Among the strange theories which have found acceptance in medical
history, mainly it would seem by reason of their utter baselessness and
absurdity, none is more unaccountable than the belief in the so-called
sympathetic remedies. There is abundant material for a long chapter on
this particular manifestation of faith in the impossible, but a few
prominent instances of the remarkable method of treatment comprised in
the designation will suffice to prove that it was seriously adopted by
men capable of thinking intelligently.
The germ of the idea goes back to very early ages. Dr. J. G. Frazer,
the famous authority on primitive beliefs, traces the commandment in
the Pentateuch, “Thou shalt not seethe a kid in its mother’s milk,” to
an ancient prejudice against the boiling of milk in any circumstances,
on the ground that this would cause suffering to the animal which
yielded the milk. If the suffering could be thus conveyed, it was
logical to believe that healing was similarly capable of transference.
Pliny (quoted by Cornelius Agrippa) says: “If any person shall be sorry
for a blow he has given another, afar off or near at hand, if he shall
presently spit into the middle of the hand with which he gave the blow,
the party that was smitten shall presently be free from pain.”
Paracelsus developed the notion with the confidence which he was wont
to bestow on theories which involved far-fetched explanations. This was
his formula for “Unguentum Sympatheticum”:--
Take 4 oz. each of boar’s and bear’s fat, boil slowly for half an hour,
then pour on cold water. Skim off the floating bit, rejecting that
which sinks. (The older the animals yielding the fat, the better.)
Take of powdered burnt worms, of dried boar’s brain, of red sandal
wood, of mummy, of bloodstone, 1 oz. of each. Then collect 1 drachm
of the moss from the skull of a man who died a violent death, one who
had been hanged, preferably, and had not been buried. This should be
collected at the rising of the moon, and under Venus if possible, but
certainly not under Mars or Saturn. With all these ingredients make an
ointment, which keep in a closed glass vessel. If it becomes dry on
keeping it can be softened with a little fresh lard or virgin honey.
The ointment must be prepared in the autumn.
Paracelsus describes the methods of applying this ointment, the
precautions to be taken, and the manner in which it exerts its
influence. It was the weapon which inflicted the wound which was to be
anointed, and it would be effective no matter how far away the wounded
person might be. It would not answer if an artery had been severed,
or if the heart, the brain, or the liver had suffered the lesion. The
wound was to be kept properly bandaged, and the bandages were to be
first wetted with the patient’s urine. The anointment of the weapon
was to be repeated every day in the case of a serious wound, or every
second or third day when the wound was not so severe, and the weapon
was to be wrapped after anointment in a clean linen cloth, and kept
free from dust and draughts, or the patient would experience much pain.
The anointment of the weapon acted on the wound by a magnetic current
through the air direct to the healing balsam which exists in every
living body, just as the heat of the sun passes through the air.
Paracelsus also prescribed the leaves of the Polygonum persicaria to
be applied to sores and ulcers, and then buried. One of his disciples
explains that the object of burying the leaves was that they attracted
the evil spirits like a magnet, and thus drew these spirits from the
patient to the earth.
The sympathetic egg was another device to cheat diseases, attributed to
the same inventive genius. An empty chicken’s egg was to be filled with
warm blood from a healthy person, carefully sealed and placed under
a brooding hen for a week or two, so that its vitality should not be
impaired. It was then heated in an oven for some hours at a temperature
sufficient to bake bread. To cure a case this egg was placed in contact
with the affected part and then buried. It was assumed that it would
inevitably take the disease with it, as healthy and concentrated blood
must have a stronger affinity for disease than a weaker sort.
Robert Fludd, M.D., the Rosicrucian, who fell under the displeasure
of the College of Physicians on account of his unsound views from a
Galenical standpoint, was a warm advocate of the Paracelsian Weapon
Salve. In reply to a contemporary doctor who had ridiculed the theory
he waxes earnest, and at times sarcastic. He explains that “an ointment
composed of the moss of human bones, mummy (which is the human body
combined with balm), human fat, and added to these the blood, which is
the beginning and food of them all, must have a spiritual power, for
with the blood the bright soul doth abide and operateth after a hidden
manner. Then as there is a spiritual line protracted or extended in the
Ayre between the wounded person and the Box of Ointment like the beam
of the Sun from the Sun, so this animal beam is the faithful conductor
of the Healing nature from the box of the balsam to the wounded body.
And if it were not for that line which conveys the wholesome and
salutiferous spirit, the value of the ointment would evaporate or sluce
out this way or that way and so would bring no benefit to the wounded
persons.”
Van Helmont, Descartes, Batista Porta, and other leaders of science,
in the seventeenth century, espoused the theory cordially enough. Van
Helmont’s contribution to the evidence on which it was founded is
hard to beat. In his “De Magnetica Vulnerum Curatione,” written about
1644, he relates that a citizen of Brussels having lost his nose in a
combat in Italy, repaired to a surgeon of Bologna named Tagliacozzi,
who provided him with another, taking the required strip of flesh from
the arm of a servant. This answered admirably, and the Brussels man
returned home. But thirteen months later he found his nose was getting
cold; and then it began to putrefy. The explanation, of course, was
that the servant from whom the flesh had been borrowed had died. Van
Helmont adds, “Superstites sunt horum testes oculati Bruxellae”; there
are still eye-witnesses of this case at Brussels.
Moss from a dead man’s skull is a principal ingredient in all the
sympathetic ointments, and the condition that the dead man should have
died a violent death is generally insisted on. But Van Helmont, quoting
from one Goclenius, adds another condition still more absurd. It is
that the dead man’s name should only have three letters. Thus, for
example, Dod would do, but not Dodd.
Sir Gilbert Talbot (in the time of Charles II) communicated to the
Royal Society particulars of a cure he had made with Sympathetic
Powder. An English mariner was stabbed in four places at Venice, and
bled for three days without intermission. Sir Gilbert, who happened
to be at Venice at the same time, was told of this disaster. He sent
for some of the man’s blood and mixed Sympathetic Powder with it.
At the same time he sent a man to bind up the patient’s wounds with
clean linen. Soon after he visited the mariner and found all the
wounds closed, and the man much comforted. Three days later the poor
fellow was able to call on Sir Gilbert to thank him, but even then “he
appeared like a ghost with noe blood left in his body.”
[Illustration: MARQUISE DE SÉVIGNÉ.
Born 1626, died 1696, whose famous “letters” are of great
historical importance, frequently introduces references to the
medicine of the period, and was herself a faithful disciple of
many of its quackeries.
]
Madame de Sévigné, an experienced amateur in medical matters, provides
interesting evidence of the popularity of the powder of sympathy.
Writing to her daughter on January 28th, 1685, she tells her that “a
little wound which was believed to have been healed had shown signs of
revolt; but it is only for the honour of being cured by your powder
of sympathy. The Baume Tranquille is of no account now; your powder
of sympathy is a perfectly divine remedy. My sore has changed its
appearance and is now half dried and cured.” On February 7th, 1685, she
writes again:--“I am afraid the powder of sympathy is only suitable
for old standing wounds. It has only cured the least troublesome of
mine. I am now using the black ointment, which is admirable.” Even the
black ointment proved unfaithful, for in June of the same year the
marchioness writes that she has gone to the Capucins of the Louvre.
They did not believe in the powder of sympathy; they had something much
better. They gave her certain herbs which were to be applied to the
affected part and removed twice a day. Those removed are to be buried;
“and laugh if you like, as they decay so will the wound heal, and thus
by a gentle and imperceptible transpiration I shall cure the most
ill-treated leg in the world.”
[Illustration: SIR KENELM DIGBY.
(From a painting by Vandyke in the Bodleian Gallery, Oxford.)]
The name of Sir Kenelm Digby is more closely associated with the
“powder of sympathy” than that of any other person, and indeed he is
often credited with the invention of the idea; but this was not the
case. He was an extraordinary man who played a rather prominent part
in the stirring days of the Stuarts. His father, Sir Everard Digby,
was implicated in the Gunpowder Plot, and was duly executed. Kenelm
must have been gifted with unusual attractions or plausibility to have
overcome this unfortunate stain on his pedigree, but he managed it, and
history introduces him to us at the court of that suspicious monarch,
James I., while he was quite a young man. He had inherited an income of
£3,000 a year, and seems to have been popular with the King and with
his fellow courtiers. But he was not contented to lead an idle life,
so he pressed James to give him a commission to go forth and steal
some Spanish galleons, which was the gentlemanly thing to do in those
days. James consented, but at the last moment it was discovered that
the commission would not be in order unless it was countersigned by
the Lord High Admiral, who was away from England at the time. James
therefore simply granted the buccaneer a licence to undertake a voyage
“for the increase of his knowledge.” Digby scoured the Mediterranean
for a year or two, captured some French, Spanish, and Flemish ships,
and won a rather severe engagement with French and Venetian vessels
at Scanderoon in the Levant. This exploit was celebrated by Digby’s
friend, Ben Jonson, in verse, which can only be termed deathless on
account of its particularly imbecile ending:--
Witness his action done at Scanderoon
Upon his birthday, the eleventh of June.
The writer of Digby’s epitaph plagiarised the essence of this brilliant
strophe in the following lines:--
Born on the day he died, the eleventh of June,
And that day bravely fought at Scanderoon.
It’s rare that one and the same day should be
His day of birth and death and victory.
On his return home after thus distinguishing himself, Digby was
knighted, changed his religion occasionally, was imprisoned and
banished at intervals, and dabbled in science between times, or shone
in society in London, Paris, or Rome, visiting the two last-named
cities frequently on real or pretended diplomatic missions.
During his residence in France, in 1658, he lectured to the University
of Montpellier on his sympathetic powder, and the fame of this
miraculous compound soon reached England. When he came back he
professed to be shy of using it lest he should be accused of wizardry.
But an occasion soon occurred when he was compelled to take the risk
for the sake of a friend. Thomas Howel, the Duke of Buckingham’s
secretary, was seriously wounded in trying to prevent a duel between
two friends of his, and the doctors prognosticated gangrene and
probably death. The friends of the wounded man appealed to Sir Kenelm,
who generously consented to do his best. He told the attendants to
bring him a rag on which was some of the sufferer’s blood. They
brought the garter which had been used as a bandage and which was
still thick with blood. He soaked this in a basin of water in which he
had dissolved a handful of his sympathetic powder. An hour later the
patient said he felt an agreeable coolness. The fever and pain rapidly
abated, and in a few days the cure was complete. It was reported that
the Duke of Buckingham testified to the genuineness of the cure and
that the king had taken a keen interest in the treatment.
Digby asserted that the secret of the powder was imparted to him by
a Carmelite monk whom he met at Florence. His laboratory assistant,
George Hartman, published a “Book of Chymicall Secrets,” in 1682, after
Sir Kenelm’s death, and therein explained that the Powder of Sympathy,
which was then made by himself (Hartman), and “sold by a bookseller
in Cornhill named Brookes” was prepared “by dissolving good English
vitriol in as little warm water as will suffice, filter, evaporate, and
set aside until fair, large, green crystals are formed. Spread these
in the sun until they whiten. Then crush them coarsely and again dry
in the sun.” Other recipes say it should be dried in the sun gently (a
French formula says “amoureusement”) for 365 days.
Sir Kenelm’s scientific explanation of the action of his sympathetic
powder is on the same lines as the others I have quoted. Briefly it
was that the rays of the sun extracted from the blood and the vitriol
associated with it the spirit of each in minute atoms. At the same time
the inflamed wound was exhaling hot atoms and making way for a current
of air. The air charged with the atoms of blood and vitriol were
attracted to it, and acted curatively.
In a letter written by Straus to Sir Kenelm, it is related that Lord
Gilborne had followed the system, but his method was described as
“the dry way.” A carpenter had cut himself severely with an axe. The
offending axe still bespattered with blood was smeared with the proper
ointment and hung up in a cupboard. The wound was going on well, but
one day it suddenly became violently painful again. On investigation it
was found that the axe had fallen from the nail on which it was hung.
Inscribed on the plate attached to the portrait of Sir Kenelm Digby
in the National Portrait Gallery, it is stated that “His character
has been summed up as a prodigy of learning, credulity, valour, and
romance.” Although this appreciation is quoted the author is not named.
Other testimonials to his character and reliability are to be found
in contemporary literature. Evelyn alludes to him as “a teller of a
strange things.” Clarendon describes him as “a person very eminent
and notorious throughout the whole course of his life from his cradle
to his grave. A man of very extraordinary person and presence; a
wonderful graceful behaviour, a flowing courtesy, and such a volubility
of language as surprised and delighted.” Lady Fanshawe met him at
Calais with the Earl of Strafford and others and says, “much excellent
discourse passed; but, as was reason, most share was Sir Kenelm Digby’s
who had enlarged somewhat more in extraordinary stories than might be
averred.” At last he told the company about the barnacle goose he had
seen in Jersey; a barnacle which changes to a bird, and at this they
all laughed incredulously. But Lady Fanshawe says this “was the only
thing true he had declaimed with them. This was his infirmity, though
otherwise of most excellent parts, and a very fine-bred gentleman.” In
John Aubrey’s “Brief Lives” (“set down between 1669 and 1696”) Digby is
described as “such a goodly person, gigantique and great voice, and had
so graceful elocution and noble address, etc., that had he been drop’t
out of the clowdes in any part of the world he would have made himself
respected.”
It may be of interest to add that a daughter of Sir Kenelm Digby’s
second son married a Sir John Conway, of Flintshire. Her granddaughter,
Honora, married a Sir John Glynne whose great-grandson, Sir Stephen
Glynne, was the father of the late Mrs. W. E. Gladstone.
In 1690, Lemery had the courage to express some doubts about this
powder of sympathy, and in 1773 Baumé declared its pretensions to be
absolutely illusory.
To conclude the account of this curious delusion, a few quotations from
English literature may be added.
There are several allusions to sympathetic cures in Hudibras. For
instance,
For by his side a pouch he wore
Replete with strange hermetick powder
That wounds nine miles point blank would solder,
By skilful chemist at great cost
Extracted from a rotten post.
And again,
’Tis true a scorpion’s oil is said
To cure the wounds the vermin made;
And weapons dress’d with salves restore
And heal the wounds they made before.
In Dryden’s _Tempest_, the sympathetic treatment is referred to.
Hippolito has been wounded by Fernando, and Miranda instructed by
Ariel, visits him. Ariel says, “Anoint the sword which pierced him with
this weapon salve, and wrap it close from air.” The following is the
next scene between Hippolito and Miranda.
_Hip._ Oh! my wound pains me.
_Mir._ I am come to ease you. [_Unwrapping the sword._
_Hip._ Alas! I feel the cold air come to me.
My wound shoots worse than ever.
[_Miranda wipes and anoints the sword._
_Mir._ Does it still grieve you?
_Hip._ Now, methinks, there’s something laid just upon it.
_Mir._ Do you find no ease?
_Hip._ Yes, yes; upon the sudden all the pain
Is leaving me; Sweet heaven, how I am eased.
Lastly, in the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_, Scott alludes to this same
superstition in the lines
But she has ta’en the broken lance
And washed it from the clotted gore
And salved the splinter o’er and o’er.
It would appear from the explanations already given that by washing the
gore away she destroyed the communication between the wound and the
remedy.