Family Medicine circa 1692

Medicinal Experiments

Maynard Mack (1909-2001), Alexander Pope: A Life (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1985), pp. 15-16:

But even such prescriptions pale beside many of those receiving sanction from the distinguished chemist Robert Boyle in his Medicinal Experiments of 1692, one of the most popular family handbooks of the period. Among other recipes more palatable, one for sore throat, as common an ailment among children then as now, proposes “a drachm of white dog’s turd” worked up with honey of roses into “a linctus, to be very slowly let down the throat.” Another—”For Convulsions, especially in Children”—requires ground dried earthworms fortified with “a pretty number of grains of ambergrease” to moderate the stench. A third—”For the Cholic and diverse other Distempers”—features an infusion made of “four or five balls of fresh stone-horse dung” steeped in a pint of white wine, to be drunk “from a quarter to half a pint” at a dose. Easily the Mount Everest and Mona Lisa among these unappealing remedies is the following, used “To clear the Eyes, even of films”: Take human fecal matter “of good Colour and consistence,” dry it slowly “till it be pulverable,” then reduce it “into an impalpable powder, which is to be blown once, twice, or thrice a day … into the patient’s Eyes.”

Hypatia and Her Lover

An excerpt from the journal of Basile Yanovsky, M.D. reprinted in Michael Rubin, Men Without Masks: Writings from the Journals of Modern Men (Addison-Wesley, 1980), p. 206:

A woman philosopher and religious teacher of the fourth century, Hypatia of Alexandria, had a striking discussion with her lover. To discourage his earthly temptations, she addressed him, at the most passionate moment of their relations, in the following manner: “See what it is you adore, Archytas, this foul matter, this corruption, with its secretions, its excrements and its infections. . . .”

But the tenacious and passionate Archytas gave her this answer: “It is not matter I love, but form.”

How many times, discouraged and depressed in the V. D. clinic, have I repeated these saintly words of Archytas. . . .

In the New York Review of Books, in Veni, Vici, V. D., W. H. Auden reviews Dr. Yanovsky’s The Dark Fields of Venus: From a Doctor’s Logbook.

Identify the Quotation!

Who said it? A post-liberal, an anti-liberal, Carl Schmitt?

Blood rises up against formal understanding, race against the rational pursuit of ends, honor against profit, bonds against the caprice that is called 'freedom,' organic totality against individualistic dissolution, valor against bourgeois security, politics against the primacy of the economy, state against society, folk against the individual and the mass.

 

Travel and the Indifference of Places

Malcolm Pollack writing from Ha Long Bay, near Hanoi, Vietnam:

. . . mainly I’m writing just now to note how little enthusiasm I have for travel these days. I’ve been all over the place in my lengthening life (I’ll be 69 in April), and more and more it seems to me that every place is, well, just some other place, and that gallivanting around is increasingly just exhausting and distracting. The world outside seems increasingly finite in comparison to what can (and should) be explored within — and once you’ve scratched the youthful itch of restlessness the trick, I think, is just to find someplace you like well enough, and to make yourself at home.

I could not agree more.  

You may enjoy Three Reasons to Stay Home.

Of travel I've had my share, man. I've been everywhere.

Misplaced Moral Enthusiasm

Languishing in the archives of one of the early versions of this weblog is a post bearing the above title. I shall have to resurrect, refurbish, and re-post it.  An excellent recent example of misplaced moral enthusiasm is well-described in Spring the Felon, Kill the Squirrel.

This short article may help you leftists understand why you lost big yesterday.  Some forms of leftism are border-line respectable, but the wokeassery of Kamalism is not one of them.

RelatedFrom Gunman to Squirrel Man: Bernie Goetz Thirty Years Later

You do remember Bernie Goetz, don't you?

William James had a squirrel problem. You are aware of it, are you not?

If you like to think, you'll like my blog. If you don't like to think, you need my blog.

The Ever-Increasing Frenzy, Tension, and Explosiveness of this Country

Try to guess when the following was written, and by whom.  Answer below the fold:

Ever increasing frenzy, tension, explosiveness of this country. You feel it in the monastery with people like Raymond. In the priesthood with so many upset, one way or another, and so many leaving.  So many just cracking up, falling apart. People in Detroit buying guns. Groups of vigilantes being formed to shoot Negroes. Louisville is a violent place, too. Letters in U. S. Catholic about the war article. — some of the shrillest came from Louisville. This is a really mad country, and an explosion of the madness is inevitable. The only question — can it somehow be less bad than one anticipates?  Total chaos is quite possible, though I don't anticipate that. But the fears, frustrations, hatreds, irrationalities, hysterias, are all there and all powerful enough to blow everything wide open. One feels that they want violence.  It is preferable to the uncertainty of 'waiting.' 

 

Continue reading “The Ever-Increasing Frenzy, Tension, and Explosiveness of this Country”

A Platonist at Breakfast

Amazing what one can unearth with the WayBack Machine. This one first saw daylight on 3 March 2005. 

…………………………

I head out early one morning with the wife in tow. I’m going to take her to a really fancy joint this time, the 5 and Diner, a greasy spoon dripping with 1950's Americana. We belly up to the counter and order the $2. 98 special: two eggs any style, hashbrowns, toast and coffee. Meanwhile I punch the buttons for Floyd Cramer’s Last Date on the personal jukebox in front of me after feeding it with a quarter from wifey’s purse.

"How would you like your eggs, sir?" "Over medium, please."

The eggs arrive undercooked. Do I complain? Rhinestone-studded Irene is working her tail off in the early morning rush. I’ve already bugged her for Tabasco sauce, extra butter, and more coffee. The service came with the sweetest of smiles. The place is jumping, the Mexican cooks are sweating, and the philosopher is philosophizing:

"If it won’t matter by tomorrow morning that these eggs are undercooked, why does it matter now?"

With that thought, I liberally douse the undercooked eggs with the fine Louisiana condiment, mix them up with the hashbrowns, and shovel the mess into my mouth with bread and fork, chasing it all with coffee and cream, no sugar.

Who says you can’t do anything with philosophy?