The Weapon Ointment.—Among the most famous nostrums, and a striking example of the great rôle played in therapeutics by mental influence and coincidence, is the Unguentum Armariam or Weapon Ointment. This famous remedy would cure any wound made by a weapon, if it could only be employed before the fatal effects were absolutely manifest. There was an abundance of evidence that it stopped the pain, checked the bleeding and initiated the restoration of the patient to health. We know the remedy not from traditions of its use among the uneducated, but from descriptions that we have by men who were among the best educated of their time, and that by no means an era of dullards. The story of this infallible remedy is all the more surprising because it was not applied to the wound itself, nor indeed to the sufferer at all, but to the weapon which inflicted the wound. Nay, it was well authenticated that, where the weapon could not be secured for inunction, if the ointment were applied to a wooden model of the weapon, the cure followed with almost, though, it was confessed by some, not quite so much assurance as in the fortunate case of the weapon being available.
The story has been so well told by Oliver Wendell Holmes in his "Medical Essays"8 that it seems best to retell it in abstracts from his "Homeopathy and Its Kindred Delusions." He says:
Fabricius Hildanus, whose name is familiar to every surgical scholar, and Lord Bacon, who frequently dipped a little into medicine, are my principal authorities for the few circumstances I shall mention regarding it. The Weapon Ointment was a preparation used for the healing of wounds, but instead of its being applied to them, the injured part was washed and bandaged, and the weapon with which the wound was inflicted was carefully anointed with the unguent. Empirics, ignorant barbers, and men of that sort are said to have especially employed it. Still there was not wanting some among the more respectable members of the medical profession who supported its claims. [Italics ours.] The composition of this ointment was complicated, in the different formulas given by different authorities; but some substances addressed to the imagination, rather than the wound or weapon, entered into all. Such were portions of mummy, of human blood and of moss from the skull of a thief hung in chains.
Hildanus was a wise and learned man, one of the best surgeons of his time. He was fully aware that a part of the real secret of the Unguentum Armarium consisted in the washing and bandaging the wound and then letting it alone. But he could not resist the solemn assertions respecting its efficacy; he gave way before the outcry of facts (!), and therefore, instead of denying all their pretensions, he admitted and tried to account for them upon supernatural grounds.
Holmes says further:
Lord Bacon speaks of the weapon ointment, in his Natural History, as having in its favor the testimony of men of credit, though, in his own language, he himself "as yet is not fully inclined to believe it." His remarks upon the asserted facts respecting it show a mixture of wise suspicion and partial belief. He does not like the precise directions given as to the circumstances under which the animals from which some of the materials were obtained were to be killed, for he thought it looked like a provision for an excuse in case of failure, by laying the fault to the omission of some of these circumstances. But he likes well that "they do not observe the confecting of the Ointment under any certain constellation; which is commonly the excuse of magical medicines, when they fail, that they were not made under a fit figure of heaven." It was pretended that if the offending weapon should not he had, it would serve the purpose to anoint a wooden one made like it. "This," says Lord Bacon, "I should doubt to be a device to keep this strange form of cure in request and use, because many times you cannot come by the weapon itself." And in closing his remarks on the statements of the advocates of the ointment, he says, "Lastly, it will cure a beast as well as a man, which I like best of all the rest, because it subjecteth the matter to an easy trial." It is worth remembering that more than 200 years ago, when an absurd and fantastic remedy was asserted to possess wonderful power, and when sensible persons ascribe its pretended influence to imagination, it was boldly answered that the cure took place when the wounded party did not know of the application made to the weapon, and even when the brute animal was the subject of the experiment, and that this assertion, lie as we all know it was, came in such a shape as to shake the incredulity of the keenest thinker of his time.
It is interesting to follow up some of the controversies among scientific men with regard to the weapon ointment, for they serve to show how the remedy came to maintain its prominence for so long. Podmore, in his "Mesmerism and Christian Science" (London, 1909), tells the story of the controversy between Goclenius, a professor of medicine at the University of Marburg, who published as the Inaugural Thesis for his professorship, a treatise on the "Weapon Salve," and Father Roberti, a Jesuit scientist and philosopher, whose final treatise in the controversy was entitled after the lengthy fashion of titles in that day, "Goclenius Corrected Out of His Own Mouth; or, The Downfall of the Magnetic Cure and the Weapon Salve." The decision of the controversy was eventually referred to the great physician of the time. Van Helmont, who decided that both disputants were partly wrong, the Jesuit erring most, but that above all Goclenius should distinguish between the cases when the weapon had blood on it and when it had not. When there is blood on the weapon, he held, then the salve is always effective; when there is not, then much stronger remedies were required. In both cases, of course, the salve or ointment was applied to the weapon.
In the midst of this discussion of the points at issue, it is interesting to note Van Helmont's opinion with regard to many curious things used in medicine at that time. He insists that Goclenius makes a mistake in attributing therapeutic power alone to the moss taken from the skull of a condemned criminal who had been hung in chains. This material, under the name of usnea, was apparently quite popular in prescriptions for various chronic ills, and especially those that we now recognize as prolonged neurotic affections. Van Helmont emphasizes the fact that the experience of all physicians shows that material taken from the heads of condemned criminals executed in other ways, as, for instance, those broken on the wheel, may be just as effective. Van Helmont conceived of the magnetic and sympathetic feeling as a natural process. All the force of the stars might be concentrated in objects that had been beneath their beams for a long time, and this might be communicated in some wonderful way to patients so as to supply defects of vitality. Such defects of vitality Van Helmont's prescriptions actually were compensating, but the source was in the patients themselves—that reservoir of surplus energy which remains unused unless some strong suggestion brings it out.
Sympathetic Powder.—After the weapon ointment, the best known of the nostrums of older times is probably Sir Kenelm Digby's famous Sympathetic Powder, which Dr. Holmes talks of as even better known than its great therapeutic predecessor. This, too, was a wonderworker. Unlike the Unguentum Armarium, however, its composition was simple. It was nothing else than copper sulphate which had been allowed to deliquesce to a white powder. This powder would cure any injury as infallibly as the weapon ointment. It, too, was not applied to the wound, but to the bloodstained garments (Van Helmont's distinctions between the bloody and the bright weapon should be recalled) of the wounded person. The patient did not need to be present at the time the application was made. He might be far away and yet its efficacy was, according to many very intelligent and highly educated persons, quite assured.
For the sympathetic powder we have one of the stories of far-fetched discovery that have since become so familiar. A missionary, traveling in the East, was said to have brought the recipe to Europe about the middle of the seventeenth century. The Grand Duke of Tuscany, in whose dominions the missionary took up his residence, heard of the cures performed by him and tried by offers of money and favor to obtain the missionary's secret, but without success. Sir Kenelm Digby, however, who was traveling in Italy, happened by good fortune to do a favor for the missionary, and put him under such deep obligations that he felt the only way he could properly repay his benefactor was to confide to him the composition of this wonderful remedy. Sir Kenelm