Folk-lore of Shakespeare by Thomas Firminger Thiselton Dyer (year 2 reading books .txt) 📖
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Laf. A fistula, my lord.”
The account given of Helena’s secret remedy and the king’s reason for rejecting it give, says Dr. Bucknill, an excellent idea of the state of opinion with regard to the practice of physic in Shakespeare’s time.
Fit. Formerly the term “rapture” was synonymous with a fit or trance. The word is used by Brutus in “Coriolanus” (ii. 1):
Into a rapture lets her baby cry
While she chats him.”
Steevens quotes from the “Hospital for London’s Follies” (1602), where Gossip Luce says: “Your darling will weep itself into a rapture, if you take not good heed.”[606]
Gold. It was a long-prevailing opinion that a solution of gold had great medicinal virtues, and that the incorruptibility of the metal might be communicated to a body impregnated with it. Thus, in “2 Henry IV.” (iv. 4), Prince Henry, in the course of his address to his father, says:
And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,
I spake unto this crown, as having sense,
And thus upbraided it: ‘The care on thee depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father;
Therefore, thou, best of gold, art worst of gold;
Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,
Preserving life in medicine potable.’”
Potable gold was one of the panaceas of ancient quacks. In John Wight’s translation of the “Secretes of Alexis” is a receipt “to dissolve and reducte golde into a potable licour, which conserveth the youth and healthe of a man, and will heale every disease that is thought incurable, in the space of seven daies at the furthest.” The receipt, however, is a highly complicated one, the gold being acted upon by juice of lemons, honey, common salt, and aqua vitæ, and distillation frequently repeated from a “urinall of glass”—as the oftener it is distilled the better it is. “Thus doyng,” it is said, “ye shall have a right naturall, and perfecte potable golde, whereof somewhat taken alone every monthe once or twice, or at least with the said licour, whereof we have spoken in the second chapter of this boke, is very excellent to preserve a man’s youthe and healthe, and to heale in a fewe daies any disease rooted in a man, and thought incurable. The said golde will also be good and profitable for diverse other operations and effectes: as good wittes and diligent searchers of the secretes of nature may easily judge.” A further allusion to gold as a medicine is probably made in “All’s Well that Ends Well” (v. 3), where the King says to Bertram:
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature’s mystery more science,
Than I have in this ring.”
Chaucer, too, in his sarcastic excuse for the doctor’s avarice, refers to this old belief:
He kept that he wan in the pestilence.
For gold in physic is a cordial;
Therefore he loved it in special.”
Once more, in Sir Kenelm Digby’s “Receipts” (1674), we are told that the gold is to be calcined with three salts, ground with sulphur, burned in a reverberatory furnace with sulphur twelve times, then digested with spirit of wine “which will be tincted very yellow, of which, few drops for a dose in a fit vehicle hath wrought great effects.”
The term “grand liquor” is also used by Shakespeare for the aurum potabile of the alchemist, as in “Tempest” (v. 1):
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them?”
Good Year. This is evidently a corruption of goujère, a disease derived from the French gouge, a common camp-follower, and probably alludes to the Morbus Gallicus. Thus, in “King Lear” (v. 3), we read:
Ere they shall make us weep.”
With the corruption, however, of the spelling, the word lost in time its real meaning, and it is, consequently, found in passages where a sense opposite to the true one is intended.[607] It was often used in exclamations, as in “Merry Wives of Windsor” (i. 4): “We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jear!” In “Troilus and Cressida” (v. 1), Thersites, by the “rotten diseases of the south,” probably meant the Morbus Gallicus.
Handkerchief. It was formerly a common practice in England for those who were sick to wear a kerchief on their heads, and still continues at the present day among the common people in many places. Thus, in “Julius Cæsar” (ii. 1), we find the following allusion:
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!”
“If,” says Fuller, “this county [Cheshire] hath bred no writers in that faculty [physic], the wonder is the less, if it be true what I read, that if any here be sick, they make him a posset and tye a kerchief on his head, and if that will not mend him, then God be merciful to him.”[608]
Hysteria. This disorder, which, in Shakespeare’s day, we are told, was known as “the mother,” or Hysterica passio, was not considered peculiar to women only. It is probable that, when the poet wrote the following lines in “King Lear” (ii. 4), where he makes the king say,
Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow,
Thy element’s below!—Where is this daughter?”
he had in view the subjoined passages from Harsnet’s “Declaration of Popish Impostures” (1603), a work which, it has been suggested,[609] “he may have consulted in order to furnish out his character of Tom of Bedlam with demoniacal gibberish.” The first occurs at p. 25: “Ma. Maynie had a spice of the hysterica passio, as it seems, from his youth; hee himselfe termes it the moother (as you may see in his confessione).” Master Richard Mainy, who was persuaded by the priests that he was possessed of the devil, deposes as follows (p. 263): “The disease I speake of was a spice of the mother, wherewith I had been troubled (as is before mentioned) before my going into Fraunce. Whether I doe rightly terme it the mother or no I know not.” Dr. Jordan, in 1603, published “A Briefe Discourse of a Disease called the Suffocation of the Mother.”
Infection. According to an old but erroneous belief, infection communicated to another left the infector free; in allusion to which Timon (“Timon of Athens,” iv. 3) says:
To thine own lips again.”
Among other notions prevalent in days gone by was the general contagiousness of disease, to which an allusion seems to be made in “A Midsummer-Night’s Dream” (i. 1), where Helena says:
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go.”
Malone considers that Shakespeare, in the following passage in “Venus and Adonis,” alludes to a practice of his day, when it was customary, in time of the plague, to strew the rooms of every house with rue and other strong-smelling herbs, to prevent infection:
O, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!”
Again, the contagiousness of pestilence is thus alluded to by Beatrice in “Much Ado About Nothing” (i. 1): “O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad.” The belief, too, that the poison of pestilence dwells in the air, is spoken of in “Timon of Athens” (iv. 3):
Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison
In the sick air.”
And, again, in “Richard II.” (i. 3):
It is alluded to, also, in “Twelfth Night” (i. 1), where the Duke says:
Methought she purged the air of pestilence.”
While on this subject, we may quote the following dialogue from the same play (ii. 3), which, as Dr. Bucknill[610] remarks, “involves the idea that contagion is bound up with something appealing to the sense of smell, a mellifluous voice being miscalled contagious; unless one could apply one organ to the functions of another, and thus admit contagion, not through its usual portal, the nose:”
Insanity. That is a common idea that the symptoms of madness are increased by the full moon. Shakespeare mentions this popular fallacy in “Othello” (v. 2), where he tells us that the moon makes men insane when she comes nearer the earth than she was wont.[611]
Music as a cure for madness is, perhaps, referred to in “King Lear” (iv. 7), where the physician of the king says: “Louder the music there.”[612] Mr. Singer, however, has this note: “Shakespeare considered soft music favorable to sleep. Lear, we may suppose, had been thus composed to rest; and now the physician desires louder music to be played, for the purpose of waking him.”
So, in “Richard II.” (v. 5), the king says:
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.”
The power of music as a medical agency has been recognized from the earliest times, and in mental cases has often been highly efficacious.[613] Referring to music as inducing sleep, we may quote the touching passage in “2 Henry IV.” (iv. 5), where the king says:
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper music to my weary spirit.
Ariel, in “The Tempest” (ii. 1), enters playing solemn music to produce this effect.
A mad-house seems formerly to have been designated a “dark house.” Hence, in “Twelfth Night” (iii. 4), the reason for putting Malvolio into a dark room was, to make him believe that he was mad. In the following act (iv. 2) he says: “Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness;” and further on (v. 1) he asks,
Kept in a dark house?”
In “As You Like It” (iii. 2), Rosalind says that “Love is merely a madness, and ... deserves as well a dark-house and a whip as madmen do.”
The expression “horn-mad,” i. e., quite mad, occurs in the “Comedy of Errors” (ii. 1): “Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.” And, again, in “Merry Wives of Windsor” (i. 4), Mistress Quickly says, “If he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.”
Madness in cattle was supposed to arise from a distemper in the internal substance of their horns, and furious or mad cattle had their horns bound with straw.
King’s Evil. This was a common name in years gone by for scrofula, because the sovereigns of England were supposed to possess the power of curing it, “without other
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