Drugs on the Page: Pharmacopoeias and Healing Knowledge in the Early Modern Atlantic World

DRUGS on the PAGE

PHARMACOPOEIAS and HEALING KNOWLEDGE in the EARLY MODERN ATLANTIC WORLD

Edited by Matthew James Crawford & Joseph M. Gabriel

UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa., 15260

Copyright © 2019, University of Pittsburgh Press

All rights reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

Printed on acid-free paper

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Cataloging-in-Publication data is available from the Library of Congress

ISBN 13: 978-0-8229-4562-8

ISBN 10: 0-8229-4562-2

COVER ART: Theodor De Bry, How the Indians Treat Their Sick. 1591. In Brevis Narratio Eorum Quae in Florida Americae Provi[n]cia Gallis Acciderunt : Secunda in Illam Navigatione, Duce Renato De Laudo[n]niere Classis Praefecto, Anno MDLXIIII . . ., by Jacques Le Moyne De Morgues. Francoforti Ad Moenum: Typis Ioan[n]is Wecheli, Sumtibus Vero Theodori De Bry, Venales Reperiu[n]tur in Officina S. Feirabe[n]dii, 1591

COVER DESIGN: Joel W. Coggins

ISBN-13: 978-0-8229-8683-6 (electronic)

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction. Thinking with Pharmacopoeias

MATTHEW JAMES CRAWFORD & JOSEPH M. GABRIEL

PART I. Pharmacopoeias and Textual Traditions

1. Pharmacopoeias and the Textual Tradition in Galenic Pharmacy

PAULA DE VOS

2. Authority, Authorship, and Copying: The Ricettario Fiorentino and Manuscript Recipe Culture in Sixteenth-Century Florence

EMILY BECK

3. An Imperial Pharmacopoeia? The Pharmacopoeia Matritensis and Materia Medica in the Eighteenth-Century Spanish Atlantic World

MATTHEW JAMES CRAWFORD

PART II. Pharmacopoeias and the Codification of Knowledge

4. Beyond the Pharmacopoeia? Secret Remedies, Exclusive Privileges, and Trademarks in Early Modern France

JUSTIN RIVEST

5. Crown Authorities, Colonial Physicians, and the Exigencies of Empire: The Codification of Indigenous Therapeutic Knowledge in India and Brazil during the Enlightenment Era

TIMOTHY D. WALKER

6. Imperfect Knowledge: Medicine, Slavery, and Silence in Hans Sloane’s Philosophical Transactions and the 1721 London Pharmacopoeia

WILLIAM J. RYAN

PART III. Pharmacopoeias and the Construction of New Worlds

7. The Flip Side of the Pharmacopoeia: Sub-Saharan African Medicines and Poisons in the Atlantic World

BENJAMIN BREEN

8. Consuming Canada: Capillaire du Canada in the French Atlantic World

CHRISTOPHER PARSONS

9. Rethinking Pharmacopoeic Forms: Samson Occom and Mohegan Medicine

KELLY WISECUP

PART IV. Pharmacopoeias and the Emergence of the Nation

10. National Identities, Medical Politics, and Local Traditions: The Origins of the London, Edinburgh, and Dublin Pharmacopoeias, 1618–1807

STUART ANDERSON

11. The Codex Nationalized: Naming People and Things in the Wake of a Revolution

ANTOINE LENTACKER

12. Indian Secrets, Indian Cures, and the Pharmacopoeia of the United States of America

JOSEPH M. GABRIEL

Afterword. The Power of Unknowing: Early Modern Pharmacopoeias and the Imagination of the Atlantic

PABLO F. GÓMEZ

Notes

Bibliography

Contributors

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THIS VOLUME has benefited from the support and encouragement of many people. Financial support for the project was provided by the American Institute of the History of Pharmacy and the George Urdang Chair in the History of Pharmacy endowment fund at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. We would like to think Greg Higby at the AIHP and David Mott, Michelle Chui, Kevin Look, Olayinka Shiyanbola, Betty Chewning, and Kristen Huset for their support, and for making the Division of Social and Administrative Sciences at the University of Wisconsin–Madison School of Pharmacy a hospitable and intellectually stimulating place to work. Financial support was also provided by the Department of Behavioral Sciences and Social Medicine at Florida State University, and the Department of History and the University Research Council at Kent State University. We would also like to thank Abby Collier at the University of Pittsburgh Press for her enthusiasm and editorial guidance on this project, as well as the two anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful feedback and suggestions. In addition to the contributors to the volume, Florence Hsia, Luce Giard, Greg Higby, Margaret Flood, Hugh Cagle, and Florencia Pierri participated in the initial workshop for the volume and provided important contributions to the conceptualization of the project. The Center for the Humanities at the University of Wisconsin–Madison provided space and support for the initial workshop, for which we are thankful. Joseph Gabriel would like to thank Susan Lederer for her support as well as members of both the Department of History and the Department of Behavioral Sciences and Social Medicine at Florida State University. He would also like to thank Claudia Sperber and Jacob Sperber for their love and support. Matthew Crawford would like to acknowledge Jacob House for research and editorial assistance; Brian Hayashi, chair of the Department of History at Kent State University, for his support of this project; the staff of the Lloyd Library, especially Betsy Kruthoffer; and the Science History Institute for providing a stimulating working environment while the final touches were put on this volume. Finally, we would both like to thank the contributors to this volume for their dedication and exceptional scholarship. It has been an honor working with all of you.

INTRODUCTION

THINKING WITH PHARMACOPOEIAS

MATTHEW JAMES CRAWFORD & JOSEPH M. GABRIEL

ONE YEAR after his death, the Danish physician, naturalist, and collector Ole Worm (1588–1654) published a descriptive catalogue of the various natural objects and artifacts that he had collected over the course of his life.¹ An engraving of the interior of Worm’s museum accompanied the catalogue (figure I.1). The miscellany of the objects depicted in the image signals the sumptuousness of Worm’s collection and the diversity of his interests; as noted in the subtitle, the catalogue promised readers a history of rare things, including objects that were natural as well as artificial, domestic as well as exotic. Curiosity and a desire for rarities motivated Worm to build this collection. He was particularly interested in objects that presented a challenge to the natural philosophy of his time and, as a result, Worm’s museum is often cited as a key example of the phenomenon of the Wunderkammer, or cabinets of curiosities, that were prevalent among scholars and elites in early modern Europe.²

One often overlooked feature of this engraving is the series of labeled trays and boxes on the shelves and floor in the right side of the image. They seem positively mundane amid the many other striking objects, such as the stuffed polar bear suspended from the ceiling. Yet these trays and boxes offer further clues to the nature and purpose of Worm’s collection. The topmost set of boxes bear the labels terrae (earths), salia (salts), sulphura (sulphurs), and two trays labeled lapides (stones). The set of boxes on the next shelf down bear the labels radices (roots), herbae (herbs), cortices (barks), ligna (woods), semina (seeds), fructus (fruits), and succi (juices). And finally, the trays at the back of the image are labeled metallica (metallic objects), metalla (metals), mineralia (minerals), turbinata (turbinates), conchillata (conches), animalium partes (parts of animals), and marina (marine objects).

Visitors to Worm’s museum in the seventeenth century would have been familiar with this way of grouping natural specimens. In addition to being used in works of natural history, this system of classification appeared in contemporary pharmacopoeias—a genre of texts that listed medicinal substances and provided the recipes to prepare them for therapeutic use. Several pharmacopoeias of the time used virtually the same categories in organizing the master list of materia medica (medicinal substances) used in their prepared medicaments. For example, the first edition of the Pharmacopoeia Londinensis (1618) grouped its materia medica under the following headings: radices (roots), cortices (barks), ligna (woods), folia (leaves), flores (flowers), fructus et germina (fruits and buds), semina sive grana (seeds or grains), lachrimae (saps), succi (juices), plantarum excrementa (excretions of plants), animalia (animals), animalia partes (parts of animals), marina (marine objects), sales (salts), and metallica (metallic objects).³ While these categories do not map precisely onto those of Worm’s museum (notably several types of earths and the shells are missing), they are close enough to illustrate how early modern pharmacopoeias reflected and were integrated into the broader intellectual culture of their time.

The organization of natural specimens under categories that appeared in pharmacopoeias would have been especially important for Worm, who made his collection an integral part of his teaching at the University of Copenhagen, where he was a professor of medicine. In his capacity as a physician and professor of medicine, Worm would have been required to inspect apothecary shops to assess the identity and quality of their materia medica.⁴ It was yet another reason why Worm would have found it useful and convenient to have a collection of these medicinal substances at hand for reference. Not surprisingly, in his Preface to the Reader, Worm mentioned the use of certain materials for the preservation and restoration of the health of the human body, as well as the importance of having knowledge of such materials in order to detect medicaments that have been adulterated.⁵ Worm’s series of labeled trays and boxes were, in a sense, a physical embodiment of the same impulse to name and classify materia medica that appeared in numerous manuscripts, printed books, and other types of pharmacopoeias that circulated in the early modern Atlantic World.

Collections of curiosities and pharmacopoeias served, in part, as tools for making sense of the encounters with a diversity of peoples, places, and things provoked by the commercial and colonial expansion of early modern Europe. In this way, these places and texts bear the traces of the worlds beyond Western Europe. Many, but not all, of the specimens and phenomena from West Africa and the Americas were new to early modern Europeans, and so, museums and pharmacopoeias served the function of attempting to assimilate these previously unknown phenomena to the existing understandings of the natural world and of healing goods. For example, Worm’s catalogue of his museum (and presumably the museum itself) included dozens of entries and descriptions of mineral, botanical, and animal specimens from the Americas. According to book two of the catalogue, which focused on plants, Worm’s collection included almost fifty botanical specimens unique to the Americas. Most of these items were identified as originating from New Spain or Brazil, but the catalogue also included specimens identified as originating from Peru, Florida, Cuba, Jamaica, Virginia, and Canada.⁶ Given that Worm’s collection had an explicit focus on rare things, it is perhaps no surprise that American plants are so prominent.

For information about these rare American plants, Worm relied on a variety of early printed natural histories of different regions of the Americas. He also benefited from information from one of earliest pharmacopoeias printed in the Americas: Quatro libros. De la naturaleza y virtudes de las plantas y animales que estan recividos en el uso de Medicina en la Nueva España, a work by Francisco Ximénez (ca. 1560–1620), a Dominican who served as a nurse at the convent of San Domingo in Mexico. Ximénez developed and adapted his text from the earlier work of Francisco Hernández (1514–1587), a physician who was appointed by the Spanish Crown to lead a natural history expedition to New Spain in the sixteenth century.⁷ The networks of the Atlantic World provided the foundation for all these activities. When Ximénez traveled from Spain to New Spain as a missionary, he relied on these networks. And when Worm acquired botanical specimens from the Americas and gained access to information from Ximénez’s book, which was printed in Mexico City in 1615, he relied on the networks of the Atlantic World as well.

As much as early modern pharmacopoeias were the products of long-distance social and cultural networks as well as local ones, these texts had a complex relationship with the contexts in which they were produced and consumed. Take, for example, two books published by the English astrologer and apothecary Nicholas Culpeper (1616–1654). As Michael Flannery notes, in 1649 Culpeper challenged the authority of the College of Physicians of London by translating the Pharmacopoeia Londinensis into English, thereby undermining their effort to monopolize medical knowledge through the use of Latin.⁸ Three years later, Culpeper published the first edition of his medical text The English Physician. Culpeper presented descriptions of 277 plants that either grew wildly or were cultivated in England, such as barley, garlic, mint, quince, wormwood, and valerian. Such plants, he noted, were the Works of God and common and cheap, and easie to be found. Culpeper gave detailed information on how to prepare and use the plants, the conditions they could be used to treat, and astrological information about their relationship to various planetary bodies. Notably, Culpeper excluded remedies from The English Physician that needed to be imported, such as cinnamon, under the belief that the natural bounty of England provided all that was needed for the care of his fellow countrymen. Culpeper also included explicit references in his text to the social, political, and economic context in which his work was produced, including comments noting his disdain for the College of Physicians, who, being as Ignorant in the Knowledge of Herbs as a Child of four years old, hide their ignorance behind their learned airs and harm the common man with their complex and expensive remedies. He that hath but half an eye may see their pride without a pair of Spectacles.⁹

Culpeper’s book proved immensely popular and was republished countless times over the next century, often with significant variations and sometimes in forms that seem to have had little to do with the original work.¹⁰ Indeed, the complexity of the publishing history of texts printed under the name The English Physician suggests the difficulty of stabilizing the relationship between names and things—a problem that is well known among historians of pharmaceuticals. In 1708, for example, a printer in Boston named Nicholas Boone published what was purportedly a reprinted version of Culpeper’s book.¹¹ The exact relationship between Culpeper’s original text and Boone’s text is not at all clear, but at a minimum there were a variety of significant differences between the two: Boone’s version was arranged according to medical problem instead of plant name, for example, and included formulas made from both imported goods (such as cinnamon) and from a variety of other substances that Culpeper had ignored—including a cure for colic made from powdered human skull mixed in a syrup of violets.¹² In 1720, Boone also reprinted Culpeper’s translation of the London Pharmacopoeia, this time apparently with little modification. Boone’s edition was probably the first formal pharmacopoeia published in the North American colonies, and while its influence on the daily practice of both physicians and apothecaries is difficult to ascertain, it undoubtedly served at least some practical use. Yet its utility was also clearly limited by the fact that the materia medica available in the colonies differed significantly from that available in Europe, in part because of the diversity of indigenous plants in North America and in part because of the influence of Indian and enslaved people’s knowledge and practice on colonial medicine. Sassafras, for example, was used medicinally by Indigenous peoples in North America, and by the late seventeenth century it had been incorporated into the medical practices of white colonialists. Yet Boone’s edition of the London Pharmacopoeia, not surprisingly, contained no mention of this useful plant.

Worm’s and Culpeper’s work thus illustrate how European efforts to organize knowledge about materia medica into useful taxonomies was deeply intertwined with both the larger scientific effort to understand the natural world and the specific social, political, and economic contexts in which these efforts took place. At the same time, they also point to the fact that European efforts at classification took place within emerging Atlantic and global contexts in which goods, peoples, and texts circulated and often resisted European ways of knowing and classifying the world. Taken as a whole, the essays in this volume thus demonstrate that examples from Europe represent but one portion of a diverse and complex set of activities centered on the knowing and using of different substances for medicinal purposes in the early modern Atlantic World. The motives behind such enterprises were varied, including the desire to understand natural phenomena; the need to keep a record of effective remedies; the interest in controlling commercially valuable resources; and the aspiration to promote civic, national, and imperial goals. At the same time, these essays show that the impulse to produce knowledge about healing goods involved a diverse cast of characters and took a variety of textual forms, from ephemeral lists drawn up on scraps of paper, to official texts printed under the auspices of municipal or royal governments. Some of these enterprises represented the idiosyncratic visions of a single author, while others reflected the views of the collective efforts of imperial agents, local healers, or a committee of learned physicians. Some of the texts produced from such efforts aimed at formally standardizing medical practice, while others served as informal representations of individual intellectual authority or of the imagined expanse of an empire’s natural wealth.

REFRAMING PHARMACOPOEIAS AND THEIR HISTORIES

In light of this diversity, this volume takes a broad view of what counts as a pharmacopoeia. Such an approach embraces the ambiguity of the term itself. On the one hand, the term pharmacopoeia can refer specifically to a genre of medical writing that lists simple and compound medicaments as well as the techniques for preparing and administering these medicaments according to a specific medical tradition. As noted in this volume by Paula De Vos (chapter 1), some of the earliest exemplars of these kinds of medical texts date to antiquity from the Mediterranean World to China. On the other hand, the term pharmacopoeia has been used to refer to the collective knowledge of medical virtues and therapeutic preparations of different substances as held by any society, culture, or group of specialists within a society or culture.¹³ Such pharmacopoeias—which Pablo Gómez has called social pharmacopoeias—exist not just in textual form but also in the oral traditions and embodied practices of communities of healers around the globe.¹⁴ Embracing both conceptions of the pharmacopoeia is especially helpful in the context of the early modern Atlantic World—a time and place when agents of European commercial and colonial enterprises coopted much healing knowledge from African and Native American cultures and then represented this knowledge as their own in medical and natural historical texts printed in the imperial centers of early modern Europe.¹⁵

This volume also seeks to broaden our thinking about the production and circulation of medical knowledge in the early modern Atlantic World by highlighting the ways in which pharmacopoeias are best understood not as finished and stable products but instead as stages in the larger processes of collecting, coopting, organizing, revising, and controlling knowledge about healing goods. While many of the producers of pharmacopoeias, especially those produced by colleges of physicians and under the authority of royal or municipal governments in Europe, viewed their texts as attempts to bring order and stability to worlds of healing goods, this volume highlights the instability of healing knowledge and of the various pharmacopoeias and pharmacopoeic forms that took shape in all corners of the early modern Atlantic World.¹⁶ Pharmacopoeias—printed, manuscript, and oral—were often the subject of editing and revision just as the knowledge they represented changed over time and across space. By juxtaposing accounts of making textual pharmacopoeias at different times and places in the early modern Atlantic World, this volume seeks to call attention to the ways in which pharmacopoeias produced and were the products of colonialism, globalization, and the rise of the nation-state.

Focusing, for a moment, on pharmacopoeias as manuscripts and printed books, we note that this rich and varied set of historical sources has received surprisingly little attention beyond the specialized field of the history of pharmacy. Some studies of official pharmacopoeias—lists of approved medicinal substances and their preparation published under the auspices of municipal, national, and imperial governments—have tended to focus on particular regional pharmacopoeias or with an eye toward tracking changes in therapeutic practice or the use of specific drugs from one edition of the pharmacopoeia to the next.¹⁷ At the same time, another group of studies in the history of pharmacy have generally analyzed pharmacopoeias in the context of the guild and professional activities of pharmacists, and to a lesser extent physicians, within specific national contexts, often during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.¹⁸ Taken together, the essays in this volume engage some of the foundational themes of this existing literature on the history of pharmacopoeias, including the guild activities of both pharmacists and physicians, the changes in therapeutic knowledge introduced by individual apothecaries, the efforts to monopolize therapeutic knowledge or practice, and the textual tradition of Western pharmacy as a whole. Yet this volume offers a unique opportunity to gain new insight on classic themes by juxtaposing case studies from the different times and places in the early modern Atlantic World.

Pharmacopoeias have received surprisingly little attention in the history of science and medicine more broadly, despite a robust literature that has focused on the organization and classification of natural phenomena as key forms of scientific and medical knowledge.¹⁹ This is somewhat peculiar, especially since a strong case can be made that the organization of knowledge about medicinal substances was a vital part of scientific and colonial enterprises of Europe in the early modern world.²⁰ Although pharmacopoeias and the practices that produced them generally involve only a subset of natural phenomena, as opposed to broader early modern scientific projects aimed at cataloguing all flora and fauna, knowledge of medicinal substances was especially important because it helped to save lives and often led to the rise of new and valuable medical commodities, such as cinchona bark, guaiacum, and ipecac. Moreover, as evidenced by the case of Nicolas Monardes (1493–1588), a Spanish physician who published one of the early works on the medicinal uses of American flora and fauna, medicine was one of the primary lenses through which Europeans made sense of the natural phenomena of the Americas.²¹ The same could be said for Africans who were forcibly relocated to the Americas.²² Ultimately, the essays in this volume highlight the importance of pharmacopoeias and related texts as historical sources by showing how such sources can provide new insights in the entangled histories of knowledge resulting from encounters between Europeans, Africans, and Native Americans in the early modern Atlantic World. In this way, this volume places the study of pharmacopoeias in the context of scholarship emerging out of the dialogue between scholars working on the histories of science, medicine, globalization, and empire.²³

Many of the essays in this volume also engage in significant ways with the history of drugs and pharmaceuticals. In addition to a robust field of scholarship on pharmaceuticals in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, a growing number of historians of the early modern world have revealed important chapters in the history of medicinal substances from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries.²⁴ By focusing on pharmacopoeias and related texts rather than on the histories of individual substances, this volume enriches the early modern history of drugs by calling attention to what was known about medicinal substances, how it was known, where this knowledge was produced and circulated, why different groups took an interest in this knowledge, and how these groups negotiated their divergent ways of knowing and using these materials. In this way, the pharmacopoeias and related texts discussed in this volume provide a framework for examining early modern efforts to produce, circulate, and organize knowledge about medicinal substances as both a general category of phenomena and as contested sites where knowledge of medicinal goods was produced, organized, and sometimes lost. Pharmacopoeias and related efforts to organize the world of healing goods were therefore not just economic, political, scientific, and imperial projects—although they were, of course, all of these. Perhaps most important, they were epistemic projects that established not just what was known but how this knowledge was to be produced and to what end.

Many of the essays that follow also shift our attention away from formal networks of knowledge such as learned societies, colleges, and guilds even as several essays focus their attention on these institutions. By applying the fine-grained analytical techniques often reserved for other sources in the history of knowledge, the contributions to this volume also show how pharmacopoeias and their related texts offer insights into the more ephemeral practices of recording, organizing, and transmitting information about materia medica by artisans, colonial officials, Indigenous peoples, and others who, unlike European pharmacists and physicians, rarely had a recognized role in the production of official texts and medicines. In addition to the efforts of physicians and apothecaries, the case studies presented highlight the interactions and negotiations between a heterogeneous cast of characters engaged in the collection, organization, communication, and control of knowledge of medicinal substances, including actors such as Mohegan author Samson Occom (discussed by Kelly Wisecup in chapter 7) and Portuguese officials in Brazil and India (discussed by Timothy Walker in chapter 5). When viewed from this perspective, official pharmacopoeias published under the authority of elite actors appear as just one step in the complex and contested processes of knowing and using medicinal substances. As a result, we gain new appreciation of such texts not as an endpoint in the formalization of knowledge but as a vital part of the dynamic processes whereby natural phenomena became both knowable and useful. This volume thus highlights the way in which pharmacopoeias—broadly defined—constituted and were constituted not only by formal networks of guild knowledge but also by cross-cultural interactions, commercial exchange, imperial ambition, and other complex dynamics.

Including chapters that analyze such a diverse array of actors enriches our understanding of the historical genealogy of pharmacopoeias as tools of communication, standardization, and control. Indeed, one additional characteristic that makes pharmacopoeias so engaging as historical sources is that, in many cases, they clearly emerged out of the intersection of knowledge and the aspirations of state power. After all, the governments and medical bodies that produced official pharmacopoeias envisioned these texts first and foremost as a means of regulating and standardizing therapeutic practice. They often did so with an eye toward both the national and imperial contexts of their work. Consequently, in addition to exploring pharmacopoeias as traces of early modern epistemologies, several essays use pharmacopoeias and related texts as a means to interrogate the formal and informal contours of state power, imperial ambition, and emergent professional tensions. In particular, several of the contributions attend to the ways in which royal and municipal governments as well as professional guilds had only limited means to impose their particular vision of pharmaceutical therapeutics. Taken as a whole, this volume thus explores the development of important linkages between state power and scientific epistemology in the early modern Atlantic World. As several chapters make clear, however, such linkages were often contingent on local practices and concerns and, as a result, were not as straightforward as we might assume.

ORGANIZATION OF THE VOLUME

We have organized these essays into four parts, each dealing with a common theme or set of themes in different geographical contexts and time periods. The first section, Pharmacopoeias and Textual Traditions, includes essays by Paula De Vos, Emily Beck, and Matthew James Crawford that focus on the construction and function of pharmacopoeias as texts vis-à-vis other genres of medical writing. Paula De Vos (chapter 1) examines the textual traditions in Galenic pharmacy in the Mediterranean and their dissemination through pharmaceutical texts that were published in early modern Spain and circulated throughout the Spanish Atlantic World. Her essay provides an important reminder of how the conventions and traditions of European medical texts shaped pharmacopoeias even as their early modern authors sought to incorporate new substances and new information gleaned from cross-cultural interactions in the Atlantic World. In her essay (chapter 2), Emily Beck examines the development of what is generally considered to be Europe’s first pharmacopoeia, the Ricettario Fiorentino, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. By reading early editions of the Ricettario alongside manuscript recipe books from Florence, Beck shows how the tensions between learned and lay healers could inform the structure and function of pharmacopoeias as much as textual traditions and state aspirations. In particular, her analysis reminds us to note the disjuncture that often arose between the intended purpose of these texts and their actual use by healers. In the final essay of this part (chapter 3), Matthew James Crawford further explores the tension in pharmacopoeias between existing tradition and new materia medica in his analysis of the first edition of the Pharmacopoeia Matritensis published under the auspices of the Spanish Crown in 1739. While the Crown cast its new pharmacopoeia as an assertion of royal sovereignty, the Pharmacopoeia Matritensis also reveals the challenges to fostering uniformity in the art of pharmacy throughout Spain’s vast empire. Collectively, these essays highlight a central theme: that our understanding of pharmacopoeias depends on what we define as the relevant context for analyzing these texts, whether it be the medical marketplace of an Italian city-state, the political reforms of a transatlantic empire, or the cultural traditions of the Mediterranean World.

The second section, Pharmacopoeias and the Codification of Knowledge, includes essays that focus primarily on the complex dynamics associated with the attempts to collect and codify knowledge about medicinal substances. Here, the phrase codification of knowledge refers to two different, but interrelated, processes. On the one hand, the phrase refers to the efforts by individuals and early modern states to protect certain forms of knowledge through legal or other strategic means such as secrecy. On the other hand, it refers to efforts to standardize knowledge about materia medica into useful and stable taxonomies that can serve a variety of functions. These two processes sometimes operated in tension with one another but they also sometimes reinforced one another. In his essay (chapter 4), Justin Rivest examines an important instance of this dynamic in his analysis of the efforts of the Contugi family to assert their royal privilege to produce a secret remedy known as orviétan, a recipe for which also appeared in the Pharmacopee royale and several other pharmacopoeias. This case allows Rivest to probe the tensions between the codification of healing knowledge in the form of pharmacopoeias and the juridical standing of, and legal battles over, proprietary knowledge in the form of secret remedies. Whereas these pharmacopoeias in France represent a case of the codification of knowledge for the purposes of making it openly available to medical practitioners, Timothy Walker, in chapter 5, explores a case where the reverse happened. His essay examines how efforts of Portugal’s imperial government treated colonial medical knowledge as a strategic resource that needed to be kept secret as it was being collected and organized. Walker also illuminates many of the challenges that the Portuguese imperial government faced in its efforts to integrate healing knowledge from different parts of the globe and the way in which secrecy was strategically used as part of the effort to do so. Unlike the example discussed by Rivest, Walker’s analysis suggests that the two modes of codification reinforced one another in the Portuguese case. Of course, imperial power did not always operate in such a unified way. William Ryan’s essay (chapter 6) shifts our gaze from the Portuguese world to the British Caribbean and focuses on the editorial practices of Hans Sloane while he was at the helm of the Philosophical Transactions. Ryan examines Sloane’s efforts to organize knowledge about the various medical substances and botanical specimens that he encountered during his time in Jamaica. His chapter suggests that scientific and medical knowledge in the British Caribbean was deeply implicated in relations of colonial power and, as a result, was not as metaphysically tidy as we might think. Ryan also suggests that Sloane’s editorial practices risked exposing both trade secrets and, perhaps more importantly, the limited state of colonial medical science. The codification of knowledge, in both senses of the phrase, was a halting and imperfect project.

The third section, Pharmacopoeias and the Construction of New Worlds, includes essays that focus on the complex social, cultural, and intellectual practices that enrolled pharmacopoeias and related texts in the imaginative construction of what Europeans sometimes called the New World. As the essays in this section further demonstrate, however, the extension of European colonial power was much more arbitrary and capricious than historians sometime assume. They also highlight the role that efforts to convert healing knowledge into pharmacopoeias and related texts shaped and were shaped by ideas about the peoples and places of the Atlantic World. Benjamin Breen uses his essay (chapter 7) to suggest that practices that we now consider scientific and practices that we now consider spiritual were actually quite close to one another, and that the seeds of the divergence between the two, as he terms it, were rooted in broader social and cultural assumptions and practices rather than simply the rise of scientific epistemology. Chris Parsons, in his essay (chapter 8), uses the case of Canadian maidenhair—a delicate fern that grows abundantly across eastern North America—to examine how pharmacopoeias became an important textual form in which claims about colonial space were articulated and consumed. Both of these essays deal with the extension and ultimately arbitrary nature of European colonial knowledge in the early modern world. In the final essay of this section (chapter 9), however, Kelly Wisecup describes a case that had relatively little to do with the extension of European colonial power as she discusses a unique but insightful document—a list of medicinal herbs and roots composed by Mohegan Samson Occom—that highlights the importance and vitality of Native medical practices in the early modern Atlantic World.

The chapters in the fourth section, Pharmacopoeias and the Nation, examine the relationship between pharmacopoeias and the emergent nation-state in Britain, France, and the United States. Each of these chapters takes a different approach to examining the connections between politics, broadly understood, and the standardization and organization of knowledge about healing goods. In his essay (chapter 10), Stuart Anderson gives us detailed political history of the origins of the London, Edinburgh, and Dublin pharmacopoeias and illuminates the contingent events that shaped the origins and development of these three official pharmacopoeias. His essay also explains the conditions that gave rise to the unique situation in which Britain produced three distinct pharmacopoeias of national—and indeed international—significance. Antoine Lentacker, in his contribution (chapter 11), argues that following the revolution, the French national pharmacopoeia was one paper technology among many that the new nation-state used to track people and things by defining and controlling their names. Finally, in his essay on the United States pharmacopoeia (chapter 12), Joseph M. Gabriel traces the ways in which Indigenous knowledge of healing plants was both incorporated into, and eliminated from, early American medical science. Replicating elite assumptions about the nature of a democratic society, the first and subsequent editions of the Pharmacopoeia of the United States of America grew out of, and helped to create, a distinctive American medical science forged at the intersection of science, class, race, and nation. In doing so, Gabriel argues, the creation of a national pharmacopoeia helped create the discursive conditions for the new nation itself. Indian beliefs and practices—including the practice of keeping traditional knowledge secret—had no place in this new formulation except as an example of dangerous irrationalism.

THE ATLANTIC WORLD AND THE PLACE OF PHARMACOPOEIAS

As part of our effort to provide a more capacious understanding of pharmacopoeias and related texts, this volume embraces the geographical and historical context of the Atlantic World as its primary framework. As noted in recent scholarship, the phrase Atlantic World has many connotations and historians have employed the Atlantic World as a unit of analysis in many different ways.²⁵ Our appeal to the Atlantic World as a framework of analysis is admittedly tentative and represents a first step in thinking about how the history of pharmacopoeias engages processes that transcend the city, the nation, and the empire. At the same time, we recognize that not all elements of the history of pharmacopoeias and related texts can easily be made intelligible within this framework. We have therefore sought to juxtapose essays about the Atlantic World with essays that take place in the Atlantic World—some of which explicitly draw on the Atlantic World as a framework and some of which do not. In doing so, we seek to articulate an intellectual framework that highlights geographical scale and place as central components in the historical analysis of pharmacopoeias. The essays in this volume not only vary in their geographical and chronological focus; they also vary in the scale of their analyses and range from studies of individual texts and healers to specific cities or regions to entire empires; this range, of course, could be further extended to macrohistorical processes that operate at a truly global scale. The decision by a historian to conduct her work at any particular spatial scale of analysis depends on a wide variety of factors, including available sources, the context of the historiographical tradition in which she operates, and personal preferences. This is, at heart, an arbitrary decision, and as such must be balanced with the other decisions that one makes as a scholar. Each of the authors in this collection has thus decided to work at a scale of analysis that suits their own idiosyncratic needs and interests. Indeed, we have assembled what some readers may consider an eclectic mix of essays in this volume precisely to raise the point that the scale of analysis at which our scholarship takes place is vital to our efforts to make sense of pharmacopoeias and the broader political, economic, social, cultural, and epistemological processes that shaped them and that they often shaped in return.

PART I

Pharmacopoeias and Textual Traditions

1

PHARMACOPOEIAS AND THE TEXTUAL TRADITION IN GALENIC PHARMACY

PAULA DE VOS

IN SEPTEMBER 1775, a Mexico City notary conducted an inventory of the contents of the pharmacy of apothecary Don Jacinto de Herrera y Campos as part of a criminal investigation.¹ The inventory proceeded over several days, revealing a wide array of medicines and equipment in the pharmacy, as well as a collection of books to which Herrera presumably referred in his practice. Among the books were a series of pharmacopoeias, texts meant to standardize the types of medicines stocked in the pharmacy and the ways in which they were to be formulated. Herrera possessed copies of the Pharmacopoeia Valentina and the Pharmacopoeia Augustana, both produced in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries to standardize pharmaceutical practice in and around the cities of Valencia and Augsburg similar to the case of Florence’s early pharmacopoeia—the Ricettario Fiorentino, as discussed by Emily Beck in chapter 2.² Herrera also possessed a worn copy of Félix Palacios’s Palestra pharmaceutica, first published in 1706, which went on to serve as the basis for the Pharmacopoeia Matritensis, coordinated by the Royal College of Apothecaries in Madrid and published in 1739 as the first standard pharmacopoeia for the entire Spanish Empire, as discussed by Matthew Crawford in chapter 3.³ The Pharmacopoeia Matritensis provided a fixed and constant method by which the medicines are prepared that are in use in these Kingdoms for the cure of illness, and apothecaries were to follow it without departing in any way whatsoever from its rules.⁴ Its presence in the Herrera pharmacy was presumably no accident, as royal decrees stipulated that apothecaries throughout the Spanish Empire keep a copy of it in their pharmacies, and present it during pharmacy inspections.⁵

The various pharmacopoeias in Herrera’s shop constituted part of the textual basis for Galenic pharmacy, the tradition that dominated pharmaceutical theory and practice in the West from the first century of the Common Era through the early nineteenth century. Galenic pharmacy was named after, and largely founded upon, the teachings of Galen (ca. 130–210 CE), a physician from Pergamon in the Roman Empire whose medical system guided Western medicine for almost two millennia.⁶ Galenic pharmacy was brought to Mexico under the Spanish Empire and remained remarkably intact throughout the colonial period.⁷ The contents of the Herrera pharmacy—its medicines, its equipment, and its books—were typical of the Galenic tradition. The pharmacopoeias it contained serve to indicate the importance of texts within this tradition and the fact that pharmacy from very early on was both a practical and a learned art, a manual craft supported by a substantial tradition of written works as well.⁸ In the Galenic tradition, the pharmacopoeia played a particularly important role, not only in setting professional standards but also as a culmination of a series of different genres of pharmaceutical writing.

Studies of pharmacopoeias tend to emphasize their role in standardizing materials and formulations especially in the context of the nation-state and in this way equate them with the emergence of the modern era, as noted in Stuart Anderson’s discussion in chapter 10 of David Cowen’s definition of the genre. Yet it is crucial to remember that national pharmacopoeias even to the present day rest on the foundations of earlier texts and genres that go back centuries. The purpose of this essay is to trace the long and deep history of the textual tradition in Galenic pharmacy using pharmaceutical texts published in early modern Spain—and used throughout the empire—to delineate the main eras, authors, and areas of its foundations and the different genres of pharmaceutical writing that developed over time. Results indicate that the tradition dates back to antiquity, originating with Greek and Roman authors, expanding under the medieval Islamic Empires, and entering medieval Europe from the south, mainly through translation centers in Spain and Italy.

During these periods, the Galenic textual tradition developed four main genres of pharmaceutical writing that together culminated in the formation of the early modern pharmacopoeia. The first genre treated here consisted of ancient compilations of materia medica (medicinal materials). These were texts containing lists, descriptions, and glossaries of what were called simples in Galenic pharmacy—natural substances that derived from plants, animals, and minerals with known healing power. Another genre, that of the formulary, also originated in the ancient period but developed substantially under the Islamic Empires. Formularies, also referred to as antidotaries and receptaries, were compilations of recipes for compounds, medicines made up of more than one simple. Two additional genres developed during the medieval and early modern periods: the procedural, which included technical advice and instructed practitioners in pharmaceutical operations and procedures; and the pedagogical, which included several components designed to instruct apothecaries in training. Elements of each of these types of text were brought together in the pharmacopoeia, a culminating genre of pharmaceutical writing in Galenic pharmacy that received increasing emphasis in the early modern period. In tracing this history, this essay aims to document this textual tradition and its genealogy, and to highlight its shared nature as part of Galenic pharmacy, a tradition that spread throughout the ancient and medieval Mediterranean and came to encompass the Atlantic World in the early modern period under the auspices of European imperialism.

TRACING THE TEXTUAL TRADITION

Authors of pharmacy treatises in early modern Spain understood and discussed the learned basis of their art, emphasizing the importance of literacy early on. In his 1632 publication of Examen de boticarios, Esteban de Villa declared that apothecaries must have great knowledge, not only practical knowledge of plants and remedies but knowledge of theory, or that which is found in books as well.⁹ Miguel Martínez de Leache, author of Discurso pharmaceutico sobre los Canones de Mesue (1652) emphasized the importance of the intellectual training for apothecaries by critiquing the empirics and charlatans who apply medicines according to what they see only, without a more fundamental basis.¹⁰ The practice of learned apothecaries, by contrast, rested upon the classic texts of ancient and medieval authors, through which apothecaries learned the tenets of pharmacy. Martínez de Leache declared that apothecaries must the "studiosissimos—the most studious—and that they must be most attached [aficionadissimos] to the study of letters because this way they come to grasp their chosen field; because thinking that they can claim to be an apothecary and understand medicine is impossible without having studied words and read books.¹¹ Knowledge only came, he advised, with long and arduous study, not in one instant, all of a sudden. . . . No one is born from the womb of his mother already taught."¹²

These authors thus recognized the importance of a learned tradition in pharmacy and produced a corpus of early modern publications to support it (table 1.1).¹³ These works also provide a means for investigating the earlier basis upon which they were founded, for they regularly made reference to contemporary authors as well as earlier works in the field.¹⁴ This practice developed out of scholastic and earlier Arabic medical traditions in which authenticity and authority in a text were established by building upon and making explicit reference to a canon of respected works.¹⁵ I used 14 of these texts (the ones most replete with such references) to carry out a quantitative study of author referencing, in which a composite list of 77 different authors referenced in the 14 works was made, and a tally kept of how many of the authors were referenced by how many of the 14 books, for a total of 415 references (table 1.2). From this tabulation, I was able to organize authors and references according to place and time and to determine the most widely cited (and presumably the most important and influential) authors over time. These results were then corroborated with book lists provided by several early modern Spanish pharmacy authors who listed the most necessary works in the pharmacy, discussed further below.