The Pope Steps In

Despite Hubert de Burgh's support of Henry III at the start of his minority reign, the two had fallen out and Hubert was in danger. Ultimately, a letter from the pope tried to resolve the situation.

Pope Gregory IX sent Henry a letter, chastising him for his treatment of Hubert who had been so loyal and helpful for so long. Henry did not want to disobey the pope: not only was he a faithful Christian, but his father, King John, had offered England as a vassal state to the papacy during his troubles, expecting that papal support would be enormously useful against his barons and France. Henry gave Hubert back his status as Earl of Kent, but only some of the lands he had formerly possessed.

In 1234, some of Hubert's enemies, including the king's former tutor, the French Peter des Roches, were dismissed from court (there was some anti-French feeling among the increasingly "English-oriented" Anglo-Norman country). This made Hubert's life even easier, until 1236, when the king found out about Richard de Clare.

Richard de Clare was the young Earl of Gloucester. In 1236 he was only 14 and the king's ward, but Henry had asked Hubert to raise him. While in Hubert's care, Hubert had married his daughter Margaret to Richard, although they were both children. This had been done without the king's blessing or his knowledge. The earldom of Gloucester was large and powerful, and Henry realized this alliance would potentially give more power to Hubert's family. Hubert's argument when called to court was that he was in sanctuary from the king's wrath at the time and had nothing to do with it. The king was ultimately convinced of Hubert's lack of involvement, but the marriage ended—we're not sure by annulment or Margaret's death. (Richard de Clare married Maud de Lacy, daughter of the Earl of Lincoln.)

Henry did not give up, however (we just don't know why he wanted so desperately to destroy Hubert). Hubert was accused by Henry of deliberately losing Poitou to the French, inappropriately seducing the Scottish princess who was his wife (his daughter Margaret's mother was Princess Margaret of Scotland, daughter of William the Lion and sister of Alexander II), and even attempting to assassinate Henry. Hubert's lawyer successfully defended him against all the charges. Hubert retired to his estates and stayed out of the public eye until his death on 12 May 1243. He had two sons from his first marriage, but they were not allowed to inherit the earldom, as it was limited to descendants of Hubert and his third wife, Margaret. They only had the one daughter.

In between those two was a second marriage, to the queen of England! That is a story worth telling next time.

The Fall of Hubert de Burgh.

Hubert de Burgh was one of the most important figures in England during the reign of Henry III. Not only had he helped ensure Henry would succeed his father, John; he had been Regent during Henry's minority, and Henry in gratitude had given him several properties and titles, even making his Chief Justiciar for life.

He had enemies, however, who were jealous or wary of his growing power. One was William Marshal, the most respected man for decades, who had in fact recommended Hubert as Regent. Another was the Frenchman Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester during the reigns of John and Henry and Henry's childhood tutor. A third was Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, who alternately worked with and opposed Hubert (as well as the king).

It was June of 1232 that Hubert's appointment as Justiciar of Ireland was made an appointment for life. But then, something happened, some incident that changed Henry's mind toward his biggest supporter. In July, Hubert was dismissed as Justiciar and replaced with Stephen de Seagrave, a close friend of Peter des Roches.

Whatever the turning point was, it was significant enough that Hubert feared for his life—or at least for his freedom. He fled to Merton Priory (where another courtier-and-friend-of-the-king who fell from grace had gone to school—and requested sanctuary (see illustration , from the Historia Anglorum of Matthew Paris). Henry wanted him dragged out physically, but this was opposed by his Chancellor, Ralph Neville.

Sanctuary had a time limit, however: forty days. Henry's soldiers were stationed outside of the chapel where Hubert sat, limiting how much food and drink could enter. When the forty days ended, Hubert was taken from Merton, imprisoned, and forced to surrender a large sum of money that he had left with the Knights Templar (who functioned as bankers because of their reliability and presence across Europe and the Middle East). Once he had the money in hand, Hubert was released into the custody of his fellow earls.

Later, Hubert's gentle captivity became more rough on the king's orders, and Hubert escaped and sought sanctuary again. The king had him dragged out of the church, but the bishops made such a fuss about violating sanctuary that Henry had to allow Hubert back in while the forty days passed. Again, the plan was to starve him out, but the tide of public opinion was turning.

His replacement, Stephen de Seagrave, turned out to be not a great replacement, and Peter des Roches administration was not well received. William Marshal's son, Richard Earl of Pembroke, plotted Hubert's escape. Hubert was taken to Marshal's castle of Striguil (also called Chepstow), between the Rivers Usk and Wye. This kept him well away from London and Henry, where Hubert could rest and recover for months.

Henry was wary of offending his earls: he was well aware of their desire for more independence from the Crown during his father's reign and his own. The resolution for their conflict came in a letter from the pope. I'll wrap up the saga of Hubert de Burgh tomorrow.

Hubert de Burgh

When King John of England died on the night of 18/19 October 1216, he was in the middle of warring with his barons, who wanted more control over the country to be vested in them instead of the king. This left his heir, his nine-year-old son Henry, in danger. One of John's retainers, the Chief Justiciar Hubert de Burgh, raced to Henry's side and took him to safety among those loyal to John, potentially saving his life from the barons who might have wanted to set up a different dynasty.

We aren't sure of Hubert's origin, although there are guesses about minor landholders in Norfolk. He had a brother William who made a name for himself in Ireland, a brother Geoffrey who became Archdeacon of Norwich and Bishop of Ely, and a brother Thomas who became castellan of Norwich.

Hubert, who was born probably about 1170, entered John's service by 1198, and was chamberlain of the household, an ambassador to Portugal, a sheriff in the early 1200s of Dorset and Somerset, Berkshire and Cornwall, and later of the Welsh Marches. During this time he was granted manors and castles.

Sent to France in part of the unending wars between the two countries, he defended Poitou against King Philip II, holding the castle of Chinon against French forces for a year until he was finally captured and held from 1205 until 1207. While imprisoned in France, John gave his gifts of real estate away to other men whom John needed to placate or reward. Once Hubert returned to England, he began to acquire through John other lands.

In 1215, with hostility between John and his barons at their peak, Hubert was one of the men who urged John to sign the Magna Carta and end the conflict. Soon after, Hubert was made Chief Justiciar of England and Ireland, essentially the prime minister. He continued at time to manage military campaigns; it was Hubert who captured the flagship of Eustace, the pirate monk.

Then came John's death. and Hubert saving the young prince. Hubert was named regent to the new king, and took over managing the ongoing war against the barons. Besides the barons, France was using the strife in England as an opportunity to attack. Hubert's primary role at this time was defending Dover Castle. Its position on the cost made it the doorway to England, and French forces under Prince Louis laid siege to it. A decisive victory of the royal army against the barons at the Battle of Lincoln meant the royal army could now march to Dover. Louis gave up.

 

In 1227, Henry came of age and made Hubert governor of Rochester Castle, lord of Montgomery Castle, and created a new earldom, Kent. A year later Hubert was named Justiciar for life. Things were going well, but there were three men who saw his increasing power and did not trust it, despite his loyal service. Next time we will look at his fall from grace.

Illiteratus

Things seemed to be going well for Ralph Neville, the Bishop of Chichester and Lord Chancellor for life. He had a nice new manor on New Street, appointments that brought him revenues, he was reforming the way Chancery and records-keeping were managed, and the monks of Canterbury Cathedral elected him Archbishop of Canterbury on 24 September 1231. There was opposition to this, from an important roadblock: Pope Gregory IX. Gregory declared Neville illiteratus.

Now, the term wasn't used the same way as it is today. At the time it did not mean he couldn't read and write, just that he was "unlearned." Many important positions were appointed from the clergy, and clergy were often university trained. Neville was not. In fact, there's no reason to believe he ever intended to be educated or a priest: he started a royal clerk under King John and was ordained to legitimize his lucrative appointment as Bishop of Chichester (arms shown to the left). Stephen Langton, the Archdeacon of Canterbury, described Neville as a courtier instead of a true priest.

With Canterbury denied him*, he was still secure in his positions at Chichester and as Chancellor. Or was he? He had been granted, by the king, the right of exemption from seizure of his possessions if he fell out of favor. King Henry also agreed not to interfere with Neville's will (yeah, the king could say "Hey! You cannot bequeath that property to someone else; I gave it to you and I'll decide where it goes once you're dead!").

Henry decided, however, to take away the Chancellor position in 1236. We're not sure why, but perhaps the courtier did not appear to support the king in all things. When Hubert de Burgh (mentioned here and an even more significant supportive figure in Henry's life) fell out with the king and sought sanctuary, Henry wanted him dragged physically out of the church to face punishment. Neville opposed the king on this. Neville also was elected, by the cathedral chapter of Winchester, as Bishop of Winchester. Henry had wanted them to elect William of Savoy, the Bishop of Valence, who happened to be the uncle of Eleanor of Provence, Henry's queen. There may have been other arguments.

Neville argued with Henry that, since the chancellorship had been given to him by the Great Council during Henry's minority, only the Great Council had the authority to take it away. Henry was able to deprive Neville of possession of the Great Seal, but Neville retained the title Chancellor. In May 1242, however, Henry went to France, and the Great Seal needed a responsible holder for official documents, so it went back to Neville temporarily. Although Henry returned from France in September 1243, the Great Seal along with Neville's signature is found on some documents after that date.

Neville died in the first week of February 1244 in his palace on New Street and was buried in Chichester Cathedral. 

Kings giveth, and kings taketh away. The falling out with Hubert de Burgh would have shocked many, considering how much Henry owed him, including (possibly) his life! I'll dig into that relationship tomorrow.

*...and by the way, the next two appointments were also squashed by Gregory, preventing a true Archbishop of Canterbury until 1240

Ralph Neville

Ralph Neville is an example of a powerful figure in Medieval English administration whose personal details are little known. He was ordained on 21 April 1224, and if that ere his first step onto a public stage it would have been likely that he was born about 1200, or not much before. Ordination would also have required a special dispensation, because he was known to be illegitimate.

Ordination was not his first step into adulthood, however; he had been a known quantity for some time, and ordination was merely a formality so that he could be given more positions.

We do not know when he was born, but in 1207 he was already a royal clerk under King John (1166 - 1216), and by 1213 he was entrusted with the Great Seal, used to show royal approval of documents. The Great Seal is usually held by the Chancellor, but the chancellor at the time was Walter de Gray, who was also Archbishop of York (successor of another illegitimate cleric—this one the son of a king—whose story was told here and here). Walter was a steadfast supporter of John, and there was a reason for having the Seal given to another, but maybe I'll save that for his story some day.

Anyway, Nevile was moving up in the ranks. In 1214 he was appointed to Chancery through the effort of one of King John's favorites and his son Henry's tutor, Bishop of Winchester Peter des Roches. After John's death, Neville remained at court, still holding the Great Seal as vice-chancellor under Richard Marsh. Marsh had been appointed Bishop of Durham and was off dealing with diocesan affairs, leaving Neville effectively running the administration of the kingdom, since King Henry was only ten years old.

Keep in mind that a bishop had access to revenues from all the lands in the diocese, so appointing someone a bishop was a greta gift—even if they did not do anything to administer to their diocese. Neville was ordained in 1224 so that he could properly be Bishop of Chichester, to which he had been appointed two years earlier! He, however, remained in London with the king, often ignoring requests to come to Chichester and manage disputes there.

His own appointment to Lord Chancellor came on 17 May 1226, with the promise that it would be for life. He started reforms in Chancery, evolving it into its own governmental department and not just a division of the king's household. The contemporary Matthew Paris praised him for fairness and transparency in his office.

He built a grand manor, the Bishop of Chichester's Inn, to the west of London proper on a street called New Street (but now Chancery Lane), a short walk north of the Domus Conversorum. All was going well, until he was elected Archbishop of Canterbury, the prime ecclesiastical position in England. His journey hit a speed bump in the name of Pope Gregory IX. I'll explain tomorrow.

"Taking Care of" the Jews

"Know that we, in the sight of God, and for our souls, and for the sake of our predecessors and heirs, have granted and confirmed by this our charter, for us and our heirs, eternally to God and to the glorious Virgin Mary, and to the church, the house of the converts which we founded in the suburbs of London. Namely, a village called New Street, in honor of the same Virgin, and to the converts who reside there and who will reside in the future, seven hundred marks to support those converts and to make the construction of their church and their buildings, to be received every year to our treasury, that is to say, one half to the Easter treasury, and another half to the treasury of St. Michael, until we or the heirs of the same converts shall provide more abundantly in lands or rents, assigned to them in a certain place, from which they can competently support themselves and their families to the honor of God and the aforesaid glorious Virgin."

This was the beginning of a charter by King Henry III (1207 - 1272) in January of 1232. It established a building to house Jews who were willing to convert. This was the Domus Conversorum, or "House of Converts." It was also referred to as the "Converts' Inn." A Warden was established to oversee the place and disburse funds.

As part of their conversion, they gave up all property except personal possessions such as clothing, and moved into the building. They were paid pauper's wages that amounted to 1.5 pence/day for a man, and 1 pence/day for a woman. They were required to attend Mass each day and pray for the king, his ancestors, and his descendants.

Complete records exist of the converts who entered. In 1232, there was one, Roger de Parton. In 1233, John of Lincoln entered. In 1234, for reasons unknown, there was a sudden influx of converts: William the Clerk; Matilda; Adam and Leticia of Norwich (who transferred from Shaftesbury Abbey, where supposedly they had converted and were living); Hugo of Norwich (he was baptized after entering); Emma of Ipswich; Mariota; Isabella of Canterbury; Johanna the Convert; Isabella of Bristol & son; siblings John and Johanna from Bristol; Alexander with his wife Goduse & their sons.

The last-named Alexander and family were ejected by the will of the converts themselves, for what transgressions we will never know. It shows, however, that the converts retained some agency. In fact, in later years, records show that the converts brought successful complaints to the king of their wages not being paid.

What did they do all day? They could work jobs outside the Inn, but if they made more than their weekly sum, the weekly sum was withheld. They could, therefore, treat their new situation as a life of leisure.

Some of the land for the site was taken from the gardens (more an outdoor area or yard than formally planted beds of flowers) of the Bishop of Chichester, whose manor was a couple minutes' walk up the road and on the opposite side of the street. I want to tell you about the then-current Bishop of Chichester, and illegitimate man who rose to some of the highest offices in England.

Misconceptions

Hollywood and the simplification of history studies in the lower grades have left most people with misconceptions about what the Middle Ages was like. Readers of this blog know better, of course, but let's summarize some of the medieval misconceptions.

How about the Church controlling everything and no one being allowed to think for themselves? The number of different religious movements—not all of them declared heresies—shows that there were different interpretations of his divinity "worked." There was no universal view, for instance, on abortion, nor on how the Jews should be treated. They were protected in some places, persecuted in others, and even given an opportunity to be housed and clothed on the king's budget.

Armored knights have conjured images of men who could barely move, and who were helpless if they fell. Texts of the time, however, tell us that a knight was trained to move and fight in armor and should be able to mount his horse without assistance, in some cases leaping onto it.

Table manners is a hot topic. Hollywood loves raucous scenes of meals where bones are thrown on floors, people are guzzling beer and spilling their drink, etc. The 15th century illustration above is called "The Temperate and the Intemperate." It shows two different sets of table manners: formal and informal. Some were neat, others not. Also, note the dog in the lower-right corner, watching; he would be acting differently if there were scarps making their way to the floor.

Peasant huts were filthy is another misconception. No one wants to live in squalor, and everyone knew that rubbish attracted vermin. Archaeological digs at sites of abandoned medieval villages show the dirt floors of peasant huts were like a shallow bowl. The logical conclusion is that they were swept so frequently and carefully to remove trash that the dirt floors were made concave.

Peasants had no money, only barter. It turns out that peasants in England could earn money by selling goods, beer, food. As I pointed out long ago here, unfree peasants could earn enough to buy their freedom and leave their lord's demesne and set up shop elsewhere. They often did not, however, choosing to use their funds to rent more land to farm to make more money.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to provide, each day, a small piece of forgotten history to ad another facet to the jewel that is our knowledge of the Middle Ages. Tomorrow, I'd like to expand on the link above about the king "taking care of" the Jews in London.

The Iron Maiden

This is a story told by Johann Philipp Siebenkees (1759 - 1796), a German philosopher. There was a mention of such a device in a 1756 edition of Johann Georg Keyssler's Travels through Germany, Bohemia, Hungary, Switzerland, Italy, and Lorrain - 1st edition, so it appears Siebenkees got the idea from somewhere.

Look up "Iron + Maiden + torture" (to exclude references to the musical group), and you'll find links to the "medieval torture device." The idea of a tax with spikes in which you'd put a human and then close the doors sounds "medieval" to most. The problem with that adjective is that there is no evidence that the Middle Ages used them. The earliest references don't appear until the 16th century.

On August 14, 1515, a German who had forged coins was tortured with a device called the Iron Maiden. It was a cabinet sized for a human, lined with spikes. As the doors were slowly shut, spikes penetrated the forger's body just enough to cause excruciating anguish but not enough to kill him. Crying in vain, the forger—according to the tale—lived two days.

In fact, there was a much earlier reference that might have inspired it, from no unlikely a source as Augustine of Hippo's City of God. In it, he describes a martyr whom the Carthaginians shut "into a tight wooden box, where he was forced to stand, spiked with the sharpest nails on all sides so that he could not lean in any direction without being pierced."

Such a device would not have been casually made or kept. You would expect it to be maintained by whichever lord had it made. We have plenty of remnants of torture devices, but the first iron maidens that exist today were not constructed until (drumroll) the 19th century! The first one appeared in Nuremberg (see illustration) no earlier than 1802. Several have been made since then, mostly as tourist attractions in castles and museums.

Most modern historians agree that the "Iron Maiden" as it is thought of was not only not medieval, but not a torture device used in any era.

While we're on the subject, tomorrow we'll look at some other medieval misconceptions. See you then.

The Honeymoon

So what is the origin of the word "honeymoon"? Was it a medieval term for the first month of marriage? Well, in times like these I turn to the Oxford English Dictionary, in which the earliest we see that phrase in English where we are certain it refers to the first month of marriage comes from 1592:

They were marryed: well that daye was past with dauncing and Honney moone it was for a moneth after.

This was written by a writer and playwright Robert Greene (1558-1592). There was an earlier entry. It was yet but hony moone. This is from John Heywood's A dialogue conteinyng the nomber in effect of all the prouerbes in the englishe tongue, 1st edition, 1546. It is likely that this is also the familiar use of "honeymoon." We simply don't know when the phrase was first used. The common notion in cases like this is to say "Well, it must have been around for awhile." Fine, but for how long? Marriages are pretty common, and writing about them is also pretty common, so not finding an earlier reference to a couple embarking on the "honey moon" should give us reason to pause in our assumptions.

Another theory about the origin is that newly married couples were gifted a month's worth of honey mead. I like it. Women were the brewers in the household, since they could stay in and work while the men farmed. A gift like this would allow her time to follow other home-making (baby-making) pursuits. I wish I could find a source for this.

Old English had a term, hony moone, but it refers to a moon during June. Now, perhaps they associated June with marriage, the way the Romans did (June being named after Juno and Juno being the goddess of marriages, and all that), but unless June was the only month that Anglo-Saxons got married...

Speaking of the Northern European types, I found one website that claimed the Norse word hjunottsmanathr meant honeymoon. I can see the resemblance, since "hjuno" looks like "Juno" and would be pronounced "hyuno" and sound a little like "honey." But...no. hjunott means "in hiding" and referred to spending time alone and away from others, celebrating your newly wedded bliss. 

St. Valentine and the Bees

We've covered bees and beekeeping a few times over the years, and honey has had its own entry, but I don't think we've mentioned why St. Valentine is considered the patron saint of beekeepers. Since we know so few facts about his life, we have to speculate.

It might have something to do with the fact that he became the patron of lovers and affianced couples. This is because he was accused of secretly performing Christian marriages at a time when Emperor Claudius Gothicus oppressed Christians in Rome. Since honey was considered an aphrodisiac, it became connected to lovers. We even have the word "honeymoon" to describe the period immediately following marriage when all is sweet. Love connected to honey connected to bees might have been enough.

A legend about Valentine—and most likely created later to reinforce his connection to lovers—is that he was a beekeeper himself. In The Golden Legend of Jacob Voragine, there is the following:

When Saint Valentine was brought in an house in prison, then he prayed to God, saying: Lord Jesu Christ very God, which art very light, enlumine this house in such wise that they that dwell therein may know thee to be very God. And the provost said: I marvel me that thou sayest that thy God is very light, and nevertheless, if he may make my daughter to hear and see, which long time hath been blind, I shall do all that thou commandest me, and shall believe in thy God. Saint Valentine anon put him in prayers, and by his prayers the daughter of the provost received again her sight, and anon all they of the house were converted.

This was compiled in the 13th century, a thousand years after Valentine. The Golden Legend was one of the most popular works for a couple centuries, and no doubt inspired many to embellish what they learned about saints' lives. One result was the link between Valentine and bees.

The later legend says that Valentine himself was a beekeeper, gently caring for them and talking to and blessing them with his prayers. The legend extends the story shared above, saying that the provost's daughter loved bees (tricky, when one is blind). This legend says that valentine talked to her about how to care for bees, training her to be a beekeeper, and she eventually regained her sight during this process.

Supposedly, some beekeepers will celebrate 14 February by placing wax candles and honey on the altar.

A casual search about the origin of the word "honeymoon" often turns up the idea that it started in the Middle Ages. That makes its origin fair game for this blog, and we will look into that and report back tomorrow.

Valentine

The legend of St. Valentine from the Golden Legend (compiled c.1260) was shared here long ago, but what were the facts as we know them, and how did this 3rd century clergyman become connected with lovers centuries later?

The first thing to realize is that there were three different Valentines mentioned in very early stories of martyrs. The earliest list of martyrs, called the Chronography (calendar) of 354, doesn't mention a Valentine at all (although funnily enough it was compiled by a man named Valentinus). The modern Catholic Encyclopedia, however, mentions three Saints Valentine connected to 14 February. One was a Roman priest, one the bishop of Terni, one a martyr who was persecuted on 14 February in Africa. The legend of the first two claim they were buried on the Via Flaminia, a road out of Rome. (Some eastern churches list even more Valentines.)

Although it is impossible now to reconcile the different (same?) early Valentines, the one we mean when we refer to him these days is generally considered a priest or bishop of Terni, Italy. He converted many people to Christianity, and was beheaded for refusing to renounce Christ. This was done in the year 269 on 14 February by the Emperor Claudius "Gothicus," who reigned from 268-270.

Other stories claim he defied the emperor by secretly performing Christian weddings. The story goes that the Roman army only conscripted single men, so Valentine's efforts enabled men to escape the draft. Also, Valentine would cut hearts out of parchment to give to the men to remind them of their cos and of God's love. Of course, part of the association with love and lovers is due to Geoffrey Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls, discussed yesterday.

There are many churches named after Valentine(s), and if all the saints relics were brought into one place, one night have to assume that there were, in fact, several saints and martyrs with that name. The skull shown above is displayed in the church of Santa Maria in Comedian, Rome.

Valentine is considered the patron of Terni in Italy, epilepsy (which he supposedly cured), and beekeepers; also, affianced couples, happy marriages, love.

So why beekeepers? I'll tell you that story tomorrow.

The Parliament of Fowls

Chaucer's Parlement of Foules had a very different purpose from the Conference of Birds by Attar of Nishapur that I discussed yesterday. Whereas Attar intended to educate the reader on the Sufi path to enlightenment in this world, Chaucer wanted largely to entertain, although one can argue that there is a theme of love and free will.

The narrator starts by lamenting that he does not know love himself. One day, while reading a book about a prophetic dream (Cicero's "Dream of Scipio"), he falls asleep and has his own dream in which the Roman general Scipio appears and leads him up through the celestial spheres to the temple of Venus, decorated with images of doomed lovers.

Passing through, they come to a garden where he sees Cupid making arrows, as well as several other allegorical figures connected to the quest for love (Pleasure, Adornment, Lust, Courtesy, Cunning). Here the personification of Nature is holding a parliament in which birds will choose their mates. Three male eagles try to make their cases for who should mate with the sole female eagle.

There is no conclusive winner in this debate. The other birds are getting restless, waiting for the eagles to finish, and want to lave. The turtledove tells them to wait and let the eagles' debate play out. Nature decides to speed things up by selecting a judge.

The male falcon is selected to judge the eagles' situation, and suggests (in chivalric-tournament style) a battle between the three. The goose speaks up and suggests that maybe the female eagle should be given the choice herself. The female eagle says she cannot make a decision, and would like another year to think about it. Nature agrees, and tells the males to stay faithful while waiting.

After this, all the other birds pair off and began to chatter and sing. The noise wakes up the narrator, who resumes reading.

The poem is 700 lines, but one line has been quoted in more scholarly (and mundane) periodicals than any other, and that is line 309-10:

For this was on Seynt Valentynes day,

Whan every foul cometh ther to [choose] his [mate],

...and again, starting at line 319:

This noble emperesse, ful of grace,

Bad every foul to take his owne place,

As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere,

Seynt Valentynes day, to [stand] there.

This is the earliest known reference to St. Valentine's Day being connected to the idea of love or choosing a mate. It may simply be that 14 February was warm enough that birds started being more active and building nests. There was a Medieval Warm Period when average temperatures were higher than they were after 1400, so mid-February might not be too great a stretch for spring activity.

Whatever the reason in Chaucer's mind, it gives us a reason to turn to St. Valentine, and get at the heart (pun intended) of this legend.

The Conference of the Birds

Probably the best-known work of the Sufi poet Attar of Nishapur is Manṭiq-uṭ-Ṭayr, called in English the Conference of the Birds. In it, birds from all over the world hold a conference to decide which of them should rule all the others. They turn to the wisest of the birds, the hoopoe, for advice. The hoopoe says they should go and ask the Simurgh. The Simurgh (pictured here) was a legendary bird of Persian mythology, like the phoenix. Attar makes its name a pun, because the phrase sī murğ means "thirty birds" in Persian. You'll see why this is significant.

The hoopoe tells the birds that to each the Simurgh they must cross seven valleys:

1. Valley of the Quest, where the Wayfarer begins by casting aside all dogma, belief, and unbelief.

2. Valley of Love, where reason is abandoned for the sake of love.

3. Valley of Knowledge, where worldly knowledge becomes utterly useless.

4. Valley of Detachment, where all desires and attachments to the world are given up. Here, what is assumed to be “reality” vanishes.

5. Valley of Unity, where the Wayfarer realizes that everything is connected and that the Beloved is beyond everything, including harmony, multiplicity, and eternity.

6. Valley of Wonderment, where, entranced by the beauty of the Beloved, the Wayfarer becomes perplexed and, steeped in awe, finds that he has never known or understood anything.

7. Valley of Poverty and Annihilation, where the self disappears into the universe and the Wayfarer becomes timeless, existing in both the past and the future.

The birds quail*, because they cannot imagine going through these valleys. Attar, of course, is trying to take his readers through the necessary stages of asceticism and purification that are the hallmarks of Sufism.

Some of the birds die of fright at the hoopoe's announcement. The rest start the journey anyway, but many don't make it due to hunger and thirst, or heat, or wild animals. Some just give up.

Finally, only 30 birds reach the Simurgh, to discover that they are the Simurgh, and that traversing the seven valleys has caused them to achieve success and become the pinnacle that they sought.

Although Attar wants the story to be entertaining, it became famous because of the symbolism that leads the reader through the stages to achieve enlightenment.

It would be difficult for a medievalist reading about this to not think about another poem in which all birds gather together, although their purpose for being together would be appalling to Attar. Next time we'll talk about Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls and the first recorded reference to a holiday that generates $10 billion in sales each year.

*Yes, that's an avian pun.

Pharmacist Turned Poet

Although little is known of his personal life, and he was not famous in his own lifetime, the Sufi poet known as Attar of Nishapur (c.1145 – c.1221) is commemorated in a National Day of Attar Nishapuri on 14 April. From rare contemporary comments and later mythologizing, here is what we think we know about him personally.

His full name was Abū Ḥāmid bin Abū Bakr Ibrāhīm. Born to a chemist, he was highly educated and became a pharmacist ("Attar" means "apothecary"), in which profession he attended to numerous patients. His patients would confide their troubles in him, which affected him deeply. Abandoning his profession, he traveled widely, meeting many people but especially Sufi philosophers, finally returning to his home town of Nishapur where he promoted Sufism, a religious practice found within Islam which is characterized by a focus on Islamic purification, spirituality, ritualism, and asceticism.

(By the way, Nishapur produced another famous Persian poet I have talked about in this blog, who died not many years prior to Attar's birth: Omar Khayyam.)

Attar wrote lyrical poems representing Islamic mysticism, biographies of famous Muslim mystics, and a few philosophical works. Although mentioned by contemporaries, he was not well-known in his lifetime, but some of his works survived so that they could be promoted in the 15th century. It is possible that he was "discovered" because of a comment by Rumi:

"Attar was the spirit,

Sanai his eyes twain,

And in time thereafter,

Came we in their train."

In another poem, Rumi wrote:

Attar travelled through all the seven cities of love

While I am only at the bend of the first alley.

The ideas infused in Attar's poetry reflect Sufi ideas: the soul is bound to the body and awaits its release to return to the source of spirit. This reunion can be attained in this life through purification and asceticism. He draws on many older works and history to explain his ideas.

In April 1221, Mongols invaded and slaughtered many in Nishapur, including the 78-year-old Attar. A mausoleum in Nishapur was built in the 16th century (pictured above is the mausoleum after a 1940 renovation).

His most famous poem is called (in English) The Conference of the Birds. I'd like to share it with you tomorrow.

The Persian Connection

Yesterday's post, "This Too Shall Pass," tells about a particular poem from the Exeter Book with the theme that sorrowful occurrences eventually pass away, so things get better. The saying "This too shall pass" is familiar to English speakers.

On 30 September, 1859, Abraham Lincoln used this expression while addressing the Wisconsin State Agricultural Society when he said:

It is said [redacted] once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations. They presented him the words: "And this, too, shall pass away." How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!

Seems straightforward, and yet it's now time to reveal the [redacted] portion. The words I left out are "an Eastern monarch." Huh? Why not the Western European source of the Exeter Book? One of the earliest translations into Modern English of passages from the Exeter Book was in 1842, the Codex Exoniensis by Benjamin Thorpe. Deor was included, but it seems clear that Lincoln (although widely read) did not get his theme from this work on Old English poetry.

It is likely that he got it from a more popular author, Edward FitzGerald. Known more as the author of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, FitzGerald had published a retelling of an old Persian fable, Solomon's Seal, in which a sultan requests of Solomon a motto for a signet that would be useful in both adversity and prosperity, and Solomon offers "This also shall pass away." The story also appears in Jewish folklore, where sometimes Solomon is the king who requests a motto.

Lincoln may have got it from Blackwood's Magazine (1817 - 1980), a British periodical that was also distributed in the United States and featured American authors. An early English appearance of this tale appeared in Blackwood's in 1848.

Ultimately, the saying's origin has been traced to Persian Sufi poets such as Rumi, Sanai, and Attar of Nishapur. In fact, Attar (c.1145 – c.1221) may be the earliest source, and we'll check him out tomorrow.

This Too Shall Pass

Yesterday's post told the story of Wayland Smith as told in the Völundarkviða. I mentioned the plight in which he left Böðvildr, the daughter of the king that had captured and crippled Wayland, and that she was used as an example in the poem "Deor."

"Deor" is an Old English lament from the c.10th century Exeter Book (pictured), the largest surviving collection of Anglo-Saxon poetry. The title of the poem does not exist in the manuscript; modern editors have given it that title, because the poem ends with the author naming himself.

The author (or the character created by a poet) was a poet and faithful retainer of a lord, but he has been replaced in the lord's favor with another poet. He reflects on his fate by writing about many others in the past who suffered defeats or tragedy. Each stanza ends with the stoic reflection that, since the mentioned calamity ultimately passed, his personal tragedy and sadness  may also pass. The line in Old English is þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg, which can translate simply to "that passed, this also may." If you recall that the letter þ=th, and æ=flat or short a, you could reliably pronounce the whole phrase yourself and see its connection to Modern English.

Because the poet refers to events of the past, the poem reinforces some legends we find in other sources. The opening stanzas cover Wayland and Böðvildr. Here they are, translated/interpreted by the poet Michael Burch:

Weland endured the agony of exile:
an indomitable smith wracked by grief.
He suffered countless sorrows;
indeed, such sorrows were his bosom companions
in that frozen island dungeon
where Nithad fettered him:
so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths,
bemoaning also her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She knew nothing good could ever come of it.
That passed away; this also may.

The final stanza explains the narrator's plight:

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I can say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors had promised me.
That passed away; this also may.

This notion of "this too shall pass" is an old one, one would think. The fact that it is found so eloquently in the Exeter Book would make you think that this is where it entered into the English language. In fact, Western Civilization got it from another part of the world, and we'll talk about that tomorrow.

Völundarkviða

Wayland Smith was a legendary figure in Germanic culture. The earliest and most-detailed origin for his legend is in the Völundarkviða (Old Norse: "The lay of Völund"), part of the Poetic Edda.

Wayland (Völundr) was the son of the King of the Finns; he had two brothers, Egil and and Slagfiðr. In one version, the three brothers spend nine years as lovers to three Valkyries. In one version, Wayland marries the Valkyrie Hervor and has a son, Heime. However gives him a ring before leaving him. 

Wayland was a master craftsman who gets captured while sleeping by King Niðhad of Sweden and forced to forge things for him. Niðhad cuts Wayland's hamstring tendons in order to prevent him from escaping (and curiously making him similar to Hephaestus, the god-smith of the Greeks). The ring given to Wayland by Hervor is given to King Niðhad's daughter, Böðvildr.

In another Greek parallel (I'm not saying these are intentional, but they do post-date the Greek myths), Wayland fashions a pair of artificial wings for himself and plots revenge. (The illustration is from Myths and Legends of All Nations by Logan Marshall.)

He kills the king's sons and makes items from the sons' body parts. He fashions goblets from their skulls, jewels from their eyes, and a brooch made from from their teeth. He sends these as gifts to Niðhad, Niðhad's wife, and Böðvildr. Wayland then seduces/rapes Böðvildr when she comes to him to repair the ring she was given. Wayland then flies to the king, explains what he has done, and flies away. Böðvildr appears to her father and claims she is pregnant, and that she could not resist Wayland because he is too strong.

The plight of Böðvildr is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon poem Deor, mentioned in the Exeter Book. It is used (believe it or not) as an example of things being "not so bad." I'll explain more tomorrow when I share the stoicism of Deor.

Wayland the Smith

Wayland was a legendary figure whose name and fame stretched across the entire Germanic world, referred to in stories from the Norse, Frisians, Germans, Anglo-Saxons, and more. The most detailed accounts are found in Old Norse sources, particularly a poem that is part of the Poetic Edda. The oldest (possible) reference is a gold solidus (see illustration) from c.575-600CE with a Frisian runic inscription ᚹᛖᛚᚪᛞᚢ, "wayland." (This might not refer to the legend, but rather a person with the same name.)

Other depictions that are clearly Wayland are found on some 8th/9th century carved stones called Ardre image stones, and an 8th century whale-bone chest called the Franks Casket.

Anglo-Saxon culture made frequent reference to the smith. In Beowulf, we are told the source of the hero's armor:

If the battle takes me, send back
this breast-webbing that Weland fashioned
and Hrethel gave me, to Lord Hygelac.
Fate goes ever as fate must. (lines 452-55, Heaney translation)

Another Anglo-Saxon poem, Waldere, mentions the hero's sword made by Weland. In Alfred the Great's translation of Boethius, he laments "What now are the bones of Wayland, the goldsmith preeminently wise?" Medieval romances often included swords made by Wayland.

A megalithic mound in the Berkshire Downs is known as Wayland's Smithy, about which was the legend that, if one left a horse tethered there overnight with a silver coin, the horse would be shod by morning.

More than just an image and symbol of smithing, the poem in the Poetic Edda, the Völundarkviða (Old Norse: "The lay of Völund"), tells that he was captured and crippled (similar to Hephaestus, the lame smith of the Greek pantheon) in order to be forced to work for a king. I'll tell you that story tomorrow.

Blacksmiths

Metalwork was important to the development of civilization, and blacksmiths in the Medieval Period were at the center of this development in each village or town.

The word itself derives simply from being a "smith" and working with "black" which referred to black iron, as opposed to goldsmiths or silversmiths. (A goldsmith was such a high-profile profession that the surname Goldschmidt still exists.)

Blacksmiths needed a variety of tools: an anvil, a hammer, and a set of tongs at the very least. They also developed other tools for shaping metal. They also needed a very hot fire. Iron had a very high melting point, so the smith's goal was to heat the iron sufficiently to make it "plastic" so it could be hammered into shape. This was not a quick process, so required endurance and strength.

The heating required charcoal—a lot of it—which had a benefit that was noted if not completely understood. The repeated thrusting of raw iron into the fire to keep it malleable produced a stronger and more durable metal object. The smith might have seen the outcome as the result of more repeated hammerings, but the truth was understood only much later: greater exposure to the hot charcoal added carbon (perhaps only from 0.5-2%) to the iron, as well as removing oxygen, making it stronger and less likely to crack or rust. This improved daggers and swords and armor.

Of course, it wasn't all about armor and weapons. Blacksmiths made tools, door hinges, axles for carts, hooks and hangers and sconces, pots and pans, locks and keys, horseshoes and harness, and any of the myriad items needed in daily life that could not be efficient if made of wood.

Men were not the only smiths. In 1346, Edward III of England appointed Katherine Le Fevre to "keep up the king’s forge within the Tower and carry on [its] work … receiving the wages pertaining to the office." In the early 1300s, an Alice la Haubergere worked in Cheapside in London, making armor. In York in 1403, Agnes Hecche inherited her father's chainmail equipment after he died, and continued the family business.

One of the best-known smiths in history, however, was the Anglo-Saxon legend of Wayland Smith, of whom we shall learn more next time.

Early Metal Working

The blacksmith or metalworker in the Middle Ages was a highly respected craftsman. The results of the blacksmith's skill were so important to society that many pantheons had a god of blacksmithing, or at least a legendary figure, such as Hephaestus among the Greeks, Goibhniu in the Tuatha Dé Danaan cycle, or Govannon in the Welsh Mabinogion. The Anglo-Saxons had the legendary Wayland Smith. Even the Bible mentions Tubal-Cain in the book of Genesis as the first blacksmith.

Metalworkers originally worked with gold, silver, and copper, which are all found in their native states as pure metals. They are also fairly malleable, and so could be shipped and hammered relatively easily into whatever was wanted—mostly small decorative objects like jewelry. Phoenician trade brought together tin from Cornwall and copper from Cyprus and the discovery that a mixture produced a stronger metal with a lower melting point we call bronze, making it easier to shape into larger objects that would be stronger, such as a weapon.

The so-called Iron Age came about around 1500BCE, when the Hittites in the Middle East began working with iron, much of which was embedded in other ores. (Many early peoples first used iron found in meteor deposits, where the iron was mixed with up to 40% nickel.) The armor and weapons of The Iliad are bronze, but Homer refers to arrowheads as iron. At the time of its composition (or its later revision), iron was known, but was not being easily worked into larger items.

One difficulty with iron compared to previous metals is that its melting point is very high (2800°F), and so the heat produced by the blacksmith could soften it so that it could be hammered and shaped, turning it into a liquid to pour into a mold was not within the power of most forges. If a village had a blacksmith, it likely only had one. On the other hand, a village without a blacksmith was in a sad state. Smithing was a necessary craft for the functioning of the Middle Ages. It was one of the seven essential Artes mechanicae (to parallel the seven Liberal Arts).

Tomorrow we'll look at the medieval blacksmith in more detail, and the men and women who were employed in this important trade.

Arderne's Medical Manual

John Arderne (1307 - 1392), of whom I first wrote many years ago, has been called the father of English surgery. He earned this by producing a manual in Latin that was copied into English and widely used.

Although we know little of his personal life except that he practices in Nottinghamshire and London, his broad knowledge suggests someone who traveled and had a variety of experiences. Since he lived through the Black Death and the Hundred Years' War (during which he saw action in France), he had plenty of opportunities to learn about and deal with a wide variety of illnesses and injuries.

In 1370 he wrote the Practica Chirurgiae ("Practice of Surgery"), in which he detailed many of his techniques and boasted a for-his-time astonishing survival rate of 50%. There are not only detailed instructions, but detailed illustrations of the parts of the body being operated on, as well as illustrations of the instruments (many of which he designed) used.

More than the practical side of things, however, he gave advice to the surgeon open dress and behavior. He urged the university-trained doctor to dress the part, rather than wear the limited short (above the knee) robe of the typical "barber surgeon" (educated in a guild), to appear more important. Barber surgeons were looked down upon, and he advises his readers not to share techniques with them, lest they usurp the position of the university-educated surgeon. In a later century, in Paris, a distinction was made with the titles "Surgeons of the Short Robe" (who could offer their services never having taken an exam or proved their knowledge) and "Surgeons of the Long Robe."

Arderne's advice went beyond haughty classism, however. He also advised a pleasant bedside manner: the doctor should be able to tell tales "that may make þe pacients to laugh" and tales from the Bible to "make or induce a liȝt hert[light heart] to þe pacient or þe sike [sick] man." He should also, when speaking to a patient, not confuse him with complicated terms or harsh language:

“be the wordeȝ short, and, als mich as he may, faire and resonable and withoute sweryng”

make the words short, and, as much as he may, faire and reasonable and without swearing.

He felt that wealthy patients should be charged as much as possible, but poor patients treated for free.

More than 50 copies of his Practica exist today; 36 of them are copies with the original 250 illustrations. The expense of reproducing so many illustrations was significant, but it is a testimony to how valuable the work was considered to be. The illustrations were not only important to show how the body was being treated, but to understand the use of the instruments. These tools of the trade were not readily available, and had to be custom-made. I feel not enough has been said about the relationship of people with specific requests to the metal-workers of the age, so tomorrow let's talk a little about the blacksmith trade.

The Father of English Surgery

John of Arderne (1307 - 1392) was an innovative English surgeon who devised a number of cures and procedures and is considered the first English surgeon.

He grew up in Newark-on-Trent, which in his lifetime was a fairly large town. It is believed he attended the University of Montpellier; if so, then he may have been exposed to the Practica Chirurgia of Roger Frugard. He was in London in 1370, and was active in the Hundred Years' War in the regiment of Henry Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster, and John of Gaunt (King Edward III's son and Henry's son-in-law). (Incidentally, this would put him in the orbit of a young Geoffrey Chaucer.) He remained an employee of Gaunt.

War creates injuries, and this is where surgeons are most needed and are given opportunities to come up with new ideas for treating people. Long stretches bouncing on horseback can be damaging and lead to an issue now called a pilonidal cyst, but described by Arderne as a fistula in ano ("fistula in anus"). A fistula is a connection between two parts of the body that don't normally connect. You can learn more about this and Arderne's painful-but-successful treatment in this post.

But perhaps not so painful. Arderne knew of the soporific and nerve-deadening effects of opium, and prescribed it so that the patient "shal sleep so that he shal feel no cutting." To the opium he would add hemlock and henbane. He would apply this topically via an enema, and also use it on arrow wounds to deaden the pain while they were extracted.

His innovations were not just in what he was able to do for patients, but also in the profession itself. He believed, for instance, that wealthy patients should be charged what the market would bear, but poor patients should be treated for free. He also suggested ways to con duct oneself as a surgeon, and what to wear. The frontispiece for one of his manuscripts (shown above) shows him dressed in the robes of a university doctor, elevating the status above that of the more mundane "barber surgeon" who (because they possessed razors) were used to quickly treat war-related amputations, blood-letting, and (of course) hair-cutting. Because of the messiness involved, barber surgeons wore short robes. Arderne advised against this, urging his followers to distinguish themselves from the less-educated barbers.

More than 50 medieval manuscripts exist today with his texts, most with multiple illustrations as well. I'll share more of his guide for successful surgeons tomorrow.

Roger Frugard's Chirurgia

Roger Frugard (pre-1140 - c.1195) was also known as Rogerius, and sometimes called Roger of Salerno because he taught and worked at the hospital there (but not to be confused with the Roger of Salerno who was a regent of Antioch during the Crusading period). We don't know much about his life, but c.1180 he produced Practica Chirurgia ("The Practice of Surgery") with a no-nonsense approach to the subject.

Rather than write long pre-ambles, quoting Hippocrates or Galen or other surgeons and doctors on which much of 12th-century surgical knowledge was based, he gives clear and brief explanations for how to treat different illnesses and injuries. His writing provided the first Western European practical manual for teaching surgery. It was duplicated and used in universities at Bologna and Montpelier. Besides describing surgical techniques, he also described how medicines were prepared and applied, and how to diagnose illnesses. He was the first to use the word "lupus" to describe a rash that appeared on the cheeks.

In the 13th century, an Anglo-Norman translation was made and illustrated (above you see the dispensary and a doctor instructing his students). Though written in French, it was likely written in England because English terms are used throughout the text. This manuscript is now in the Trinity College Library collection. One of the delights of the illustrations is the facial expressions given to the patients, indicating the level of (dis)comfort they are going through. Also, surgical instruments are drawn with admirable accuracy.

(There are errors, however, due to sloppy reading of the text. One illustration is supposed to depict a condition that causes a blackened tongue, but the illustrator painted the tongue red. In another section on nasal polyps, the copyist did an "eye skip" where, while looking from original to copy, his eye skipped to a later occurrence of a word he just wrote, omitting the section in between. These errors can be determined by comparison to other manuscripts, and show that the copyist was not paying close attention to textual comprehension.)

Medieval surgeons were always looking for new ways to treat injury:

For example, it is believed that Roger of Salerno may have originated a technique for detecting a tear in the dura or cerebral membrane in skull fractures. Now known as the Valsalva maneuver, the doctor would have his patient hold their breath, introducing pressure into the skull, and the doctor would watch for air bubbles or cerebrospinal fluid leaking from the skull. Additionally, Roger was a pioneer in the treatment of nerve damage, advocating reanastomosis – the realignment of damaged tissue by surgical means – to repair severed nerves. [source]

The illustration of the dispensary above is in the section about treating fistula. This brings us to one of the most painful and "icky" treatments, but also to one of my favorite figures in medieval medicine, John Arderne, whom I'll tell you about tomorrow. 

Medieval Surgical Procedures

Yesterday's post took a turn toward a particular surgical procedure, so I thought we'd talk a little more about that topic. What procedures were known and practiced with evidence of patient survival, back when doctors believed in the Four Humors of Hippocrates? I have talked about medicine numerous times, so here I want to focus on actual invasive practices with instruments.

Purging was one of the most common forms of surgery, piercing a vein to let out blood because a person's fever or angry nature indicated an excess of blood.

Amputation was another fairly common practice when a limb was so damaged by accident or warfare that there was no chance of it healing. Unfortunately, surviving an amputation was not always assured. An interesting article by the National Library of Medicine points out early art of people with crutches that supports their educated medical opinion that a leg amputation was only likely to survive if it were below the knee. Above the knee amputation led to too much bleeding. [link] Presumably amputations of smaller parts—toes, fingers, arms up to elbows—were less of a problem.

Related to amputation was cautery/cauterization, sealing off blood vessels by heating iron and pressing it to the wound. In an ideal situation, the wound was sealed, bleeding was stopped, infection did not occur, and the patient would survive. Even in this situation, however, the process caused intense pain, especially if you accepted the treatment for hemorrhoids that involved inserting a hot poker. This did not work, nor did the non-surgical suggestion of going to sit on the rock where St. Fiacre was cured of hemorrhoids. [link] (Maimonides finally wrote a seven-chapter treatise on the subject ultimately suggesting a good soak in a bath.)

Dental surgery was not unknown. Toothache was a major problem in the Middle Ages, and extractions were common. Situations arose, however, whose descriptions suggested the client had oral cancer. Roger Frugard (pre-1140 - c.1195), a surgeon in Salerno, wrote a Practica Chirurgia ("Practice of Surgery") in which he describes cancer in the jaw:

"if the flesh is hard, perforated and blackened' ('Si la char est dure, perse e anercie') cancer ('cancre') of the mouth was difficult to cure."

He describes cutting into the healthy flesh around the hard cancer, cauterizing the wound, and sealing it with muel de oef ("egg yolk"!).

Trepanning—boring a hole in the head to relieve pressure—is the oldest surgical procedure for which we find evidence: Skulls—many hundreds of them—that were trepanned have been found dating back 7000 years ago and more, with evidence of healed bone around the edges showing that the patient lived. The circumstances under which it was decided to drill a hole in the cranium are unknown.

Cataracts were originally dealt with by using a thick needle to push the cornea back. Islamic medicine came up with a better solution: a thin hypodermic needle inserted through the white part of the eye to extract the obstructing cataract material.

The illustration above is from a later manuscript copy in the Trinity College Library of Roger Frugard's Practica Chirugia that has many illustrations that help explain his techniques. Let's learn a little more about him and them tomorrow.

About Preventing Children

Folk in Classical and Medieval times developed many methods for avoiding getting pregnant, but sometimes the inevitable happened. The Bible's statement to "be fruitful and multiply" made the Church's stance on aborting a pregnancy clear, but the rest of the culture did not always see it that way.

Avicenna (c.980 - 1037) offered this reasoning:

At times it may be necessary to induce abortion; that is, when the pregnant woman is young and small and it is feared that childbirth would cause her death, or when she suffers from a disease of the uterus or when a fleshy growth in the uterus makes it very difficult for the fetus to emerge. Also when the fetus dies in the womb of the woman. Know that when labour continues for four days it means that the fetus is already dead.

Methods of abortion could be dangerous to the women as well. Hippocrates had refused to use abortifacients because of the danger they posed to the mother. The early Church stated that women who abort a child should be exiled from the church. A synod in 314 modified that to 10 years of exile. The Church Father Basil the Great later softened that, saying it should be less if the woman shows repentance.

In another case, a woman was sentenced to death for aborting her child precisely because she did it with malicious intent to prevent her husband (whom she had come to hate) from having an heir. Roman law allowed that, if a woman were to do the same thing for the same reason but it post-divorce, then she should only be exiled.

The Church Father St. John Chrysostom criticized abortions, but gave the example of a sex worker who needed to abort a pregnancy or else she would lose her livelihood. He goes so far as to blame her male client, who was responsible for getting her pregnant, as the real murderer.

A 9th century Byzantine author of a biography of a Greek Patriarch Ignatios tells the story of a woman with a breech birth who is in intense pain. The doctors prepare for an embryotomy (removing the baby by cutting it into parts and removing them). The 6th-century Bishop Paul of Mérida, who trained as a doctor in his youth, doesn't scruple to perform an embryotomy to save a woman's life.

That late-term abortions can find their way into accounts of religious lives and can be justified by Christian saints suggests a very different attitude toward the health and safety of the mother than is sometimes taken these days.

Embrotomies would have been difficult for the surgeon and the patient. Let's talk next about some of the other surgical practices that were employed in the Middle Ages. 

Avoiding Pregnancy

Yesterday we talked about medieval parents having large families. Today we're going to talk about preventing large families. Although Canon Law insisted that sex was solely to be engaged in for procreation, in the "real world" that was not a feasible attitude. (Pope Gregory IX even stated that marriages entered into intending not to have children were ipso facto null.) There were, therefore, plenty of instances where becoming pregnant was not a desirable outcome of sex. Therefore, methods were devised for avoiding pregnancy.

The simplest one was for the woman to track her menstruation. Lack of menstruation could lead to pregnancy, so either knowing reliably when menstruation would occur or inducing it was one method. Herbal remedies were often readily available around the house as prophylactics against pregnancy. Parsley, Queen Anne's Lace,* and Pennyroyal were considered effective in inhibiting fertility.

Another way to prevent pregnancy was by inserting something into the cervix. Lacking modern IUDs, Avicenna's Canon of Medicine suggests mint "in there" would prevent conception. Aristotle taught that rubbing the womb with cedar oil, lead ointment or incense, mixed with olive oil, would prevent the sperm from coming in contact with the woman. (The lead ointment had other damaging effects.) Also, wooden blocks were not uncommon, and very uncomfortable.

One could try to prevent the sperm from reaching its goal through a barrier, or one could try to kill the sperm. Medieval and Classical spermicides included inserting a cloth after the act that was soaked in vinegar, or honey, or grated acacia leaves soaked in honey (the sap in acacia is spermicidal).

Another way to "avoid pregnancy" is to pretend one is not pregnant. I grew up understanding the meaning of the phrase "she's gone to her sister's" to explain a long absence.

A French novel (only a little later than the Middle Ages) has advice to a teenage girl about sex, and assures the girl that getting pregnant unexpectedly is easily managed, but not by abortion:

...moreover, to remove any worry, there is one more thing to consider, it is that this mishap is not so extraordinary that one should fear it so much. There are so many pregnant girls who never attract notice, thanks to certain corsets and dresses made to order, which they use, and which do not prevent them from having a good time with those who made them pregnant.

...and during that interval, you can simulate illness, trips, pilgrimages. When the time comes, you will identify a midwife who is obliged in conscience to keep the fact hidden. [L'Escole des Filles]

If the calendar was off, if contraception didn't work, then eliminating the fetus was the next step, but we'll look at that grisly topic tomorrow

*The name is for Anne, Queen of Great Britain (1665 - 1714); earlier names would have been "bishop's lace" or "bird's nest" or simply "wild carrot."