No. 9 IN THE PHYSICIANS’ AND STUDENTS’ READY
REFERENCE SERIES.

Medical Symbolism
IN CONNECTION WITH
HISTORICAL STUDIES IN THE ARTS OF
HEALING AND HYGIENE.

ILLUSTRATED.

BY
THOMAS S. SOZINSKEY, M.D., Ph.D.,
AUTHOR OF “THE CULTURE OF BEAUTY,” “THE CARE AND CULTURE OF CHILDREN,” ETC.

Philadelphia and London:
F. A. DAVIS, PUBLISHER.
1891.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1891, by
EDWARD S. POWER, M.D.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C., U. S. A.

Philadelphia:
The Medical Bulletin Printing House,
1231 Filbert Street.

DEDICATION.

The medical profession is often spoken of as non-progressive. As a practical member of it, the author is of a different opinion. He knows full-well not only that, to many, age does not tend to make anything medical more worthy of attention, but that the old is apt to be wilfully overlooked. He discovered some time ago that in the library of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia—the centre, probably, of medical learning in the United States—Adams’ edition of the works of Hippocrates had rested with the leaves uncut for over twenty years. New things are far too much in vogue. If Bacon were alive to-day he might still say, with too much truth, as he said three hundred years ago: “Let a man look into physicians’ prescripts and ministrations and he will find them but inconstancies and every-day devices, without any settled providence or project” (“Advancement of Learning”). The age is too much one of trial, of incoherency, to be either eminently scientific or highly successful in practice. Beyond question, the medicine of the past is harmfully neglected; for its literature few have a desirable taste, and fewer yet a sufficient knowledge. Deploring this state of things, the author would gladly assist in bringing about a change. Hence, it affords him pleasure to dedicate this essay to his professional brethren.

PREFACE.

In this essay I have treated, as the title indicates, of medical symbolism in connection with studies, essentially historical, in the arts of healing and hygiene. Some parts of it bear only indirectly on the main subject; but they serve to render the whole more complete and interesting. Doubtless the reader will not be inclined to find much fault with any of the apparent digressions.

In the score of chapters into which the essay is divided, attention is invited to numerous more or less remarkable matters pertaining to medicine, most of them of very ancient date, and some of practical importance. Medical mythology is treated of very fully; and, on this, as indeed on all points, the results of the most recent archæological and other investigations are given. All I have said is deserving, I believe, of the consideration of educated physicians.[1] “The wise man will seek out the wisdom of all the ancients,” says the author of “Ecclesiasticus,”[2] one who had the tastes of a cultivated medical man.

Although the essay is mainly on old things, I venture to hold that it contains much which a fairly well-read physician will find fresh. The ground gone over has been little trodden before. It may be said, as Pliny did, by way of suggestion of difficulties to be overcome, when he sat down to write his sketch of the history of the art of medicine, “that no one has hitherto treated of this subject.”[3] But just as Pliny overlooked what Celsus had done, and done well, so in this case, some worthy author may have been overlooked; still, this is improbable. What is here presented, and in part coherently, is gathered from manifold sources. I have limited my references as much as possible to works in the English language, or translations. The statements of authors are given in their own words; but quotations of wearisome length have been avoided.

The possibility of research in respect to the themes treated of, and allied ones, not being limited, the essay cannot be expected to be either perfect or complete. Whatever its merits or shortcomings may be, however, it is an outcome of congenial studies pursued for their own sake. I believe it contains a fund of information which deserves to be widely known. The perusal of it may, at least, serve to excite an interest in the ample literature and long and remarkable history of the benevolent and learned profession of medicine.

T. S. S.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
OF
THOMAS S. SOZINSKEY, M.D., Ph.D.

Thomas S. Sozinskey, M.D., Ph.D., the author of this interesting little volume, was born in County Derry, Ireland, and died in the city of Philadelphia, April 18, 1889, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. He came to this country when seventeen years of age, and settled in Philadelphia. Entering the University of Pennsylvania some years later, he graduated from that institution, and afterward began the study of medicine, receiving the degree of Doctor of Medicine in the year 1872. He also received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the same faculty.

Dr. Sozinskey immediately entered upon his career as medical practitioner in Philadelphia, where he remained until his marriage to Miss Abby W. Johnson, a daughter of Luke Johnson, who was a descendant of one of the founders of Germantown.

Shortly after his marriage Dr. Sozinskey decided to visit Kansas City, partly with the idea of locating there; but after a sojourn of about one year in the West he returned to Philadelphia, and began again the practice of his chosen profession, succeeding in a few years in building up a very extensive and lucrative practice in the northwestern section of the city.

Dr. Sozinskey was a man highly intellectual, studious, and scholarly. He was a frequent contributor to a number of leading medical journals, as well as the author of several well-known works, among which may be mentioned “The Care and Culture of Children.” Also, a little volume entitled “Personal Appearance and the Culture of Beauty.”

His last literary effort, “Medical Symbolism,” which is a work showing a vast amount of research, was completed just before his death. He was induced to undertake “Medical Symbolism” after the appearance of an article bearing this title in the Medical and Surgical Reporter, which attracted considerable attention, both in this country and in Europe.

He received so many letters from men prominent in the medical profession, suggesting that a book be written upon this subject, that the task was undertaken.

By his untimely death three small children became orphans, the mother having died one year earlier, after a short illness.

His readiness to attend the sick, regardless of compensation, greatly endeared him to a large number of the poor.

Containing, as it does, so much that is unique, and in a field not often touched by previous writers, “Medical Symbolism” is sure to find appreciative readers, not only among the fraternity to which Dr. Sozinskey belonged, but among the scientific and literary generally; and, from the encouragement already received, the publishers feel confident of a large and wide-spread demand for this little volume.

E. S. P.

Philadelphia, October 27, 1890.

COMMENDATORY LETTERS.

Philadelphia, Jan, 24, 1884.

Dr. T. S. Sozinskey:

Dear Sir:—Please accept my thanks for your paper on “Medical Symbolism,” received this morning. I have read it with great interest, more especially as it is in the direction of the higher education of physicians. The preponderance of the so-called practical (empirical) in medical literature, which appeals strongly to the trade element in the profession, makes such a contribution all the more enjoyable.

Very truly yours,

Frances Emily White.

1427 N. Sixteenth St.

Dr. Sozinskey:

Dear Doctor:—Many thanks. You ought to enlarge the article to a little book. It interested me greatly. In a bas-relief of myself by St. Gaudens, New York, he has set beside the head the caduceus and twin serpents as symbolical; at all events, they will symbolize my relation to snakes.

Yours truly,

Weir Mitchell.

1524 Walnut St., Phila.

Philadelphia, Jan. 23, 1884.

Dr. T. S. Sozinskey:

My Dear Doctor:—I write to thank you for a copy of your interesting and instructive paper on “Medical Symbolism.” In Fergusson, on “Tree and Serpent Worship,” which you quote, you can readily trace the connection between the emblems of religion and medicine. I recognize that, as priest and physician were once the same person, medicine is yet justly termed “the divine art.” It affords me much pleasure to see your studious interest in your profession.

Yours truly,

Henry H. Smith.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

MEDICAL SYMBOLISM.

CHAPTER I.
REMARKS ON THE MEANING OF SYMBOLS.

A symbol is an illustration of a thing which, to use a poetic phrase, is “not what it seems.” When a familiar object, or figure of any kind, from some cause or other, has attached to it a meaning different from the obvious and ordinary one, it is symbolic. Thus, if one take a poppy-head to convey the idea of sleep, it is a symbol; one may regard it as symbolic of sleep, or, if he choose, of Hypnos (Somnus), the god of sleep. The illustration on the next page will afford a still more apt example. To the eye, it appears to be simply a partly coiled serpent resting on a pedestal. That is, in truth, what it is. But, regarded from the stand-point of the student of medical symbolism, it has another and very different signification. Before such a figure many a human being, diseased and suffering, has bowed in reverence and piously offered to it petitions for relief; to many a noble Greek and haughty Roman, indeed, to generations of such, it was a god, the great god of “the divine art,” as medicine was often beautifully called in ancient times. The serpent is the most important of medical symbols.

In any composite figure the elements of it are spoken of as attributes; and of these some are essential and some conventional. The essential ones only are, strictly speaking, symbols. Thus, in a representation of the Goddess of Liberty, the cap is not a symbol; it is a conventional attribute. Says the learned and distinguished historian of ancient art, C. O. Müller, “The essence of the symbol consists in the supposed real connections of the sign with the thing signified.”[4] In some authoritative works, as, for instance, that of Fairholt,[5] the serpent in medical art is said not to be a symbol; but this is not true if it be taken to represent the god of medicine, which, as I have already stated, was done by both Greeks and Romans. Evidently, if taken as of this narrow meaning, there are not many comprehensive medical symbols. But I will take it in a wider sense; I will take it to mean any mystic figure or any kind of attribute. In doing so I do no more than Fairholt holds should be done. Referring to the words symbol, image, and allegorical figure as well as attribute, he says, “Their shades of difference are so slight that it would be most convenient to regard them all under the general term symbol.”[6] I may add these remarks of Tiele: “A symbol is a simple or complex thought clothed in a sensuous form. A myth is a phenomenon of nature represented as the act of a person. Usually symbols originate in myths, and in every case mythology is antecedent to symbolism.”[7] There are many symbols, however, which never had anything to do with myths, as will become evident later.

Fig. 1.—A Medical Symbol.

In the wide sense in which I propose to use it, symbol is almost or quite synonymous with emblem, as popularly used. Mackenzie[8] and other authorities, however, state that the word emblem is properly applicable only to a mystic object or figure of two or more parts. Thus, it is more correct to speak of “a skull and cross-bones” as emblematic than symbolic of a poison or of death. Again, while a serpent might properly be called a symbol, one in connection with a staff is an emblem. In this restricted sense, emblem is closely allied in meaning to allegory. But in an allegorical representation most of the elements of it are apt to be symbolic, and beauty of the whole is a consideration. The great Epidaurian representation of Æsculapius is an example. A simple image or statue is essentially a symbol.

I need hardly say that any figure may or may not be a symbol; but a mere figure is simply a representation of any object regarded as void of any other than its ordinary meaning. A conventional representation of any idea may be nothing more than a figure. In this sense, it is sometimes called an ideograph.

CHAPTER II.
THE SERPENTINE GOD OF MEDICINE AT ROME.

As I have already intimated, the god of medicine—that is, Æsculapius[9]—was not only on familiar terms, so to speak, with the serpent, but at times given a serpentine form. Pausanias expressly informs us that he often appeared in such singular shape.[10] The visitor to imperial Rome about two thousand years ago saw this divinity in reptilian guise an object of high regard and worship. It is worth while to enter into a short study of the matter.

Now, at the outset, I may observe that it is a noteworthy fact that in their regard for medical men the early Greeks and others contrasted remarkably with the Romans. The Greeks would seem to have duly prized the class. One has but to turn to Homer to find evidence of the fact. A passage suggested by Machaon’s splendid exercise of his beneficent art, spoken by Idomeneus when the “offspring of the healing god” was wounded by a dart fired by “the spouse of Helen” (Paris), and “trembling Greece for her physician fear’d,” runs:—

“A wise physician skill’d our wounds to heal,

Is more than armies to the public weal.”[11]

Cowper translates this interesting couplet more literally than Pope:—

“One so skill’d in medicine and to free

The inherent barb is worth a multitude.”

This is a very noble tribute to the physician; in fact, I know of but few as good, among them being the one in “Ecclesiasticus” which reads: “The skill of the physician shall lift up his head and in the sight of great men he shall be praised.”[12] The latter is Hebræo-Egyptian in origin, and its date is about two hundred years before our era. The early Romans did not look on doctors with any such favor.[13]

It is a well-known fact that the art of medicine was never very enthusiastically or successfully cultivated by the Romans. It was not until a comparatively late date that medical practitioners existed among them at all. Pliny has left us some interesting notes on the matter. After the statement that many nations have gotten along without physicians, he says: “Such, for instance, was the Roman people for a period of more than six hundred years; a people, too, which has never shown itself slow to adopt all useful arts, and which even welcomed the medical art with avidity until, after a fair experience of it, there was found good reason to condemn it.”[14] He himself was not a great friend of it.

Cato, who died in the year of the city of Rome 605, said, authoritatively: “They (the Greeks) have conspired among themselves to murder all barbarians with their medicine, a profession which they exercise for lucre, in order that they may win our confidence and despatch us all the more easily. I forbid you to have anything to do with physicians.”[15] Notwithstanding this, the imperious old Roman had not a personal dislike to taking medicine; “far from it, by Hercules,” says Pliny, “for he subjoins an account of the medical prescriptions by the aid of which he had ensured to himself and his wife a ripe old age.”[16]

It appears that the first physician who exercised his profession at Rome was “Archagathus, the son of Lysanias, who came over from Peloponnessus in the year of the city 335.” He was kindly welcomed, and, from his special line of practice, was called “Vulnerarius;” but, from cruelty displayed “in cutting and searing his patients, he brought the art and physicians into disrepute.”[17] It is this experience to which Pliny refers in the foregoing quotation.

There is reason to believe that the Romans never regarded medicine as an art appreciatively. They have transmitted to posterity little that is original and valuable. Besides what is found in Pliny’s work, the production of Celsus[18] is about all that calls for special mention, and it is possible that the latter, as well as the former, was only a compiler. Pliny significantly says: “The art of medicine at the present time even teaches us in numerous instances to have recourse to the oracles for aid.”[19] He lived from 23 to 79 A.D.

The Roman people had no special god of medicine until the year 292 B.C. In the preceding year, the prevalence of a pestilence caused much consternation. This led to a consultation of the Delphian Oracle, or, according to Livy (see page 9), the Sibylline Books, as to what should be done, and the command of “the Delphic Oracle, or of the Sibylline Books,” to use the language of an authoritative work,[20] was given, to send an embassy to procure the aid of the Grecian god of healing, Æsculapius.

The story of the bringing of Æsculapius to Rome, like that of the bringing of Cybele from Pessinus in Galatia, is an interesting one, and must be known if one would fully appreciate the fact of the god being given the serpentine form, the serpent being generally regarded as only an attribute of him at his chief seat, the great Epidaurian Asclepion, or Temple of Health. It is graphically told by Ovid.

Ovid begins his poem[21] with an invocation to the “melodious maids of Pindus;” and, addressing them, continues:—

“Say, whence the isle which Tiber flows around,

Its altars with a heavenly stranger grac’d,

And in our shrines the God of Physic plac’d?”

We are then told that—

“A wasting plague infected Latium’s skies.

...

In vain were human remedies apply’d.

Weary’d with death, they seek celestial aid,

And visit Phœbus in his Delphic shade.”

The reply of the Oracle is this:—

“Relief must be implor’d and succour won

Not from Apollo, but Apollo’s son.

My son to Latium borne shall bring redress;

Go with good omens, and expect success.”

The Senate appointed an embassy to carry out the order:—

“Who sail to Epidaurus’ neighbouring land.”

To it the god (Æsculapius) is represented as saying:—

“I come and leave my shrine.

This serpent view, that with ambitious play

My staff encircles, mark him every way;

His form, though larger, nobler, I’ll assume,

And, changed as gods should be, bring aid to Rome.”

In due time “the salutary serpent,[22] the god, reached the Island of the Tiber and assumed again his form divine”:—

“And now no more the drooping city mourns;

Joy is again restor’d and health returns.”

There is little or no reason to doubt that there was really a formal bringing of Æsculapius to Rome, a cosmopolitan city which, indeed, as Gibbon states without much exaggeration, bestowed its freedom “on all the gods of mankind.”[23] Livy, the historian, speaks of the matter as follows:—

“The many prosperous events of the year (459) were scarcely sufficient to afford consolation for one calamity, a pestilence, which afflicted both the city and country and caused a prodigious mortality. To discover what end or what remedy was appointed by the gods for that calamity, the Books were consulted, and there it was found that Æsculapius must be brought to Rome from Epidaurus. However, as the Consuls had full employment in the wars, no farther steps were taken in that business during this year, except the performing of a supplication to Æsculapius of one day’s continence.”[24] Elsewhere[25] he says that the god was brought the following year,—that is, A.U.C. 460, or 292 B.C.

The Island of the Tiber (Insula Tiberina, now Isola Tiberina), the “inter duos pontes” of the early centuries of our era, where Æsculapius was worshipped, and which was sometimes called by his name (Insula Æsculapii), is within the limits of the city of Rome. According to tradition, it originated from alluvial accumulations within the period of Roman history.[26] It is rather remarkable that, excepting the one at the mouth (Insula Sacra, now Isola Sacra), there is no other along the whole course of the famous river. It is ship-shaped, and quite small in size, being only about a quarter of a mile in length,[27] and has been called “San Bartolomeo,” from the church which has long occupied the site of the ancient Temple of Health.[28] Mr. Davies speaks of it at length in his interesting book. After an account of the origin of the worship of Æsculapius on it, he says:—

“It was in commemoration of this event that the island was fashioned in the form of a ship. Huge blocks of travertine and peperino still remain about the prow (pointing down the stream), imitating on a grand scale the forms of the planks, upon which are chiseled the figure of a serpent twined around a rod, and, farther down, the head of an ox. A temple was raised to Æsculapius, in which his statue was placed, which probably stood in the fore part of the simulated vessel, hospitals for the sick occupying the sides, a tall column or obelisk rising in the midst to represent a mast. Temples were also dedicated to Jupiter and Faunus.[29] To these were added a prison in the days of Tiberius.”[30]

Whether the establishment of the worship of the healing divinity on the island at Rome was brought about by chance, or deliberately, is not very clear. Pliny would seem to think that it was elsewhere at first when he says, “The Temple of Æsculapius, even after he was received as a divinity, was built without the city and afterward on an island.”[31] The abhorrence of the people for physicians is given as the reason for isolating the institution. The noble Romans had no love for a class that made a trade of curing the sick, enriching themselves off the misfortunes of their fellow-men; they were shocked, says Pliny, “more particularly that man should pay so dear for the enjoyment of life.”[32] There may have been other and better reasons. The Greeks themselves placed their asclepia in rural and often insular places. Thus, the great Epidaurian Asclepion was in a secluded vale, and two very celebrated ones, those of Cos and Rhodes, were, as the names indicate, on islands. It is needless to say that there are excellent sanitary reasons for placing sanatory institutions in the country, and especially on insular sites. It will be a long step in the right direction when we somewhat unwise moderns cease to have our medical institutions within the built-up parts of our cities and towns, and treat the sick, especially those affected with contagious diseases, at a distance from the well.

Devotion to the serpentine healer appears to have lingered long in sunny Italy.[33] A bronze serpent in the basilica of St. Ambrose was worshipped as late as the year 1001, but the precise import of it is not known. Referring to it, De Gubernatis says: “Some say that it was the serpent of Æsculapius, others that of Moses, others that it was an image of Christ. For us it is enough to remark here that it was a mythical serpent before which Milanese mothers brought their children when they suffered from worms in order to relieve them, as we learn from the depositions of the visit of San Carlo Borromeo to this basilica.”[34] San Carlo suppressed the superstitious practice.[35]

CHAPTER III.
THE ÆSCULAPIAN SERPENT.

It is not to be presumed that many in our day would seriously believe that Æsculapius assumed the form of a large serpent, in the famous legendary voyage to Rome; but it is hardly to be doubted, as I have already remarked, that there was actually a serpent brought from Epidaurus on the occasion. It is very probable that the Roman embassy deliberately brought one with them; still, the coming of the reptile on board the ship may have been accidental.[36] The latter was the case, according to one tradition. At any rate, there was sufficient ground on which a superstitious people could easily construct a mythical superstructure to please their fancy.

The assumption of the form of a serpent by the god of medicine was not an extraordinary thing, according to ancient beliefs. Plenty of instances might be cited. I may give one. Alexander the Great was believed by many to have been not the son of Philip, but of Jupiter Ammon, who appeared to Olympias in reptilian shape. Plutarch tells the story. It is amusingly related of Philip that “he lost one of his eyes as he applied it to the chink of the door, when he saw the god, in the form of a serpent, in his wife’s embraces.”[37] The ability to take on at pleasure any animal or other form was regarded as one of the distinguishing prerogatives of divinity.

Taking it for granted, then, that there was really a serpent transferred from Epidaurus to Rome, which was regarded as Æsculapius, the interesting question arises, of what species was it? A very conclusive answer may be given.

It is known that at the Epidaurian Asclepion a species of serpent existed in considerable numbers by permission. After stating that all serpents, “but particularly those of a more yellow color, are considered as sacred to Æsculapius, and are gentle and harmless toward men,” Pausanias says: “They are alone nourished in the land of the Epidaurians; and I find that the same circumstance takes place in other regions.”[38] Here, then, is proof that there was a species of serpent which deserved to be characterized as Æsculapian.

Fig. 2.—The Æsculapian Serpent.

It being reasonably certain that only one kind of serpent “was nourished in the land of the Epidaurians,” and regarded as sacred to Æsculapius, the following passage from Pliny is interesting: “The Æsculapian snake was first brought to Rome from Epidaurus, but at the present day it is very commonly reared, in our houses even; so much so, indeed, that, if the breed were not kept down by the frequent conflagrations, it would be impossible to make head against the rapid increase of them.”[39] It is evident from this statement that the serpent in question was not venomous, that its presence was prized, and that people would not wilfully kill it.

Now, a pretty species of oviparous, non-venomous serpent, still common in Italy, is believed to be the “Æsculapian snake” of Pliny, called Paroas by Greek writers.[40] I have examined a number of specimens. Several are to be seen in the museum of the Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia. It has been described by Shaw under the name of Coluber Æsculapii, but it is now often called Elaphis Æsculapii. A cut of it is given in Brehm’s great popular work,[41] which is very good, except that it gives one the impression that the animal is decidedly large. The Æsculapian serpent is comparatively small, being from three to four and one-half feet in length, and about as thick as a stout walking-cane. It is orange-brown above, or, as Shaw puts it, “rufous colour on the upper parts, more or less deep in different individuals.”[42] Beneath it is of a straw color. The scales of the back are oval and carinated, and those of the sides are smooth. The tapering tail measures about nine inches. Movement takes place through vertical waves or swellings. It is very active and can climb trees with facility. When attacked it will defend itself; but it is by nature gentle and is easily tamed.

In his brief description of it, Cuvier follows Shaw. He adds: “It is that which the ancients have represented in their statues of Æsculapius; and it is probable that the serpent of Epidaurus was of this species. (The Coluber Æsculapii of Linnæus[43] is of a totally different species, and belongs to America.)”[44]

The Æsculapian serpent is closely related to the ringed snake (Natrix torquata), the only British member of the family; and the common black snake (Coluber constrictor) of America is of the same genus; but it should not be classed, as was done by Linnæus, with the decidedly venomous viperine serpent, the Viper communis, or Pelias berus, of which Figuier says: “It is not improbable that it is the echis (εχις) of Aristotle and the vipera of Virgil, as it is the manasso of the Italians, the adder of the country-people of England and Scotland, and the vipère of France. It is found in all these countries and in Europe generally.”[45]

In an article contributed to a medical journal[46] I have said, in reference to the Æsculapian serpent, that it is the one “which should always be shown in medical symbolism.” This would hardly be questioned by many; yet I am disposed to think that the restriction is too exclusive. Another species of coluber, the uræus, or asp, has played a significant rôle, as a symbol of life and healing, especially in Egypt, as will be seen later. Our medical traditions, however, being mainly derived from the Greeks, it would therefore seem but right that we should confine ourselves very exclusively to the symbolism in use by them.

CHAPTER IV.
THE EPIDAURIAN ORACLE.

In speaking of the god of medicine at Rome, mention was made of Epidaurus, the original great seat of worship of Æsculapius. In the Peloponnesian place of that name, in the district of Argolis, on the western shore of the Saronic Gulf, I will now pause a while; for here is a spot of earth of special interest, dearer than Salerno, or even Cos, to every lover of the annals, historical and legendary, of the healing art.

Very different is Epidaurus now from what it was in other days; there has been a change, and for the worse. Here was once the scene of teeming life; the home of a people of culture and renown. It is not so at present. As with many other parts of Greece, time has dealt harshly with Epidaurus. But for the ruins and the imperishable records we have of them, one could find very little there worthy of much attention.

It is chiefly in the work of Pausanias, before mentioned, that the great medical institution of Epidaurus, the Æsculapian Temple, with its auxiliaries, survives. This observing and inquisitive old Greek traveler has left an interesting account of it. He lived in the second century of our era.

The ruins have been carefully studied and described by Mr. Leake.[47]

Under a commission from the Archæological Society of Athens, Mr. P. Kavvadias, in 1881 and forward to the present time (1885), has been making exploratory excavations, for full accounts of which the “Proceedings of the Society” must be consulted.[48]

Although the Asclepion was not within the town of Epidaurus, it was generally spoken of as part and parcel of the latter. Thus, Strabo says: “Epidaurus was a distinguished city, remarkable particularly on account of the fame of Æsculapius, who was supposed to cure every kind of disease, and whose temple is crowded constantly with sick persons, and its walls covered with votive tablets, which are hung thereon and contain accounts of the cures in the same manner as is practiced at Cos and at Tricca.”[49] In the time of the Romans, the town was regarded as “little more than the harbor”[50] of the Æsculapian Oracle. Still, at one time it was of considerable importance. Pausanias speaks favorably of it. In it there were statues of Æsculapius and his reputed wife, Epione, and of Diana, Venus, and others. There were public accommodations for persons dying and lying-in women. This was necessary, because births and deaths were not allowed to occur within the Sacred Grove. The exclusion was, according to Pausanias, “agreeable to a law which is established in the island of Delos.”[51]

Epidaurus was open to intercourse with the Phœnicians and other peoples. Its citizens were enterprising. It is interesting to note that they colonized the island of Cos.

Under the name of Pidhavro the ancient town remains in existence; but it is a mere hamlet of a few dozen families, most of which are engaged in raising vegetables for the Athenian market.

Proceeding in a southwesterly direction from the site of Epidaurus, one comes, after a journey of about five Roman miles, to the location of the famous Epidaurian Oracle of Æsculapius. It is a little vale, bordered almost all around with shrubbery-clad hills, notable among which are Mounts Titthium, Cynortium, and Coryphæus, the first and second to the north, and the third to the southeast. At a little distance down it, flowing westerly and emptying into the river of Lessa, is a rivulet formed by two main branches, one of which springs from about Mount Coryphæus and traverses the sacred Ἀλσος, or Grove.

To the Sacred Grove, the name of Hierum, or, rather, Sto Hieron,[52] a synonym, is applied. It is less than a mile in circumference. Within it are found remains of most of the structures which it formerly contained. In the centre stood the Temple, or Sanctuary, of Æsculapius; in the southeast, at the foot of Mount Coryphæus, the theatre,[53] which afforded accommodation for twelve thousand people, and which is one of the finest ruins of ancient Grecian buildings; and southwest of the temple was the place devoted to athletic games, the Stadium, to the north of which were the Cistrum and the Tholus, or circular cell, about thirty feet in circumference, which contained paintings and other works of art, and probably served as a place of reunion of the officials of the sanctuary, and for certain sacrifices and ceremonies. Water-pipes have been unearthed; and there are remnants of the peribolus, or enclosure, which, according to Leake, however, was present only on two sides, the steep hills answering the purpose on the others. The somewhat remarkable state of preservation of these ruins is largely due to the seclusion of the place.

Of course, the most notable building within the sacred grounds was the Temple.[54] This was the abode of the god; here was his oracle. His statue was of great splendor and highly renowned. It was formed of ivory and gold—chryselephantine—and was by Thrasymedes, of Parus. Æsculapius was represented as a man somewhat advanced in life, but of attractive presence, seated on a throne. His hair and beard were given long, perhaps too long for an ideal physician.[55] In his left hand he held a staff, and the other he held over the head of a serpent. At his feet was the figure of a dog. On the throne were wrought illustrations of the works of the Argive heroes. Bellerophon was shown in the act of slaying the Chimæra, and Perseus cutting off the head of Medusa.

Besides the temple, the theatre, gymnasium, and other buildings mentioned above, there were still others to meet the manifold needs of the numerous visitors. As those who came to consult the oracle remained a night or longer, there must have been an extensive dormitory. It is referred to by Pausanias.[56] Those, however, who approached the god, always, I believe, passed the night in the sanctuary.

When at the height of its glory the Hierum was surely a place full of life. Being the most famous sanatory retreat, multitudes flocked to it from all parts of Greece and beyond. Many who came were, doubtless, invalids, but likely far more could not be classed as such. In fact, this Æsculapian Grove, although mainly a medical institution, a sort of hospital, might reasonably be taken as a prototype of modern popular health resorts.

The glory of the Epidaurian Oracle was not short-lived. In the year 292 B.C., the time when the Roman embassy paid the historic visit, it was very great; and five centuries later—that is, in the time of Pausanias—it had not passed away; the worship of the serpentine divinity had not then ceased.

With years the oracle accumulated riches, so that it became noted for its treasures. When, in the year 167 B.C., it was visited by L. Æmilius Paulus, after his conquest of Macedonia, it was rich in gifts presented by those who had obtained relief there from their afflictions. A century and a half later many of the valuable offerings had disappeared.

The visitors to the great oracle in search of health placed themselves under the care of the asclepiades, or disciples of the god. A special course of regimen (treatment) was followed. It is said that it was directed by Æsculapius, through dreams,—not necessarily a truth. The plan pursued was more or less scientific and free from superstition. Mr. Leake rather ungraciously remarks that the advisors, being “equally dexterous as priests and physicians, provided themselves with resources in either capacity, which they could turn to the benefit of their patients’ infirmities and their own profit.”[57] The rules were decidedly strict. Records of patients were preserved, and the tablets on which they were placed were hung up in the temple and elsewhere. Some of those surviving from the stelæ, mentioned by Pausanias,[58] have been unearthed recently by Mr. Kavvadias. They are mostly statements of miraculous cures.[59]

Famous and immensely popular as the Epidaurian Oracle was, it cannot be said to have had notable natural advantages in its favor. The site was not one of the best, being low and hill-bounded,—conditions closely related to unhealthy states of humidity and heat of the atmosphere. The supply of water was not good, dependence having to be placed at times on cisterns. The locations of many other, but less noted, asclepia, were certainly far more sanatory. At Cos there was pure, mild sea-air; and, of those in the mountains or by fountains, each had one or more special natural attractions. Indeed, there could seemingly be few much worse sites than this close little Epidaurian valley, without even a mineral spring, or, in fact, a good spring of ordinary water to recommend it. But, greater than any one, or all climatic or other influences in power to attract the multitude, was the belief that at his birthplace and primary seat and oracle the influence of the god of medicine could be most effectively brought to bear to remove disease and restore health. As in this case, a pleasing superstition may work wonders.

CHAPTER V.
ASCLEPIA AND THE ASCLEPIADES.

Many asclepia, or temples of health, were in time established throughout Greece and her colonies and elsewhere. A recent writer states that at least three hundred and twenty are known “to have existed in antiquity; so that every town of importance must have had its sanctuary.”[60] In success and length of existence they, of course, varied greatly. The one at Epidaurus has been spoken of, and others of great celebrity were those of Tricca, Cnidus, and Cos, to say nothing of some only a little less deserving of mention, such as those at Rhodes, Pergamus, Carthage, Athens,[61] and Rome.

The asclepion at Tricca, in Thessaly, was probably started by the sons of Æsculapius, Machaon and Podalirius. At any rate, according to Homer, they were attendants there. This was enough to bring it into repute, but its situation in the mountains was much in its favor as a popular sanatory resort.

The Coan and Cnidian asclepia were favorably located; the former on the island of the name, which Pliny speaks of as “flourishing and powerful in the highest degree and consecrated to Æsculapius,”[62] and the latter not far distant, on a site decidedly maritime, in Asia Minor. These temples were both very distinguished, and a degree of rivalry prevailed between them. In them there was undoubtedly much highly creditable medical knowledge in exercise. The same was probably the case in most, or perhaps all, others, especially in later times; but it is in respect to those only that we have indubitable evidence of the fact. Of the two schools, the adherents of the Cnidian paid special attention to the symptoms of individual cases, and avoided, as much as possible, powerful cathartics, bleeding, and other active means of cure.

Whatever may have been the success of the various asclepia, institutions which were finally blotted out in the early part of the fourth century by Constantine, the first Christian emperor,[63] that of Cos was destined to make the greatest impress on the medicine of the future. It was the good fortune of this institution to have in connection with it, at the acme of its career, a great author as well as physician. Hippocrates, a native of the island, rendered the fame of the Coan school imperishable, and gave to his fellow-men throughout the world, in all time to come, a legacy of incalculable value. Through this early and great medical writer his alma mater has been made, in a manner, that of the medical man of all ages. From Cos sprang forth at the touch of a humble man, afterward called appreciatively “the divine old man,” a mass of medical knowledge, wonderfully pure and good, which constitutes the main body of the real medical science of our own day.

An asclepion[64] consisted essentially of a building with a more or less hygienical site, usually in the country and near a fountain,[65] sometimes a mineral one, in which the arts of healing were practiced by priests or disciples of Æsculapius, called asclepiades. In all, the influence of the god was generally believed to be an essential factor; and hence in each an image of him was to be found. But the fully-equipped institution had many appliances, as has been shown in the account given of the one at Epidaurus. Arrangements for exercises, baths, and other means which were brought to bear to restore people to health were duly provided and were in many instances elaborate.

The asclepiades claimed that they were descended directly from the god of whom they were the disciples. They were not, at any time, mere priests; that is, ministers of religion. Indeed, it has been asserted that “there is no sign in the Homeric poems of the subordination of medicine to religion.”[66]

The asclepiades constituted a special class, and they were oath-bound to preserve the mysteries of the art from the uninitiated. The oath is preserved in the Hippocratic Collection,[67] and is usually called by his name. It begins thus: “I swear by Apollo, the physician, and Æsculapius, and Health, and All-Heal,[68] and all the gods and goddesses that, according to my ability and judgment, I will keep this oath and this stipulation.” In it occurs this passage: “I will follow that system of regimen[69] which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patients, and abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous.” Here is another: “With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practice my art.” Cutting for the stone is left to those who make a special business of it. What is learned about patients, in the exercise of the art, which should be kept secret is not to be divulged. Mr. Adams well says that it is most honorable to the profession that so ancient a document pertaining to it as this, “instead of displaying narrow-minded and exclusive selfishness, inculcates a generous line of conduct, and enjoins an observance of the rules of propriety and of the laws of domestic morality.”[70]

It has been said, in a learned article[71] on ancient medicine, that “the asclepiadæ of Greece were the true originators” of scientific medicine. This claim might be questioned, but it is, doubtless, in the main just. Certainly all physicians were not connected with asclepia; and in later times the asclepiades proper were avoided by the more intelligent and rational.

Unfortunately, the records of the practice of the asclepiades have been almost entirely lost. This is to be regretted, and more especially because what is preserved is of a decidedly high order of merit.[72] However, it is probable that at least the crême of the whole has been handed down to us by Hippocrates.

It seems certain that in the first “Prorrhetics” and the “Prænotiones Coacae,” which are transmitted to us in the Hippocratic Collection, we have fragments and excerpts from the histories of diseases and cures which were formerly found on the votive tablets of the Coan Temple. From these records Hippocrates drew largely in composing his highly valuable “Book of Prognostics.” In reference to the matter Adams says: “It is as clear as the light of day that Hippocrates composed this work from them.”[73]

It is more than probable that, except for a short time at first, the system of treatment pursued by the asclepiades varied within wide limits; and it is equally certain that the superstitious element lessened as time passed. Between the principles of practice of Æsculapius and those of Hippocrates[74] there is a very wide difference. Those of the former will be given later; but of those of the latter I may say here that they were essentially scientific.[75] To Hippocrates every disease had a natural cause, and was to be cured by natural means. He was wont “to consult Nature herself about Nature,” as Bacon has somewhere wisely advised. He did not attribute any morbid condition to any spiritual power, good or bad, and hence in his practice did not resort to conjuration or any related means of cure. Even of epilepsy, the so-called “sacred disease,” he said: “It is thus with regard to the disease called sacred: It appears to me to be nowise more divine nor more sacred than other diseases, but has a natural cause from which it originates like other affections.” And again: “Men regard its nature and cause as divine, from ignorance and wonder.”[76] As regards holding disease to be divinely inflicted, he very properly remarks: “I do not count it a worthy opinion to hold that the body of man is polluted by God.”[77]

Not only in the principles of medicine, but in its practice, Hippocrates was wonderfully sound, even when judged from the stand-point of the art in our day. In truth, for extent and profundity of medical knowledge and philosophy, between him and what modern would one think of instituting a comparison? Sydenham has been likened to him; but, although I am an admirer of the English physician, I do not hesitate to say that he was neither in breadth nor depth any such man as the Coan. As a writer on the prevention and cure of disease, Hippocrates remains facile princeps.

Let it not be hastily supposed that my admiration for Hippocrates is unreasonably great. His works are truly a surprise to even the well-read modern. Very many of the so-called discoveries of recent times may be learned by turning to them. I speak advisedly. I will cite instances:—

Thus, of the treatment of open sores, he says: “In these cases no part is to be exposed to the air.” Dressings of “wine and oil” and “pitched cerate[78]” are directed to be used.

Again, in treating fractures, in connection with certain splints, he advises that “a soft, consistent, and clean cerate should be rubbed into the folds of the bandage;”[79] and he says, “If you see that the bones are properly adjusted by the first dressing, and that there is no troublesome pruritus in the part, nor any reason to suspect ulceration, you may allow the arm to remain bandaged in the splints until after the lapse of more than twenty days.”[80]

Still again, in regard to the reduction of a dislocation at the hip-joint, he says, “In some the thigh is reduced with no preparation, with slight extension, directed by the hands, and with slight movement; and in some the reduction is effected by bending the limb at the joint and making rotation.”[81]

In the three preceding paragraphs we have the practical side of the germ theory of disease, the permanent dressing of fractures, and the reduction of dislocations by manipulation.

I might go on and recount numerous other matters alleged to be new, and of which we hear much; but it is not necessary. I may add, however, a few items of interest:—

“Bleed,” says the old Greek, “in the acute affections, if the disease appears strong, and if the patients be in the vigor of life, and if they have strength.” Has any modern spoken more wisely on the subject?[82]

Here is a statement worthy of the attention of unbalanced theorists of our day: In fevers and pneumonia, heat “is not the sole cause of mischief.”[83]

He gives directions for the use of effusions with “water of various temperatures” in “cases of pneumonia,” of “ardent fevers,” and of other diseases. This treatment, he thinks, “suits better with cases of pneumonia than in ardent fevers.”[84]

In that inimitable book, his “Aphorisms,” it is said: “In general, diseases are cured by their contraries.” There is no exclusive allopathy or homœopathy, or dogma of any kind, in that statement; it is the sentiment of a scientific physician.

Medicine was evidently far advanced in the days of Hippocrates;[85] and he was certainly a learned and sensible practitioner of it, even the “Prince of Physicians,” as Galen, I think, somewhere characterizes him, as well as one who did much to make it what he pronounced it himself to be, namely, “of all arts the most noble.”[86]

CHAPTER VI.
THE GRECIAN GOD OF MEDICINE.

During most of the earlier part of their history it is safe to say the Greeks regarded Apollo as their main god of medicine. Being possessed of the eminent qualities of a sun-god, replacing Helios as such, and both mighty and popular, this was to be expected. Nothing could be more natural than to accord to a deification of the orb of day a direct concern with matters pertaining to life and death.[87] Who so blind and stupid as not to see and know that all vital activity is intimately connected with the presence and movements (apparent) of this great light- and heat-producing heavenly body!

In an old Chaldean hymn the power of the sun over health and disease is recognized. He is petitioned to relieve a patient. The petitioner, after saying that “the great lord, Hea, had sent him,” continues:—

“Thou at thy coming, cure the race of man;

Cause a ray of health to shine upon him;

Cure his disease.”[88]

However, the reader of Homer is well aware that medical affairs were regarded by the Greeks as subject to the will of Phœbus. The epidemic which affected the Grecian forces, spoken of in the beginning of his great work, was held to be caused by the god. Being moved to anger by the words of his daughter-robbed priest—

“Latona’s son a dire contagion spread

And heap’d the camp with mountains of the dead.”[89]

Chryses, having received the maiden[90] back from her kingly abductor,[91] then addressed Apollo again, saying, among other things:—

“If fir’d to vengeance at thy priest’s request,

Thy direful darts inflict the raging pest,

Once more attend! Avert the wasteful woe

And smile propitious and unbend thy bow.”[92]

The prayer was heard and answered as desired.

Surgical as well as purely medical aid was sought and received from Apollo. Thus, when the Lycian chief, Sarpedon, was killed, Glaucus, himself sorely wounded and unable to protect his friend’s remains, petitioned the “god of health,” the “god of every healing art,” and

“Apollo heard; and suppliant as he stood,

His heavenly hand restrain’d the flux of blood;

He drew the dolours from the wounded part,

And breath’d a spirit in his rising heart.”[93]

One of the names often applied to Apollo,[94] and subsequently to his son,[95] was distinctly medical, viz., Pæon, or Paieon.[96] Homer always uses it in referring to the physician of the Olympian gods, as where he speaks of the Pharian race as “from Pæon sprung.”[97] “Pæonian herbs”[98] is the phrase used by Virgil in his account of the restoration to life of Hippolytus. And this leads me to say that Apollo was believed to have a special knowledge of medicinal plants. By Ovid he is represented as saying:—

“What herbs and simples grow

In fields, in forests, all their power I know.”[99]

It may be further said that Apollo always continued to have healing powers accorded him. No more proof of this is wanting than the first clause of the Hippocratic oath—“I swear by Apollo, the physician.”

It would seem to have been about the time of the Trojan war that the special god of medicine began to be viewed as such by the Greeks. Strong reason for so believing is found in the fact that Homer refers to Æsculapius as simply “a blameless doctor,”[100]—a mortal, the adjective used never being applied to a god. A well-informed writer remarks that “the kernel out of which the whole myth has grown is, perhaps, the account we read in Homer.”[101] This opinion is open to question. Even the title of Archegetes, or Primeval Divinity, was sometimes given to Æsculapius, and, indeed, under that title he was worshipped by the Phocians in a temple situated eighty stadia[102] from Tithorea. This name was also given, it must be said, to Apollo, from whom probably it was received by the son. I may add here the suggestion of the Abbé Banier, that likely a distinguished physician, called Æsculapius,[103] of the age of Hercules and Jason, being highly honored, was in time confounded with the old Phœnician and Egyptian god, Esmun; “so that in process of time the worship of the latter came to be quite forgotten, and the new god substituted altogether in his room.”[104]

Galen expresses doubt whether the divinity of Æsculapius was the result of a gradual development from a human basis; but Pausanias says: “That Æsculapius was from the first considered as a god, and that his fame was not owing to length of time, I find confirmed by various arguments, and even by the authority of Homer, in the following verses, in which Agamemnon thus speaks of Machaon:—

‘Talthibius, hither swift, Machaon bring,

Who from the blameless Æsculapius sprung;’[105]

which is just as much as if he had said, ‘Call a man who is a son of a god.’”[106]

In the indulgence of their myth-forming fancies it was very reasonable, very wise, on the part of the Greeks to make Æsculapius the offspring of Apollo. If the god of medicine be viewed as a personification of the healing powers of nature, what more rational, as has been observed, than to take him to be “the son, the effects of Helios, Apollo, or the sun.”[107]

The mythological history of the Grecian god of medicine is strange and interesting. One must know it, or he will remain in the dark about many things bearing on the symbolism and other features of the physician’s art.

Æsculapius was the result, so the story runs, of a criminal liaison between Apollo and a young virgin, named Coronis, a native of Thessaly—something which the myth-makers apparently did not regard as discreditable. The morals of many of the gods were exceedingly bad. “Our manners have been corrupted by communication with the saints,”[108] is a candid remark of Thoreau. It would appear that the ancients were corrupted by communication with the gods.

It is recorded of Coronis that she was, like too many of the sex, fickle, and did not prove faithful to her divine paramour; she stealthily cultivated a criminal intimacy with an Arcadian youth, named Ischys. The fact of her infidelity becoming known to Apollo, either through a message of a raven,[109] or his own divine powers, he, naturally enough, was greatly displeased. And the wrath of the divinity was followed by a series of remarkable events.

At this point it may be well to state that the parentage of Æsculapius was a question which early excited attention. A belief existed that “he was the offspring of Arsinoë” and “a citizen of the Messenians,” as Pausanias informs us. Apollophanes, an Arcadian,[110] being interested in the matter, went to Delos, and, putting the question of its truth to the Pythian deity, received this reply:—

“O Æsculapius! source of mighty joy

To mortal natures; whom Coronis fair,

Daughter of Phlegyas, once with me conjoin’d,

In Epidauria’s barren region bore.”[111]

According to this dictum, he was, indeed, born in Epidaurus. Pausanias, by way of proof of the truth of it, says: “I find that the most illustrious rites of Æsculapius were derived from Epidaurus.”[112] From that point the worship seems to have spread. It is said, however, by Strabo,[113] that his birthplace was Tricca, in Thessaly.[114]

However, to return to our story: the time of the delivery of Coronis was not far off, when the news of her perfidy reached Apollo. Notwithstanding this, he, being seemingly under the influence of the “green-eyed monster” to an ungodly degree, cruelly resolved on having revenge at once. Artemis,[115] the goddess of chastity, was directed to slay the unfaithful maid with a thunderbolt, and the order was duly executed. On coins of Pergamus the unfortunate Thessalian appears entirely veiled.

After the fatal thunderbolt had descended on the enceinte Coronis, and her body was being consumed in the merciless pyre, Apollo’s paternal feelings became stirred, and saying, as Pindar tells us,

“I may not bear to slay my child

With his sad mother, sin-defiled,”[116]

proceeded forthwith to save his unborn offspring.

To what manner of operation did he resort? I leave it to some all-knowing specialist to find out; but, at any rate, by some method or other, the child was rescued.[117] Another version of the affair, preserved by Pausanias, robs the god of any possible skill as a gynæcologist—surgical, I mean. According to it, when Coronis was undergoing cremation, after being slain by Artemis, “the boy is said to have been snatched by Hermes from the flames.”[118] And of this I may observe that it was not inappropriate to have Hermes, the Grecian metamorphosis of the thrice-great god of wisdom and knowledge of the Egyptians, present at the unnatural accouchement, and in such close relation to Æsculapius at the very beginning of his wonderful career.

It was, then, the unhappy fate of Æsculapius to be an orphan from his birth, if birth he had, to speak correctly; and it is possible that his advent was decidedly premature—in a medical sense. Apollo was puzzled to know what to do with his tender son; nor did he do for him all that could be expected, for baby Æsculapius was heartlessly exposed on Mount Titthium. Here the little unfortunate fell into the keeping of a friendly goat and dog. The goat gave the precious enfant trouvé nourishment,[119] as Amalthea had done Zeus, and the dog kept guard over him.[120] Splendid services, indeed, on the part of two humble animals, in the interest of medicine and humanity!

On Epidaurian coins, the infantile god of medicine is appropriately represented under a she-goat on Mount Titthium, with Aresthanas approaching. This person was the shepherd of whom Pausanias says that, coming to the rescue, “he beheld a splendor beaming from the infant, and, thinking that it was something divine, as indeed it was, departed from the place. But a report,” he continues, “was immediately spread through every land and sea that such as were afflicted with any kind of disease were healed by the boy, and that even the dead were raised to life.”[121] The reader need hardly be informed that accounts parallel to this are common enough in ancient records.

How it happened that the child of Coronis, a Thessalian, first saw the light in Epidauria, a country which became particularly sacred to him, is a question which should be answered. It appears that Coronis came there with her warlike father, Phlegyas, who gave, as a reason for his visit, a desire to see the country, but, “in reality,” Pausanias says, “that he might inspect the multitude of the inhabitants, and learn whether there was a great quantity of fighting men.”[122]

Pindar states that Apollo, on rescuing his child, bore him at once to Chiron—

“To learn of human woes the healing lore,”[123]

which does away with the fabled discreditable exposure of him; but whether this be so or not, in progress of time, he did put him under the care and instruction of “the beneficent leech,”[124] Cheiron (to use the archaic expression of the historian, Grote[125]), the Thessalian Centaur, or fabulous monster, whose figure from the waist down was like the body of a horse.[126] Under the direction of this strangely-formed creature, Æsculapius proceeded to study the medical virtues of plants; for Chiron was a great herbalist, being called by Homer, in the words of Pope, “the sire of pharmacy.”[127] In time the pupil exceeded the teacher in his knowledge of drugs.

Chiron was regarded, Pindar tells us,[128] as the son of Saturn and the sea-nymph Philyra; and hence was a brother of Zeus. Saturn changed himself into a horse to conceal his amour with the nymph from his wife, Rhea. This would account for the form of the Centaur.

Chiron lived in a cave on Mount Pelion, in Thessaly. It will be remembered that it was from there that he got the ashen spear[129] for Peleus, which the son brought into use, a ponderous spear, which—

“Stern Achilles only wields,

The death of heroes and the dread of fields.”[130]

According to Homer,[131] Hercules received instruction in medicine from Chiron; and it is stated, by Pindar,[132] that Jason was another pupil of his. With these Æsculapius went, as physician, on the celebrated Argonautic expedition.

At the end of his career, the Centaur became, it is said, the sign of the zodiac, Sagittarius.[133]

In treating the sick, Æsculapius soon proved himself a master. His patients did not die, and it appears that he recalled a few from “the shades below.” But, sad to relate, the great success he had in curing the sick, and especially his recalling some from the other world, led to his destruction. Pluto, the god of the nether regions, not wishing a sparse population,[134] became displeased with him and complained to Zeus, who, probably believing that he was becoming too powerful, so much so as to make man undying,[135] cut short his career with a thunderbolt,—a tragedy which caused his father, Apollo, to wander away to the land of the Hyperboreans and to shed tears of gold. At the request of Apollo he was placed among the stars.[136] The eighth day of the Eleusinian Mysteries was devoted to sacrifices to him, and was called Epidauria.

From what Virgil says, it would seem that it was not because of the direct exercise of his power to restore life that Æsculapius was destroyed, but because of the degree of perfection to which he had brought the medical art. The event, “the fable,”[137] as Pliny designates it, is connected with the restoration of Hippolytus or Virbius, and is thus referred to by the Roman poet:—

“But chaste Diana who his death deplor’d

With Æsculapian herbs his life restor’d;

Then Jove, who saw from high with just disdain

The dead inspired with vital breath again,

Struck to the centre with his flaming dart

The unhappy founder of the god-like art.”[138]

The plan of treatment pursued by Æsculapius was variable. After speaking of the sick, “a host forlorn” that flocked to him, Pindar says:—

“Some spells brought back to life;

These drank the potion plan’d; for these he bound

With drugs the aching wound;

Some leaped to strength beneath the helpful knife.”[139]

The lines just given certainly serve to disprove the statement of Pliny, that in Homeric times “the healing art confined itself solely to the treatment of wounds.”[140] It is doubtless true, however, that nothing is said in Homer’s works about particular diseases.

It has been held that Æsculapius, like More’s Utopians, did not think it wise to bring to bear the art of healing in the case of any one who might not be restored to health and to usefulness to himself and others. Says Plato: “He thought medical treatment ill bestowed upon one who could not live in his regular round of duties, and so was of no use either to himself or to the State.”[141] The great philosopher accordingly regarded him as “a profound politician.” For, in his ideal state, this celebrated theorizer would have physicians “bestow their services on those only of the citizens whose bodily and mental constitutions are sound and good, leaving those that are otherwise, as to the state of their body, to die, and actually putting to death those who are naturally corrupt and incurable in soul.”[142] Some excellent reasons might be advanced in favor of such a harsh policy, but, while human love of life and human sympathy remain as now, it will never be brought into play.[143] As an ideal physician, Æsculapius could hardly have been an advocate of it.[144]

I may say a word about the charge of Pindar, that the efforts of Æsculapius to recall the dead to life were inspired by temptation with gold. The poet says:—

“Alas! that filthy gain can blind the wise!

The glittering gold betrayed the noble leech,

From the dark prison-house to bid arrive

A captive thrall of death!

But Jove with wrathful hand refused to each

The hallowed breath.

Down came the bolt of fire.”[145]

Making such an ugly charge is probably unjust to the great healer. The historian, Grote, thinks so, and expresses the opinion that Pindar was disposed “to extenuate the cruelty of Zeus by imputing guilty and sordid views to Æsculapius.”[146] Long ago the accusation was met by Plato. Says he: “While they[147] assert that Æsculapius was the son of Apollo, they declare that he was induced by a bribe of gold to raise to life a rich man who was dead, which was the cause of his being smitten with a thunderbolt. But we, with our principles, cannot believe both these statements of theirs. We shall maintain that, if he was the son of a god, he was not covetous; if he was covetous, he was not the son of Apollo.”[148] He was the son of Apollo.

To conclude this imperfect sketch of the life of Æsculapius, I may add that he was married, as every wise as well as respectable physician should be,[149] and, as was desirable in an exemplar, the father of at least six children,—two sons and four daughters. The two sons, Machaon and Podalirius, taught by their “parent god,” as Homer informs us, became “famed surgeons,” “divine professors of the healing art,”[150] and were also distinguished warriors under Agamemnon. Of the daughters, Hygeia, Panacea, Jaso, and Ægle, the first became the goddess of health, of whom more anon.

CHAPTER VII.
THE IMAGE OF ÆSCULAPIUS.

A simple image of a god may be regarded as a symbol. When the image has connected with it one or more figures to indicate the qualities or functions of the divinity, we have then, strictly speaking, an allegorical representation. Æsculapius was sometimes shown in the one way and sometimes in the other. Thus, he was occasionally to be seen at Rome, and elsewhere, in the form of a serpent; and, at the Epidaurian Grove, for example, as a man having in connection with him a serpent, a dog, and other things.

As is implied in what I have just said, there was no set, invariable mode of portrayal of Æsculapius. This fact should be clearly understood. But let it not be supposed that it is by any means singular. It will occur to the well-informed reader that the same holds true in regard to Zeus, Apollo, Venus, and, indeed, all other divinities. Says Müller: “The so-called ideals of the Grecian gods are not types; they do not preclude the freedom of the artist; they rather contain the strongest impulse to new, genial creations.”[151] It is, perhaps, self-evident that a statue of a god must necessarily be quite ideal; and, of course, an ideal is without absolute permanency. Still, it remains true that in the case of Æsculapius, as well as that of every other deity, there was a more or less definite conventional way of representing him. This, however, was largely dependent on the presence of attributes. Thus, it would be not only inconsistent with custom, but almost futile, to attempt to delineate him without the presence of a serpent.

The most magnificent representation of Æsculapius was the one at Epidaurus. A description of it has already been given. This fine work of art disappeared at an early day. The vandals could not be expected to spare it; the gold in its composition was fatal to its permanency. It was borne on coins of Epidaurus. According to Strabo,[152] a copy of it was taken to the Galatian town, Pessinus, not Rome, as is often said. Several other places were similarly favored.

There was a very celebrated statue of Æsculapius at the renowned Asclepion of Pergamus, the production of the artist Pyromachus, as well as one similar to that of Epidaurus. It became the prevailing type in art. In it the god was represented as a mature man of benevolent expression, with his rather long hair bound with a fillet, and in his right hand he held a staff enwreathed with a serpent. He wore a himation[153] drawn tight over the left arm and breast. The whole right side from the waist up was uncovered. His attitude was that of a person ready to render assistance. “We can recognize,” says Müller, “the figure with tolerable certainty as the most usual representation of the god on numerous coins of Pergamus.”[154]

The well-known statue of Æsculapius at Berlin resembles that at Pergamus; and the same is true of one at Florence, and others. That of Berlin has the serpent-wreathed staff, or support, placed on the left side. This appears to have been frequently done. An instance of it I have observed in a gem bearing Æsculapius and Hygeia, taken from a tomb at Thron,—a piece of work of the Roman period. It is shown in General Di Cesnola’s interesting work.[155]

While Æsculapius was made to appear aged in some instances, as in the Epidaurian representation, he was sometimes presented in youthful form, and beardless, like his father, Apollo. And this reminds me of the story told of Dyonysius, King of Sicily, that, on conquering the Morea, he ordered the beard to be taken off the Epidaurian statue of the god, for the reason that it was unbecoming and unjust for the son to have a beard when the father had none. Possibly if it had not been a golden one it would not have been molested.

I may venture to say that both aged and youthful representations of Æsculapius are open to criticism. An ideal physician should be, as in the statue at Pergamus, a man in his prime, or, in other words, mature, but neither young nor old. The immature man is apt to be defective in judgment, and the superannuated one is nearly always of excessively routine practice and ignorant of recent advances in his profession.

By way of conclusion, I will say a few words about the famous colossal head of Æsculapius, originally colored and decorated with a bronze wreath, now in the British Museum, where it has been since 1866. It represents, with marked freedom and breadth of execution, a finely-developed man of middle age, with a cast of countenance similar to that of the Phidian Zeus. The beard is of moderate length and is waved like the somewhat long hair. This is really one of the noblest remnants of Grecian art. Nichols, in whose work[156] an engraving of it is given as a frontispiece, just as it is in this one, regards it “as scarcely less remarkable” than the celebrated “Venus of Milo” in the Louvre, both of which were found, the former in 1828, on the island of Melos. It is considered to be the work of an artist of the Macedonian period, about B.C. 300,—a time when the Greek sculptor had attained perfect mastery of his art.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ÆSCULAPIAN STAFF AND SERPENT.

The staff[157] and serpent of Æsculapius being of special emblematic significance, I deem it proper to speak of it at some length. The confusion of ideas which appears to prevail extensively in regard to it implies that a definite, explicit account of it is much needed.

Although, as will be remembered, Ovid makes Æsculapius refer to his serpent-enwreathed staff when addressing the commission which came from Rome to Epidaurus, in the famous representation of him given there, none was present. The poet may possibly have been misled by what had become familiar to him at home; for one was to be seen in connection with the statue of the god at Rome. It is probable, however, that it was a common occurrence for a living serpent, one of the species kept and viewed as sacred in the Hierum, to climb the staff in the hand of the Epidaurian statue.

It is very likely that the staff bearing a serpent became a characteristic emblem of the god of medicine through the great work of the sculptor, Pyromachus, at the Asclepion of Pergamus, which I have already described. The appropriateness of it was widely recognized, but it was not always adopted, as is attested by the remains of ancient art.

Apart from the serpent, the import of which will be fully treated of in the succeeding chapter, the staff as an attribute of Æsculapius merits study. Like many other apparently simple things in art, it may stand for a great deal more than one would suppose on first view.

The object encircled by a serpent held in the hand of the Æsculapian statue by Pyromachus, at Pergamus, is evidently a walking-stick. The Epidaurian statue has a similar object in one of the hands, and the same is the case in many others. Hence, as the representations of the gods of the ancients had rarely or never anything but significant attributes attached to them, it is pertinent to ask an explanation of its presence. Was there an historical basis for it? In other words, was Æsculapius notoriously in the habit of carrying a staff? If so, it is possible that this was why Pyromachus, Thrasymedes, and other artists connected one with figures of him. But there is no special reason for believing that such was the case.[158]

Fig. 3.—Club or Staff of Æsculapius. (From Maffei.)

Then, did the artists place a staff in the hand of Æsculapius of their own accord to indicate the perambulatory character of the physician’s calling? Such an attribute was doubtless deemed appropriate by them; but, before one could believe that they gave it on the score of apparent appropriateness, it would have to be shown that it was in the power of artists to design gods at pleasure,—something which could not be done. They evolved it, I may venture to say, from something allied in form.

There is little or no ground for believing that the staff of Æsculapius was a wonder-working object. I am not aware that such a thing was placed intentionally in his hand by any artist. Hence, the references often made to the mystic wand of the god spring from misapprehension, a walking-staff being something very different.

One can obtain, I believe, from an examination of the Berlin statue and others,—in which Æsculapius is represented leaning on, or standing by, a post of variable thickness and more or less regular in shape,—a clue to an explanation of the origin of the staff. Between the two objects the difference is not great, certainly not radical; and as attributes they might be expressive of the same thing. The club shown in the picture ([Fig. 3]), from Maffei, might be viewed as intermediate.

Of course, I do not say that the prototype of the staff was the post present in some representations of Æsculapius, although the idea would not be entirely unreasonable. There is more ground for the opinion that both were, so to speak, the offspring of something else.

Any one familiar with the antique representations of Æsculapius, and who has also seen different ones of Apollo, might well be inclined to believe that both gods have essentially the same thing by their side, namely, a post with a clinging serpent. And when it is recalled that Æsculapius was the son of Apollo, the opinion might be advanced with some degree of reasonableness, that the emblem of the former was, in reality, that of the latter, somewhat modified.

Tracing thus the origin of the staff of Æsculapius to the related symbol possessed by his father, Apollo, it would not be satisfactory to rest here; one naturally wants to know something about the latter. A few words, however, on the subject must suffice.

Although it was not an uncommon thing for artists to give posts by the side of statues, the one bearing the serpent in, say, the Apollo Belvedere, was, it is thought, meant to represent the Omphalos, to which the Grecians attached much significance.

The Omphalos,[159] in the form of a conical stone, was kept, and was present within historical times, as Strabo explicitly states, at Delphi, a place which, he says, “was supposed to be the centre of the habitable earth, and was called the navel of the earth.”[160] Plato refers to Apollo as “the god whose seat is the middle point of the earth, its very navel.”[161] According to a legend,[162] Delphi was esteemed the centre of the earth, because two eagles sent out by Zeus, one from the east and the other from the west, met at that point. Says Strabo: “In the temple is seen a sort of navel, wrapped in bands and surmounted by figures representing the birds of the fable.”[163]

The etymology of the word Omphalos casts light on its meaning. Olympos, the mount of the gods, is a corruption of it. Omphi-el[164] is the oracle of the sun-god. Al-omphi was used to designate hills, or mountains. Holwell says that the word came from Egypt, and was originally Ompha-el, and related to the oracle of Ham, or the sun.[165] The idea of a sacred mount or elevation is thus the original meaning of the word. And here I may say that in Hindu mythology considerable is said of a mountain encircled by a great serpent.[166]

Let it not be supposed that the reasons in favor of the idea that the Omphalos became the staff of Æsculapius are entirely insubstantial. Remains of ancient art furnish excellent proof of it. Müller says: “In a Pompeian picture, Æsculapius has beside him the Omphalos, which is entwisted with the well-known net, composed of στέμµατα. We see from this that this symbol of Apollo was also transferred to his son. On the coins of the gens Rubria, likewise, it is not an egg, as is usually asserted, but the Omphalos placed on a circular altar that is encircled by the Æsculapian serpent.”[167]

To one versed in the history of Phœnicia and other Oriental countries, the Omphalos is very certain to be viewed in another light than as a symbol of a “high place,” or mount[168] of worship. In the great Tyrian Temple of Baal Melkarth, which Herodotus went to see and admired much, and of which that of Solomon, or, rather, of Jehovah on Mount Moriah was almost a copy, even to the two pillars in front,—symbols of the sun-god,—were certain similar stones, carefully preserved and duly reverenced. These, it is well known, were of procreative import; they were phallic in character.[169] Was the Omphalos of similar significance? There is little reason to doubt that it was often regarded in that light. “In the earliest times,” says Müller, “a conical pillar, placed in the street and called Apollo Agyicus, sufficed to keep in remembrance the protecting and health-bringing power of the god.”[170]