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]

[2] Lucretius, Book 2, Verse 113, _sqq._

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.

[3] Compare Leibnitz, Script. Brunsvic, Vol. I., page 525.

Sprengel, Vol. II., page 91.

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.

IV

THE INFLUENCE OF PHILOSOPHY UPON THE FORM AND ORIGIN OF MEDICAL

SUPERSTITION

The idea that philosophy has exerted any material influence upon

superstition in medicine may appear strange to many. For how can

it be possible that the science which teaches the laws of thought,

which regulates our entire mental activity and guides it in the right

direction, which points out to us the intricate path of medical

theory and diagnosis—how is it possible that just this science should

either take or have taken part in misleading or obscuring our medical

perception? We do not by any means intend to impute any such effect to

philosophy. Quite the contrary! We are thoroughly aware of the great

influence which philosophy is entitled to claim in all sciences without

exception, and for this reason we believe that modern representatives

of medical science would be much better off if they were a little less

at variance with philosophy than they actually are.

In the wide realm of philosophy there are only certain points where

we can detect a tendency to promote the development of medical

superstition. This tendency appears in all endeavors which are made to

explain natural phenomena solely in a speculative manner, or to build a

theory of life upon a base of pure assumptions. Whenever such attempts

were made manifest, and impressed philosophy into their service under

the name of natural philosophy, it resulted in the wide predominance of

medical superstition.

It is well known that all prae-Socratic philosophy aimed at the

discovery of a single principle as underlying and explaining all the

phenomena of nature. But in spite of this very apparent tendency,

it can scarcely be accused of promoting medical superstition; for

prae-Socratic philosophy busied itself in speculations concerning

terrestrial phenomena. Earth and air, fire and water, cold and heat,

coming into being and passing away, are the things in which it

endeavored to find the elemental basis of nature with its multiform

phenomena. But upon the study of medicine these endeavors exercised,

for the time being, a liberalizing influence. They emancipated it

from the repressive grasp of theism, and opened up the way for an

exclusively natural explanation of all processes of the body, in

health as well as in sickness. Unfortunately the apparatus, or organon,

which philosophy furnished to science in its terrestrial phenomena was

a very questionable one, investigation of the conclusion from analogy

and the deductive method being of extremely little value, either in

medical diagnosis or the pursuit of natural science. For this reason

medicine was bound to be encumbered with countless badly founded

hypotheses. But other monstrous guesses at truth could not fail to

become current. Let us consider, for instance, the absurd theory which

Heraclitus of Ephesus (500 B.C.) has propounded as to the relations

between wine and the human soul. As the soul, according to this

philosopher, naturally was a fiery vapor, and the drier and the more

fiery it remained the better, the excessive use of alcohol would not

be advisable, in that the abundant infusion of fluids causes the soul

to become wet, which would be harmful to its fiery nature, as fire and

moisture are always incompatible. Who will venture to deny that it was

from his opinion regarding the use of wine that Heraclitus acquired his

sobriquet of “Whining Philosopher”?

But curious as were all the hypotheses with which Hellenic natural

philosophy foisted upon medicine, they should by no means be confounded

with superstition, for even a baseless hypothesis is far removed

from superstition. Otherwise, medicine and superstition would be

almost identical conceptions, for baseless hypotheses have at no time

been wanting in our science. Superstition, so far as its sources are

found in philosophy, did not enter medical science until philosophy

sought for an explanation of the various processes of life not only

in material but also in immaterial forces. And as Indian as well as

Persian philosophy, in the earliest period of its existence known to

us, had already found in demons the immaterial elements which to a

great extent control the processes of life in man, it will be seen that

the relations between philosophy and medical superstition are quite

old. The Hellenic poets and philosophers, Homer, Hesiod, Empedocles,

Democritus, and Plato, elaborated this immemorial doctrine of demons

and introduced it into Greece. But the recognition of immaterial,

supernatural curative factors did not attain any considerable and

determining influence in ancient medicine until the year 150 B.C.,

when, under the eager advocacy of Alexandrian Jews, Oriental and

Occidental doctrines became amalgamated to a coherent system of

theosophic and medical mysticism. Medicine suffered greatly for

centuries from this mysticism, which prevailed late in the middle

ages and even up to more recent times. The center of all the various

forms under which speculations in the philosophical and theosophical

domain made their appearance was Alexandria, the great central point

of culture in which the civilization of the Orient and the Occident

were united in the evolution of a new theory of life. But that the

birthplace of developments so momentous for the future of medicine

should be Alexandria almost suggests the thought that the writers of

history were indulging in a satire upon medical science; for it is well

known that Alexandria was the very place where medical enlightenment

and the progress of ancient medicine won their greatest triumphs under

the renowned anatomists, Herophilus and Erasistratus.

Such speculations in theosophical and medical domains at first were

most eagerly entered upon by the Jewish sects of the Essenians, or

Essenes, and Therapeutæ. According to the description which Josephus

(Book 2, Chapter II., page 13) has left us of these two sects,

they were theosophical communists. We, as physicians, however, are

principally interested in the position they took with regard to our

profession, and that was one of indifference. They believed that they

should not obtain their knowledge of the body, either in health or in

disease, by observation, on which physicians relied. They believed

they could actually learn the art of healing from a study of their old

Sacred Scriptures. For that reason they especially applied themselves

to make a diligent examination of these Holy Scriptures. They believed

that they were able, by various allegorical interpretations of

different letters and words, as well as by subtle explanations of this

or that sentence, to acquire the knowledge necessary for the treatment

of their patients. Those, however, who had become imbued with this

wisdom of dotage in an especial degree, claimed the possession of

numerous miraculous powers—for instance, that of prediction. But as

they also believed in the existence of beings who, while they were

lower than God, at the same time were higher than man, they had, ready

at hand, the rarest resources to draw upon for the practise of their

juggling feats of miraculous medicine. The belief in these mystical

doctrines took the most extravagant forms. Thus, for instance, it was

believed that a man by the evacuation of feces offered an insult to

divinity (τὰς αὐγὰς ὑβρίζειν τοῦ θεοῦ, says Josephus, lib. 2,