The mother of mortals in herself doth combine
The charms of an Adam, and graces all Divine.
Her tint his surpasses, her brow is more fair,
Her eye twinkles brighter, more lustrous her hair;
Far sweeter her utterance, her chin is quite smooth,
Dream of Beauty incarnate, a lover and a love!
Our own Milton has done poor Eve justice in lines which need no quotation.
Pygmalion, says the classic story, which is really a Phœnician myth of
creation, made a woman of marble or ivory, and Aphrodite, in answer to his
prayers, endowed the statue with life. We do not believe it. No woman was
ever marble. She may seem hard and cold, but she only requires a sturdy
male voice to bid her
Descend, be stone no more!
to show that the marble appearance was put on, and that she is, and ever
was, genuine palpitating flesh and blood.
“Often does Pygmalion apply his hands to the work. One while he addresses
it in soft terms, at another he brings it presents that are agreeable to
maidens, as shells, and smooth pebbles, and little birds, and flowers of a
thousand hues, and lilies, and painted balls, and tears of the Heliades,
that have distilled from the trees. He decks her limbs, too, with
clothing, and puts a long necklace on her neck. Smooth pendants hang from
her ears, and bows from her breast. All things are becoming to
her.”--Ovid, _Metam._ x. 254-266.
There is something tender and kindly in this myth; it represents woman as
man would have her, pure as the ivory, modestly arrayed, simple, and
delighted with small trifles, birds, and pebbles, and flowers--a thing of
beauty and a joy for ever. But Hesiod gives a widely different account of
the creation of woman. According to him, she was sent in mockery by Zeus
to be a scourge to man:--
The Sire who rules the earth and sways the pole
Had spoken; laughter fill’d his secret soul:
He bade the crippled god his hest obey,
And mould with tempering water plastic clay;
With human nerve and human voice invest
The limbs elastic, and the breathing breast;
Fair as the blooming goddesses above,
A virgin’s likeness with the looks of love.
He bade Minerva teach the skill that sheds
A thousand colours in the gliding threads;
He call’d the magic of love’s golden queen
To breathe around a witchery of mien,
And eager passion’s never-sated flame,
And cares of dress that prey upon the frame;
Bade Hermes last endue, with craft refined
Of treacherous manners, and a shameless mind.
Hesiod, _Erga_, 61-79.
If such was the Greek theory of the creation of woman, it speaks ill for
the Greek men; for woman is ever what man makes her. If he chooses her to
be giddy and light and crafty, giddy, light, and crafty will she become;
but if he demands of her to be what God made her, modest, and thrifty, and
tender, such she will ever prove. This our grand old Northern forefathers
knew, and they made her creation a sacred matter, and fashioned her from a
nobler stock than man. He was of the ash, she of the elm; they called the
first woman Embla, or Emla, which means a laborious female--from the root
_amr_, _aml_, _ambl_, signifying “work.” “One day as the sons of Bör were
walking along the sea-beach, they found two stems of wood, out of which
they shaped a man and a woman. The first, Odin, infused into them life and
spirit; the second, Vili, endowed them with reason and the power of
motion; the third, Ve, gave them speech and features, hearing and vision.”
This reminds one of the ancient Iranian myth of Ahoura Mazda creating the
first pair, Meschia and Meschiane, from the Beivas tree. But the
Scandinavians also spoke of three primeval mothers: Edda
(great-grandmother), Amma (grandmother), and Mother, from whom sprang the
three classes of thrall, churl, and earl. It is noticeable that these
primeval women are represented as good housewives in the venerable
Rîgsmàl, which describes the wanderings of the god Heimdal, under the name
of Rîg. The deity comes to the hut of Edda, and at once--
From the ashes she took a loaf,
Heavy and thick, with bran mixed;
More beside she laid upon the board;
There is set a bowl of broth on the table;
There is a calf boiled, and cates the best.
Then he goes to the house of Amma, the wife of Afi.
Afi’s wife sat plying her rock
With outspread arms, busked to weave.
A hood on her head, a sark over her breast,
A kerchief round her neck, and studs on her shoulders.
He next enters the hall of Mother.
The housewife looked on her arms,
Smoothed her veil, and fastened her sleeves,
Her headgear adjusted. A clasp was on her bosom,
Her robe was ample, her sark blue;
Brighter her brow, fairer her breast,
Whiter her neck than purest snowdrift.
She took, did Mother, a figured cloth
Of white linen, and the table decked.
She then took cakes of snow-white wheat,
On the table them she laid.
She set forth salvers, silver adorned,
Full of game, and pork, and roasted birds.
In a can was wine, the cups were costly.
Not a word of disparagement of woman is found in those old cosmic lays.
The sturdy Northerner knew her value, and he respected her, whilst the
frivolous Greek despised her as a toy.
The Provençal troubadours caught the classic misappreciation of woman.
Massillia was a Greek colony, and Greek manners, tastes, and habits of
thought prevailed for long in the south-east of France. The troubadours
idolised her, as an idol-puppet, but they knew not how to commend, and by
commending develop in her those qualities which lie ready to germinate
when called for by man--devotion, self-sacrifice, patience, gentleness,
and all those homely yet inestimable treasures, the domestic virtues.
Pierre de Saint Cloud, in the opening of his poem on Renard, has his fling
at poor Eve. He says that Adam was possessed of a magic rod, with which he
could create animals at pleasure, by striking the earth with it. One day
he smote the ground, and there sprang forth the lamb. Eve caught the rod
from his hand, and did as he had done; forthwith there bounded forth the
wolf, which rent the creation of Adam. He struck, and the domestic fowls
came forth. Eve did likewise, and gave being to the fox. He made the
cattle, she the tiger; he the dog, she the jackal.
Turning to America, we encounter a host of myths relative to the first
mother. The sacred book of the Quiches tells of the gods Gucumatz, Tepu,
and Cuz-cah making man of earth, but when the rain came on he dissolved
into mud. Then they made man and woman of wood, but the beings so made
were too thick-headed to praise and sacrifice, wherefore they destroyed
them with a flood; those who escaped up tall trees remain to this day, and
are commonly called monkeys. The three gods having thus failed, consulted
the Great White Boar and the Great White Porcupine, and with their
assistance made man and woman of white and red maize. And men show by
their headstrong character that the mighty boar had a finger in their
creation, and women by their fretfulness indicate the great porcupine as
having had the making of them.
The Minnatarees have a story that the first woman was made of such rich
and fatty soil that she became a miracle of prolificness; she came out of
the earth on the first day of the moon of buffaloes, and ere it waned, she
had a child at her breast. Every month she bestowed upon her husband a son
or a daughter, and these children were fertile equally with their mother.
This was rather sharp work, and the Great Spirit, seeing that the world
would be peopled in no time, at this rate, killed the first parents, and
diminished the productiveness of their children.
The Nanticokes relate that their great ancestor was without a wife, and he
wandered over the face of the earth in search of one: at last the king of
the musk rats offered him his daughter, assuring him that she would make
the best wife in the world, as she could keep a house tidy, was very
shrewd, and neat in her person. The Nanticoke hesitated to accept the
obliging offer, alleging that the wife was so very small, and had four
legs. The Micabou of the musk rats now appeared, and undertook to remedy
this defect. “Man of the Nanticokes,” said the spirit, “rise, take thy
bride and lead her to the edge of the lake; bid her dip her feet in
water, whilst thou, standing over her, shalt pronounce these words:
“For the last time as musk rat,
For the first time as woman.
Go in beast, come out human!”
The spirit’s directions were obeyed to the letter. The Nanticoke took his
glossy little maiden musk rat by the paw, led her to the border of the
lake, and whilst she dipped her feet in the water, he used the appointed
formulary; thereupon a change took place in the little animal. Her body
was observed to assume the posture of a human being, gradually erecting
itself, as a sapling, which, having been bent to earth, resumes its
upright position. When the little creature became erect, the skin began to
fall from the head and neck, and gradually unveiling the body, exhibited
the maiden, beautiful as a flowery meadow, or the blue summer sky, or the
north lit up with the flush of the dancing lights, or the rainbow which
follows the fertilising shower. Her hand was scarce larger than a
hazel-leaf, and her foot not longer than that of the ringdove. Her arm was
so slight that it seemed as though the breeze must break it. The Nanticoke
gazed with delight on his beauteous bride, and his gratification was
enhanced when he saw her stature increase to the proportions of a human
being.
Other American Indian tribes assert that the Great Spirit, moved with
compassion for man, who wasted in solitude on earth, sent a heavenly
spirit to be his companion, and the mother of his children. And I believe
they are about right. But the Kickapoos tell a very different tale.
There was a time throughout the great world, say they, when neither on
land nor in the water was there a woman to be found. Of vain things there
were plenty--there were the turkey, and the blue jay, the wood duck, and
the wakon bird; and noisy, chattering creatures there were plenty--there
were the jackdaw, the magpie, and the rook; and gadabouts there were
plenty--there were the squirrel, the starling, and the mouse; but of
women, vain, noisy, chattering, gadabout women, there were none. It was
quite a still world to what it is now, and it was a peaceable world, too.
Men were in plenty, made of clay, and sun-dried, and they were then so
happy, oh, so happy! Wars were none then, quarrels were none. The
Kickapoos ate their deer’s flesh with the Potowatomies, hunted the otter
with the Osages, and the beaver with the Hurons. Then the great fathers of
Kickapoos scratched the backs of the savage Iroquois, and the truculent
Iroquois returned the compliment. Tribes which now seek one another’s
scalps then sat smiling benevolently in each other’s faces, smoking the
never-laid-aside calumet of peace.
These first men were not quite like the men now, for they had tails. Very
handsome tails they were, covered with long silky hair; very convenient
were these appendages in a country where flies were numerous and
troublesome, tails being more sudden in their movements than hands, and
more conveniently situated for whisking off the flies which alight on the
back. It was a pleasant sight to see the ancestral men leisurely smoking,
and waving their flexible tails at the doors of their wigwams in the
golden autumn evenings, and within were no squalling children, no
wrangling wives. The men doted on their tails, and they painted and
adorned them; they platted the hair into beautiful tresses, and wove
bright beads and shells and wampum with the hair. They attached bows and
streamers of coloured ribbons to the extremities of their tails, and when
men ran and pursued the elk or the moose, there was a flutter of colour
behind them, and a tinkle of precious ornaments.
But the red men got proud; they were so happy, all went so well with them,
that they forgot the Great Spirit. They no more offered the fattest and
choicest of their game upon the memahoppa, or altar-stone, nor danced in
his praise who dispersed the rains to cleanse the earth, and his
lightnings to cool and purify the air. Wherefore he sent his chief Manitou
to humble men by robbing them of what they most valued, and bestowing upon
them a scourge and affliction adequate to their offence. The spirit obeyed
his Master, and, coming on earth, reached the ground in the land of the
Kickapoos. He looked about him, and soon ascertained that the red men
valued their tails above every other possession. Summoning together all
the Indians, he acquainted them with the will of the Wahconda, and
demanded the instant sacrifice of the cherished member. It is impossible
to describe the sorrow and compunction which filled their bosoms when they
found that the forfeit for their oblivion of the Great Spirit was to be
that beautiful and beloved appendage. Tail after tail was laid upon the
block and amputated.
The mission of the spirit was, in part, performed. He now took the severed
tails and converted them into vain, chattering, and frisky women. Upon
these objects the Kickapoos at once lavished their admiration; they loaded
them as before with beads, and wampum, and paint, and decorated them with
tinkling ornaments and coloured ribbons. Yet the women had lost one
essential quality which as tails they had possessed. The caudal appendage
had brushed off man the worrying insects which sought to sting or suck his
blood, whereas the new article was itself provided with a sharp sting,
called by us a tongue; and far from brushing annoyances off man, it became
an instrument for accumulating them upon his back and shoulders. Pleasant
and soothing to the primeval Kickapoo was the wagging to and fro of the
member stroking and fanning his back, but the new one became a scourge to
lacerate.
However, woman retains indications of her origin. She is still beloved as
of yore; she is still beautiful, with flowing hair; still adapted to
trinketry. Still she is frisky, vivacious, and slappy; and still, as of
old, does she ever follow man, dangling after him, hanging at his heels,
and never, of her own accord, separating from him.
The Kickapoos, divested of their tails, the legend goes on to relate, were
tormented by the mosquitoes, till the Great Spirit, in compassion for
their woes, mercifully withdrew the greater part of their insect
tormentors. Overjoyed at their deliverance, the red men supplicated the
Wahconda also to remove the other nuisances, the women; but he replied
that the women were a necessary evil and must remain.[1]
This is worse treatment than that which the ladies received from Hesiod.
We have all heard of a young and romantic lady who was so enraptured with
the ideal of American Indian life as delineated by Fenimore Cooper, that
she fled her home, and went to the savages in Canada. We hope she did not
fall to the lot of a Kickapoo.
Poor woman! it is pleasanter to believe that she is made from our ribs,
which we know come very close to our hearts, and thus to explain the
mutual sympathy of man and woman, and thereby to account for that
compassion and tenderness man feels for her, and also for the manner in
which she flies to man’s side as her true resting-place in peril and
doubt. But we have a cosmogony of our own, elucidated from internal
convictions, assisted by all the modern appliances of table-rapping and
clairvoyancy. According to our cosmogony, woman is compounded of three
articles, sugar, tincture of arnica, and soft soap. Sugar, because of the
sweetness which is apparent in most women--alas! that in some it should
have acidulated into strong domestic vinegar; arnica, because in woman is
to be found that quality of healing and soothing after the bruises and
wounds which afflict us men in the great battle of life; and soft soap,
for reasons too obvious to need specification.
“FLAGELLUM SALUTIS”
There is a strange old book with the above title to be found in the
libraries of the curious, so quaint in character as to deserve to be
better known. It was composed by Christian Franz Paullini, a German
physician, and was published at Frankfort-on-Maine in 1608. It is a
treatise on the advantage of the whip for curative purposes in various
disorders.
Dr. Paullini, in the first section of his work, directs attention to the
consecration of corporal punishment by Scripture and the Church. Did not
St. Paul assert, “Castigo corpus meum et in servitutem redigo”? Does not
the bishop in confirmation box the ear of the candidate, in token that he
is to be ready to endure suffering and shame as a good Christian soldier?
And look at the saints of the calendar, were they not mighty in
flagellation, fervent in rib-whacking?
Shall precious saints and secret ones,
Break one another’s outward bones?
When savage bears agree with bears,
Shall secret ones lug saints by the ears?
asks the Puritan in his metrical version of Psalm lxxxiii, and Dr.
Paullini promptly answers: “Certainly, it is good for health of soul and
body that they should so act towards one another.”
Scorpius atque fabæ nostra fuere salus.
Had our learned author been acquainted with the Rabbinical gloss on the
account of the Fall of Man, he would, maybe, have hesitated to attribute
universal benefit to the application of the rod. For, say the Rabbis, when
Adam pleaded that the woman gave him of the tree, and he did eat, he means
emphatically that she _gave_ it him palpably. Adam was recalcitrant, Eve
_dedit de ligno_; the branch was stout, the arm of the “mother of all
living” was muscular, and the first man succumbed, and “did eat” under
compulsion.
There is nothing like the rod, says the doctor; it is a universal
specific, it stirs up the stagnating juices, it dissolves the
precipitating salts, it purifies the coagulating humours of the body, it
clears the brain, purges the belly, circulates the blood, braces the
nerves; in short, there is nothing which the rod will not do, when
judiciously applied.
Antidotum mortis si verbera dixero, credas!
Attonitum morbum nam cohibere valent.
Having laid down his principle, the doctor proceeds to apply it to various
complaints, giving instances, the result of experience.
And first as to melancholy.
One predisposing cause of melancholy, observes Paullini, is love, and that
eventuates in idiotcy or insanity.
To parents and guardians our author gives the advice, when the first
symptoms of this complaint appear in young people under their charge, let
them grasp the rod firmly, and lay it on with vigour and promptitude. The
remedy is infallible. Valescus de Taranta says, in the case of a young
man--and his words are words of gold--“Whip him well, and should he not
mend immediately, keep him locked up in the cellar on bread and water till
he promises amendment.”
I saw, continues our author, an instance of the good effect of this
treatment at Amsterdam. A stripling of twenty, comely enough in his
appearance, the son of an artisan in the town, fell in love with the
mayor’s daughter. He could neither eat, drink, sleep, nor do anything in
the remotest degree rational. The father, unaware of the cause, put him
into the hands of a medical practitioner, who did his utmost to cure him,
but signally failed. At last the father’s eyes were opened by means of an
intercepted letter. Like a sensible man he packed his son off to the
public whipping-place, there to learn better _moralia_. And this had the
desired effect; for the youth returned perfectly cured and in his right
senses.
But for this treatment he might have sunk into his grave, like him
mentioned by P. Boaysten, who died of a broken heart through unrequited
love; and, at the post-mortem examination, his bowels were discovered to
be uncoiled, his heart shrivelled, his liver shrunk to nothing, his lungs
corroded, and his skull entirely emptied of every trace of brains.
For short sight there is nothing like a good thrashing, or at least a
violent blow, says our doctor.
An old German, aged eighty, who had all his lifetime suffered from short
sight, was one day jogging to market on his respectable mare, Dobbin.
Dobbin tripped on a stone and flung her rider. The old man fell upon a
stone, which pierced his skull. The dense vapours which had obscured his
vision for so long were enabled to escape through the aperture, and on his
recovery the venerable gentleman had the sight of an eagle.
A cavalier was troubled with the same infirmity. He saw a large salmon
hanging up outside a fishmonger’s shop, and, mistaking it for a young lady
of his acquaintance, removed his cap and addressed it with courtesy.
Another youth having made great fun of the mistake, the short-sighted
cavalier felt himself constrained in honour to call him out. In the duel
he received a sword wound over his left eye, and this completely cured his
vision.
For deafness Dr. Paullini recommends a box on the ear. Especially
successful is this treatment in the case of children who do not attend to
the commands and advice of their parents on the plea of “not having
heard.” In such cases the employment of corporal punishment cannot be too
highly estimated. The doctor tells the story of a boy destined for the
ministry who ran away from school and apprenticed himself to a tailor, and
who was cured of deafness and tailoring propensities by the application of
a large pair of drumsticks to a sensitive part of his person, and who
eventually became a Lutheran pastor, and was, to the end of his days, able
to mend his own clothes.
This story furnishes the author of _Flagellum Salutis_ with matter for a
digression on clerical education. He quotes with approval the sentiments
of his old patron, Dr. Schupp, expressed thus: “Nowadays that every
bumpkin makes his son study for the ministry, we have them scrambling
about the country begging for promotion, and grumbling because it does not
come as fast as they expect. The learned son is a poor curate, with no
benefice. Such a to-do about this--complaints, murmurs, and what not! Why
did he not learn a trade in addition to his theology? Luke the Evangelist
was a theologus and medicus as well, and a painter to boot. Paul in his
youth studied divinity at the feet of Gamaliel, but he was a carpet
manufacturer besides. Was the Kaiser Rudolph a worse Emperor for being as
well a clever craftsman? ‘If I could recall my past years and begin life
again,’ said Dr. Schupp, ‘I would not become a student only, but learn a
trade besides. Then, if the thankless world kicked me, I would measure
its foot for a boot; if it made faces at me, I would paint its portrait
for it; if my divinity did not agree with its stomach, I would dose it
with purgatives like Luke. I would make the world respect me for my
diligence in trade, if it turned up its nose at my theology. Anyhow, I
would not go about snivelling and crying poverty and want of promotion.’”
To this speech of Dr. Schupp, Paullini adds a few pertinent remarks. “The
lad I was telling you about,” he says, “had a hankering after tailoring.
Well, tailoring is an honourable and useful profession. Was not Moses
bidden, ‘Thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, for glory
and for beauty. And thou shalt speak unto all that are wise-hearted, whom
I have filled with the spirit of wisdom, that they may make Aaron
garments.’ Tailors filled with the spirit of wisdom! Why despise the craft
which God has honoured?”
It must be allowed that there is sense in this little digression.
Doubtless it would be well if not only those destined for the ministry,
but all the sons of the higher classes of society, were taught some manual
employment in addition to the cultivation of their intellectual faculties.
That our grammar schools should take the hint is not to be anticipated;
masters and governors have the same implicit confidence in classic studies
as the universal panacea that Dr. Paullini professes for the rod and Dr.
Sangrado for cold water and blood-letting. I do not dispute the fact that
the most useful knowledge for a lad to acquire who is destined for
colonial farming, or for a mercantile life at home, is Greek prosody; but
I suggest that an acquaintance with carpentering, land-surveying, or
book-keeping might be found advantageous in a secondary degree.
Lockjaw is to be treated in the same manner, asserts our author, and he
tells an amusing anecdote on the subject from Volquard Iversen.
Nicolas Vorburg was an Oriental traveller. In the course of his wanderings
he reached Agra, the capital of the Great Cham. The European was
introduced to His Majesty at the dinner-hour, and found the monarch just
returned from the expedition, and as hungry as a hunter. A bowl of rice
was brought in. The Great Cham dipped his hands into it, and ladled so
much rice as they would hold into his capacious mouth, distended to the
utmost conceivable extent. But the Great Cham had overestimated the
capabilities of the distension of his jaws, and they became dislocated. At
the sight, the servants were distracted with fear. The nobles stroked
their chins in uncertainty how to act, the priests had recourse to their
devotions, but no one assisted the monarch out of his dilemma. He sat upon
his imperial throne purple in the face, his eyes distended with horror,
his mouth gaping, and full of rice. Suffocation was imminent. Nicolas
Vorburg, without even prostrating himself before the emperor, ran up the
steps of his throne, and hit him a violent crack with the palm of his
hand upon the cheek. The rice fell out of his mouth upon the imperial lap,
some, it is surmised, descended the imperial red-lane. Another slap
accomplished the relief of the monarch, and set the jaw once more in
working order. At the same moment the servants screamed at the outrage
committed upon the sacred majesty of the emperor, the nobles drew their
swords to avenge it, and the priests converted their prayers for the
recovery of their king into curses on the head of him who had
sacrilegiously raised his hand to violate his divinity. Poor Vorburg would
have been made into mincemeat, had not the emperor providentially
recovered his breath in time to administer a reproof to his over-zealous
subjects. He acknowledged the relief afforded him by the stranger by a
present of a thousand rupees.
A tailor had a son who was half-witted. The father was out one day, and
the child, who was left in the house, after the manner of children, looked
about him in quest of some mischief which he might perpetrate. A pair of
elegant breeches, just completed by his father, and designed for the legs
of a nobleman, hung suspended from the wall. The child made a figured
pattern upon the amber silk with his finger, dipped at intervals in the
ink-pot. The mother was the first to discover the transformation of the
breeches, and, not regarding the alteration in the same light as did her
child, caught up the yard-measure and administered a castigation to the
culprit, sufficient to “stir up the stagnating juices, dissolve the
precipitating salts, and purify the coagulating humours,” in at least one
portion of the lad’s body. The youth, under the impression that high art
is never appreciated at first sight, made himself scarce for some hours.
The father, on his return, used every effort to obliterate the flowering
of ink which his son had drawn over the amber breeches, but with only a
limited degree of success--so limited, in fact, that the nobleman for whom
they were destined utterly refused to invest his person in them, and they
were returned on the tailor’s hands. The boy, towards evening, impelled by
hunger, had returned home, and was soothing his injured feelings with
bread and butter, when the father re-entered the house. In a moment the
parental left hand had grasped the scruff of his neck, whilst the right
hand dexterously completed the stirring up the stagnant juices, dissolving
of precipitating salts, and purifying of coagulating humours with such
success, that Dr. Paullini assures us the child grew up a miracle of
discretion, and never after decorated articles of clothing other than his
own pinafore.
Under the heading of “Swollen Breasts,” the learned doctor gives us his
ideas on the subject of schoolmasters and their titles. These remarks are
sensible enough in their way, but hardly come under the heading he has
selected for the chapter. Connected still more vaguely with swollen
breasts is the commentary on some verses in the twenty-first chapter of
St. John’s Gospel, which closes the section.
To those who suffer from toothaches he recommends the practice of a
learned professor under whom he studied. This man suffered excruciating
torture from his teeth at night. The professor, the moment that his
sufferings began, was wont to leave his bed and spend his night in jumping
on to his table, and then jumping down again, till the pain ceased.
Paullini does not state the feelings of those who slept in the room
immediately underneath that occupied by Dr. Erasmus Vinding; neither does
it seem clear at first sight how the jumping diversion is connected with
the subject of the rod, concerning the merits of which the book treats;
but on further consideration the connection becomes apparent. Dr. Paullini
being silent on this point, we have but the light of nature to guide us to
the conclusion that the saltatory performances of Dr. Erasmus would arouse
and exasperate the other lodgers into an application of the universal
panacea to his scantily protected person.
For constitutional indolence the rod is inestimable; the monotony of its
use as a specific may, however, be pleasingly varied by an application of
corporal punishment in the following disguised form, which, if severe, is
nevertheless infallible as a cure. Hermann Habermann, a native of Mikla,
deserves the credit of being the first to communicate it to the medical
profession. Habermann had spent many years in Iceland, and it was there
that he saw the treatment in use. An artisan suffering from indolence was
recommended by a native doctor to let himself be sewn up in a sack stuffed
with wool, and then be dragged about, rolled down hill, thumped, kicked,
and jumped upon by his friends and acquaintances. When he emerged from the
sack he was to take a draught to open his pores, and to go to bed. The
remedy was tried, and succeeded.
A somewhat similar cure came under Paullini’s personal observation. A
nobleman had a jester who was dotingly fond of fowls. He stole all his
master’s poultry, so that his master was obliged to do without eggs for
his breakfast. The fool, moreover, was deficient in fun, and was by no
means worth his keep. At last his master determined on correcting him
severely. He had him sewn up in a hop-bag and well thrashed, and then
rolled down hill and thrashed again. The fool never stole eggs from that
day forward, and from being but a poor fool he became one famous for his
brilliant parts and sparkling humour.
For tertian fever, the rod is an admirable specific. A lawyer once
suffered from this complaint, which left him at times able to continue his
avocation. He had brought upon himself the ill-feeling of a certain
gentleman whom he had, in one of his pleadings, turned into ridicule. This
person determined to punish the advocate as soon as a convenient
opportunity presented itself. The opportunity came. The lawyer was riding
home one day, past the house of the nobleman, when the latter descried
him, and immediately sent him a message requesting a moment’s private
conversation. The unfortunate advocate fell into the trap. Expecting to
get employment in a fresh suit, he hurried eagerly to the castle, only to
find the gates closed upon him and all egress prevented. In another moment
the insulted gentleman stood before him.
“Vile bloodhound of the law!” he exclaimed, “you have long escaped the
punishment due to you for your insolence and temerity. You disgraced me
publicly, and I shall revenge myself upon you by degrading you in a manner
certain to humble your pride. Yet I am merciful. I give you your choice of
two modes of suffering. You shall either sit on an ant-hill, in the
clothing provided you by nature, till you have learned by heart the seven
penitential psalms; or you shall run the gauntlet in the same _dégagé_
costume round my courtyard, where will be ranged all my servants armed
with rods wherewith to belabour you.”
The hapless lawyer cast himself on his knees before the nobleman, and
implored mercy. He pleaded that he had his wife and children to provide
for; but the other replied that this was not to the point, as he had no
intention of injuring the lady or the infants. Then the lawyer alleged his
illness, saying that the access of fever would be on him next day, and
that the punishment wherewith he was threatened--either of them in
fact--might terminate fatally.
“That,” replied the injured gentleman, “can only be ascertained by
experiment. My own impression is that the ants or the whips will produce a
counter irritation, which may prove beneficial. Still,” he continued,
stroking his chin, “we mortals are all liable to err, and my impression
may be unfounded. I will frankly acknowledge my mistake if convinced by
the result taking the direction you anticipate.”
Reluctantly the poor advocate made his election of the treatment he was to
undergo. From the ants and the penitential psalms he recoiled with horror,
and he chose shudderingly to run the gauntlet. So he ran it.
Black and blue, bruised and bleeding, the wretched man was dismissed at
last, to return to the bosom of his family. The nobleman was right, the
lawyer was forever cured of his tertian fever.
In another work of the same author (_Zeitkürzende, erbauliche Lust_, 8vo,
Frankfort, 1693) the doctor argues the case, whether an honourable man may
thrash his wife; and concludes that such a course of action entirely
depends on the behaviour and temperament of the wife.
Woman was created to be good, quiet, and orderly; when she is otherwise
she is going contrary to her vocation, and art must be employed to
correct nature. Eve was given to Adam, reasons Paullini, to be a helpmeet
to him, and not to be the plague and worry of his life. Woman’s vocation
is to be a modest and gentle angel, and not to be a brazen, furious demon.
Every woman is either one or the other. If she is as heaven made her, she
takes to the bit and rein readily, is easily managed without the whip, and
is perfectly docile. If, however, she is what the evil one would have her,
she takes the bit in her teeth, sets back her ears, plunges, and kicks;
and woe to the man who comes within reach of her tongue, her claws, or her
toes. Then there is need for the rod. To a good wife, “there is a golden
ornament upon her, and her bands are purple lace: thou shalt put her on as
a robe of honour, and shalt put her about thee as a crown of joy.” But as
for the bad wife, deal with her after the advice of the poet Joachim
Rachel:--
Thou wilt be constrained her head to punch,
And let not thine eye then spare her:
Grasp the first weapon that comes to hand--
Horsewhip, or cudgel, or walking-stick,
Or batter her well with the warming-pan;
Dread not to fling her down on the earth,
Nerve well thine arm, let thy heart be stout
As iron, as brass, or stone, or steel.
For no wrath is equal to a woman’s wrath; and better is it to live in the
cage of an African lion, or of a dragon torn from its whelps, than to live
in the house with such a woman. Of all wickedness the worst is woman’s
wickedness. Why, asks the doctor, what sort of a life did Jupiter lead in
heaven with his precious Juno? Poor god! he let her get the upper hand of
him. Had he but taken his stick to her instead of scolding, he might have
had Olympus quiet, and have saved himself from being badgered through
eternity.
They managed things better in Rome. A man had a wife full of bad tempers.
He went to the oracle and asked what should be done with a garment which
had moths in it. “Dust it,” was the oracular response. “And,” added the
man, “I have a wife who is full of her nasty little tempers; should not
she be treated in a similar manner?” “To be sure,” answered the oracle,
“dust her daily.” And never was a truer or better bit of advice given by
an oracle.
The work of Dr. Paullini called forth others in response, and doubtless
enthusiastic devotees of the rod abounded. His views were, however,
combated by others. From a tract against the use of the rod I cull one
curious and droll story, wherewith to conclude this article:--
A husband accompanied his wife to confession. The lady having opened her
griefs, the father who was shriving her insisted on administering a severe
penitential scourging. The husband, hearing the first stroke inflicted on
his better half, interfered, and urged that his wife was delicate, and
that as he and she were one flesh, it would be better for him, as the
stronger vessel, to receive the scourging intended for his helpmate. The
confessor having consented to this substitution, the man knelt in his
wife’s place, while she retired from the confessional. Whack! whack! went
the cat, followed by a moan from the good man’s lips.
“Harder!--harder!” ejaculated the wife; “I am a grievous sinner!”
Whack! whack! whack!
“Lay it on!” cried she; “I am the worst of sinners.”
Whack! whack! and a howl from the sufferer.
“Never mind his cries, father!” exclaimed she; “remember only my sins.
Make him smart here, that I may escape in purgatory.”
“HERMIPPUS REDIVIVUS”
“Man,” said the learned Prioli, “is composed of soul, body, and goods. In
his pilgrimage through life these component parts are constantly exposed
to three mortal enemies: the devils, who are ever seeking the destruction
of his soul; the doctors, who are intent on ruining his constitution; and
the lawyers, who seek to rob him of his goods.”
We will put the devils aside for a moment, the lawyers, too, with the
tongs, and devote our attention to the doctors. We have already examined
the medical treatise entitled _Flagellum Salutis_, wherein was exposed the
excellence of the whip for the cure of every disorder to which mortality
is heir. We propose considering another equally startling tractate in this
paper, one more modern by a few years than that of Dr. Paullini, but its
superior in absurdity. The title of the work is “Hermippus Redivivus, or a
curious physico-medical examination of the extraordinary manner in which
he extended his life to 115 years by inhaling the breath of little girls;
taken from a Roman memorial, but now supported on medical grounds, as
also illustrated and elucidated by a wondrous discovery of philosophical
chemistry, by Johan Heinrich Cohausen, M.D.” 8vo, 1743.[2] This
extraordinary book is adorned with an illustration, representing a
pedagogue with a big nose, of Brobdingnagian proportions, keeping a mixed
school of solemn little girls in jackets and aprons, and little prigs of
boys in stocks, knee-breeches, coats, and wigs. One little boy, whose body
is the size of the master’s hand, sits reading a book on his right knee.
On the ground at his left is a little maiden, just reaching to the top of
the master’s gaiters. A tiny dog is sitting up begging in the midst of a
class in the middle distance; and in the background, behind a row of
urchins who are not looking at their books, is a cat as big as any one of
them, attacking a cage containing a singing bird. The whole of this
strange work is built on a Roman inscription, said to have been found in
the seventeenth century, and figured by Thomas Reinsius in his _Syntagma
Inscriptionum Antiquarum_, and afterwards by Johann Keyser in his
_Parnassus Clivensis_. This inscription, which is almost certainly not
genuine, runs as follows:--
AESCULAPIO . ET . SANITATI .
L . CLODIUS . HERMIPPUS.
QUI . VIXIT . ANNOS . CXV . DIES . V .
PUELLARUM . ANHELITU .
QUOD . ETIAM . POST MORTEM
EIUS.
NON . PARUM . MIRANTUR . PHYSICI .
IAM . POSTERI . SIC . VITAM . DUCITE .
That is to say: “To Æsculapius and to health, L. Clodius Hermippus
dedicates this, who lived 115 years, 5 days, on the breath of little
girls, which, even after his death, not a little astonishes physicians. Ye
who follow, protract your life in like manner.”
Other old writers, as Cujacius and Dalechampius, quote similar
inscriptions, as “L. Clodius Hirpanus vixit Annos CXV. Dies V. alitus
Puerorum anhelitu,” and “L. Clodius Hirpanus vixit Annos CLV. Dies, V.
Puerorum halitu refocillatus et educatus.”
These inscriptions are sufficiently like and unlike to make it more than
probable that they are all forgeries. It is hardly to be conceived that
there should have been two individuals with names so very similar, living
similar lengths of time,[3] the one on little girls’ breath, the other on
that of little boys. If, however, we are to suppose them genuine, we
have:--“Lucius Clodius Hermippus dying aged 115 years, 5 days”; “Lucius
Clodius Hirpanus dying aged 155 years, 5 days.”
However, the authenticity of these monuments is of little importance. Let
us to our book.
Dr. Cohausen enters on a minute verbal commentary on the words of the
inscription, after having relieved his enthusiasm in a lengthy preface,
and a still longer epistle dedicatory to a doctor of his acquaintance.
The commentary is as careful as though life hung upon each letter of the
text. Having completed this portion of his work, the author gives rein to
his fancy, and elaborates from his internal consciousness a life of L.
Clodius Hermippus. This is too curious to be passed over. Dr. Cohausen
asks how the subject of the inscription managed to live upon the breath of
little girls. He inquires whether Hermippus was a very wealthy man, and
enters into reasons which appear to him conclusive to the contrary. He
makes elaborate calculations as to the number of children who would have
been necessary to supply breath to Hermippus, supposing them to have been
changed every five years, and he to have adopted his system of prolonging
life at the age of sixty. After having discussed the question whether
Lucius Clodius were a schoolmaster, or the director of an hospital for
children, he concludes that he was the head of an orphanage supported by
Government; and when he has quite satisfied his mind upon this point, Dr.
Cohausen proceeds to sketch the daily routine of the life of Hermippus, as
follows:--
“The orphanage, which was like a palace, had many handsome dwelling and
dining-rooms, adapted for the daily uses of himself and the children, so
that the breath and exhalations from such a number of little girls might
fill the enclosed air, and might mingle to compose a salubrious vapour;
which, absorbed into the lungs of Hermippus, might the better exercise the
desired properties. In these rooms he spent with them the greater part of
the day, occupying the time in friendly and agreeable conversation,
unfolding to them good rules of life, relating innocent stories, and
wisely pronouncing exhortations on the practice of virtue. Early in the
morning, when the noise of the awaking children aroused him, at his
command they kindled in the room a fire, in order that the air, which had
become thickened during the night, might be rarified. In damp weather they
perfumed it with the best perfumes several times in the day, because they
had been instructed by their master how necessary this was to the
preservation of health. When the aged man left his room the little damsels
waited on him in the breakfast-chamber, and wished him a happy morning.
Often he explained to them the dreams which they related to him, making
them conduce to their moral edification. Some of those sufficiently old to
have an inkling of the art of flattery, combed out his snow-white hair;
others smoothed out his long white beard; others, again, rubbed his back
with a coarse towel, which is considered good for the health of old
people. And if, at that period, tea or coffee had been drunk,
unquestionably they would have supplied him with it. At all events, we
may conclude, as these beverages were not then in vogue, that it is quite
possible to reach a great age without imbibing them. When school-time was
over they passed the rest of the day in childish sports, with the
permission of Hermippus. They jumped about, they played with their dolls,
sometimes they also sang, for old people consider nothing so good for
health, and so invigorating, as vocal music. And in this manner everything
conduced to assist the expirations of the little girls in supporting our
old man. If ever he was compelled to leave the room, one might see the
children dragging at his coat-tails to detain him, and fervently desiring
his return. Adjoining the orphanage was a pleasant garden, in which were
plants and flowers calculated by their odour to quicken the vital spirit,
and assist in the prolongation of life. With these the maidens daily
adorned the rooms. Into this garden Hermippus betook himself with all the
little girls, each provided with a doll; and he walked about with them in
it, chaffed them, romped, danced and sang, acting as though his limbs were
those of youth. A thousand little rogueries, a thousand little jokes on
the part of the tiny lasses assisted in enlivening him, for they possessed
the art of making themselves cheerful. They wreathed flowers, and placed a
crown of spring-blossoms on the white head of Hermippus, and thus he
spited the fates and reached an advanced age.”
Will it be believed that all this detail is pure invention on the part of
Dr. Cohausen?
The learned author next proceeds to reason upon the cause producing these
results; he solves the question why the breath of little girls should tend
to prolong life.
“The breath,” says Dr. Cohausen, “consists of an inhalation and an
exhalation: and if I speak scientifically, I say that when man breathes he
lets forth the thick and thin airs through his mouth and nostrils, which
he had before received into his lungs, where they had become impregnated
with the evaporations from his body, the subtilised watery particles and
vitalising blood, the balsamic and sulphuric atoms. Wherefore the human
breath when outside the spiracles has a material character, namely, an
exhalation from the vapours and gases which are intermixed with the blood
and sap of the human body; and it is so especially in the breath of little
girls. So observes Ficinus. This air is warm or tepid, and it moves and is
endowed unmistakably with life, and like an animal is composed of joints
and limbs, so that it can turn itself about, and not only so, but it has a
soul also; so that we may certainly predicate that it is an animal
composed of vapour, and endowed with reason. Consequently, any one who
draws into his lungs this breath or conglomerated vapour, must necessarily
absorb into his system the properties of that body from which it emanated,
and from which it derived its being. For we know by experience that the
air which enters the lungs dry, goes forth carrying with it moisture, as
may be seen by breathing on a glass, or in cold weather. Also, when we
inhale the breath of any one who is ill, we are conscious of receiving
infection. On the other hand, it is manifest that the breath of a young
and vigorous person, charged with powerful volatile salts, will have a
balsamic and vitalising capacity, or at the least a mechanical elasticity,
which must communicate vigour.” The doctor quotes with approval the
opinion of Van Helmont, that the air absorbed into the lungs penetrates
the whole system, and circulates through every part, to the very hair,
catching up volatile salts on its passage. Thence he concludes that the
exhalations of little girls, who are brimming over with vitality, and
heaven knows what life-giving salts, must be charged with some of their
redundant vitality; and if this breath be inhaled by an old man, he
assumes into himself, and absorbs into his constitution, that life which
had been cast off as superfluous by the children.
Quæ spiramina dat puella? Nectar.
Dat rores animæ suave olentes,
Dat nardumque thymumque cinnamumque,
Et mel, quale jugis tegunt Hymetti
Aut in Cecropiis apes rosetis,
Quæ si multa mihi voranda dentur,
Immortalis in iis repente fiam.
The third line, with its repetition of “_umque_,” is peculiar rather than
elegant. The doctor rates the schoolmasters of his day for smoking during
class hours: he tells them that they are losing an opportunity of
inhaling the most invigorating salts at no expense.
Quando doces pueros, tibi fistula semper in ore est,
Atque scholæ fumos angulus omnis habet.
“Oh, my Orbilius!” he exclaims, “wherefore dost thou do so? Dost thou
complain of the stuffiness of the schoolroom. Thou art mistaken, Orbilius,
these vapours are full of volatile salts, by which, if thou wert wise,
thou wouldst attain a long life. Away with thy nasty pipe, and suck in
rather these redolent exhalations whereby thou mayest become healthy and
aged.”
It must not be supposed that the scientific--or physico-medical, as the
doctor calls it--portion of the subject is dismissed in such few words.
The author dilates on the theory, turns it over, tosses it about, takes a
bite, squeezes it, holds it up for admiration, and then reluctantly puts
it aside. In the course of his physico-medical argument, he introduces a
few illustrative anecdotes. One of these, taken from P. Borellus, is to
this effect: A servant much devoted to his master, on his return from a
journey, found his lord dead and prepared for burial. Full of grief, he
cast himself on the deceased, and kissing his pallid lips poured forth a
whirlwind of sighs. The breath thus emitted penetrated to the lungs of the
corpse, inflated them, and the dead opened his eyes, winked, and sat up.
The sighs of the faithful domestic had fanned into flame the expiring,
and as all had deemed expired, vital spark. From Orubelius our author
quotes another story in confirmation of his hypothesis:--
A woman had died in her first confinement, or, at all events, had fallen
into a state which was believed by the attendants and by Orubelius, who
was the physician present, to be death. She lay thus for a quarter of an
hour devoid of sense and feeling, with pale face, stationary pulse, and
with lungs which had ceased to play. A maid-servant who thus beheld her,
opened her mouth, and breathed into it; whereupon the patient revived. The
physician then asked the girl where she had learned the use of this simple
yet efficient restorative, and the servant replied that she had seen it
practised upon new-born children with the happiest results. The author
also assures us of the beneficial effect produced by wringing the necks of
poultry before a person _in articulo mortis_, and making the cocks and
hens breathe out their souls into the mouth of the dying, whereby he is
not unfrequently restored, and becomes quite well and chirrupy.
But, continues Dr. Cohausen, it is not only the exhalations from the lungs
which are life-generative, but also those from the pores. The pores are
little mouths situated all over the body, constantly engaged in the
aëration of the blood; they inhale the surrounding atmosphere and then
exhale it again, charged with balsamic and sulphurous particles taken up
from the system. Men’s bodies are pneumatic-hydraulic machines, composed
of fluid and solid materials, and health depends on the fluids being
prevented from coagulating, by being stirred up by the constant operations
of the currents of air which penetrate the frame through the pores and
mouth. The solid portion of the body is disposed to harden and dry up and
become stiff, and this produces age and decay; but if the circulation of
the fluids be kept up by the healthful infusion of fresh vital force and
living energies, then decrepitude and death may be almost indefinitely
postponed.
Now the lips of the little mouths or pores all over the person can be kept
flexible by oil, and therefore enabled to perform their functions with
facility. Thus Pollio, an ancient soldier of the Emperor Augustus, when
asked how he had succeeded in prolonging his energies over a hundred
years, replied that he had daily moistened his outer man with oil, and his
inner man with honey. Dr. Cohausen proceeds to lay down that it is better
to absorb the exhalations of little girls than those of little boys,
because females are more oily than males--a view we in no way feel
inclined to dispute, without having recourse to the receipt of Mocrodius
for wholesale incremations, which the doctor quotes to establish the
fact:--“Lay one female body to six male bodies, in a great pyre, for
thereby the male corpses are the more speedily consumed.” No doubt about
it: there is enough combustible material in one woman to set any number of
men in a blaze.
Johannes Fabricius, in his _Palladium Chymicum_, relates that he knew of a
lady whose hair when combed emitted sparks.
Bartholinus mentions in his _Tractatus de Luce Hominum_ the case of a
female who flashed fire whenever her limbs or back were rubbed with a
towel. These examples lead our author to conclude that in women there is
not merely a considerable amount of oil, but that there is also no small
item of latent fire; we are inclined to add, explosive material as well.
The advantage of old men marrying young wives is next discussed by Dr.
Cohausen; and he strongly urges all who have entered on the sere and
yellow leaf, to take to themselves wives of very early age; that, if
Providence has not made them superintendents of orphanages, or
schoolmasters, they may be enabled at small expense to inhale youthful
breath. Men already possessed of wives are to spend their days in the
nursery. As an instance of the advantage of patriarchs taking girl-wives,
he relates the story of a certain ancient man with snow-white hair and
beard, who married at the advanced age of eighty. After a while the old
man fell ill; all his hair and skin came off. On his recovery, he had a
fresh transparent complexion, and a magnificent bushy head and chin of
vivid red hair.
“Whatever you do!” earnestly entreats the doctor, “never marry an old
woman; she will absorb all the vital principle from your lungs. Alas for
him who, in hopes of gaining money, marries a rich old spinster! She
becomes youthful, and he prematurely aged. For old women,” he continues,
“are like cats, whose breath is poisonous to life. From the eyes and mouth
a cat discharges so much that is hurtful, that it has been the cause of
innumerable complaints. Indeed, Matthiolus relates that a whole monastery
of Religious died because they kept a number of cats.”
“My dear reader,” says Cohausen, “if you are young and wish to marry,
follow the advice of Baron von Hevel, late member of the Imperial Council,
which he gives in his ‘Psalmodia Sacra’:--
“Si cupis uxorem quæ præstet ubique decorem,
Formidetque marem, dilige sorte parem,
Prolificam, bellam, prudentem quære puellam,
Non genium vanum, nec viduam nec anum.
That is:--If you want a wife who may be a credit to you, and respect her
husband, choose a girl your equal, prolific, comely, prudent; not a giddy
head, nor an old widow.” If this is a specimen of the Baron’s Sacred
Psalmody, we must allow the book to be very light reading for a Sunday.
In reading this extraordinary work, one is astonished at the manner in
which the author seems to regard the fair sex as merely pharmaceutic
agents, putting them much on a level with pills and powders, created for
the purpose of keeping men in good health, and prolonging their lives. The
idea scarce suggests itself to him, that they may object to be so
regarded and administered. Dr. Cohausen would, as soon as look at you,
write a prescription containing, among other items, so many respirations
of the breath of little girls to be taken in scented smoke.
lb. oz. drm.
℞ Gum Olibani 1 8
" Styrac 2
" Myrrhi 2
" Benz. 4
Corb. casc. pulv. 4
Anhel. puellarum. quant. suff.
When the question does arise, how the damsels will like this treatment,
the doctor brushes it aside with imperturbable coolness. It will be a
great honour to them, to be thus rendered conducive to the prolongation of
male life. Indeed, it will cause them not to be held as cheap as they are
now. At present they are good-for-noughts; but employed to infuse the
breath of life into men’s lungs, they will be respected and valued.
And now, with a flourish of horns, he introduces the “Wondrous discovery
of philosophical chymistry,” of which he boasted on his title-page. “Now
then, O ye cooks of Gebri, or, that I may give you your better title, ye
sons of Hermes, who has taught you to extract the marvellous stone of the
philosophers from the fire, that thereby ye may be skilled to sustain a
protracted life! Now will I disclose to you a new philosophy! The once
famous hermetic philosopher in France, Johann Petsus Faber of Montpelier,
boasted of a certain _arcanum animale_ which would cause any one who used
it to be free from injury caused by the inclemency of the weather, from
the gray hairs of age, from exhaustion through bodily fatigue, or through
mental tension, whom no sickness would enfeeble, but who would reach the
term fixed by Providence for his days, free from injury from every foe. I
shall prove that Hermippus protracted his life by the use of such an
_arcanum_. For although, hitherto, it has been an unknown _arcanum_ to use
the crude breath of little maidens for the prolongation of the mortal
existence, still it will be regarded a far higher _arcanum_ if this can be
concentrated and cooked into an essence by chymical process, so that it
should have in itself the invisible spirit of nature, and the subtilised
fundamental principle of life. Let no one consider what I am now about to
relate as a fable, but let him hold it as genuine fact. In my youth I had
the good fortune to have the _entrée_ of the house of an illustrious
personage, whose lady was immeasurably learned in the hermetic science,
and laboured at it along with her husband; with her I had the opportunity
of discussing the primordial matter of universal substance, which the
philosophers have veiled under enigma and fable. She boasted that she had
learned the secret of this from an Italian _Adeptus_ at Rome, and thereby
she aroused my curiosity to hear what it was: although, at the time, I was
by no means slightly acquainted with hermetic philosophy.
“Once, as I urgently besought her to do me the favour of disclosing to me
this mystery, she began, after the manner of philosophers, to speak in
similitude: she said the _ens spirituale_ was that without which no man
could exist. It was common to all, to rich and poor alike. Adam brought it
with him out of Paradise, and in it lay a nourishing principle of life
attenuated in water and exhaled in air. I will not refer to other enigmas,
which she knew how to propound from the writings of philosophers.
“In order to make the matter more conclusive, she ordered to be brought
from her cabinet a vessel containing cold water, which she held under my
nose, telling me that it was the true _subjectum_ of science, distilled,
as one might conclude, from female exhalations, which Flamellus terms
corporeal vapour. With this she roused to the highest pitch my anxiety to
thoroughly sound the mystery, as I had already seen hints of these
properties in the writings of Sandivogius and other philosophers. I did
not fail to use my utmost persuasion on every available opportunity to
penetrate the secret of this _Lixivium microcosmi_. At last the favour was
accorded me, and I ascertained that this holy _arcanum_ consisted in human
breath, which was collected from this lady’s servant girls, and liquefied
in glass instruments curved like trumpets. The water thus gathered was
concentrated in retorts and other chymical apparatus, and was the very
essence fixed of impalpable matter.
“By means of this discovery, life may be easily prolonged over a hundred
years, for this vapour of breath collected from maidens in trumpets, when
distilled, becomes an elixir of life, and by the copious use of this
concentrated vitality steamed down to an essence, man becomes
interpenetrated with living energy capable of resisting disease and
repelling the inroads of age.”
If we consider that the substances we absorb into our bodies become part
of ourselves, and that our systems are undergoing a perpetual assimilation
of the particles taken into us and renovation thereby, so that every seven
years we have totally changed our substance, it is evident that, in the
words of a learned friend of Doctor Cohausen, “This entire Hermippus,
since he lived over one hundred years, must have been completely composed
of the transmutated breath and porous exhalations of little girls; so that
his career must have closed by evaporation.”
It is certain that men can live a long time on what they inspire, without
eating; for the famous laughing philosopher Democritus, who lived to a
hundred and nine, when near his death observed that his sister was
depressed, and on inquiring the cause, ascertained that she had
anticipated great pleasure by attending an approaching festival of Ceres,
but that she feared his death would render it an infringement of etiquette
for her to be present at the public festivities. Democritus consoled her
by promising to live over the day. And, in order to extend his life the
required time, he ordered her to keep warm bread poultices under his nose,
that by constantly inhaling the nourishing vapours he might be preserved.
When the festival was over he ordered the bread pap to be removed,
whereupon he gently expired.
Now, argues our doctor,--and this is a signal illustration of his method
of drawing conclusions from insufficient premises,--if the vapour of bread
could sustain the fleeting spirit of Democritus,--then the still more
invigorating outbreathings of little maidens will prolong life
indefinitely;--for only consider how much better are little girls than
soft pap!