A history of witches' brews
REQUIRING CHILDREN to memorize speeches from the Shakespearean repertory is a sure way of dissuading them from ever enjoying the Bard when they reach adulthood. These segments, remembered by rote, are rarely recalled in later life except, perhaps, as disconnected fragments. A phrase such as "double, double toil and trouble" may come to mind at odd moments; but only with intense concentration may it then bring up the further image of three witches casting poisoned entrails into their caldron.
It is a curious scene, with three witches talking in mystical terms of terrible things yet to happen ( Macbeth, Act IV, scene 1). Access to these visions of things to be is then facilitated by a distasteful assemblage of gory objects to be incorporated into their seething caldron. The often memorized words are as follows: Top Opinion stories:
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All Witches: "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble."
Second Witch: "Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble."
There then follows a recipe consisting of further ingredients for this sinister brew including scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, root of hemlock (dug in the dark) and sundry body parts of blaspheming infidels. The final, black concoction pleases Hecate who declares that it is now suitable for its evil purposes in hastening Macbeth's path to perdition.
Why did Shakespeare select these particularly abhorent objects for this witch's brew? Were they randomly selected names to achieve, perhaps, some felicitous rhyming? Were the ingredients arbitrarily chosen merely for their distasteful nature so as to evoke maximal squeamishness in his audience?
After all, each of these ingredients, by itself, represented something quite foreign to the daily experience of the average playgoer. But collectively, they served to create an atmosphere of evil mystery, especially if accompanied by appropriate incantations.
Shakespeare did not write his memorable plays in splendid isolation. His dramas reflected the fears, superstitions and prejudices of the early 17th Century populace; and, accordingly, each of the ingredients in this witch's brew were known for their alleged magical powers and some even represented standard preparations found on the shelves of any Elizabethan apothecary..
Take, for example, the eye of the newt. To the credulous West European alchemist, the living newt (or salamander) could withstand the effects of flames and hence became a symbol of fire, or at least incombustibility, and incorruptibility. Mention of the newt's eye, however, made this contribution to the witch's brew specifically emblematic of divine insight and enduring knowledge. A third eye, set in Shiva's forehead, bespoke of the Hindu god's capacity to perceive the future. Indeed, those deprived of an eye (and hence left with but one eye such as Wotan of Nordic legendry) were said to become all-powerful and blessed with uncommon vision. Even the back of the American dollar bill has a disembodied eye sitting at the apex of a pyramid. No self-respecting mystical concoction was therefore considered complete without the eye of a newt or lizard.
The addition of bits of tongue, either from an adder or hound, provided the concoction with the elements of boundless power. The sheer potency of the tongue is expressed scripturally: "Death and life are in the power of the tongue" (Proverbs 18:21). When the tongue is viewed metaphorically as an instrument of wickedness (the evil tongue) it again suggests that even an isolated fragment of tongue may be endowed with a potent life of its own.
The snake, or its more auspicious relative the serpent, is a necessary ingredient in any sorceress's brew. The serpent, a creature of darkness, typifies all of the malevolent qualities feared by the trusting human: coldness, guile, slitheriness, absence of soul and utter ruthlessness. In so many stories of creation, the serpent is the first creature embodying evil. In a few cultures, the Toltec for example, all of humanity is derived from the blood of a serpent injured by the talons of a giant bird. In Malaysia, the Batak peoples believe that a cosmic serpent occupies the Underworld of the dead and that pieces of this creature will give its possessor power to foretell the future. There is a curious myth that the infant Cassandra and her twin brother were once left unattended in the temple of Apollo. When the parents returned they found snakes licking their children. They screamed and the snakes slithered away. But both Cassandra and her brother demonstrated a gift of prophesy when they matured. If one survives an intimacy with snakes, it seems, one is then granted the capacity to foretell the future.
Hemlock is derived from the roots of a widely distributed plant variously known as water hemlock, poison parsnip or wild carrot. The cut root exudes a pungent fluid smelling vaguely like parsnip. In significant dosage, hemlock is a lethal poison causing somnolence, confusion, delirium and agonal seizures. The Athenians used draughts of hemlock as one of their means of capital punishment. (In 399 B.C., Socrates was put to death by hemlock ingestion for the crime of corrupting, through his teachings, the youth of Athens.) In smaller doses, hemlock was used for some nervous disorders of humans. By the 18th Century it was dispensed occasionally as a sedative.
John Keats (registered surgeon and sometime poet) wrote an ode to a nightingale that included the following line:
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my senses, as though of hemlock I had drunk. "
Keats as a licensed physician, was, of course, familiar with the pharmacologic effects of hemlock. Shakespeare's warning that the hemlock be dug in the dark reflects the common fear that those who dare to dig up botanicals such as hemlock or mandrake expose themselves to punishment unless they remove these roots under cover of darkness or have animals uproot them.
Vulnerable 17th Century plain folk, struggling with imponderables and uncertainties, desperately sought ways of foretelling what tomorrow might bring. The friendly neighborhood apothecary, just recently graduated from primitive alchemy, provided all manner of visionary herbs and brews. For simple clairvoyance such as next week's weather or the success of a marriage, there were simple concoctions. But for something as monumental as a Scottish thane's future, one needed a boiling caldron supervised by three ordained witches.
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Stanley M. Aronson, M.D., a weekly contributor, is dean of medicine emeritus, Brown University. |
