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Medieval Herbal Remedies: The Old English Herbarium and Anglo-Saxon Medicine
This book presents for the first time and up-to-date and easy-to-read translation of a medical reference work that was used in Western Europe from the fifth century well into the renaissance. Listing 185 medicinal plants, the uses for each, and remedies that were compounded using them, the translation will fascinate medievalist, medical historians and the layman alike.
350 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2002
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March 16, 2012
I'm sorry that Medieval Herbal Remedies is only peripherally related to my research and I cannot dedicate more time to Anne van Arsdall's translation and analysis, because the story behind this text is a doozy, as the title of the first chapter suggests: "Oswald the Obscure: The Lifelong Disappointments of T.O. Cockayne." In 1864 Cockayne, a minister and schoolmaster, was the first to transcribe and translate the Old English Herbarium, along with two other eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. Having himself attended the William Morris school of arcane and flowery language — for which I'll admit to having a soft spot — the good reverend managed to make "what had been a serious medical text sound ridiculous" (xiv). His approach to philology, too, left much to be desired from a scholarly standpoint:
Van Arsdall treats us to a well researched account of the controversy Cockayne's eccentric approach provoked in subsequent decades, including a feud with Joseph Bosworth, but I was most moved by his tragic trajectory: his longing for fame as a linguist, the unimpressed reception that Spoon and Sparrow received, a rejected request for an honorary title and, finally, Cockayne's summary dismissal from the teaching post he had held for twenty-seven years. His "idiosyncratic" teaching style, including blithe references to courtesans and "diseases coming upon fornicators" (20), offended Victorian sensibilities and left him without a pension at the age of sixty-two. Three years later, he took his own life on a Cornish clifftop, his body plunging to the rocky beach below, where it would be discovered decomposing weeks later by children.
Cockayne's Herbarium, though, survived, and contributed to a dismissive attitude toward the manuscript's contents. It was merely a copy, a translation of an older Roman text, attributed to pseudo-Apuleius and filled with plants that not only were not native to Britain, but couldn't even grow there. What could it tell us about Anglo-Saxon medical practices, which were probably full of magic anyway? Van Arsdall addresses these concerns, citing writings by medievalists, classicists, herbalists and biologists and calling for a reassessment of the negative view of "Dark Ages" medicine typical of Cockayne's time (and, depressingly, our own).
In addition to situating the Old English Herbarium in its late classical and medieval context, she draws parallels between this Latin-turned-Anglo-Saxon text and contemporary healing in the Southwestern United States. What seems a random juxtaposition at first quickly makes sense: the living curandera tradition, like that recorded in the OEH, is primarily oral (person-to-person transmission) and constantly changing. It also has roots in medieval Europe, and was subject to the same patterns as their European counterparts of warring, conquering factions that forced healers to combine the best of old and new methods. Discovering so many references to New Mexico, a place I happily used to call home, was both a surprise and a treat. Actually, I'm not sure why this startled me — according to the back cover, Van Arsdall is a fellow of the University of New Mexico's Institute for Medieval Studies, or was in 2002.
Perhaps most fascinating is the emphasis on empiricism: like chemist and historian of science Lawrence Principe's efforts to replicate alchemical experiments, there are a number of scholars interested in the efficacy of these old cures. Van Arsdall provides several examples courtesy of M.L. Cameron, a botanist who shifts these old texts from the realm of magic into that of common sense. For instance, a recipe prohibiting the use of iron turns out to have done so rightly; by approaching it from the perspective of a scientist, Cameron showed that using an iron container would indeed have affected the ingredients. I was particularly interested to learn that a quarter of the drugs used in contemporary medicine derive from flowering plants or synthetic reproductions made from plants.
Accordingly, Van Arsdall's emphasis — rightly, I think — is on first taking these remedies at face value rather than dismissing them as mere magic. If the Herbarium states that a particular plant must be gathered on a midsummer's day, perhaps this signals that late June is the best time for harvesting. Her argument is convincing; she effectively rehabilitates the text's reputation before introducing us to her translation.
The OEH is full of gems, and I can't resist wrapping up with a couple of my favorites. Of celery-leaved crowfoot, we're told rather matter-of-factly, "whoever eats this plant on an empty stomach will die laughing." Not a bad way to go. The entry for mandrake, which points to six different uses ranging from insomnia to, well, evil, is certainly the most evocative:
(Van Arsdall wisely suggests that we bear in mind the very human-like shape of mandrake roots.)
Finally, a bit of magic — or positive thinking — with periwinkle, which
Medieval Herbal Remedies was an unexpected treat, combining a cracking yarn, meticulous research and a new perspective on the early modern medical practices that followed (and continued) — something I hadn't realized was missing from my literature review.
Rather than seeking to formulate general laws, Cockayne used a plethora of invented rules to distinguish borrowed words from what he called "true parallels." In his publications, Cockayne was very much the Victorian scholar in using no footnotes, no explanation of the reasons behind his pronouncements, and no appeal to any authority but his own judgment. His study of words resembles somewhat the method for compiling the Oxford English Dictionary and its quest to ascertain the original meaning of words in English (and Cockayne liked to point out wrong usage).(3)
Van Arsdall treats us to a well researched account of the controversy Cockayne's eccentric approach provoked in subsequent decades, including a feud with Joseph Bosworth, but I was most moved by his tragic trajectory: his longing for fame as a linguist, the unimpressed reception that Spoon and Sparrow received, a rejected request for an honorary title and, finally, Cockayne's summary dismissal from the teaching post he had held for twenty-seven years. His "idiosyncratic" teaching style, including blithe references to courtesans and "diseases coming upon fornicators" (20), offended Victorian sensibilities and left him without a pension at the age of sixty-two. Three years later, he took his own life on a Cornish clifftop, his body plunging to the rocky beach below, where it would be discovered decomposing weeks later by children.
Cockayne's Herbarium, though, survived, and contributed to a dismissive attitude toward the manuscript's contents. It was merely a copy, a translation of an older Roman text, attributed to pseudo-Apuleius and filled with plants that not only were not native to Britain, but couldn't even grow there. What could it tell us about Anglo-Saxon medical practices, which were probably full of magic anyway? Van Arsdall addresses these concerns, citing writings by medievalists, classicists, herbalists and biologists and calling for a reassessment of the negative view of "Dark Ages" medicine typical of Cockayne's time (and, depressingly, our own).
In addition to situating the Old English Herbarium in its late classical and medieval context, she draws parallels between this Latin-turned-Anglo-Saxon text and contemporary healing in the Southwestern United States. What seems a random juxtaposition at first quickly makes sense: the living curandera tradition, like that recorded in the OEH, is primarily oral (person-to-person transmission) and constantly changing. It also has roots in medieval Europe, and was subject to the same patterns as their European counterparts of warring, conquering factions that forced healers to combine the best of old and new methods. Discovering so many references to New Mexico, a place I happily used to call home, was both a surprise and a treat. Actually, I'm not sure why this startled me — according to the back cover, Van Arsdall is a fellow of the University of New Mexico's Institute for Medieval Studies, or was in 2002.
Perhaps most fascinating is the emphasis on empiricism: like chemist and historian of science Lawrence Principe's efforts to replicate alchemical experiments, there are a number of scholars interested in the efficacy of these old cures. Van Arsdall provides several examples courtesy of M.L. Cameron, a botanist who shifts these old texts from the realm of magic into that of common sense. For instance, a recipe prohibiting the use of iron turns out to have done so rightly; by approaching it from the perspective of a scientist, Cameron showed that using an iron container would indeed have affected the ingredients. I was particularly interested to learn that a quarter of the drugs used in contemporary medicine derive from flowering plants or synthetic reproductions made from plants.
The greater part of the identifiable ingredients of the Anglo-Saxon pharmacopoeia are still to be found in herbal collections and are used for the same purposes, so that we may say that Anglo-Saxon remedies were probably as good as those recommended by herbalists today. Moreover, a surprisingly large number of their ingredients are known from recent investigation to contain substances of real therapeutic value and to have been used by them for conditions where their therapeutic value should have had beneficial effects... (Cameron, quoted on 89)
Accordingly, Van Arsdall's emphasis — rightly, I think — is on first taking these remedies at face value rather than dismissing them as mere magic. If the Herbarium states that a particular plant must be gathered on a midsummer's day, perhaps this signals that late June is the best time for harvesting. Her argument is convincing; she effectively rehabilitates the text's reputation before introducing us to her translation.
The OEH is full of gems, and I can't resist wrapping up with a couple of my favorites. Of celery-leaved crowfoot, we're told rather matter-of-factly, "whoever eats this plant on an empty stomach will die laughing." Not a bad way to go. The entry for mandrake, which points to six different uses ranging from insomnia to, well, evil, is certainly the most evocative:
This plant called mandrake is large and glorious to see, and it is beneficial. You must gather it in this manner: when you approach the plant, and you will recognize it because it shines at night like a lantern, when you first see its head, mark around it quickly with an iron tool lest it flee from you. Its power is so great and powerful that it wants to flee quickly when an impure person approaches it. Because of this, you must mark around it with an iron tool, and then you must dig around it, being careful not to touch it with the iron; however you can dig the earth strenuously with an ivory staff. When you see its hands and feet, fasten them. Take the other end and fasten it around a dog's neck (make sure the dog is hungry). Throw some meat in front of him so that he cannot reach it unless he snatches the plant up with him. About this plant it is said that it has such great powers, whatever pulls it up will quickly be deceived in the same way. Because of this, as soon as you see that it has been pulled up, and you have power over it, immediately seize it, twist it, and wring the juice from its leaves into a glass bottle. (205)
(Van Arsdall wisely suggests that we bear in mind the very human-like shape of mandrake roots.)
Finally, a bit of magic — or positive thinking — with periwinkle, which
is beneficial against many things, but first against the onset of being possessed, then against snakes, wild animals, poison, any threat, envy, and terror. It is also beneficial so that you will obtain grace. If you have this plant with you, you are happy and always contented. You must pick the plant saying the following: Te precor uicaperuica multis utilitatibus habenda ut uenias ad me hilaris florens cum tuis uirtutibus, ut ea mihi prestes, ut tutus et felix sim semper a uenenis et ab iracundia inlesus. This is in our language: I pray you, periwinkle, you who has many uses, that you gladly come to me with your powers blooming, that you make me so that I will be protected and always happy and not harmed by poison and by anger.
When you want to pick the plant, you should be free from any kind of uncleanliness. You must pick it when the moon is nine nights old, and eleven nights, thirteen nights, thirty nights, and when it is one night old. (227)
Medieval Herbal Remedies was an unexpected treat, combining a cracking yarn, meticulous research and a new perspective on the early modern medical practices that followed (and continued) — something I hadn't realized was missing from my literature review.
August 9, 2020
Good Historical Herbal resource.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews