of the body.
In fact, there is an amazingly large number of
people even in our time who believe this, and
for whom, therefore, the conception of miracles,
especially of miraculous healing, is to-day on
about the same level as that on which it stood
in the time of Galen and Alexander of Tralles.
Thus we must admit that the ancient physicians
were by no means below the standard of
civilization and culture attained during their
period if they believed in the possibility of
extraordinary cures effected by means extraneous
and unscientific in their treatment of the
sick, and, accordingly, they supported such
methods. However, this belief in miraculous
medicines on the part of the ancient physician
was always restricted to certain limits. It is
true, the conception was always adhered to that
this or that magical agency, or this or that
magical action, might exert an influence upon the
disease; but such a belief never led them to omit
any strictly medical measures of a surgical or
gynecological nature. On the contrary, the intelligent
physicians of antiquity firmly insisted
that the actions of the surgeon and of the gynecologist
were not to be hampered by any metaphysical
considerations; thus, for instance,
Soranus demanded most energetically that the
midwife should be “ἀδεισιδαίμων” (without fear
of any demon)—i.e., she was not to be superstitious,
but free from any imputation which
would render her curative interposition objectionable.
The profession of the magicians, due to the
persecutions to which they became subject under
the Christian emperors Valens, Valentinian, and
Theodosius, became considerably less prominent
during the predominance of Christianity, but the
ideas upon which it had been erected in ancient
times still survived; in fact, these ideas were
even to a certain extent systematically elaborated
during the middle ages, and at this time a
distinction was made between higher and lower,
or white and black, magic. The white magic
busied itself with good spirits, the black magic
with the bad ones. Magicians, therefore, who
operated by the aid of the devil, and even in
medicine called in the assistance of the devil,
were called “necromancers.” For the first time
magic became amalgamated with certain philosophical
speculations and also with Christian-dogmatic
constituents. The methods adopted by
magic medicine under these conditions are so
peculiar and are so close to the boundary lines
between philosophy and religion that we are
really not quite certain whether to relegate it to
the domain of one or of the other. But as the
fundamental parts of these methods were actually
supplied by philosophy, we propose to defer
this discussion for the present, and to take up
here another form of medical superstition which
was derived exclusively from religion—namely,
“sleep in the temple.”
§ 5. Sleep in the Temple.—One of the generally
practised methods of medical science during
the period of Hellenic civilization which was
still fully under the influence of theism—i.e., for
at least two or three centuries before the Hippocratic
era—was what was known as “temple
sleep.” In fact, this method must be considered
a sign of a faith distinctly deep and sincere, a
faith naive and childlike indeed; but as a sign
of such a faith this method is actually pathetic.
No taint of superstition could be found in it at
the early period referred to. It was still the
pure and unadulterated expression of the generally
prevailing conception that human art is to
no purpose in any case of disease, and aid must be
found with the gods—with those gods who regulate
and personally execute all terrestrial phenomena
down to the minutest details. Temple
sleep was not degraded into superstition until
medicine had come to the conclusion that the
phenomena of disease were not evidence of an
interference by supernatural power in the functions
of the body, but disturbances of the function
of the body caused exclusively by natural causes.
In accordance with this view, which first found
its fullest and clearest exposition in the corpus
hippocraticum, it would seem absolutely necessary
for temple sleep to lose all recognition from the
art of healing. However, this not being the case,
it was bound to deteriorate into an act of superstitious
mummery, and the principal blame for
this sad decadence is to be laid primarily upon
the priests. It was their duty especially to lead
into the path of truth the patients who persisted
in crowding into the temples in the spirit of
naive and childlike piety. They sealed their
own condemnation as fosterers of superstition
when they failed to do this duty, and endeavored
rather, by every means in their power, to confirm
the multitude in their ancient belief that
the gods were practising medicine. Non-Christian
as well as Christian priests played this rôle
for many centuries with equal ability and equal
perseverance, as will be seen from the following
brief history of temple sleep.
The belief in the efficacy of temple sleep had
already been thoroughly shaken during the time
of the great Hippocrates; therefore, in the sixth
century, B.C., the laughing philosopher of Hellenism,
Aristophanes, the satirical contemporary
of Hippocrates, in Act II., verses 654 to 750, of
his comedy Πλοῦτος, severely criticizes the manner
and method in which temple sleep was employed.
Let us listen to the words in which the
poet describes what happened in the temple
during the observance of this rite.
The god Æsculapius, accompanied by his
daughter Panakeia, appears in the temple to examine
in person the patients gathered there.
The first one he meets is a poor wretch, Neokleides,
who, being blear-eyed, expects cure from
the god. The medically skilled Æsculapius
smears upon the inverted lids of this patient a
salve which causes such pain that the poor fellow
will probably never seek his help again. The
second patient met by the god is the blind god,
Πλοῦτος (i.e., Wealth Personified). Here the
conduct of Æsculapius is entirely different from
that which he adopted when treating poor Neokleides.
Now he carefully strokes the head of the
patient, then produces a linen cloth and carefully
touches the lids with it. He then calls his
daughter Panakeia, who winds a red cloth round
the head of blind Wealth. Now Æsculapius
whistles, and two mighty serpents appear, glide
under the purple cloth, and lick the eyes of the
patient. Shortly afterward the god regains his
sight.
This passage is a cutting satire on practises
which undoubtedly prevailed in the Greek temples
as early as the sixth century, B.C. But,
nevertheless, it took a long time before the
patients lost their belief in the miraculous efficacy
of temple sleep, and the priesthood continually
strove to revive, by the mysterious stories
of various kinds they recounted to doubters, the
belief in temple sleep. The sixth of the marble
votive tablets which were found in the temple of
Æsculapius at Epidaurus shows the kind of
miraculous reports invented by the priests. The
latter were in the habit of inscribing upon these
tablets reports of cures that had occurred in their
sanctuary, for the benefit of the visitors of the
temple and for the still greater benefit of the
medical historians; but it is quite probable that
the priesthood, intent upon curing, were encouraged
in their medico-literary attempts only by
the silent hope of creating an abundant supply
of patients by such miraculous reports. The
above tablet, No. 6—which probably dates
from the third century, B.C.—tells us that a
blind man by the name of Hermon, a native of
Thasos, had recovered his sight by sleeping in
the Epidaurean temple of Æsculapius. However,
it appears that this man Hermon had been
a miserable wretch, for he disappeared without
having expressed his thanks in hard cash. Naturally
such ingratitude provoked the god,
and summarily he blinded the thankless individual
again. It required a second temple
sleep before the god condescended to become
helpful once more. But our tablet does
not mention anything about the amount of
the remuneration paid by our friend Hermon
who had been twice cured of blindness; neither
is this at all necessary. The miraculous tablet,
even without stating the price, doubtless made
sufficient impression upon the minds even of the
most parsimonious of future patients.
Altho, therefore, the more enlightened among
the Greeks recognized, as early as in the sixth
century, B.C., the futility of temple sleep as a
means of healing, the ancient world never relinquished
it entirely. We encounter it again in
the later periods of antiquity. Thus, for instance,
Suetonius and other ancient authors tell
us that two patients, one blind, the other lame,
one day approached the emperor Vespasian,
who happened to be in Alexandria, asking him
to spit into the eyes of the one and to stroke the
paralyzed limbs of the other; for they had been
notified in temple sleep that they would be restored
to health if only the emperor would deign
to perform the above-mentioned manipulations.
But Vespasian was an enlightened ruler who, in
spite of his imperial dignity, did not have much
confidence in the medical qualities of his saliva
and of his hands, and accordingly unceremoniously
dismissed both supplicants. This caused
great terror among the priests of Serapis and
among the courtiers, for obviously they had interpreted
this affair solely as intended in majorem
Vespasiani gloriam. The emperor was importuned,
therefore, kindly to aid the unfortunate,
but he persisted in his refusal. Probably he was
right in fearing the loss of his prestige should the
imperial medical powers prove unequal to the
task of curing disease. Not until the priests
solemnly vouched for the truthfulness of the
dream-sending god Serapis, and declared a failure
of the imperial cure to be impossible, did
Vespasian’s stubbornness relent. Now he spat,
and rubbed the paralyzed limbs, and the blind
saw, and the paralytic arose and walked.
§6. Church Sleep.—When, subsequently,
the ancient religions died out, and had left the
world as an heritage to Christianity, temple
sleep had by no means died out also. On the
contrary, after the lapse of three centuries, it
again came into favor with the Christian priests.
And the use of it now was scarcely less in favor
than it had been a thousand years previous in
the world of the ancient Greeks. Let us mention
a few examples. The first four stories are
taken from the works of Gregory of Tours.
Mummolus, who came to the court of Justinian
(527 to 565) as the ambassador of King
Theudebert, suffered greatly from calculi of the
urinary bladder, and during this journey he became
subject to an attack of renal colic. Things
went badly with poor Mummolus, and he was in
a great hurry to make his will. Whereupon he
was advised to pass one night sleeping in St.
Andrew’s Church, at Pateras, for St. Andrew had
performed many miraculous cures in this place.
No sooner said than done. Mummolus, greatly
tormented by pain and fever, and despairing of
life, had himself placed upon the stone flags of
the sanctuary, and waited there for the things
that were to happen. Suddenly, toward midnight,
the patient awoke with a violent desire to
urinate, and discharged in a natural manner a
calculus which, as St. Gregory assures us, was
so enormous that it fell with a loud clatter into
the vessel. From that hour Mummolus was
hale and hearty, and joyfully started on his
journey homeward.
In Brioude, the capital of the present department
Haute-Loire, there was a woman named
Fedamia, who had been paralyzed for years.
In addition to this, she was penniless, and her
relatives, therefore, brought her to the Church
of St. Julian, who enjoyed a great reputation in
Brioude, in order that, even if she did not become
cured, she might at least make some money
by begging at the church door. For eighteen
years she had lived thus when, one Sunday
night, while she slept in the colonnade adjoining
the church, a man appeared who took her by
the hand and led her toward the grave of St.
Julian. On arriving there she uttered a fervent
prayer, and in a moment felt as if a load of
actual chains fell from her limbs. All this, it
is true, happened in a dream, but when the
patient awoke she was hale and hearty, and was
able, to the amazement of the assembled multitude,
to walk, with loud prayers, to the grave of
the saint.
A certain man, deaf, dumb, and blind, known
by the name of Amagildus, also tried the sleep
in the Church of St. Julian, at Brioude. But it
appears that this saint was not always quite
accessible to the wishes of the sick. It is true,
Amagildus was not obliged, like Fedamia of the
previous narrative, to pass eighteen years in the
basilica, but, nevertheless, he had to sleep for a
full year in the colonnade of the church before
the curative power of the holy martyr delivered
him from his ailment.
Veranus, the slave of one of the clergy under
Gregory, was so violently attacked by gout that
he was absolutely unable to move for an entire
year. Thereupon his master pledged himself to
advance the afflicted slave to the priesthood if
St. Martin would be willing to cure him. To
accomplish this cure the slave was carried to
the church, and there placed at the feet of the
saint. The poor wretch had to remain there for
five long days, and it seemed as tho St. Martin
had forgotten all about him. Finally, on the
sixth day, the patient was visited by a man who
seized his foot and drew it out straight. The
slave rose to his feet in terror, and perceived
that he was cured. For many years he served
St. Martin as a priest.
But the most wonderful cure was that of the
German emperor Henry II., called “The Saint”
(1002 to 1024). This emperor, who was of Bavarian
stock, suffered greatly from the stone,
and had retired to the Italian cloister Monte
Cassino, inasmuch as this cloister during that
period justly enjoyed an extraordinary medical
reputation. But whether the monks of Monte
Cassino, altho well versed in medical art, did
not have sufficient confidence in their ability to
treat an emperor, or whether they were induced
by some other reason, is not known; however,
instead of submitting the imperial patient to the
operations of terrestrial medicine, they surrendered
him to the providence of heaven, and
more particularly to the sympathy of St. Benedict.
This saint fully justified the confidence
that was placed in him, for, during an acute
period in the patient’s sufferings, he appeared
in his own holy person, and with his own holy
hands he performed the necessary operation, and,
after having pressed the stone that he had removed
from the bladder into the hand of the
sleeping emperor, he retired heavenward. But
he took care from his heavenly residence to attend
to the prompt healing of the operation
wound, and this was surely very good of St.
Benedict. In fact, his entire behavior during
this case was extremely proper and laudable;
for is it not much more fitting that the imperial
bladder should be delivered from its disagreeable
visitor, the stone, at the hands of a saint than
by those of mortal beings, even if those mortal
beings were the pious and medically skilled
monks of Monte Cassino?[3]
The form in which we encounter the Christian
temple sleep in the above stories is as like as two
peas to that practised in the Hellenic temples.
They are distinguished merely by the fact that
the Greek gods generally hastened to the assistance
of the patients after the latter had spent
one night in the temple, whereas the Christian
saints often allowed years to pass before the patient,
who was crying for aid, secured relief.
Christianity has, however, created one variation
of the temple sleep, and this is the sleep
which is taken, altho outside of the church, at
any place whatever, but with invocation of the
saints. This sleep was said to be exactly as efficacious
as that taken in the church itself, provided
the patient had fervently prayed before
falling asleep, and had particularly remembered
the saint whose assistance he required. The two
following narratives, which are also taken from
the works of Gregory of Tours, may serve as significant
examples of this variety of temple sleep.
Alpinus, Count of Tours, was so tormented for
years by a pain in his foot that life had no
further joys for him, so that, sleepless and without
appetite, he took to his bed. Again and
again had he, in secret prayer, appealed to St.
Martin for relief. So one day the Count suddenly
falls into a deep sleep, during which St.
Martin appears to him, making the sign of the
cross over the diseased foot. Thereupon the pain
suddenly left him, and Alpinus was able to leave
his couch, fully cured. In this case the saint
showed himself extremely considerate toward
the sick count, in that he was attired in a smart
uniform when paying his visit. It was his intention,
obviously, in choosing this costume to gratify
the martial tastes of the nobleman; for St.
Martin, when visiting patients, by no means
always affected this warlike array, as will be seen
from the following story.
A certain woman was so severely afflicted with
campsis of the fingers that she completely lost
the use of her hands. Even a visit to the church
which was consecrated to St. Martin in Tours
had brought her no relief. The patient was
obliged to leave the sanctuary with her fingers
still diseased. But it seems that this patient was
actually of a very contented disposition; for when,
upon her return, away from Tours, she lay down
to her first night’s rest, she thanked God that at
least her life was spared, and that she had been
permitted to see the grave of St. Martin. Affected
by so much modesty, St. Martin appeared
to her in her sleep, and, like to St. Benedict in
the case of the emperor Henry, with his own
holy hands he performed somewhat of an operation
upon the patient, in that he stretched her bent
fingers in such a manner that the tense tendons
were evidently torn; for Gregory tells us that,
under the treatment described, blood flowed from
the straightened fingers of the woman. But St.
Martin had entirely discarded his martial attire
upon this visit. Evidently such a garb did not
seem to him appropriate when visiting a female
patient; he therefore appeared before the patient
in a purple cloak with a cross in his hand.
However, the medical activity of the saints
was by no means restricted to cases of church
slumber, but was manifested in the most various
forms.
§ 7. Medical Saints.—Some saints had a decided
predilection for medical specialties, and
for that reason paid a particular attention to certain
varieties of disease. Thus, St. Anna espoused
ophthalmology; St. Jude cured coughs; St. Valentine,
epilepsy; St. Catherine of Siena, the
plague. Not even our domestic animals were
forgotten by the saints. Thus, St. Roch of Montpellier
distinguished himself especially by his
skill as a veterinarian.
Various were the ways of obtaining the medical
aid of this or that saint. The most simple
was probably that the patient attended mass in
the church of his town, and, at the same time,
made an offering to the saints. More difficult
was it to undertake a pilgrimage to one or the
other of the saints who enjoyed a medical reputation;
this was generally done on the birthday
of the celestial physician. It seems that the
saint was especially inclined on this day to practise
medicine; at least, the chroniclers report
that great numbers of the most difficult cases
were successfully treated on such days.
A very efficacious method of securing medical
treatment from saints was considered to be the
placing of the patient in the church during the
day in the space between the altar and the grave
of the saint. The bed of the mortally sick, fever-racked
patient was placed there, and for days
was compelled to remain here wrestling with
death. This was done, for instance, with the
dying Countess Eborin. In case severe epidemics
were prevalent, it is likely that the churches
very often resembled actual hospitals. Then
dozens of beds with their patients were set up in
the churches, and many a one who was in good
health when he entered the church to say his
prayers probably returned home with the germ
of a pestilence acquired in the sanctuary.
But the saints, as we have seen, were by no
means always so anxious or in such a hurry to
manifest their medical skill. They often made
the patient wait for years for their aid. The
church, therefore, made practical arrangements
to meet every requirement. Larger buildings
were erected close to the church intended for the
reception of patients. Here those who were hoping
to find help could obtain shelter and food,
and were, therefore, able to rest quietly, and to
await the moment when heavenly aid might appear.
This arrangement proved to be extremely
practical, especially because a good many individuals
felt themselves cured only so long as they
remained in the proximity of the saint, but became
reafflicted as before when they returned to
their homes.
But as the slumber and the protracted sojourn
in the ecclesiastical hostelries was, nevertheless,
rather uncomfortable, especially in consideration
of the difficulties and dangers which were involved
in traveling during the middle ages, it
was absolutely necessary to invent a means of
administering the medical aid of the saints in
such a way as was always accessible to the
patient. This was managed by the use of relics.
§8. Cult of Relics.—It was believed that
God had endowed the bodies of martyrs who died
for the Christian faith, or of saints distinguished
by extraordinary piety, with a miraculous power
of extraordinary efficacy, and not only the mortal
relics of the martyrs and saints were wonder-working,
but actually all objects which had come
in contact with the persons of saints during their
life as well as after their death. All such objects
were possessed of curative power. Let us
listen to what Gregory of Tours says under this
head: “The miracles which our Lord God
deigned to bring about through St. Martin, his
servant, once a pilgrim in the flesh, he causes
to be repeated daily, to strengthen the confidence
of the faithful; for now he endows his tomb with
precisely the same wonder-working power as was
exhibited by the saint himself while still among
us. Who will now persist in doubting the former
miracles when he observes their continuation in
the present day, when he sees the lame walk, the
blind receive their sight, devils cast out, and
every variety of disease cured by the help of
the saint?” (“Bernoulli,” page 287).
The statement of such a luminary of the Church
as Gregory of Tours has undoubtedly gained
ecclestiastical credence for the medical efficacy
not only of the tomb of St. Martin, but of all the
relics relating to that saint. It remained only to
distribute the superior medical power which was
contained in the holy tombs and relics in such a
form as would enable all patients, wherever they
happened to be, to make use of them. This task,
apparently most difficult, was settled very easily.
It was discovered that everything which came in
contact with a relic actually absorbed a sacred
and miraculous power contained in the same,
and what had been absorbed was by no means
imponderable. Quite the contrary. Something
of material substance, and, therefore, physically
demonstrable, passed from the relic into the objects
surrounding it. It was indeed a celestial
fluid, but, nevertheless, of so terrestrial a nature
that the priests were able to demonstrate its
transference by means of a common pair of scales.
Thus it was customary that the silk shreds
which were deposited by the pilgrims upon the
tomb of the apostle Peter were weighed before
they were placed there and weighed again after
their removal. This weighing always and without
exception indicated a considerable increase
in their weight. The pilgrim then could travel
homeward and be thoroughly consoled, as the
scale had demonstrated to him the amount of miraculous
power contained in his silk rag. It was
really astonishing, under some circumstances,
what an enormous amount of curative fluid
could flow from such a holy tomb into a single
terrestrial object. This was what happened to a
king of the Suavians. He had a sick son, for
whose cure every remedy had proved unavailing.
He at last sent an embassy to Tours to obtain
a relic of St. Martin, but this relic was
destined to be manufactured with the assistance
of the embassy. The priests were quite willing
to comply with the desire of their royal petitioner,
and thus a piece of silk, duly weighed
beforehand, was placed upon the tomb of
St. Martin. After this silk had remained for
one night upon the holy sepulchre, and the embassy
had knelt beside praying fervently, the
silk absorbed so much curative power that the
register of the scale was raised to its highest possible
notch.
Knowing, then, that any desired object could
be saturated with the miraculous power contained
in a relic, they used to apply this celestial
power through medicaments, and to accomplish
this a number of methods were in use. The most
popular was to scrape the tombstones on the
graves of the saints as thoroughly as possible.
The powder thus obtained was then put into
water or wine, and thus a medicine was acquired
which possessed an astonishing curative power.
It was efficacious even in the severest ailments of
the body. Let us listen to what Gregory of
Tours has reported concerning the medicinal virtues
of such tombstone potions.
He says: “Oh, indescribable mixture, incomparable
elixir, antidote beyond all praise! Celestial
purgative (if I may be permitted to use the
expression), which throws into the shade every
medical prescription, which surpasses in fragrance
every earthly aroma, and is more powerful
than all essences; which purges the body like
the juice of scammony, clears the lungs like hyssop,
and the head like sneezewort; which not
only cures the ailing limbs, but also, and this is
much more valuable, washes off the stains from
the conscience!”
According to this extensive power of the tombstone
powder, it is by no means astonishing that
Gregory of Tours, when traveling, always carried
a box of this miraculous powder with him, so
that he was able at once to heal the patients that
surrounded him. I was not able to obtain from
the literary sources at my disposal any data as to
whether the direct licking off of the tombstones
might not have been still more efficacious than
the all-healing extract. Gregory does, however,
report that he was cured of a tumor of the tongue
and lips by merely licking the railing of the tomb
of St. Martin and kissing the curtain of the
temple.
Another very efficacious remedy was the
charred wick of the wax candles which had
burned in the church. This wick was pulverized,
and in this manner a very powerful curative
powder was obtained which, when taken, acted
in a manner similar to that of the watery or vinous
tombstone infusion.
The wax which dripped from candles that were
placed near the holy sepulchre was also credited
with many medicinal virtues, but it seems that it
was employed more as an external than an internal
remedy.
The water which had been used before Easter
to clean the altar of the saints was also considered
to be a famous remedy. If such water was employed
in washing a patient he recovered at once,
and this was the happy experience of Countess
Eborin. This exhalted patient was suffering
so severely that she believed her hour had come.
She was then quickly removed to the church of
St. Martin, and thoroughly washed with the
water that had been used in washing the altar.
And, behold! the disease disappeared, and let
us hope that the overjoyed countess afterward
enjoyed many years of life.
Oil from lamps hung in holy places was also a
favorite remedy, but it appears that it was principally
used for anointing. However, when
mixed with holy water, it furnished a remedy
which could be administered to diseased cattle
with a prospect of positive cure.
Water which was obtained by boiling the covers
in which the relics were wrapped also yielded
a very efficacious medicine. Thus, for instance,
Gregory of Tours caused a silk cover, in which
a piece of the cross of Christ had been wrapped,
to be thoroughly boiled, and he then administered
this decoction to patients; the curtains
which were used as ornaments over holy graves
also displayed an extremely beneficent effect upon
the sick. If an individual suffering from headache
touched, for instance, the carpet which was
placed over the resting-place of St. Julian, the
pain ceased. But if a patient was afflicted
with abdominal pains, all that was necessary to
relieve him at once was to pull a thread from
this, the above-named carpet, and to apply it to
his rebellious digestive apparatus.
However, it was not necessary for the priests,
under some circumstances, personally to take the
trouble of manufacturing miraculous medicines
from relics. There existed some holy graves
which were so accommodating that they furnished,
of their own accord, the holy material
that was required for the treatment of the sick.
Thus the chronicler records that the grave of the
evangelist John exuded a sort of white manna,
which, owing to its wonder-working curative
power, was distributed all over the world. A
similar product was yielded by the grave of the
Apostle Andrew on the festival day of that saint.
A precious oil scented like nectar also sprang
from the resting-place of this man of God.
We see, therefore, that the sacred pharmacopœia
teemed with remedies, and that they were
quite extensively employed is shown sufficiently
by the history of the saints and, above all, by
the works of Gregory of Tours. The latter, in
particular, offer an actually inexhaustible mine
of information concerning the medical activity
of Christian saints.
It does not, however, appear that this medical
activity enjoyed the confidence of priests or of
laymen to such an extent that the services of a
professional physician were entirely discarded.
It is true, Gregory of Tours expresses himself in
reference to the terrestrial physicians in a manner
which is by no means complimentary, for he
says:
“What are they (the physicians) able to accomplish
with their instruments? Their office
is rather to cause pain than to alleviate it; if they
open the eye and cut into it with pointed lancets,
they surely cause the agony of death to come in
sight before assisting in the recovery of vision,
and if all precautionary measures are not thoroughly
carried out the power of sight is lost forever.
Our beloved saint, however, has only one
instrument of steel, and that is his will, and only
one salve, and that is his curative power.”
But in spite of this want of confidence in physicians,
Gregory of Tours did not hesitate eventually
to interfere quite extensively with the
practise of the saints by the employment of ordinary
medicine.
At least, he frequently did so when he felt sick
himself. Thus, one day, when he was afflicted
with severe bellyache, he employed warm poultices
and baths, and only when the refractory
abdomen gave him no rest, after a continuance
of this treatment for six days, did Gregory apply
to St. Martin. When, at another time, Gregory
was affected with so severe an attack that his
death was believed to be imminent, he caused
himself at first to be treated according to all the
rules of medical science, and not until improvement
failed to appear, did he think of the aid of
the saints. Then he spoke to his physician as
follows: “Well, you have exhausted all remedies
of your art, you have used up all your powers
and juices, but the remedies of this world do not
help him who is destined to die. Only one thing
remains for me to do. I shall tell you the great
remedy: take some stone powder from the grave
of St. Martin and prepare it for me.”
The healing of the sick by the power of the
saints and through relics was in favor throughout
the middle ages, and even in the sixteenth
century it was so generally in vogue that a physician
by the name of Wyer (1515 to 1588) considered
it expedient to demonstrate the incredibility
of such heavenly interference.
It is by no means my intention to hold solely
dogmatic Christendom of the middle ages and
the Christian priest responsible for the monstrous
superstition into which, according to the
above description, Christian religion had degenerated
in the domain of medicine. This superstition
resulted from the cooperation of quite
incongruous factors; but we can by no means
exempt the Christian priest entirely from blame,
in that he assisted very materially in furthering
it. For we must bear in mind that the Christian
cloister of the middle ages was not only the last
refuge of humanistic culture, but the science
of medicine found an asylum of preeminent importance
within its precincts. Medicine had
taken refuge in the cloister from the storms and
tribulations which followed the political collapse
of antiquity and from the excitement of national
migrations, and had here attained a high degree
of perfection. In fact, we may contend, without
exaggeration, that at certain periods of the middle
ages the Christian monastery had the importance
as a medical school which was later on
claimed by the university; for the Christian
monks not only nursed the sick and practised
medicine, but also took an interest in its scientific
development. They were well acquainted with
the medical classics of ancient times, such as
Hippocrates, Herophilus, Dioscorides, Galen,
Paul of Ægina, and others, as well as with the
ancient medical celebrities of second and third
rank. Briefly, medical knowledge in its entirety
was contained in the cloisters of the middle
ages; the cloisters, indeed, furnished a considerably
larger quota of the medical profession
than the laity. In such a state of affairs it
might have been expected that the monks and
priests should have applied their extensive medical
knowledge to combat the terrible abuses
which had invaded medicine in connection with
the names and the bones of the saints. But this
they never did, neither during the middle ages
or later on. Priesthood has never seriously attempted
to promote medical enlightenment. On
the contrary, plenty of writings exist in which
the crassest superstition in medico-physical affairs
was defended by the clergy, who quite frequently
exhibit the same spirit while practising
medicine. Medical relief obtained by entirely
terrestrial remedies they speedily placed to the
credit of the saints, as was done, for instance, by
the monks of Monte Cassino, when (as we have
seen above) they persuaded the emperor Henry
II. that not the temporal hands of the friar physicians
had performed an operation for stone
upon him, but that St. Benedict in person had,
with his own holy hands, extracted the stone
from the imperial bladder.
By leading the laity, in numerous cases and
against their better knowledge and conscience,
to believe that the aid of the saints, and of the
relics originating from them, was far superior to
medical services, the Christian priests of the
middle ages have on their part contributed quite
a considerable share to the horrors of medical
superstition. It is true, we must not overlook
the fact that monks and priests of the middle
ages were the product of their time, in the same
manner as we of modern times are the product
of our period. And as the middle ages formed
an era of miracles, of demons, devils, and witches,
numerous members of the clergy, as children of
their time, surely had an essentially different
opinion of the belief in miracles and demons from
that which we have. The conception of miracles
was entirely different during the middle ages
from what it is in modern times; for the sincere
and firm belief in the omnipotence of the one
God, which with Christianity had taken possession
of the world, had firmly fixed in the Christian
mind of that period the idea that God was
able at any moment to manifest his omnipotence
by changing the course of terrestrial phenomena,
and actually did manifest it. Thus to a Christian
of the middle ages it did not appear miraculous
that an alteration in the course of natural law
should occur. It was considered quite conceivable
that the same natural phenomena should
spring from one cause to-day and from a different
one to-morrow, according to the pleasure of
God; it would have been just as inconceivable to
the early Christians, and to their later coreligionists
of the middle ages, that all natural processes
are carried into effect according to eternally
unalterable laws, beyond the interference
of divinity, as it is incomprehensible to us to
conceive that God would at any time change a
law of nature in favor of one or the other mortal
being. The conception of miracle during the
first sixteen centuries of the Christian era was
entirely different from that of the subsequent era.
We must not, therefore, gauge the ideas of priests
and laymen of those centuries who believed in
medical miracles by the same standard as that
by which we judge those who to-day still persist
in admitting the existence of medico-physical
wonder or miracle. It is highly probable that,
under conditions as described above, many Christian
monks and priests vacillated between the
requirements of faith and the results of their own
medical knowledge. The medieval scholar’s
feeling drew him to one side, his intelligence to
the other, and thus he became destitute of a firm
hold—the intellectual sport of his period and of
his environment. That prominent lights of the
Church could become subject to such vacillations
we learn from Gregory of Tours, who attempted
to cure bodily ailments at one time with the
medicaments of professional medicine, at other
times with the saving means of the celestial drug-store;
who at one time deprecated the art of
temporal physicians in favor of medically skilled
saints, at other times fled to human medicine for
refuge.
Finally the position of the medically learned
monk and priest with reference to the general
public, during the middle ages, was by no means
an easy or an agreeable one. The people clung
with invincible tenacity to the belief in demons
and miracles. Ancient as well as Christian
philosophy was firmly pledged to a belief in
demons, whose existence was supported by the
sacred testimony of the Gospel. It is not astonishing,
therefore, that the people should cling to
their belief in various forms of supernatural interference
with the functions of organic beings, and
thus it may frequently have happened that a
medically enlightened priest, fearing the opposition
of a people eager after celestial medicine,
sacrificed his scientific convictions to the caprices
of a mistaken faith. Unfortunately, only a few
had in them the making of a scientific martyr,
and the history of Christianity teaches us that it
is much easier to be a martyr of faith than a
martyr of science.
But what has been stated thus far will by no
means acquit the Christian priest of blame which
he incurred by favoring medical superstition;
such acquittal would be radically futile. But we
mean to show that the conduct of the servants of
our faith, altho not pardonable, is quite explicable.
The historian, in order to present to his
readers the relation which had gradually formed
between Christianity and medical superstition,
must show himself prosecutor and defendant at
the same time.
Equally with dogma and priesthood, theistic
belief also has been a powerful instrument in the
furthering of medical superstition, and this point
we shall next consider.
§9. Theistic Thought as the Fosterer of
Medical Superstition.—Altho the theist, by
accepting a physico-mechanical interpretation of
natural phenomena, abandoned his main position,
yet the theistic belief by no means became
obsolete—i.e., the belief that God, unrestricted
by natural laws, personally directed terrestrial
manifestations still held its ground. This belief
remained dominant in many minds, in spite of
all that philosophers and naturalists said in regard
to the forms and life of organic structures.
The vitality which this belief has shown during
the development of our race is actually astonishing.
In spite of the wide acceptance of the
physico-mechanical theory of life, the belief that
God, without regard to natural laws, unceasingly
interfered with the course of natural
events, and, consequently, also with the conditions
of the human body, has not only remained
active, but has even succeeded in recovering an
extensive part of its lost ground. We shall soon
see that this is a repetition of what has occurred
during all periods of human development. Even
to-day, when the mechanical theory of life has
won its greatest triumphs, and more than twenty
centuries have passed since the great Hippocrates
preached a theory of medicine, purified
from all theistic and theurgic accretions, individuals
are still met with who presuppose the
therapeutic activity of God in all cases of disease
as a self-evident fact. Such a condition of
opinion, history teaches us, always prevails at
periods, during which a craving for religious excitement
becomes excessively acute. It is either
a new form of religion which so preoccupies the
public mind and the intelligence that all phenomena
are conceived of as in closest relationship
with God, or else some individual appears
who, carried away by religious enthusiasm,
teaches that the existence of nature independent
of God is not admissible, and succeeds
in enlisting numerous followers under his banner.
Under similar conditions theistic belief
had occasionally succeeded in regaining its supremacy
in the domain of medicine. In taking
up the consideration of some such instances we
can only treat them briefly, as an exhaustive
handling of this most interesting material would
carry us too far away from our present subject.
The belief that God was the best physician,
not only of the soul but of the body also, was
deepened by the dissemination of Christianity.
The sincerity of faith among the Christians of
the first century was so intense that a great
number of them believed that their bodily welfare
could not be watched over more carefully
than when it was commended exclusively to the
care of God in all cases of sickness. Accordingly,
they entirely neglected medical aid and
treated all diseases only by prayers, by anointing,
and by laying on of hands. This mode of
treatment corresponds to what is contained in
the epistle of James v : 14-16—
“Is any sick among you? let him call for the
elders of the church; and let them pray over
him, anointing him with oil in the name of the
Lord:
“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick,
and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have
committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.
“Confess your faults one to another, and pray
one for another, that ye may be healed. The
effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man
availeth much.”
The extent of this treatment by prayer is
shown by the fact that even prominent fathers
of the Church—for instance, St. Benedict (died
543)—were addicted to it.
Moreover, an attempt was made to increase
the therapeutic value of prayer by various accessories
and aids. Thus the Gospel was placed
upon the affected part of the body, or clothing
of a particularly pious man was spread over the
patient. It appears that the sudarium and the
coat of the apostle Paul were held to possess such
healing power, and were, therefore, frequently
employed as instruments of healing. Thus
we read in the Act of the Apostles xix : 12—“So
that from his body were brought unto the
sick handkerchiefs or aprons, and the diseases
departed from them, and the evil spirits went
out of them.”
In fact, medical superstition went so far that
it divined a potent curative virtue even in the
shadow of the apostle Peter. Thus, Acts v : 15—“Insomuch
that they brought forth the sick
into the streets, and laid them on beds and
couches, that at least the shadow of Peter passing
by might overshadow some of them.”
Probably we shall not be wrong in regarding
this procedure as the origin of that relic cult
which was destined to attain such astonishing
dimensions in medical practise.
The mode of treatment by means of prayer
was, perhaps, intimately connected with the idea
that bodily ailments were divinely ordained to
make the wrath of God distinctly perceptible by
man. This conception of pathological processes
was a very ancient one. We meet with it among
the Egyptians, and we read in the book of Exodus
that God visited upon Pharaoh and his people
various bodily afflictions, such as pestilence,
black smallpox, death, as in the case of the first-born.
Afterward Christianity adopted this view
of sickness as providential, and the belief assumed
very peculiar forms and dimensions in the
middle ages. In those times any disease occurring
epidemically was actually considered to be
an act of retribution on the part of the divine
being, a scourge with which God punished sinful
Christians. Thus, for instance, syphilis, which
originated in Naples in 1495, during the struggle
between the reigning house of Aragon and the
French, was instantly declared to be the chastisement
of God. The emperor Maximilian declares,
in an edict issued August 7, 1495, at Worms:
“Quod novus ille et gravissimus hominum morbus
nostris diebus exortus, quem vulgo malum Francicum
vocant, post hominum memoriam inauditus sæpe
grassetur, quæ nos justissimæ Dei iræ merita debent
admonere” (Gregorovius VII., 386, foot-note 1).
But it is very astonishing to observe the causes
which aroused the wrath of God so mightily that
countless numbers of men were swept away.
Thus, for instance, the pious Bishop of Zeeland,
Peter Paladius, assures us that miliary fever,
that terrible disease which devastated Europe
five times from 1486 to 1551, was sent by God,
who was angry at the excessive passion for finery
which prevailed at that time. Medical science,
as founded on theism, assumed menacing forms,
where, in the middle ages, it associated itself
with magic, but as we shall more exhaustively
enlarge upon this point in Chapter IV. we need
merely refer here to that part of our work.
It is indeed surprising that the above-mentioned
manifestations all occurred in periods in
which medicine had already acknowledged the
physico-mechanical interpretation of all organic
processes; but the strangeness of this fact is enhanced
by the consideration that, even in recent
times, and even at the present moment, there
have been, and are, individuals who not only
preach the doctrine that medicine is bound to be
subordinate to Christian faith, but also find adherents
to their dogmas, and find them in surprising
numbers. Recently we have learned
from two exceedingly instructive examples to
what extremes the sentiment of fanatical religion
may lead men so soon as they shake off the
steadying influence of physico-mechanical ideas
in their theory of life. Then Theocracy strives for
an exclusive ascendancy in the domain of medicine,
as is distinctly shown by the position taken
by Mrs. Eddy, with her “Christian Science,”
and Rev. John Alexander Dowie, with his
“Christian Catholic Church of Zion.”
If we first of all examine the system of Mrs.
Eddy, we find it an absurd farrago of undigested
philosophical odds and ends, illogical medical
aphorisms, and shallow investigation, which
reaches its pitch of folly in the belief that disease
has no real foundation in the material tissues
of the body, but should be explained as arising
exclusively from certain conditions of the mind.
In accordance with this conception, which has
been borrowed from a natural philosophy
long since relegated to oblivion, the services
both of physician and physic are to be rejected,
and the treatment of the sick is to be carried on
in such a manner that the patient, under supervision
of an individual expert in such affairs, is
merely to fix his mind on the spiritual, or divine,
principle inherent in himself.
We are by no means astonished that a person
to whom the laws of thought are entirely unfamiliar,
and who is not very much burdened
with knowledge of any other kind, should advance
such confused and preposterous theories
as those of Mrs. Eddy. History teaches us that
human beings have arisen at all periods, in all
ranks of life, and in cold blood have given currency
to the wildest of theories. But the most
interesting point is that at this day when, as we
might believe, the advances in physical science
have enlightened to some extent even the most
unintellectual, Mrs. Eddy is able to find adherents,
especially among the best classes of
society, and to find them in such numbers that
the authorities have been compelled to interfere
in repressing the practises of this medical superstition.
I purposely say interesting, and not
“astonishing” or “wonderful,” because the
historian, whatever domain he undertakes to investigate,
will always discover that stupidity has
at all times been a power superior to all the influences
of culture and learning. Mrs. Eddy,
with her Christian Science, proves to us that even
in this era of scientific enlightenment, this truth
remains incontrovertible.
Rev. John Alexander Dowie, with his Christian
Catholic Church of Zion, must be judged
from an entirely different view-point than Mrs.
Eddy. It is true, this latter-day saint arrives at
exactly the same end as Mrs. Eddy—namely, at
the absolute rejection of professional treatment,
medical as well as surgical. But he arrives at
this theory, which so closely concerns both his
own health and that of his adherents, by an
entirely different way from that taken by the
Eddy woman. An unquestioning belief, which
in its naïveté is almost touching, leads him to
hold that all utterances of the Old as well as of
the New Testament are direct revelations of God.
The further consequence of this constancy of
faith is the desire to believe and to follow everything
that is contained in the Bible, to the
widest extent and with the closest adherence to
the wording of the book. And as the book of Exodus,
xv : 26, states, “I am the Lord that healeth
thee,” and in the Epistle to James, v : 14-16,
prayer is recommended as the best remedy in
diseases, Dowie concludes that prayer must be
resorted to as the sole means of treating and curing
all forms of disease. Prayer is declared by
him to be much more efficacious, in surgical
cases, than the skill of the most experienced
operator.
Dowie, therefore, occupies exactly the same
standpoint as the Christians of the first centuries
after Christ, who also believed that prayer would
render the best assistance in all ailments of the
body. Twenty centuries, therefore, with all
their immense advance in the training of thought
and in the recognition of nature, have not been
able to rid humanity of the conception that the
omnipotence of God, among many other manifestations,
is to busy itself in the daily regulation
of the human body with all its numerous functions.
Wherever this conception obtains a firm
foothold superstition, with its acts of miraculous
healing, never fails to follow. Accordingly, all
historic periods of our cultural development, in
which the theocratic belief has been on the
ascendant, are characterized by an excessive
development of medical superstition.
